A Short Thought In Honour Of The Day

I've been thinking lately about how badly we treat our leaders.
Yes, we may not agree with their politics, and yes we may have wanted someone else to be in their place (For example, my personal opinion is that Romney would make a better president than Obama), but no matter what our view is on the topic, our leaders still deserve our respect!
Anyone who has managed to work themselves into a position like presidency, has most definitely worked hard to get there, and until you have gone through the same schooling, the same life experiences as they have, you have no right to slander them. Just like you have no right to slander the Veteran who has gone to war for our country and ended up living on the street because of undesirable life choices and situations.
Nobody deserves to have their name cursed or have lies told about them to turn people against them, and that's just the way it is (What would Jesus do?).
We do, of course, have a right to our opinions, and the freedom to vocalize those opinions, but please, keep your words clean and truthful, and lets make the most out of the four years of this election by being upstanding and respectful citizens, who do our duty to our country and our president without unnecessary rudeness and/or sly rumours (The same sort of rumour that we get so angry about when people say them against our own political or religious standing).

Most sincerely,
A citizen of the United States.

P.S. I forgot to  mention this in the body, but our leaders also need our support, because if we don't support them in making the desicions that we want them to make, then how can we say that they are running this country wrong? The whole point of a democracy is that the people rule themselves. To quote one of our former presidents, J. F. Kennedy: "Ask not what your country can do for you -- ask what you can do for your country".

Scent called Colour winter (a short work of fiction)

Scent wafted in the air, waiting to be sensed by a passerby, he lingered upon the dewy fringes of a pine tree, and sank slowly to the stems of the last few daisies. He climbed up into the sky, airborn by the passing of a trolly, and the disturbance of his flower. Higher Scent rose until he reached the smooth dome of stars that harolded the earliness of the morning. He looked at the stars, he saw that they were not silver as he had always thought, but they were completely colourless to his vision, then he looked down. Down on the earth. Down on the city. Down on the trolly that had dislodged him from his last autumn abode.
He looked down of all on all of this and, from the light of the stars, he saw Colour. she was languid in her movement, slow to appear, slow to be seen. She did not flit from bench to bench, from roof to roof, from hill to hill as she had done in July. No, Colour was very, very weak. Even by the bright light of the northern star, Colour was hardly to be seen. Scent bowed his head, he cupped is hands around his mouth and waited for Sound to assist him in his message.
Sound came. Sound moved through his lungs, up, up, out from his mouth, and out Sound came. Sound travelled to colour with Scent's missive. Scent watched as colour heard sound. "Colour, you are winter". Colour at last showed a little bit of shame in her laziness. Colour blushed. and as Colour blushed, Scent noticed the sun rise, ever so slightly, from the eastern horizon.
Sent looked at the sun. Scent looked at the earth. Scent looked up at the stars that were now beginning to leave their places on the silken dome of the sky. Scent looked back down at the earth, at the city, at the trolly. The trolly came to a stop, and as the trolly stopped Colour burst forth upon it in glorious red flashes. Scent fell from the sky and said to Colour "Colour, winter is good."

Sorting Pencils

In which I sort my pencils ...or perhaps my pencils sort themselves.

In Which I Make Up My Mind Firmly

“It's been my experience that you can nearly always enjoy things if you make up your mind firmly that you will.” 

~L. M. Montgomery Anne of Green Gables.

Yes, it's another one of my "Anne" quotes.

     So much of the time I hear myself think "I don't enjoy that, so, I don't want to do it", and then I'm struck with the realization that it doesn't really matter that I don't enjoy it, because if I wanted to enjoy it, I could. As one of God's creations God has given humanity the capacity for learning, and one of the things we learn to do is enjoy (or love -- in this particular instance the words are mostly interchangeable) things that maybe wouldn't be our first choice . To not use that gift, is like getting a package from a good friend, and sending it back unopened, because we're afraid that what's inside might not be what we've wanting. What kind of gratitude does that show?

     Now, I'm not saying that we have to do everything that anyone asks us to do, it just means, that once you are committed to doing something, be it helping at a church function or writing a paper for school, we ought to commit our hearts to the activity as well, and in that way get the fullest out of every situation that God sends our direction.

     This is probably one of the most difficult aspects of my life, if I don't like something then I certainly don't want to even try, but that, I suppose, would be the entire point. So, I've decided to" make up my mind firmly" that this will be one of the things I put my heart into this school year (and for however long it takes me to learn it). Besides, life is boring without a little bit of challenge. Right?

September's Train Has Arrived

Somewhere, perhaps far, perhaps close, there is a person. Old or young, man or woman, strong or week, or in-between, it doesn't really matter. And this person (we'll call it "he"as a generalization for human-kind) wakes up one morning and realizes that  quite without warning the day has arrived when a dear old friend and close companion is returning to him on the morning train. He has known, of course, all summer that this friend or relative was arriving, but for one reason or another the days went faster than he had expected, and now, on the morning of arrival, he gets to experience all over again (like he did the day he found out that this kindred spirit was coming to visit) the thrill of of being able greet this other person at the station. I think that the sort of feeling that he has when he wakes up and realizes this, is very similar to the feel that I get every time I've looked out the window today (and some of yesterday).

The view goes something like this: Far off in the distance are the great grey-blue expanses of cloud, extending their billowy selves into the cavernous sky, and then occasionally spilling onto the tops of the mountains of thick waves, just like a good lathering of cream cheese on a nice cucumber or raspberry sandwich.Down the mountain you see little shades of purple, then grey, then a hazy blue-green, and then, when you get to the foothills you see a golden green colour. Golden green, I think that this is a very lovely colour for hills, mostly because it means that some of the trees are changing their colours. Anyway, the hills are golden green, and lower still are the fields of pure gold, lighted by the fairy-glow of muted sunshine that peeks from behind the cotton ball sky. The fields are harvested now, and here and there is a bale of hay, or a stray crow, wondering where all the goodies that enticed him all summer have got to. Every once in a while, as they come nearer to the foreground, my eyes strike upon a small copse of oak, or a string of pine, marching steadfastly along between farm and farm again, those pieces of well-tended land that make up "my valley". Still nearer is the disappointed vineyard (read Emily of New Moon by L. M. Montgomery, and you'll understand) of which I can only see a small corner, before its tragic self is blotted from my sight by a small wood between myself and it. And after the forest, which would take a whole book to describe its moods and elfin qualities, comes "the" field. It hasn't been mowed in a while, so it's nice and feathery, with brown and gold and green fronds of grass popping up and down to wave hello in the crisp air, the taller ones are mostly white, and the shorter ones are mostly green, there are medium sized blotches about that are made up of a dusty faun colour. But it's that crisp air that I'm really wanting to talk about. It signifies that friend that came on the train. September is a most kindred spirit. She comes once a year, and with her comes the cool, quiet, gentle time of inbetweenness that is so coveted by people like myself. It's still dry enough take go on long picnics, and fall asleep in the grass without waking up muddy. But it's also cool enough to cozy up with a cup of hot chocolate and toast, and read a warm book with a beloved mother, sister, cousin, or friend.

so, you see, September arrived yesterday in full, not because it was the first day (and it wasn't) but because I think she'd only just got on the train when we started counting her days, and now she's here and she wants to say hello, and I'm very certain that all the things she'll tell you in confidence while she's here will make you very excited for autumn (her very best friend) to get here too. Because to only thing better than September come visiting, is September and Autumn come to stay for a while.

Plus One Equals Nine

Once upon a time there were two people out of a world of people who are very important to this story because they were absolutely meant for each other. Sometime between when those two people met and when they got married, they fell deeply in love, so much so that my father asked my mother to marry him. And they were married.
A while after they were married these two people had a baby and then about a year and some months after that baby they had another baby, and before too many years had gone by (ten from when that first was born) you could count six little heads in the Glasscock's pew on a Sunday morning, and those two people from the beginning of the story had six children. And then there came a time of much learning and teaching and loving each other for the six children and their wonderful parents.
Well, when the youngest of those six children was thirteen, and a little before the oldest had turned twenty-four, my mother and father told us children that there would be another baby to love, and hold, and dote upon. Words cannot express the way those children felt! The joy in their hearts over the upcoming entrance of their new little sibling (who turned out to be a brother) overflowed, and resulted (at least as far as the youngest set of girls is considered) in late night conversations and giggles about all the fun that they would have teaching the little brother to do this and that, sing songs, and make rhymes, and enjoy a good book.
And then, after a very long time of slow waiting and lots of prayer, the newest child arrived. Oh, the excitement there was! Family members running hither and thither, gathering up blankets, and onesies, and teddy bears, and even a set of "Dutch Blitz" cards to use later on. A lot of family was piled into the little sweetpea room, a lot of pictures were taken of the hugs that were given and the kisses that the baby received. And nobody even minded that the wee little one was screaming as loud as he could, except to worry that he was alright.
Of course, there was a little sadness in that the eldest sister (who was so very smart and thus attending Yale) could not be with them, but being a family of means, someone had thought to bring a way to skype with her, and so, although it took some figuring out, she, too, was able to partake of the joyful first moments of the baby's life.
He was a goodly sized baby, eight pounds even and twenty and three quarters inches long. He was born at nine o' nine pm, and in the sack (or caul) which, according to the midwife and several centuries past of myth and legend, is supposed to be good luck and means the the baby will be smart. And they all crowded around him until my mother was very tired and they all left to let her and the healthy little baby rest.
The moral of the story is this: If you add one to one, you get two. If you ad one and one to the original ones, you get four. If you ad another four ones to the other four ones, you'll end up with eight. Then, even if you wait a little while in-between, if you you and one more one to that eight you'll get nine. Trust me, I'm the third to last one of the ones, I ought to know.

Not Spelled Like the Color

A couple weeks ago, as I was driving to church on Wednesday evening, I was struck with what I considered to be a quite brilliant idea for a story (Actually, most of my story ideas occur when I'm driving to or from somewhere). At the time I didn't want to write it out because I'm already in the middle of so many and I should really focus my attention on things that I've already started before I start more. But inspiriation rules over most other things, and I for sure didn't want to lose the idea. So yesterday I pulled out my miniature notebook and began writing things down; I'd intended to keep it short, just the basic idea and enough to remind me of the feel that I was looking for when I first thought of it, but I just couldn't help but get sucked in to writing it out and, lo and behold, before I knew what had happened it was suddenly 6:00, post meridian, and I'd written four and a half pages worth of story when I'd only intended to roughly sketch a plot.
So here it is, the first few pages of an accidental story that I have no inclination of setting aside for the summer while I finish other things up because it is just too much fun to miss. "Not Spelled Like the Color".

Aubern switched on her left turn signal as she swung into the shell station just past Melbourn County’s one and only Dairy Queen. There were four small towns in the country county and each one that she’d driven through in the past three quarters of an hour had looked more outdated than the one before. Which was saying quite a lot considering how ancient the first one – Elhurts – looked. So far she’d gone through two and this one was the third, the fourth was a little farther to the east than the reast and therefore not within her designated “path of least resistance”.

            The gigantic shell that announced the gas station was barely recognizable beneath several layers of grit and paintball remnants; though somehow, as dirty as it was, it managed to reflect all too well the gleam of the summer sun – Indian summer. September had come and gone and, half way through October, the air was still suffocating those who were unfortunate enough to lack a working A/C unit in their cars. Even the grubby pole that held up the old shell sign appeared to wilt in the stubborn heat… like the stem of a dandelion that was picked yesterday droops in your hand when you pick it up off its forgotten place on one of those black park swings.

            After putting her car in park beside one of the neglected gas pumps and switching off the ignition, Aubern noticed something odd (aside from the three inch coating of grime that was caked over everything), there were no tire marks on the dirt covered pavement – not one set except for hers and the tread of a bicycle. She groaned as she wiped beads of perspiration from her hairline. She’d been driving on nearly empty for the last twenty-five miles and there was no way she was going to get lucky for the thirty mile leg between here and the next point of civilization. There was nothing to it, she would simply have to backtrack the twelve miles to Riddleton, where she would have her choice of two gas stations, one of which must be in proper working order.

            She turned the key in the ignition, bracing for a sound similar to that of a thousand screeching monkeys to bombard her ear canals – but it didn’t come.

            “Shucks.” Aubern breathed to the empty station. She hadn’t thought that she might already be too low on gas to continue “Don’t you dare stop working on me mr. 1997 for whatever-kind-of-car-you-are.” She waggled her index finger at the peeling dashboard. A tap on her side window alerted her that she was no longer alone. She rolled the dusty window down to be greeted by a woman who looked to be somewhere in her mid thirties or early forties.

            “Honey,” the woman said, her voice thick with southern back-roads vibe. “you ain’t gonna get no service here, sweetheart.”

            Aubern cringed at the double endearment “Thanks. I was just realizing how empty the place is.”

            “Yeah, darlin’, there ain’t been no one here for somethin’ ‘round a year now.” The woman’s hair, which was the same colour as the dirt that covered everything in a fifty foot radius, shifted limply as she made a move to lean on the pump behind her. “You been in these parts afore?”

            “Nope.” Aubern waited a moment before continuing “There isn’t another gas station in town, is there?” she asked. “Because I’m on empty at this point.”

            The woman let out a triplet of laughter “Not s’far ‘s I know!” She said it as though it was the funniest joke ever heard “But it I was you, Id g’over t’ ‘Merigo’s place there.” She gestured north with a sunburned hand down an unkempt road “He ‘n’ ‘Lumbus ‘ll bring ya over some ga-so-line. ‘Nuff t’ get you the Emberlin gas station.”

            Emberlin? The fourth no-where town in no-where county? Great. Just great. Aubern wanted to say it aloud, but instead she said “Marigold? Isn’t that a flower? Or a girl’s name?”

            Another set of triplets. “Uh-mare-Ee-go, sugarplum. After that ‘spoochee fella – the one that America ‘s named after.”

            Amerigo Vespucci? ‘Merigo and ‘Lumbus. Columbus? Aubern couldn’t keep a smile from lifting the right corner of her poppy-red lipstick mouth. “Oh. How much does he charge?”

            “Oh, honey, pretty near nothin’ if you got a smart manner ‘n’ you don’t cause too much trouble.”

            “Uhm… like, how much?”

            “Polly a cup of iced tea from Mandy’s.” That dust brown hair swished over the tops of the woman’s spaghetti strapped shoulders as she adjusted her meager weight to settle more on one sandaled foot than the other. “Any way, darlin’, I got ta be goin’. Fred ‘s likely goin’ bo-listic that I ain’t home yet.”

            “Your husband?”

            The woman lifted a ringless left hand “My dog, punkin.” She grinned, her clean white teeth out-dazzling the October sunshine. “Bai now.” She turned on her heel and walked off, her long blue skirt skipping against her ankles as she went.

            “Bye!” Aubern called after her “Thanks for your help!” she watched as the woman’s back disappeared around the corner of the DQ building and then opened her door. Not bothering to lock or roll up the window, she started out in the direction that the woman had indicated. Each step on the blisteringly hot pavement seamed to sear through her flip-flops and melt the soles of her feet. Even the thick coating of orange polish that she’d put on her toenails the day before was starting to feel goopy again.

            A few blocks down she reached a mechanic shop with the inscription “Auto Body Store” on the door.

            “Oh, very original there” she murmured, not bothering to add in sarcasm “Well, I guess this is probably where I want to be.” She pushed on the door and it swung in, smooth as olive oil, letting out a gasp of cool air from inside. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior and, before she could see quite clearly, was greeted by a voice that she could only assume belonged to one of the brothers.

            “Hey, there! How c’n I help you?”

            Now able to distinguish the shades of relative dark she saw the speaker. On the shorter side of tall, close cropped hair of an undefineable color, brown eyes. Dimples. Elton had had dimples. Long nose, cheerful smile, a shades of brown plaid shirt worn unbuttoned and with the sleeved rolled up to just above the elbow, underneath that a plain white shirt. Aubern assumed that he was the type to wear jeans and not shorts, but it was hard to tell where he was standing behind the counter across the room.

            “someone said that you might be able to help me put enough gas in my car to get to a gas station?” she said it as a question.

            “Shore thang. Whe ’re you parked?” He asked, then, without waiting for an answer, “Hong on just a sec’ while I get ‘Merigo.”

            Ah. So this was… Columbus? “Thanks. Sure. I’m parked at the shell… the closed one.” She waited while he came out from behind the counter and went into a back room. Black carhartts, not jeans. As he came out again, followed by his brother, another man burst from the sweltering sidewalk.

            “Hey, Lumber Jack!” He oozed excitedly “You’ll never – woops, sssarry, tooootsie roll.” The more than slightly intoxicated man apologized after slamming into Aubern as he ran headlong towards the brothers – what was in with these small towners and their pet names for complete strangers? “’Lumbus, some kid ‘s gone ‘n’ broke inter a car ‘at’s parked at the old shell and –“

            “My car!?” Aubern froze where she stood.

            “Darnnn, was it yoursss, sssweetie pie?” the drunk asked confusedly “Aaany way, sooome kid done broked the winnnd shield, even though the window ‘sss down ‘n’ – “ the man broke off in a round of hiccups and then passed out on the floor.

            “Disgusting” Aubern muttered under her breath.

            “I’ll head over there ‘n’ see what th’ fuss is all ‘bout.” Amerigo said. “Don’t worry, Burt here is prone to ‘zaggeration.” He paused “I’m Amerigo Hantce, by the way, and that’s my brother, Columbus” so it was Columbus “Hantse, and that…” he looked down at the drunken man “well, that’s Burt, or… he used to be Burt, ‘till ‘e started drinkin’.”

            Aubern was suddenly at the end of her string. “That’s great, but my car just got broken into and I really have to go.” She ran to the door and pushed it.

            “Ya have t’ pull it t’ op’n it.” Amerigo’s grin was almost too much to bear.

Aubern’s face flushed crimson as she pulled the handle as quickly as she could to get away from that grin. “Thanks.” She lied just before she made a break for it out into the boiling sun, even worse after she had acclimated to the atmosphere of the Auto Body Shop. She jogged the three blocks to the empty shell and when she reached it a small crowd had already gathered around her car, which, as if it hadn’t been falling apart before, now looked like an advertisement for Geico. “Hey! Get away from my car! Go away! You got nothing better to do?” someone who had been poking their head through the open window pulled back and mumbled something akin to “Saarry, grouchy head”.

            Aubern threw the little girl a sharp look. “Watch it, kiddo.” The woman who had directed Aubern to the Hantce brothers grabbed a shoulder strap of the girl’s denim jumper and told her to shut her mouth if she wanted any supper that night.

Thick Guitar Necks and Short Fingers:

                                  A Declaration of Complaint.

   As Anne Shirley has been known to say: I am in the "depths of despair". I told my father (not half an hour ago) that "I could positively murder his guitar" and I am not anywhere close to taking taking it back - not even mentally. Now, I would like to be the glass-half-full type and say something that I'm not annoyed with about the guitar... but I simply cannot see any half-fullness to this situation. What could I say? I'm thankful that the neck isn't too skinny? No, there is no such thing as a guitar with a neck that's too skinny. I'm thankful that my fingers aren't shorter? I'm not entirely certain that much would change if my fingers were shorter (all right, that's not true... I'm sure I ought to be very grateful that my fingers are as long as they are). If I were Anne I could imagine that my fingers were longer, or that the guitar's neck were skinnier, but it seems to me that the shortness of one's fingers isn't something that can be imagined away. It's all well and good to sit there thinking about what it would feel like if my fingers were long enough to play that dastardly Bb chord, but where does that get me? Exactly nowhere. As my favorite heroine has said before me “…the worst of imagining things is that the time comes when you have to stop…” (you can find that quote on the thirty-second page of Anne of Green Gables). So, I can’t really bring myself to take the imagining rout. There is absolutely nothing I can do (alright, nothing that I want to do) except sulk about it for a while and wish death upon that abominable guitar – no, all of those absolutely atrocious guitars.

Instructions on Beach-Going

lovingly transcribed by my splendid sister, Moonchild

Step 1: Get in the car
Step 2: Grab a picnic lunch and steak
Step 3: Get the keys - place in ignition
Step 4: Start the car!!!
Step 5: Get your sweater
Step 6: Put sweater on, get in the car, and drive to the beach
Step 7: After you reach the beach, get out of the car
Step 8: After you get out, make sure that your sweater is buttoned all the way up and down
Step 9: Before leaving for the beach and getting in the car, put the ipod in (don't forget you adapter) and turn on something silly
Step 10: Then, after buttoning your sweater, you must turn off the music and take the keys out of the ignition after turning off the car
Step 11: Place keys in picnic lunch so they don't get lost
Step 12: Take a firm grasp on your picnic basket and discard your shoes (which you must remember to put on before you leave the house as it is illegal to drive your car without them)
Step 13: Place your shoes and your purse in the trunk and lock the car and the trunk
Step 14: After you make sure that all of the doors are locked securely, you will walk down to the beach using the stone steps provided by whoever provided them
Step 15: Once you reach a place that you deem suitable to set up your picnic lunch at; set up your picnic lunch (Note: Don't forget to bring a knife - you will be very sad if you do)
Step 16: Eat your picnic lunch and then go on a walk. when you come back from your walk you will sit where you had your picnic, build your fire, watch the sunset, and roast your steak (Note: It advisable to bring kindling, paper, and matches)
Step 17: After you eat your juicy and delectable steak, you will get out your guitar and sing songs (Note: I also strongly advise bringing a guitar as you may find this step frustratingly difficult without one)
Step 18: Once you've finished playing your guitar, pack everything up (except the fire, you might not want to bring that home with you), take the keys out of the picnic lunch (yes, I know that you've already consumed it), walk to your car (don't forget bring everything that you packed up), turn it on, turn on some slow, sad music, and then drive home
Step 20: Don't forget to get your camera before you leave the house so that you can take lots of lovely photographs
Step 19: As a final note, I strongly suggest bringing a friend to keep you company, otherwise you might find the entire outing rather lonely and depressing
Step 21: Tomorrow, please go back to step one and continue from there

Step 22: Um... You weren't supposed to read this far...


Thank you for reading! I do hope that you enjoy your outing!

Silhouettes and Sweaters

A young girl sits in her customary resting place, in front of the spatting fire, and contemplates the the splendid day that she's had. The slight glow of the flames accentuate the silhouette of her hair (pulled into a side bun just below and slightly behind her right ear, with its loose ends hanging out after the happenings of the evening) and bring to life the rich hues of her heathered sweater.

First her mother had made scrumptious, heart-shaped pancakes that, topped with butter and a little bit of brown sugar, had been devoured quite happily by none other than the girl herself. Then there was the opening of made-with-care Valentine's cards from mother and sisters. Each one was given with much love and a sweet note from the sender (and there was even chocolate, the girl rather suspects her mother guilty of this splendid act). After this there was the customary devotional with the mother and youngest sister (and, of course, the youngest sibling who has yet to be known by the world) it included the reading of a hard-backed blue Bible, the instruction for living the life of a woman after God's own heart from a book written by Elizabeth George, followed by a novel about a scholarly young lady who finds herself in the midst of an adventure in what seems to be a place of faeries and mystical beings. Next came the doing of the girl's school, which sometime just before noon was interrupted by the pleasant surprise of flowers sent by one of her most loved heroes, her father, with a note who's end read "Love, daddy". She placed them atop the hope-chest that he'd built especially for her some time ago (a lovely thing made of pine and stained a deep "cherry red" that looks something like mahogany and then with a polish over the top that makes it shine like the treasure-box it is). This was followed by more school, and then a break for lunch, and then more school again until sometime after the fourth afternoon hour, which ushered in a time of preparation where the girl readied herself for a nice dinner with her mother and sisters at local restaurant with spicy foods and peanut sauces and plenty of rice. It really was a lovely time, full of happy talk and the ponderings of whether military men or scholars can best withstand intolerably spicy foods. They returned home eventually of course, and then the girl had to finish up the bit of school that she had left to do (by this point her hair had already begun to fight its way out of its confining pins) which she did as quickly as she could manage so that she would be able to eat a brownie while listening to a dramatized retelling of St. Valentine's heroic tale with the family of her's that was home at the time. And then it was all over... and here she sit's in her customary place in front of the fire, contemplating the the day with the glowing embers accentuating her silhouette and the colour of her cozy sweater while she writes about her day and the fire that does all this accentuating and highlighting of silhouettes and sweaters.

You Want To Talk To Me?

My toes are positioned quite close to the merry little fire, and I'm enjoying the dry crackling and tapping and clicking of its voice, which, if you aren't fluent (and I'm not), sounds rather akin to Morse Code. One might almost contrive a belief that these flickering pillars of flame are trying to communicate to me: "Feed me, feed me, or else I'll die", "Such lovely wood, yes, lovely. I haven't had wood like this since yesterday. Yes, very lovely wood". Or perhaps they are pouring out to me the woes of their rather confined life: "I would so love to be in the forest, where there are lots of trees to play on and all those little bushes to consume... but poor me, I'm stuck in this little black box and I can only play with the toys that you give me, and only eat the food that you bring. don't you think you could let me out for just a little while? I promise I would only eat just a few little bushes... I promise not to even touch the trees or go anywhere near the house. Oh, please?" One might be able to imagine that these glowing fronds of heat are trying to tell you something important "Now, if you'll only give me that log sitting there. Yes, that one. I'll tell you all about this week and what it will be. but I can only whisper it in your ear so bring your head just little closer... ah, but it won't work through the glass so I suppose you'll have to find out about the week all by yourself." or maybe he's just telling me the news. "A spider climbed up my chimney last night and he got away before I could catch him. And then there was a little star, way far above that I stared at until in moved away, and by then it was too light to find another one... perhaps I shall see another one tonight". And of course he would ramble off until I got up and left, and then perhaps he would talk to his door and ask him what he thought of the spider, and why he hadn't had the sense to block him out before he got in.

The Crickets Let Lax Their Nighttime Tunes

The morning sun's bright eyes blink open after her night of restful slumber, she stretches her slender fingers over the tops of the trees and caresses them, as one might caress the hair of a tired child, the gold of her skin slips between the short stalks of winter grass as she runs away from the eastern mountains, towards the sleeping houses and barns, sheds and nests, and hollowed trees that are the homes of so many. Her fire-y hair streams behind her like the pennant of some mighty fortress slapping in an angry gale. she climbs first up the side of the hill, letting the wet fronds of grass, bush, and flower swish against her warm body, feeling the coolness of the night before dissolve beneath her pattering feet. Up she goes, over the crest and down again on the other side, tripping lightly to the middle of the field, all the while singing sweet songs into the windows and doorways of nearby dwellings, sweetly waking all who are not yet up and about. "I've come," she sings "I've come and it's begun again." Her voice lilts off the meadow tumbles and hillocks, melting the frosty shadows and nudging the birds to join in her melody "I've come, I've come, Now up, you come too, up, up, and follow me all the way to the west." The birds begin to sing along, and the crickets let lax their nighttime tunes, making room for morning, in all her young newness of song. She has come again, fresh and sweet and ready to set loose the joyous harmonies of another day.

I fall down, He lifts me up

     Last night as I finally turned off the closet light (which has rather become my workplace) I felt beaten, desperate, and miserable. All week I had worked on this paper and I had tried and tried to get it right but for some reason my brain had been refusing to cooperate. As I climbed into bed I prayed that God would help me to do better next week. I fell asleep like that, praying that I would make it through this coming week, praying that I would convince myself to enjoy the work. I woke up the morning to Moonchild telling me "It's 7:06!" and I was horrified. How could that possibly be? I had set my alarm for 6:00 last night, I hadn't pressed the snooze button this morning, I distinctly remembered pulling back the covers so I could get up and get ready. I sprang up with all haste, grabbed the clothes that I had been planning on wearing to Church, and called down the stairs to my brother to be sure that he wouldn't leave me behind. He usually left at 7:07 and I had in the past been able to get myself out the door in one minute. Little did I know that he had left two minutes earlier than he usually did and my calling had been in vein. I rushed into my dress, grabbed my hairpins, ran into the laundry room to grab my coat and shoes... and he was gone. I would be lying if I told you that I didn't feel rather like crying. The frustration from the night before was still fogging up every nick and cranny of my brain and it was rather early in the morning. I sat down on the bottom step of the stairs and sulked. And sulked... and sulked. Finally I decided that since I had time I would finish doing my hair.
     As I headed out the door with two of my sisters and my parents I warned them of what was to come "I think" I said "That I probably won't be a very pleasant person today. I apologize in advance."
     All the way through the singing I was completely miserable. I was annoying even myself. During the greeting time my friend came up to me, gave me a hug, and told me that she needed to talk to me after the service. I was terribly frightened that I'd done something to offend her (I'm not known for being particularly good in my people skills and often find myself saying things that are utterly tactless). As the service went on I relaxed a little, my heart warmed by the story that the pastor was sharing with his congregation. I started to feel as though perhaps the world wasn't all bad. At the end of the service I walked against the flow of the people who were all rushing out the doors and down the stairs to the fellowship hall (gym) I was headed up the aisle towards my friend, worrying about what I could have possibly done this time.
     I greeted my friend with a smile that I'd pushed to the surface of my face and hoped for the best. Her boyfriend, pardon me, fiance, told her that he'd catch up with her afterwards. I gave my friend a hug and we started walking towards the door that everyone else was headed for. What came next was an unexpected and wonderful surprise. Just as we had reached the last pew she turned to me and said "Would you please be my maid of honor?"
     My hands flew to my face and I'm afraid that I almost knocked her over with a hug. Now, you have to understand that I wasn't at church last week, and therefore not only was I completely shocked at the question but I also had no idea that the two had gotten engaged. I'm embarrassed to say that I could not hold back a rather unladylike squeal as I told her how happy I was for her and how of course, I would be honored her maid of honor (pun intended). I went with her when she went to talk to the pastor about setting a date and then remembered that I had a few other things that needed to be done.
   As I walked towards the building where the high-schoolers meet after church for a lesson that is directed towards us I realized that God had sent that moment to remind me that no matter how little faith I have in myself, and no matter how poorly I think of myself he will always be there to pull be back up out of my imperfection to tell me how much he loves me. And while sometimes he does this through solitary walks or quite contemplation,  at other times, like this morning, he does it by showing you that you've been important enough to someone else that they want to honor you with being part of one of the most important moments of their life. My day had gone from the worst to the best in a matter of hours and I'm pleased to report that it still seems to be humming along quite nicely.

Wishing On Stars

     Pitter pat, pitter pat, pitter... pitter... pip, pip... pat. As the rain slows to a stop, relieving the window panes of this constant assailment of pricking water droplets, I am reminded of the weather forecast for Monmouth: Sleet starting at nine and by midnight - snow, and from then until Monday morning: Snow, soft, white, feathery, downy snow. Well, perhaps... if the ground stays cold enough. if it doesn't decide to change to rain... it shouldn't change to rain, I don't want it to change to rain... snow is such a beautiful thing: so pure, and white, and simple, but so stunningly different against the grey, tired winter sky. I should so very much like the snow to stick. "Is that too much to ask?" I look up at the night sky, up at Jupiter (he's at the summit of his journey this month), and make a wish: "Star light, star bright," No, too often said. Suppose he's bored of that one... what else?
     Tip, tip tap, tip tap, tip tap. My pencil clicking on the paper as I try to think. Do I know any other wishing poems? Perhaps I've read one in a fairytale "Mirror, mirror..." no, the star doesn't mirror light from the earth... well, I could write my own wishing poem... how  does one write a wishing poem?
     Suddenly I realize that I've completely forgotten what I'm wishing for... White... like, like... Oh, yes! Snow! Of course... how does one write a poem, a wishing poem, to a star, about snow... should I write to a specific star? Jupiter surely is not the sort of star you'd want to wish on... So cold, so... so stern... lighting in his fist... besides, he was so terribly unfaithful to poor Juno. How can you expect a star like that to listen to a poem that asks him for snow? No, it simply will not do. what about Venus? Bueauty. Probably she is much more promising. she is said to have a mothering heart. Yes, Venus, I think, is much more likely to listen to such a request.
     But the poem, what about the poem? How does one write to the Starmother? It could be a short poem, something sing-songish, perhaps?

"Starmother, with your hair so bright

With your moon-like face, so sweet... so white,

I would so dearly like some snow

to last a day or so

then, I think, I could let it go!"

    

 Hm... No, I think not, Starmother deserves something better: more... something... Anne-ish:

"O, planet bright, Satellite

Of this star called 'Sun'.

So soft of light, so warm,

Please send to me a snow white storm

Storm... Storm...

With downy feather-flake

with the dusted white lightness

of snow.

O, please, sweet queen,

O, Venus golden white,

send... send me...

Snow."

     Well, not precisely refined, that... but still, I think she might respond to something like that. She likes to hear a pleading voice, she knows what to do with this: she has so many children, all those lovely stars - her youngest only a few years since he was put in his place up there with his older brothers and sisters. Yes, she will listen, and perhaps... perhaps...

The wind blows in from the west...

A Thursday Morning

Eeernk. Eeernk. EEERNK! The alarm clock beeps. A sleep marked hand reaches up to a windowsill where an alarm is kept and attempts to press a button on the top. When the sound does not turn off the tired person realizes that the sound is coming from across the room - her sister's alarm. In sleepy reasoning the girl decides that her sister must have set her alarm to get up earlier today, that must be why this alarm was going off before her own. So the girl surrenders herself again to her dreams only to wake up with a start what feels like moments later (but is really closer to half an hour) realizing that she had forgotten to set the alarm the night before. She glances upwards at the clock, peering through the sunlight that dives in from the window, and reads the digital numbers: 8:01. She groanes, a deep, soul resonating groan. 8:01? 8:01? No this has to be a dream, a very annoying dream, a dream that is depicting her late for yet another Wednesday - the busiest day of her week. Wednesday? Wait. She rolls over to look at her sister's calender on the wall opposite the window. It all comes rushing back: Eating dinner at Church, helping in the basement (that's where the youngest AWANA clubbers meet), going over to the other building to find her mother and sister. Yes, yesterday was most definitely Wednesday. A sigh of relief escapes her sleep-dried lips. It is Thursday: one of the slower days. She is safe, well, she will be if she gets up. She got up.

~Ladybird

A New Blog

Some of you know (and some of you may not) that I used to have a blog by the title of "A Melody Of Life" well, I decided after a while that I wanted to change the title to something else (as you can see I ended up with "Ladybird Sketches"). And Well, as blogger doesn't let you just change the name of your blog (and so on and so forth) I decided that I would simply make a new one, and so I did, and here it is. I have uploaded the last post from my previous blog so if you've already read it then you certainly aren't obligated to read it again (although I am by no means going to try to stop you). I hope all is well with you!

The header in progress:

~Ladybird

Goings On...

...At the top of our windswept hill...

From holidays in small woodland cabins to the weddings of two most beloved family members to the birth of the soon-to-be newest member of the immediate family, "Baby G", this year promises to be full of splendid, joyful things.

Last year (goodness, is it really January already?) somewhere in between the months of August and September I was joyously informed that my cousin (for all practical purposes we'll call her "Rese") had gotten engaged. Now, of course, as exciting as this was and as ecstatic as we all were, it was by no means an unexpected surprise. My cousins and I had been speculating for months over when Rese's sweetheart would "Pop the question". And then the flurry of planning, giggling, finding, seeing, smiling, exclaiming, and re-planning began (and hasn't quite yet ended). The wedding (scheduled for the twenty first of this month) is sure to be a smashing success and I am honored to be one of her bridesmaids.

In the last days of September the younger of my two brothers (and one of the two siblings closest to my age) left for Basic Training for the National Guard. I am so proud of my military brother! He is so smart, and strong, and I know that he loves God and also his family. After basic he came, like a good boy, home for Christmas. We spent a lovely week and a half enjoying his presence. Which includes going Christmas shopping in Corvallis and seeing "The Adventures Of Tintin" in theaters (which was, by the way, fantastic!). He left again yesterday morning for AIT and I cannot wait to see him again in another three months.

November brought along many interesting events, the most notable of which were the slashing of my father's tires (never fear, they were in need of replacement anyway) and the engagement of my second to oldest sister. Now, this engagement was a surprise (although said sister told us later that they, at least, had been talking about it for a while). My youngest sister and I were a wee bit disappointed by the lack of a ring. The qualm, however, was soothed over on Christmas day when my sister's fiance presented her with a ring and the end of Christmas dinner (a better time, there couldn't have been). She is now happily in the land of wedding planning and today we are off to search for her wedding dress (oh, what fun!).

In December (the seventeenth to be exact) Mother dear told us that in month of August we are to welcome into the family the youngest sibling, whom we have taken to call "baby G" due to the fact that the wee thing is destined to have a name beginning with that letter. There we were, warming ourselves beside the fireplace, and we could hardly believe our ears, so happy and surprised were we! Indeed, my younger sister truly thought that she was dreaming (although it was for only a moment).

Last week (and year) a few of my cousins came to celebrate the ending of one year and the beginning of the new with us. We had a lovely time, which consisted of walks in the woods, tales 'round the bonfire (marshmallow alert), the (partial) recording of a most traditional Christmas story, and gales of laughter of silly, cousin things. They left yesterday at noon, and we did our special goodbye... ritual (long story) for the last time with five unmarried cousin girls.

This week we will be headed to what we now call "Our Cabin", though it isn't ours at all, where we shall spend a relaxing weekend (as though we won't have already have had three weeks of winter break) sitting beneath the boughs of pine trees and playing long games of Carcassonne and Settlers Of Catan.

All in all, the last half of the year bodes well for the first half of this one. And I'm sure there will be some unexpected surprises along the way. I cannot wait to see what is in store (though I suppose I'll have to) for the coming months, and I hope that all of these beginnings are simply glorious.

As Tiny Tim once said (or at least fictitiously) "God bless us, every one!" Happy new years (albeit a teensy bit late), everyone!