The Farmer Who Nobody Believed

Preface: The idea for this story came to me last night when I most probably should have been focusing on homework, and so I wrote it tonight in much the same fashion. I think it falls somewhere between "Job" and "Jack and the Beanstalk". Hopefully I'll be able to illustrate it and add it to my fairytale book this summer. 

***

There once was a very poor man who lived in Eameth and struggled every day to feed his wife and children. Though the home they had was sound, it was five miles from the nearest village and ten from the next one over, though they lived by a stream it was often dry in the late summer, and though he owned a great expanse of land, nothing had grown there since the birth of his youngest daughter. He was an honest man, hard-working and loved his family whole heartedly, but no matter what he put his hand to, tinkering, painting, building, he couldn’t seem to make a living off of it—all who saw him shook their heads and sighed, some called him lazy, others called him stupid, and still more prided themselves for their pity, but none offered him work or were kind to his wife and children in passing.

Over time the man was thrown to desperation, and though he spent all his time hunting or scavenging or trying to find work, he had to watch his children grow thinner and thinner, and his wife become weaker and weaker. One day, in the late fall when the stream was swollen with rain, he wandered as far up it as his weary legs would carry him—to a deep spot over his head and with his remaining strength began to tie stones to his ankles with bits and pieces of twine, thinking that without him is wife could remarry and she and their children might have a better chance of surviving.

He had just begin to tie the last stone when the gentle voice of a stranger broke the rhythm of birdsong and caused him to pause. “No trouble is worth losing the greatest of gifts, my son” said the weathered looking old man who he now saw resting beneath a nearby tree. Avid, for that was his name, felt anger somehow revolt in the pit of his stomach. Did the stranger not know the struggle and pain he had gone through that had driven him to this moment? “Have you ever had to watch your children starve?” he asked cynically.

“I have had to see far worse”. The old man reached out his hand to Avid and pressed the palm against the younger man’s forehead. Avid’s vision flared with pain and he saw the suffering of the whole world and he knew in that moment that this was what the old man saw and felt with every breath he took. Then, in a flash of heat he saw his family huddled against a cloud of dust, crying the last of their water into a shallow grave, and he grew deeply ashamed. He watched as they each perished, none the better for his selfish sacrifice. His face grew flushed and he searched for words, but he found none. “You have yours to care for and I have mine,” the old man said “but I have watched you at times and I know that though you have succumbed to fear, it has been despite your most firm efforts. So-- I will give you a chance to change your fate if you promise to trust me”.

Avid felt the air seemed somehow to grow heavier around them and he was aware that whatever he said here, he would be bound to by honor. So he said truthfully “I would do anything to save them. Please, I give you my promise”. His heart plunged forward, pounding against his skin with surprising strength. A different kind of fear filled him, it seemed to build him up, to renew him.

The old man blessed Avid with a quiet smile as he offered him a sullied parcel “in this you will find all that you need. You must plant it and tend to it every day, no matter what, for as long as it takes. If you fail once, it shall never come to fruit, but I give you my word that if you are faithful, it will be the end to a great suffering”. Before Avid could reply and even as he looked at him still, the old man seemed to shift back into the trees, becoming just another part of the forest. In a moment, Avid realized that the air was lighter, full of hope and he ran back to his home and began his work right away.

Over the next few days Avid planted every last grain of the wheat (for that is what the parcel contained), and watered each one diligently. He told his wife and children what he had seen and they helped him to tend to the crop. Over the next few weeks they waited excitedly for something to happen, turning over every stone to see if a blade of wheat might be struggling beneath it. The days began to grow darker, the nights colder, and yet they watered, hoping that something would happen. Nothing did.

They watered the wheat fields every day that winter, and when spring came and the leaves of the forest grew green and fresh, they thought that this, at last, would be the time. But still, nothing happened. As spring wore on, the farmer instructed his wife and children to fill pails and buckets with water and hid them in the cool of the cellar, he built a basin in the dark down there to fill with water so that they should not run out when the summer came in full.

They watered and they watered and they watered. The summer sapped them of their strength and left them in hunger and still they watered, praying with everything that that they were for any small blade to peak up from beneath the surface of the field. And still nothing did.

The autumn came again and Avid’s lands remained barren. His wife was ailing and his children were too hungry even to cry and he felt his heart begin to falter, but he remembered the solemnity of his promise to the old wanderer and so he continued to water the fields. The next year passed much the same way, and so did the one after that. By the fourth year all who knew him thought Avid and his family all insane and nobody would speak to them out of fear that they carried some disease. But still Avid watered. Though he had to crawl on his shriveled knees, though he had the strength barely to lift his head, he continue to water his fields. A fifth year passed.

In the middle of the sixth year, the villagers climbed up to Avid’s home and began shouting at him that he should give up, before they had to drive him and his family away. They told him that from the village below, their home was an eyesore and that if it weren’t for him the town would be prospering far better. They even went so far as to suggest that he do as he had planned so many years before. Through it all Avid but smiled quietly and went about his watering.

At the end of the sixth year his youngest daughter grew ill, and by the following Spring she was so ill that she could not even drink from the stream or eat the few berries that still hung upon the sparse bushes in the forest. She could not follow the others outside to water and Avid and his wife were deeply worried. They tried everything they could to revive her. In the dark hours of the night, her soul left her body. Avid and his wife took her out to the edge of the forest and buried her there among a bed of asters. Avid’s wife, who had been so patient and trusting through all of their pain turned away from him in final disappointment and went to the middle of the largest field and wept. Avid joined here there. The two wept together until the sun broke, pacing through the raw dirt, feeling the hope that they’d had crunch roughly beneath their feet. When they could cry no longer they began once more to water.

Avid lay down that night and held his family close to his heart, fearing the morning and the barrenness of his land. Through the chinks that had grown in his roof, he watched the moon in her course across the blackness and prayed that it would never end. It was with bitterness that he watched the tint of red that grew across the sky, but he rose faithfully and stepped outside with his pail of water. He thought at first that his eyes were lying to him, that his inability to sleep might be causing a mirage, but there across the expanse of his land was a gentle dusting of green. He barely dared to blink, lest the image disappear. He stumbled into the nearest field and felt the cool dewing fronds of green wheat lick his ankles. He fell onto his knees and began again to weep. That morning the field was watered half with his tears and half with the water from the stream, and when his family woke they were breathless with relief. They redoubled their efforts and soon the stalks were as high as their waists, and then nearly up to Avid’s chest. And then it grew to be a color as gold is the evening sun. And just at the right time Avid and his wife and his remaining children cut it all and threshed and cleaned it at took it to the village to sell.

The family was so renewed that the villagers did not even recognize them, and happily bought up all the wheat and only paused occasionally to wonder if they had seen these prosperous farmers before. Avid and his wife decided to say nothing to the villagers about the past, knowing that they would each find out in their own way.

After the harvest that year, Avid’s family lasted quite comfortable through the winter months, and the next spring, the crop had doubled, the spring after it was tenfold, and so it continued to multiply. No more weariness or illness was seen in Avid’s family and they all remained attentive of their gift.

One spring, Avid found his way again to the deep pool up the stream, hoping that the wanderer might be there, but he found only an aster sitting upon the bank. And so he knew that his daughter was taken care of too, that she also, had found her years of plenty. 

Struggle and the Individual Demon

My dear friends,
The topic which I am about to discuss has taken up a prominent position in my thoughts for a while now, and I've decided that today is the time to share it. It might get a little bit ramble-y, so bear with me.
I want you to keep in mind throughout this post this thought, which is the reason I'm writing it: There is no person in this world who does not struggle in some way. And in fact, it is unlikely that you will ever find a person who struggles only in one way, or yet in ten. I am using myself as an example, only because that is the only example I know from the inside out. If you want just the conclusion (and I won't be offended), skip to the * towards the end.

I have grown up in a position that many people might only wish for-- well-loved, well-educated, and well-provided for. You might think that a person in this position would be hard pressed to find cause for feeling out of place, unloved, or afraid. Yet despite those things, despite all of the care and tenderness of a close and whole family, I have struggled deeply for as long as I can remember. Although there is no one and nothing to blame for it, although I was blessed in my family and always given support and love, I cannot recall a single time in my childhood when I was actually happy. From a very young age I felt very fully my fallenness and my incompleteness. This is a dark and heavy burden for a child, but a burden I think many children bear without feeling they are able to talk about it. I am not saying that I don't have "happy memories", there were times, of course when the burden was farther from my mind or days when it was a little lighter, it does not mean that I am not grateful for my childhood and the family I was born into, in fact I believe that it is because of the struggles he knew I would have that God chose to put me where I am. What it actually means will become clearer as you read farther.
The older I grew, the darker and heaver my shadow got. I constantly measured myself against the images of my siblings and people I knew. The more I worried about it the bigger my failures became. I was too fat, too stupid, too silly, too lazy, too mean, too sensitive. I was a hypochondriac and a liar. I was sinful, a hyppocrite, prideful, and worst of all: useless. These were titles I gave myself. I was not bullied or taunted. I was loved! I was loved and I knew I didn't deserve it, and it tore me apart. So I chose not to believe it. Chidren do think about these things! when I was very little I thought I could out talk it, I would talk to anyone who would or wouldn't listen about anything at all and yet feel always that I was an outsider. I would tell stories about myself that weren't true because I felt they explained the person I found inside me better than the truth. But then I would hate myself for telling them. I would lie awake at night feeling everything that I knew to be bad about myself blacken my insides. God was a far away and very disappointed in me. Jesus died for me and I was wasting his grace.
The physical symptoms, of which I constantly complained, I know now were signs of depression. those dark nights when I lay awake in bed and my body felt like it was freezing regardless of how many hats and blankets I wore (which I simultaneously thought were sure-fire signs I was dying and also thought I was making up so I could feel sorry for myself ), the days I ached all over without cause and thought myself one day a martyr, the next day an imbecile, these were the thumbprint of my personal struggle.
There were a lot of faces to it that I will not bore you with, because they are not the point of this writing.
Throughout my teens and until quite recently I deeply questioned the reality of the God I wanted so badly to believe in and to honor. I tried so hard not to do the things that I felt other adolescents are constantly being looked down on because of, and that, in a sense, was probably the only thing that saved me from serious self-harm. I could not stand to disappoint people and yet I was constantly doing exactly that. I worked hard to try and keep my outside image clean, afraid that someone would see the sinfulness of my heart, afraid that someone would know that I was unsure of my own faith. I began to wonder if the only reason I continued to hold on Christianity was the cowardice to lose the support of my family. Every time I thought or did something I knew to be wrong I would slap my face or verbally abuse myself. I think in someway I felt that since nobody else seemed to be punishing me, I'd better do it myself. I was in a constant state of tearing myself down. College hit and so did the mainstream fascination with mental illness and 'empathy'. I continued to find new ways to feel sorry for myself. It was hip to be sick, either physically or mentally. If you weren't sick, you had it too easy and you weren't allowed to admit that your life could be difficult without a diagnosed illness or some state of minority to your credit. I was surrounded by people who spoke of "empowerment" but lived in ever-growing decay, the less sleep you got, to more anxiety you dealt with, the worse of an eating disorder you have, the more worthy you were. For someone like me this was a treasure-trove of self-diagnosed and instantly accepted reasons for being human. Among these people if you say you are ill, you are a hero. But of course, everyone has it worse than everyone else, and they'll be sure to tell you all about it!
I have been writing in the past tense, but you have to understand that this is a current struggle. In the last year or so I've continued to dwell deeply on the spiritual aspect of this, my demon. Working, and re-working my thoughts, my fears, the things that I think I know. On New Year's day of this year (not because of the day, but because I couldn't take it alone any more) I shared with someone for the first time that I didn't know whether I really did believe in God. That I wanted to believe, but that I didn't know if I honestly did. And sharing the thing that I've been hiding for so long has begun to help me solve it. Of course, the struggle is still very deep. This is the first time that I've told all of this part of my story, and I probably will not be able to press the publish button, but there are other parts that I don't think I shall ever tell because they are for me and God.There are, of course, days when I still cannot quite make myself love me as I know that God does, but the point is that I know he does. The point is that my struggle, and the struggles of the people who are around me, are not made empty by being less obvious or less open than the struggles of those around us.
*We are not more or less strong or weak than each other, we are strong and weak in different ways and while some people may have already learned their strengths and their weaknesses, there may be people who struggle most when they are young and people who struggle most when they are at another age. There are people who will struggle physically, people who will struggle mentally, people who will struggle spiritually. We might struggle with circumstances or with our own hearts. We are each suited to a different struggle or variety of struggles in the same way as we are suited to different colors or a different pare of shoes, some do not bother us but may bother our friend and some bother us a great deal though nobody else would notice. You don't even have to share your struggle with other people! It can be helpful of course, but it will not be helpful unless your soul is ready for it. The only person you must share you struggle with, the only person who can handle it, is God. Maybe right now you don't even believe he exists.
wherever you are with your struggle, whether right now your burden is the heaviest it has ever been, or whether you might call this a time of respite, know that you are not less of a person for it. You are human, and as human you are also fallen, but as one who has fallen you have been given the choice of letting yourself be saved. As C. S. Lewis once said (and I paraphrase):
It is exactly because we have fallen that Christ has given his life to safe us. If we had not been fallen, if we were worthy, there would be no point in the saving.
You are loved, whether you like it or not. You can dwell on your own brokenness, you can let the blackness overwhelm your heart, you can blame yourself for everything wrong in the world and it will not save you. It will not make you a better person. You cannot be made a better human being because there is no such thing. But you can be made free of the weight of knowing it. God's love is not about taking away our humanity, God's love is about loving us through our humanity, about trying as hard as you can to be a better person every moment you're alive and yet knowing that when you fail at it (as you will inevitably do each and every day), there is someone to pick you up. Someone warm your freezing blood in the late nights when you feel your own mortality, someone to sooth the ache in your heart when you remember that you are not worthy.
Your personal demon does not have to be bigger or badder than everybody else's. It might be a little bit of envy, or it might be a mental illness for which you have no choice but to take drugs. The variety of your burdens are covered completely and judged equally. Be loved.

What Am I Holding Onto?

This week both pastor Jerry and pastor Rob spoke on willingness. Specifically the need in believers to cast aside whatever plans we think we have figured out, or boxes we've found to put our faith in and entrust our every action to God. As an attendee of two church services in order to keep tradition with two sets of dearly loved people, there is always a sense of urgency comes when both of my pastors end up sermoning on the same topic. Maybe because it doesn't often happen, and perhaps more because the separate churches stand about an hour's drive apart from each other, I feel that God is speaking directly to me something that I desperately need to hear.

Proverbs 16:03 "Commit your works to the Lord and your plans will be established".

These things are so, so difficult for me. I've always thought that I was something of a free spirit, not being able to sit down and make a five-year plan for my life was something I saw a failure on my part, something I struggled hard against. But here I sit, realizing that (despite my supposed long-term flexibility) there must be something I'm holding on desperately to in my version of what following should look like that I shouldn't be holding on to and I can't seem to figure out exactly what it is. A very dangerous place to be. As in so many cases, I can easily see the flaws in others and judge them for it, but even with what seems to be an arrow pointing directly at it, I can't seem to glimpse my own disfigurement. Until I find it, I will be learning to pray as Elijah did that out of great discomfort will come realization and change, even if I may not like the method.



Happy Monday,
Ladybird

Peace Like Snow

Apologies for the two-year absence.

As a dusting of January snow falls to grace the frozen ground here on my mountain, my thoughts replicate its numerous and drifting qualities. But one overlying theme seems to speak to me over the quiet hush that is more inspiring that the proverbial clean slate that the New Year seems to offer or the bubbling joviality that has characterized the Christmas season over the last several weeks. The theme is peace. Not peace on earth, the grownup Christmas wish (though I would readily accept it were the offer there), nor even the peaceful rest of a break from hard work. It is not the peace of a quiet household with sleeping children, or the eventual ceasing of the joyous din that is family celebration. No not a visible peace like any of these things. The peace that I am thinking of is peace in God, in love, and in self.
If the last year or two of your life has been anything like mine or my family's there are things that have happened that would seem very difficult to find peace with. We have all been blessed by God with enormous hearts which have the capacity to love as His Son does if we are willing to learn it. Sometimes, however, those hearts have an incredibly troublesome time letting go of things we have grown to love dearly. Change is deeply painful. We miss those who we must for a time lose here on earth, we ache for the days which we didn't seem to appreciate when they were had, and we fear, intensely, things which have not yet happened or that we don't understand. All these things are normal, and beautifully so. but change has also been found to be wonderfully good; just when we are at our worst we might find a piece of ourselves that has always been absent-- a kindred spirit to love wholly or a passion for something we never knew existed. It is part of being God's creation, humanity, to feel strongly and to express those feelings.
This last year in particular has been full of heart-wrenching emotions for nearly all of us. We have seen so much of the change I just spoke of. We have feared much, and angered much, and loved perhaps not as much as we should have-- the same could be said about any day in earth's past. But this year feels different doesn't it?
Of all the things about this year that have reared their dangerous heads up out of our cavernous society, the hate has been the strongest. Hate enough to kill, hate of those who do the killing, hate of ourselves and of each other, hate of who we think each other have become. Hate coupled with fear has, in the last few months, taken over our capacity for love. And before any of us get self righteous (including myself) because clearly we haven't done anything to perpetuate the hate, please take a moment to recall your reactionary thoughts to each of our most turbulent moments in the last year, review your posts on social media about "the other side", and question the integrity of them.
You may be wondering how I started a post about peace and have somehow wound up talking about hate, but the point is drawing closer. The thing about hate, and unrighteous anger, is that it doesn't get us anywhere new. It is merely another of Satan's tools to draw us further and further apart. I'm not saying that we can't react to the horrible things that we see, or even gently correct each other if we find it necessary, if you'll recall, only a couple paragraphs ago I mentioned how our ability to feel is a good gift. We are made in God's image, and God is not on suppressants. What I am suggesting is that we return to hating only the sin and never each other. And when I say never, I mean it. Never. No buts. Never.
That peace I mentioned earlier is not going to come if we don't look to God's word in order to check the feelings that we have against the purest of standards. If we want peace that alters our perception of our own lives and allows us to improve the lives of those around us, we need to stop trying to do the job of judgement which belongs only to God. We will never get it right, surely we have learned by now that it will only bring us deeper pain. We can only bring God's peace to the world by finding it ourselves.
My prayer for this coming year is that, like the snow that hides the impurities of a half-finished patio from my hillside, we can begin to allow God's peace to mend the brokenness that we were all born with.

Not A Goodbye Note

To miss Adeline,
The most kindred of kindred spirits, a sister from the Tribe of Joseph if ever any one was, it has been delightful.

To call you "sweet" would be a gross oversight, because you are the very definition of the word "fabulous", in fact, I'm not entirely certain any such word was in existence until you walked into this world shining from the very roots of your hair. I don't need to wonder where you are now, because I know as an absolute certainty that you are in the very front of God's choir singing Christmas carols the very loudest of any angel around, your face lit with joy and projecting to the back of that cathedral like nobody's business. You are not wearing any old boring white robe, but a bright purple, sequined, puffed sleeved gown, you also don't need a halo because your face is framed by your hair and in your hair are a multitude of glittering sparkles that only the most heavenly of hairdressers could ever have styled. Yes, these things I am certain of.

As for us down here, aside from basking in the beauty of your song, we are doing our very best to keep every memory alive and well. Since the first day I met you, you have been both an inspiration and the greatest encouragement anyone could ever ask for. I yearn to be back in your classroom, discussing the frustrations of felt story-boards and the many joys of all things glittery and shiny. I remember the very first thing I ever made for you; it was a little paper house filled with a little tissue-paper family, most of them made out of the color purple. I remember that when I gave it to you, you were 100% genuinely pleased and that made me feel like the queen of miniature-making. It encouraged me to continue. I can honestly say that I would not be where I am, if it were not for you. The last time I saw you, you were as full as spunk as any sassy girl of eight, purple sparkles, purple suit, purple shoes. You greeted me the same as every week "My special girl! How has your week been?" you asked me, as you always do, if I've written a book yet, your candle-bright eyes keen to tease out my plot-line.

Throughout the years, you have taught me that the most lady-like thing in the world is to do the things you are gifted with as much as you possibly can and in the best way you possibly can, you have shown me that the height of sophistication is in being your absolute only self without apology, because no apology is needed, and most importantly you have taught me that God wants every thing we can give him without discrimination- he wants every doodle, every scribble, every silly tune that doesn't make any sense at all. In the entire time I've known you, I've never heard a cross word fall from your lips. When you walk into a room, your joyful spirit lights every little corner with grace and love. Everyone will always smile when they think of you because even when there is nothing in particular to smile about, that's exactly what you are doing.

I want you to know that every time I make things, I can't wait to tell you about them on Sunday mornings. I want you to know that, every time I wear purple I think of your incredible, fantastic, purple wardrobe. I want you t know that sparkles will forever be the most fashionable accessory a woman could ever wear. And I want you to know that I'm finishing my book. I didn't know it before, but you're in it, and you're my favorite character. I'm going to bind you a copy and you'll get it the next time I see you. Save a seat for me in the soprano section.

With all of my love,

Your girl,
Elaina

Waltz of the Wild Flowers

One, two, three, dance, two three,

There is a scent on the west wind you see.

White, two, three, gold, two three,

Bobbing and darting and ssssssh! two, three.

A rustle of leaves (the columbine’s cape),

And all of the grasses look down towards the lake.

Dip, two, three, turn, two, three,

Something is caught in the current’s harsh spree.

Bob, spin, dive, dunk, two, three,

Why, yes it’s the dandy and just look at his glee!

He leaps to the shore, with nary a scrape,

And grabs hold of Queen Anne, for fear he’ll be late.

One, two, three, bow, two, three,

The lace bends down low to the ground, two, three.

Leap, two, three, tug, two, three,

The mane of a lion set free, two, three,

And then through the trees, a much harsher gale,

Stirs up all the petals – Goodbye! (two, three).

Potato Roses

First off, I apologize that after such a long gap in posting I'm putting up another recipe. This is not a food blog, I promise!

Alright, on to the recipe:


Potato Roses
Serves: 5 (2 roses per serving)

What you will need:
3 large potatoes
1/2 lb of bacon (or any other meat)
1/2 cup broccoli steamed and finely cut (optional)
8 eggs
Milk
vanilla
salt
pepper
dried basil flakes
garlic powder

cooking spray
butcher knife
pairing knife
Vegetable peeler (optional)
medium sized frying pan
mediem sized mixing bowl
whisk
vegetable steamer
2 LARGE muffin tins


Directons:

Alright, now that you've assembled all of your materials we're ready to get started.
Don't forget to wash your hands!

1: Cut your half lb of bacon (or, you know, what ever meat you chose!) into very small pieces and fry them over medium heat until they are done, but not too crunchy (this will ensure that they won't burn when you put the roses in the oven)

2: While you're frying your meat, cut 1/2 cup of broccoli into small pieces, and try not to include too much of the stem, as it doesn't ever get very soft. Fill the bottom of your steamer with about 1 1/2 inches of water and put it over medium heat, placed the broccoli in the top half, sprinkle on a little but of salt, place the lid on and you're free to forget about it for at least a little while.

Don't forget to stir your bacon!

3: Your bacon shouldn't have taken too long to fry, so once you've checked that it is cooked how you want it, take it off the heat and you can now forget about it too. Just don't forget it too well or your quiche filling won't be as satisfying as it should be.

Spray ten of the cups in your muffin tins with lots (and I mean LOTS) of cooking spray. No, you don't have enough yet. Now, my tins have six cups on each, so if you forgot that you only needed ten sprayed and you sprayed all twelve, just but a little bit of water in the extra two, and it will keep the oil from baking on.

4: Now, you do have 3 large potatoes, don't you? (Just thought I'd ask because I didn't and I wished I had). Good. Scrub them down under warm water and cut the ends off.

You can remember your broccoli now. Is it soft enough? If it is, turn off the heat. If it isn't, forget about it again and go back to your potatoes, but not before you set your oven to 350

5: Alright, now were going to peel or pair very thin slices of potato. You can either go half way across or the whole way across, but I find the first way easiest. These have to be very thin! As you peel, place the slices inside the muffin cups. You want them overlapped, so that the edge with the skin is the edge that's touching the pan and about a quarter of each slice bends onto the bottom. It will be much easier to get them out this way. Have you gone all the way around the edges of your first cup? If your broccoli isn't done by now, you probably want to check that you actually turned your stove on. Alright, this next slice doesn't need to be quite so thin, and you definitely want the whole circle, just plop that thing in the center of you muffin cup and repeat nine more times.

6: Go ahead and put your meat at the bottom of your muffin cups.

7: Crack your eight eggs into a mixing bowl and whisk to your hearts content. Add some milk. I'm sorry that I apologize for never measuring the amount of milk I put it, but 1 cup should do it.

8: Stir in your steamed broccoli.

9: A pinch salt, a little vanilla, a dash of pepper. I don't measure those either, but you don't need very much.

10: Stir it all together and then using a measuring cup, pour the batter into you muffin tins.

Bake on convection for 25-30 min... you did set your oven to heat, didn't you?

DING!

11: Take them out of the oven, sprinkle on your garlic and basil, serve them onto a platter and take them to the dinner table.

12: Now you can eat, of course, since you've put so much time into them, you may not really want to eat your roses, but since it's dinner time you should eat them anyway.

I'm sorry, but you will have to wash the dishes.




P.S. I promise that I'll put up step-by step pictures for this before TOO long.

Chocolate Angel Parfait

It was my day to make dessert today, and I just couldn't find anything that sounded interesting enough, so a made up a little something instead! Enjoy :)

Although this recipe is a fairly long time in preparation, it is most definitely worth the result!

Serves Six

1 small small container of heavy whipping cream

1 pound of medium to small strawberries

Chocolate Pudding

Chocolate biscuits.

Mix up a your batch of chocolate pudding and put it in a bowl in the fridge to chill.

Cocolate Biscuits:

Heat oven to 450

2 Cups Flour

3 tps Baking Powder

1 tsp salt

1/4 sugar

1/3 cup cocoa powder    Mix dry ingredients

2/3 cup milk

1/4 cup oil

1 egg           Mix wet ingredients into your dry ingredients

Liberally flour your cutting board and kneed your mixture until in can be rolled out. Use extra flour if necessary. Roll out the dough and cut it into circles small enough to fit into the glasses you will use. Bake for 7-9 minutes. Let cool on a rack.

Wash your strawberries and separate six of them from the rest. From the remaining strawberries, cut half into very small pieces, set these aside in bowl (you might want to put them in the fridge), slice the rest of the strawberries long-ways and set these aside in a bowl in the fridge.

Mix up your whipping cream. I like to use two tablespoons of sugar (or a little less than that of agave if you prefer) and a liberal amount of vanilla, I never measure. Next, separate about half of the whipping cream into a bowl and mix in the finely cut strawberries, put both bowls of whipping cream in the fridge to keep cool.

Layer 1:

Take out your pudding (it should have only taken it two or three hours to cool), give it a good mix, and, using a dinner spoon, scoop three spoons-full into the bottom of six goblets.

Layer 2:

Take out your long-ways strawberries and put a layer of them on top of the pudding. Sprinkle them with plenty of sugar.

Layer 3:

Cut six of the biscuits in half and put the bottom half on top of the strawberry layer, cut side up.

Layer 4:

Take out your strawberry-whipped-cream mixture, and put a thin layer on top on the biscuit.

Layer 5:

Put the top half of the biscuits in the goblet, cut-side down.

Layer 6:

Another layer of strawberry-whipped-cream

Layer 7:

A thin layer of pudding

Layer 8:

Take out your plain whipped cream, and fill the rest of the goblet with it.

Toppings:

Break six more biscuits in half and place two halves near the edge of each goblet. With the whole strawberries that you set aside in the beginning, cut them almost to the top long-ways, but leave them connected, spread them out, and place them in front of your chocolate biscuit halves; these are your "Angels".

Serve and enjoy!

Tomorrow's Lemon Meringue pie. YUM. 

King of the Mountain: A Satisfying Depiction

He sits there, on the portico, the summer wind blowing into his amber eyes, stimulating him to breathe in the beautiful scents that prevail upon his rather prominent nose. He is surveying his kingdom, this prince with the chocolate brown tones and soft expression of wisdom in his half-closed eyes. He watches the grass sway against the hills, and notices how lovely and supple are the birds that fly overhead. Then, distinctly, he hears a sound that makes the short hairs on the back of his neck stand shaft-for-shaft in excitement. Away in a thicket, at the far side of his personal gardens, stands a stag, tall and proud in his defiance of the young lord’s boundaries. In one leap the prince abandon’s his palace and races across a grassy hillock towards this intruder of his privacy. Ears flapping comically in the breeze of his action, yet stately in the defense of his country, this holder of land charges towards the stag, ready for an even victory.

Padraig Falls

Another short story.

The wind raved against the cliffs of Moher which overlook the Irish sea. Padraig always came here on the first Saturday of spring, he used to bring his younger siblings, but both Niamh and Gaelen had grown out of coming with him to hear him tell a story about what all of the magical sea creatures of the ancient Celts. Instead they slept in as late as they could and spent the day in someone’s garage, hanging out and eating as much junk food as they could get their hands on. Padraig laid his jacket on the ground at the edge of one of the tallest cliffs and sat on it (so as to avoid getting too wet), swinging his legs against the cliff. Without thinking he started telling one of his stories aloud to the seagulls and various little creatures around him…

            “They used to say that there were selky people who basked on that rock down there, and out in the waves were mermaids riding on their water Kelpies, watching us human folk make a fool of ourselves with our clumsy legs here on land while they slipped easily through the salty water of the great sea. What the folks who said that didn’t know, is that it were true. See, they’d forgotten where the stories had come from…” while he spoke Padraig adjusted his position so that he was laying on his back with his head resting on his hands and listening contentedly to the waves below and the sound of the gulls in the air. “Even the descendants of the traveling folk had completely forgotten how they’d come to be called that.” Just when Padraig was beginning to feel completely relaxed he rolled over to the wrong side and felt himself falling, falling -- to the arms of the waves waiting far below. At first, he tried to gain his senses in the few moments it took before he struck forcefully upon the water, but even if he had been able to, there was no handhold on the sheer cliff from which he had fallen, so he let himself relax and reconciled his life to the roaring sea which was about to consume him.

           

The moment that he hit the water he was certain that he had died, for there was first a smarting collision and then all of his limbs were numb, his eyes were closed, and he couldn’t hear a single sound over the ringing in his ears. He didn’t struggle, as some do when they assume themselves to be dead or on the verge of death; instead he allowed sensation to wash over him. It was oddly comforting, after the fall, to be in a state of total isolation from his body, which he was sure must be feeling vast amounts of pain. The noise in his ears grew louder and then subsided. Presently he began to notice faint whispers of something familiar; a lulling rhythm filled his whole body as the ache from the fall tingled into his consciousness. So he wasn’t dead. Bracing himself for the sting of salt water, he squinted open his eyes. Nothing. He opened them wider, straining to see or feel something in them. It was too bright to see anything, but the light didn’t seem to hurt his eyes. For that matter, even the irritation to his body that he assumed to be a bruise from striking the water seemed very mild when he compared it to what he thought he should have felt.

            The familiar sound in Padraig’s ears grew less distant from him and thought that it must be the waves, striking against him and whatever he was resting on, because he couldn’t be under the water if his eyes didn’t hurt. Through the vast amounts of light flooding in past his lashes, Padraig noticed a small black shape drifting above him. A seagull? There wasn’t much that it could be, but it must be closer that he first thought, because it was very large. He wiggled his toes. Still intact. Sitting up, he glanced further around him. It appeared that he was in a dream of sorts, probably the result of being knocked out by the force of the fall, and that he was sitting inside a ring of alternated pillars and white trees. On the ground under his feet were patterns of light, almost like when you shine a flashlight on tub full of water and the ceiling ends up covered in web-like strands of light.

            “Why were the travelling folk called what they were?” The voice came from behind the nearest tree.

Padraig peered around the trunk to find a boy who bore a striking resemblance to his little brother, when he was younger. “You were listening, then?” He asked, though the answer was obvious.

“I always listen.” The boy replied “So?”

“Well, Truth is, I don’t know either. Nobody could ever tell me. But I think it must be that they were the children of the nymphs who had to leave time and time again, when their lands were settled by humans.”

The boy nodded and then his attention seemed to be diverted by something. He looked up at the gull that Padraig had noticed a minute before and said “I always hate this part.”

“What part?” Padraig looked up, too and saw that another, larger, thing was moving its way towards the bird. Afraid that it was a predator of some sort he yelled, trying to scare it off, but it didn’t alter its course. “What’s it doing?”

“Watch.” The boy said “You’ll see”.

Padraig watched, and as he did he saw that the larger thing was nothing at all like a bird, and little disturbances puddled around the thrusts of its movements, almost like water around the paddles of a boat. A boat in the sky? Someone leaned out of the boat and reached towards the gull, which he realized was not a gull at all, but a person. As man in the boat’s arms went around whoever he was saving Padraig felt his bruises throb as though in sympathy. He sucked in his breath. “What is it?” His bruises still hurt.

“Its…” the boy’s voice trailed off.

Padraig grew angry as the boat in the sky moved away with its newest member “What was that, and why is it there?!” when the boy gave no answer her grew frantic, his mind bursting with questions “Who are you anyway? Answer me! Why do you look as though that thing was -- was dead?” He realized he was shaking this boy who looked like his little brother

The boy moved his gaze from the retreating object and turned his now baleful eyes upon Padraig. “Couldn’t you tell?” Great tears welled up in his eyes “Never mind. You’ll find out soon enough.” The boy’s face brightened as if by force “I’m Alan. Come on, I’m going to take you to meet Maisey, you were talking about her earlier.”

“I don’t know anyone named-“

“You know Maisey. She’s the slekie, she’s…”

Feeling a little bit ashamed of himself Padraig followed behind Alan and thought through what he’d seen and felt. And then he did know. As they came upon a lake of perfectly crystalline water and saw the selkie-girl, Maisey, he knew exactly what he had seen. Suddenly, Padraig knew why Alan looked so much like his brother. There had been an uncle who died before he turned twelve

“They say he fell off the cliff while he were on a forbidden walk. They brought ‘is body back in a boat the next day, poor little man. Didn’t know what hit ‘im.” Padraig remembered the conversation from long time ago, after someone had asked him who he belonged to and the looked sadly at a friend and told them the story of uncle Alexander. “The mother was never too well after that, Mairead the sad, folk called her… ‘till she jumped in, herself. Though -- she were never quite right, even before that, you know -- always walking to the cliffs alone with….” He couldn’t remember the rest of the conversation, but he could guess it.

He looked at Alan, finding it hard to ask the question; “It was me, wasn’t it?”, and Alan nodded solemnly. “It’s true,” he whispered

“What about Niamh and Gaelen?”

Uncle Alan furrowed his eyebrows “You never know”. He said “But… I think they’ll be alright”.

They continued towards Maisey and Padraig smiled as he greeted his grandmother, the selkie, for the first time. Because that had been true as well.

The Question of Originality

I have a dreadful problem. An enormous problem. I have a problem that a lot of people have--at least, I think that a lot of people have this problem. Creative people, that is. The problem is that I just can't seem to do something (anything) original. Every thing that I do is is inspired by a great work--of art, of fiction, of creativity--that I happened to stumble upon. Now, this in itself would be such a miserable situation--it is reasonable to be inspired by something that is inspiring--the trouble is that I seem to be incapable of creating something detached from these things. Not that I don't want to carry on the morals of miss Alcott, or imagination of L. M. Montgomery, or the scripture-influenced works of C. S. Lewis, but I can't quite manage to keep their plots, and characters, their ideas separate from what I create, meaning that I'm not really creating anything at all, I'm just taking something that I enjoyed experiencing about, and writing or drawing about it in a way that unjustly assumes ownership of that thing, which is simply not acceptable at all.

I wish I could write a conclusion at the end of this post saying how I've found the solution to this problem, but I can't. Every once in a while I think I have found one (staying away from things similar to my present project, using the things I've read of as examples of what I can't do; a sort of challenge to get around, etc. ). I guess the only solution I have is that there isn't one. Perhaps it's that God gives truly original inspiration to some people, so that other people can see it and wonder where it came from. Maybe if everyone had original inspiration, it wouldn't mean the same thing as it does now, maybe it would become ordinary. Or maybe we all have original inspiration and we just don't know where it is. Maybe it gets lost somewhere, shoved down my our rapid intake of other people's ideas. Maybe. In any case, I'm left exactly where I was before: wondering if I'm really creative at all, or if what I think is creative is just a figment of my imagination.

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.