Blogstalking Assignments #8 and #9

#8 - My usual breakfast:#9 - My junk drawer:
For some reason, we call this the telephone book drawer. If there was a telephone book in there, you wouldn't be able to get to it.

I really resisted the urge to straighten this up -- it is ridiculous, isn't it? Notice the little green baskets -- at one time, for probably an hour, it was all straight and devoid of unnecessary crap, like hand cream samples, silicone sealant, cords to something and pieces from a Boggle game.

A few updates:

1) Maggie's nephew, Craig, did win the mayor's race. I'm not sure if I am more happy for him or for her.

2) The saint statue I couldn't name is St. Anthony of Padua. Thanks, Deloris.

3) I went to the last day of Lucille's auction yesterday for about an hour; I wanted to see how much her baby grand piano sold for. (It sold for $1000 to one of her daughters -- I couldn't have bid against her even if I had a million dollars in my pocket.) There were bedroom furniture sets, chairs, couches, armoires, pier mirrors, oriental rugs, 2 Regina music boxes and grandfather clocks. I think the most interesting piece was a desk with carvings of topless women on all 4 legs, similar to a ship's masthead -- it sold for $6000.

4) The skunky smell is mostly gone -- there is a slight hint when you first open the front door.

Clay says I am crazy; all he can smell is the mothballs.

Peace

First, You Get a Badger

Once again, we have a skunk in the vicinity. Maybe under the front porch, maybe under the back deck. But the smell came floating into the house about 2:00 last night, so thick it woke me up. We opened the windows, started up the exhaust fan, and spread the moth balls around outside. It is better tonight, but still annoying.

I haven't written a poem in years, but for some reason was moved to write this tonight:

The Missed Putt

I think that God had lost a bet

when He made His foulest creature yet.

"You lose!" yelled Satan full of glee,

"Now make a thing that smells like me!"

Last time God lost, He heaved a sigh

And conjured up the lowly fly.

(God lost a pool match in disgrace --

The buzzard met his homely face.

He missed a free throw at the horn,

The warthog from a pig was born.)

This time, God was forced to start

With black, from Satan's evil heart.

A smallish body, slung quite low,

Four short legs for moving slow.

(Though not the kind of guy to boast,

God thought the face was cute, almost.)

"Come on, come on -- now make it smell,"

The devil squealed. "Should smell like Hell!"

God took the smells He like the least

To inject in the little beast.

Rotten veggies, burning tires,

Mixed with sulfur from Hell's fires.

"That's foul!" the devil then agreed.

"They won't forgive you for this deed!

They'll say, 'It must be God's wrath'

and take the tomato juice bath!"

Satan danced, began to gloat;

God bent to touch coal-black coat

To add a stripe of white to show

The world what only God could know:

Despite the worst smell in the land,

The skunk is still part of His plan.

So when you come upon his smell,

Just thank the skunk you aren't in Hell.

And in Heaven, I suppose

the skunk will smell just like the rose.

Play Nice, Kids

"Be nice to everyone, even if they don't deserve it."

That was Father Todd's entire homily this weekend. (He thinks it is the shortest homily ever, but Father Rathfon, at non-air conditioned IHM in Cuyahoga Falls delivered this on a sweltering August afternoon: "Good God, it's hot." His sweaty congregation was exceedingly thankful.)

I always take something away from Father's homilies that stays with me: a witty analogy, a new take on the scripture I hadn't heard before or even a reference to a TV show or movie (ie: there is no real love in Flavor of Love).

Sometimes, I am afraid he is a mind reader, because he talks about just the thing that's bothering me that week. Or my whole life.

Because of my lovely mother's influence, I have a deep-seated need to be nice to everyone. Family, friends, strangers, even postal clerks.

In general, I think this is a good way to live; if they inscribe "She was nice" on my headstone, I would be happy.

Clay is nice, as well (opinionated, stubborn and conservative, but very nice.) In fact, being nice to a stressed-out airline employee once got him bumped up to 1st class.

Our children have turned out to be nice people, I think.

See, it never hurts to be nice, my mom would say.

But sometimes it does hurt.

It's emotionally difficult to be nice to people who have hurt your feelings.

Maintaining a nice attitude while working with someone who is convinced he is smarter than you makes your head ache (of course, this could be from pounding it against both a literal and a figurative brick wall).

Being kind to someone who has said something unkind about your family (that they didn't think you heard but you heard) leaves your spirit deflated.

And being nice to your family might be the hardest of all.

I must be nice to my grandma. She is 96. She often doesn't feel well, she misses her home and farm and although she tells me she is ready, I think she is afraid of dying. She is sharp as a tack, but some days, she can be extremely mean to me and my sisters. Many of our visits begin with her loudly wailing "Where have your been?" whether it's been a day or a week since our last visit. "You don't even care about me" is another of her often-used favorites.

In fairness, many of our visits are very pleasant, and she tells me how she doesn't know what she would do without me, and how she knows what a lot of trouble her bills/birthday parties/ taxes/ medical care are for me ("Oh, no, gram, I'm glad to do it." See what a nice liar I am?)

But you just never know from day to day how you will be received. One day last week, as I left I said, "I love you," just like always. But she turned her head from me and said, "I don't think I know what love is any more." I went out to my car and cried for a few minutes before heading home, knowing that she would apologize the next day, which she did.

My sister says that when grandma gets nasty with me, I should shame her and remind her of what I do for her, how well she is cared for and how lucky she is that we continue to visit her despite what she says to us.

But I have convinced myself that if I do that, she will die that evening, and it will be my fault. And I much prefer playing nice over feeling guilty.

Peace, which just might be reached through niceness. It's worth a try.

Election Day and other things

Today our town will elect a new mayor. We don't get to vote, however, as we live just outside of the city limits. There are no county or state elections here either, so no visit to the polls for us today. Unfortunate, because I really need a new emery board and a book of matches.

Yesterday, I attended Grandparents' Day at the Lutheran School with my niece, Carly, who is a 4th grader. Her invitation read, "Aunt Georgie, I want to know if you could come to grandparents day with me."

Well, of course. She continued, "We will be playing recorders."

Ouch. 40 4th graders playing "Hot Cross Buns?" Almost a deal breaker. But when she wrote, "lots of love, Carly," how could I say no?

The chapel service was lovely, and we won a game of Grandparent Bingo. Then we had a sing-along with the music teacher and square dancing in the gym. Finally, a nice lunch featuring BBQ sandwiches and root beer floats.

And the recorder concert? The best one I have ever heard. They actually did a jazzy rendition of "Hot Cross Buns" with harmony.

I was almost late because I ran back home for my camera; then, I almost forgot to take pictures until after lunch. But here is Carly and her best friend, CJ.

Linda and I spent most of Saturday and Sunday afternoons at an estate auction. Lucille, an adorable lady and former organist at St. Ambrose (I took over her funeral duties when she couldn't climb the stairs anymore) died this summer. She was an antiques dealer, and ran a shop out of her home for many years.

Saturday, I bought a slide rule in a leather case, some Tupperware, a glass refrigerator box, delicate little wine glasses and two painted metal saints -- I am fairly sure the one on the left is St. Michael the Archangel, as he is standing on a dragon, but I'm not sure of the one on the right -- it looks like a cross between St. Joseph (holding the Child Jesus and the lilies) and St. Francis (monk's habit and haircut).

Will went with me on Sunday, and we bought some pretty plates, a blue whiskey bottle, a set of 16 water goblets 7 dessert dishes for $20 and two boxes of Blue Willow dishes for $1. I couldn't believe that -- no one bid against me! There were probably 20 dinner plates and 30 other pieces all together, some with chips and cracks, but worth much more, I know. Sharon has our grandma's set of Blue Willow, and this should help round out her collection with enough for Karen and me to start our own.

I love going to auctions; it's genetic --my mom and dad were auction fans, as well. Mom and Lucille had been auction buddies; one of my favorite nativity sets is one that mom bought for me at Lucille's shop many years ago. It's much more fun to go to an auction with a friend; you can speculate on an item, dismiss it as junk, gasp together when the bidders go crazy for it then laugh at yourself for not knowing something valuable when you see it!

Lucille had dolls, quilts and jewelry worth thousands of dollars (and there's still one more auction day with all her Victorian furniture), but luckily she had some little items that we could afford and remember her by.

And finally, a little knitting. Just a few more inches and I will have the back of the Accordion Sweater done. But as a Christmas present, it looks more doubtful every day.

Peace.

Dia de los Muertos - This Stuff is Killing Me

They have built an altar in our parish center.

They have decorated it with colorful tissue paper cut-outs and pictures of their deceased relatives.

They have placed fruit, loaves of bread and bottles of beer on their altar.

Last night, after their Mass, they came into the center and stood around their altar.

They stood quietly talking.

They explained the meaning of the altar to me, how the Feasts of All Saints and All Souls are huge celebrations back home.

How, if they were back in Mexico, they would take these days to visit cemeteries and decorate the graves of their deceased relatives with flowers, and with the things they loved in life.

(If we did that here, I would put a bottle of Miller High Life and a stick of butter on my daddy's side of their headstone, and a Snickers bar and a cup of coffee on my mom's. A box of Toaster Strudels on Helen's. Pictures of little kids on Mrs. Christopher's.)

Immigrants don't have an easy time of it here in our little town. There are some wonderful programs for them, and some wonderful people who are working tirelessly to improve conditions for those who have come here to work. And live.

But there are townsfolk who aren't so nice. I've seen it in the snide glances of the Wal-Mart cashiers, and heard the sarcasm in their voices when they ask, "Is this parsley or cilantro?, " knowing full well that the customer on the other side of the counter probably doesn't speak much English.

Last week, while standing in a long line at the post office, I watched as the clerk let a blonde woman jump the line to show her ID (which she had left in her car) and pay for her shipping, but told a Mexican couple who she had been helping that they would have to go to the end of the line to pay for a padded envelope; they stepped away from the counter momentarily to get one from the rack behind them.

I watched. I didn't say anything. And as pissed off as I was at that clerk, I am more pissed off at myself.

For not letting that clerk know that perhaps her actions were unwelcoming, unloving and little (edited to remove unloving comment on my part.)

For not knowing enough Spanish to tell the couple that I was sorry that the clerk was an unwelcoming, unloving (ditto)

For not knowing what to do to make this Us vs. Them situation better.

I have jumped on the e-mail bandwagon, asking my Congressman and Senators to pass "comprehensive immigration reform." They sent back eloquently-worded notes, thanking me for my input and explaining the legislative challenges they faced in this issue, which caused it to fail in Congress.

I have downloaded Spanish lesson podcasts and subscribed to peace and justice newsgroups.

I have helped out at Spanish liturgies (which in turn, has led to invitations to fantastic meals afterward.)

But I don't know why we just can't get along.

I know, I know, it's historical. I've been to Ellis Island. I know that every minority group who has come to America has been faced with discrimination, usually from the minority group who got here right before them.

But I've also been to the Statue of Liberty. Right there, carved into the icon of American freedom, it says, "Give me your tired, your poor/your huddled masses yearning to breathe free . . . send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me."

Don't we believe that?

And in this Christian country, shouldn't we pay attention to the Bible? It tells us, "When a foreigner lives with you in your land, don't take advantage of him. Treat the foreigner as a native. Love him like one of your own. Remember you were once foreigners in Egypt" (Leviticus 19:33-34)

I like law and order. I like things on the up-and-up. If you are doing something illegal, you should quit doing it. I like people to stop at stop signs, pay their taxes and follow the rules.

But I like people more. And I like justice more. And I like peace most of all.

All Saints' Day

Eighteen years ago, Sarah had just started kindergarten at St. Ambrose School. One morning, as Maggie and I stood in the school lobby waiting to pick her up, the new principal, Sister Josita, pointed her finger at me. "Hey, you," she said. "I want to have a festival on All Saints' Day. You be in charge."

Despite the fact that I had no idea what she was talking about, I said yes. (Sister was a tall, imposing woman who didn't take any crap from anyone. She probably had me pegged as her anxious-to-please, new-kindergarten-parent lapdog from Day 1. Of course, she was right.)

So, with a lot of other moms, I spent the next few weeks planning games, buying prizes and laminating saint holy cards for the 100 or so kids in the school.

After Mass (where every student dressed as a saint), the fun began. We had a fishing game, a duck pond, an obstacle course, a football toss, and face painting; the lunch ladies, who I had recently met, ran the cupcake walk.

It was a great success, and I ran the festival for three more years -- more games, more fun, and the lunch ladies became two of my best friends (not just because of their cupcake skills).

A few years later, a new principal (not a Sister) did away with the festival in favor of a more educational afternoon -- movies, quizzes and art projects. And no dressing up as your favorite saint. Now, I am all in favor of education, but where's the fun in that? What better way to celebrate saintly lives and martyrdom than getting all jazzed up on the cupcake you won at the cake walk washed down with the soda you won at the ring toss? Or seeing if you can wing the superball you just acquired all the way across the gym? Or watching the 1st grade teacher take on the 6th grade teacher on the obstacle course?

Maybe the good old days are on the way back. This year, another new principal, Sister Anna Rose, produced quite a spectacle for the Mass, complete with 18 children dressed as saints, from St. Gabriel with enormous cotton ball-encrusted wings to Mother Theresa in a very realistic-looking sari. Here is one of my favorites (saint and child):

Abby as St. Elizabeth Ann Seton

I hear the entire school played a rousing game of Saints Bingo in the afternoon. No duck pond, but it is a good start.

Speaking of St. Elizabeth, she was a wife, mother and convert to Roman Catholicism, just like me. And her passion was Catholic education. Unlike me, she was raised in New York City high society, married a wealthy man, and died at age 46, after founding a religious order, opening many Catholic schools and founding two orphanages.

I need to get busy.

And in yet another stroke of saintly coincidence, St. Elizabeth's spiritual advisor was Father Simon Brute, who became the first Bishop of Indiana, and who asked St. Theodora Guerin to leave France for the wilds of Terre Haute. Small world, great God.

Peace.

Happy Halloween!

It was a boo-tiful evening; we sat on the porch to welcome trick-or-treaters (we didn't have many -- one of the bad things about living in the country -- but we had fun).

I made the boys Thing 1 and 2 costumes from red sweats, and knit them hats with Crystal Palace Squiggle (in Blue Grotto, one skein for each hat) and a Bernat yarn (Nathan removed the label -- it's probably in the toy closet). I just made this pattern up as I went, doubling the stitches after the ribbing to give it a nice full look.

Nathan didn't wear his Thing Hat very long, but at least we got one cute picture out of it:

I thought maybe if Sarah wore a hat, too, the boys would wear their hats. She looks adorable in the Desperate Housefrau (from Knitty), but it didn't work; her hat stayed on, but the blue hats spent most of the evening on the floor.

Three of my favorite trick-or-treaters:

Carly is Princess Leia, Taylor is a disco queen and Charlie is of course, Luke Skywalker.

And here's the third party in the Star Wars trio:

Griffin as Yoda.

My sister, Karen, made this little jacket for him, and Carly's hat, as well. They were so cute -- she even added the wrinkles for Yoda's forehead.

Tommy didn't want to wear his Thing Hat, but here is good picture of him and his best pal and aunt.

With the passing of Halloween, we'll now be bombarded with Christmas in all the stores.
I say, let's enjoy November first.
Peace, and a very happy November.