While You're Out There

Oh, boy, here it comes. Shopping season. That time of year when businesses hope to boom, thereby carrying them through the winter. And the time for each of us to wonder what gift or gesture will delight a loved one as a token of joy reflecting His gift to us. I’ll be in the fray soon.

In the meantime, might I suggest a way to see this happy season and other people in a different way? Here’s what I mean.

I was hopping back into my car after loading the trunk, when I saw a familiar face. Young, know her mom and dad, and if she’d turned my way I would have called hello. As she headed for the big glass doors at the grocery I noted her clothing. Saturday attire, like mine, knit pants, a light jacket, sneakers. Hair pulled back and no makeup.  Then I wondered if anyone she would encounter, maybe in hot dogs, would know about her gift. Her voice. That when she opened her mouth to sing on Christmas Eve out of it would come a most beautiful rendition of “Pia Jesu” or maybe “Oh, Holy Night”. Would anyone know that as they indulged in light banter with her over chicken or all beef? Probably not. But the person next to you in line could have just such a gift. So cool. 

Or how about the little girl and her mother I saw at the craft fair the weekend before? Karen and I were strolling down an aisle full of handmade earrings, embroidered sweatshirts, and doll clothes when we heard the screaming. Every mother’s been there. The girl was on the floor. Mom had attempted to pull her up and that kid had withdrawn her arm into her coat leaving Mom with an empty sleeve and a growing wrath. “Oh, I am so glad those days are over,” I said averting my eyes so that poor mother wouldn’t be too embarrassed. She had my heart. 

And then there was the humorless Kohl’s cashier. Whew, Frosty the Snowman must have been her dad. You know, before he got the magic hat that made him all jolly with Jimmy Durante singing about it in the background? Here, let me say that I pride myself on being an out-of-the-ordinary customer to every employee in any store I visit. Remembering the good, the bad and the ugly customers from when we had a retail establishment, I go out of my way to be hearty and – dare I say it – charming. But not with this chick. Despite my best quips and witty comments, I did not win her over. Huh.

These three examples are all of women. They bear the brunt (with a few men) of whatever needs to be done to ensure a good time is had by all during any given holiday. Christmas is the big one. You will encounter them this year as you’re out there being a friend of many merchants. Any one of them could have a beautiful gift, the patience of a saint, or a really, really cold upbringing. So here’s your mission. Be on the lookout. You can be a bit of light for at least a few of them. Offer your smile, your good cheer or a silent prayer, and may the spirit of the season be upon you.

Image: Free Digital Photos

We Need Pollyanna Right Now

Busy week ahead - we're hosting Thanksgiving. But, like many of you, I've watched and listened to the  post-election hubbub among the citizenry. My stars. In light of that I'm re-posting this short missive. I hope you will find it of some worth as you ponder all the blessings of  your life - the ones you give and the ones you get. Maybe even be a Pollyanna for someone yourself. 

I remember the day exactly. Four years ago on December 26^th all I could do was sit in my recliner, exhausted. It had been our turn to do Christmas dinner (for 19) and I’d gone the extra two miles to make it perfect, but it took a toll. The next day was the most tired I can ever remember being. And that’s why we watched the movie – Pollyanna – starring a very young Haley Mills.

I didn’t really want to watch it, but nothing else seemed any better so there I sat. If you don’t know the story, it’s about a little orphaned girl who goes to live with her rich, tyrannical Aunt Polly in the small town of Harrington in the days of long dresses, horse drawn carriages, and idyllic small American towns.  

Pollyanna is full of good cheer, sass, and a very clear sense of what’s right and what’s wrong. She also plays the Glad Game that she learned from her missionary father explained in the following quote.

 “Oh, yes; the game was to just find something about everything to be glad about--no matter what 'twas," rejoined Pollyanna, earnestly. "And we began right then--on the crutches."

"Well, goodness me! I can't see anythin' ter be glad about--gettin' a pair of crutches when you wanted a doll!"

Pollyanna clapped her hands.

"There is--there is," she crowed. "But I couldn't see it, either, Nancy, at first," she added, with quick honesty. "Father had to tell it to me."

"Well, then, suppose YOU tell ME," almost snapped Nancy.

"Goosey! Why, just be glad because you don't--NEED--'EM!" exulted Pollyanna, triumphantly. "You see it's just as easy--when you know how!"

 Pollyanna alternately charms and shocks the townspeople and even makes inroads with the sourpuss, Mrs. Snow (played so well by Agnes Morehead), who is bedridden.

About halfway through the movie I was a little sick of Pollyanna’s solution to everything. Sort of like listening to yet another little girl screeching out, “The sun’ll come out tomorrow, bet your bottom . . .”  Sorry, but that song brings on the gag reflex in me. Because, you know, sometimes the sun Doesn’t come out tomorrow or for days even.

But my state of tiredness kept me in the chair weakly sipping coffee and watching. I was being pulled in. Finally the whole crux of the matter was presented in the form of a fund raising bazaar that Aunt Polly was against. Pollyanna in her eternal optimism sides against her aunt. When things are finally at their worst, we find Pollyanna sneaking back into her attic bedroom via an old tree on that side of the house. Just as she’s reaching for the window sill, she loses her balance and plunges to the ground. And lays still.

My heart almost stopped. I began to tear up. Because it could have been one of my granddaughters laying there. A little girl who’s buoyant innocence only wanted to see the glad in things. Someone who could look at you and see through whatever mask you’re wearing and get to the heart of the matter. The wide open soul who listens to your story of woe and hugs your arm saying, “Don’t be afraid, Grandma. I will be with you.” So said our little Melodi after I told her how frightened I was one day as a child when I got lost coming home from school.

I also realized that the world would be that much more miserable if we let Pollyanna die. We can’t leave her there on the ground to perish. We can’t let the crushing forces that so often intrude keep her down. For if Pollyanna dies, Despair wins, corruption triumphs and evil will slowly become the norm. We can’t have that, can we?

Those few tears I shed in my exhaustion were cleansing. And Pollyanna did get up and was healed along with her Aunt Polly and the little town of Harrington. A little town that just might be like our whole nation is right now.

Look for the Pollyanna in your life. She is a gift from God and you need her. So do I.


Image: Free Digital Photos

An Awesome Woman

I’ve always been fascinated by stories about people who seem to have been dealt a nasty blow in life, but rather than shake their fist at God, somehow they find in Him nothing but love, solace and purpose.

One such person was a woman named Fanny Crosby. Ever heard of her? Me neither. I first read about her in a book my friend, Marie, gave me a few years ago at Christmas. Let me tell you about her.  

Fanny was born in Putnam County, NY in 1820. When she was 6 weeks old she developed a bad cold causing inflammation in her eyes to which a doctor applied mustard plasters. Fanny believed this was what damaged them but It may also have been congenital. However it happened, Fanny lost her sight.

At 15 she was sent to The NY Institution for the Blind where she eventually became a teacher. That's where she began to write song lyrics for Dr. Geo. F. Root and also some cantatas for which she received not even a nod of recognition.

While there she also met many famous people including President Martin Van Buren. Sound familiar? I wonder what she thought of the Red Fox of Kinderhook. She also had the honor of becoming the first female voice heard publicly in the US Senate Chamber in Washington. She even read one of her poems there. Pretty cool, huh? 

She became a prolific hymn writer racking up an astounding eight thousand of them in her lifetime. She was most famous for her Sunday School songs and gospel hymns. In 1858 she married a fellow scholar, Alex Van Alstyne, and they had one child. But when her child died in infancy Fanny grieved so badly she only rarely spoke of her little one. Her hymn, “Safe in the Arms of Jesus,” is believed to be the result of that grief. How many other grieving mothers were comforted by that hymn? I'm sure there were tears all over the paper as she wrote. 

She was an astounding woman for whom things could have turned out so differently. Instead of choosing the path of self pity or despair, she chose God. The next time you hear “Blessed Assurance” or “Pass Me Not Oh Gentle Savior” remember the woman who wrote them, Fanny Crosby, and whisper a prayer of thanks.   

Image: Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10831775

Background Noises

It’s that time of year. Grand schemes are being drawn up. I’m not talking politics here. I’m talking holidays. In a few weeks hubby and I will be hosting Thanksgiving in our home. The invites have gone out and I’ll put pen to paper soon to make my food list while pondering all I have to be thankful for. My preparations will have in the background beloved noises like . . .

Clanking dishes – The built in corner cupboards in our dining room are chock full of all the good dishes. The big platters, ceramic Easter bunnies, Christmas mugs, and Noritake China my sailor bought for me in Vietnam. I pull open the doors, stand back and decide which pieces will best serve for this particular holiday. As I remove my choices the bowls and plates clink clank against each other in the familiar tune that accompanies my thoughts of our grateful joy in God’s bounty.

Grocery bag tango – This is a whole other kind of music. When I haul in the grocery bags loaded with stuffing mix, apples, heavy cream, brown sugar, fresh parsley and a big honking turkey those bags make a distinctive “thunk” as I set them down. I buy so much special food I sometimes forget I needed hamburger for that night’s dinner (head smack). But the rustle of filmy produce plastic, the crinkle of the chocolate chip bags as I pull them from the tote, and that “finally done unpacking” sound as I fold up my shopping bags, is a happy tune to hear.

Sizzle and Pop – The morning of, the first thing I  make is stuffing. Into my big frying pan goes a lump of butter, a splash of olive oil, diced onions and chopped celery. What a nice sound and aroma comes from that combo. When these are all translucent I throw in the sausage – always use Jimmy Dean – and then doesn’t that pan sizzle and pop. If the man comes in from the barn those bits of sausage, well browned and fragrant, are in great danger of being fingered out of the pan. And I’m such a good wife I let it happen – maybe twice. The “Mmmm” I hear is worth it. Finally I add spices and breadcrumbs and the deed is done.

Parades and Football – Gotta have the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on while that sausage is ‘a sizzlin’. Gotta hear the refs whistle, the buzz of the crowd, halftime band, and a silken voiced commentator making sure we know that this fullback’s wife is due to give birth any minute. These sounds all add a big human roar to the day. I have one or the other on in the living room, turned up a little, as I bustle about in the kitchen.

Movie – Oh, how I love Miracle on 34^th Street. The one from 1947 featuring Maureen O’Hara, John Payne, Natalie Wood, with Edwin Gwenn as Santa. The best version in my view. The opening scene is at the Macy’s parade and fits right in with turkey and stuffing. It also sets the tone for the upcoming wonderful season. I could cook all day with this in the background.

Clanking dishes – And we come full circle. But now the dishes are loaded with good food, forks are scraping the plates, and big spoons are dipping into bowls of mashed potatoes, cranberries, and stuffing. The kids want Grandma’s homemade applesauce and their moms tap, tap a bit onto their plates. Someone always says, "Save room for dessert!" A part of me pulls away to simply watch and listen and my heart nearly bursts.

So here I sit, weeks away from all of this, but glad for the days moving toward it. What happy background noises lend richness to your thankful hearts and busy days?

Image: My “dish closet” as some would call it.

A Halloween Memory

This is a story I wrote several years ago and it appeared in Prairie Times. I've edited it slightly for length. It's a way back when story and maybe some of you will relate. You may even have an angel show up at your door tonight!

My Blue Angel Gown 

I wanted to be an angel. Fifth graders get ideas in their heads about what or who they want to be for Halloween and this time it was an angel for me. It was back in the days when most costumes were homemade. Mom was more practical than creative, but something must have struck a cord in her that year. Perhaps she longed to be the kind of Mom who came up with something brilliant for her daughter, as she’d seen other moms do, but I’m only guessing.  

The reality was that there was no money for such things. With five children it was hard enough putting food on the table let alone buying material and whatever else might be required to turn her oldest child into heaven’s envoy. I don’t remember if I bugged her endlessly to make my costume, but I sure had my hopes up. I even offered a few ideas in case she ran out of her own.

And there was another problem. Mom didn’t drive. In those days a lot of women didn’t and most families only had one car anyway. Our dad did almost all the grocery shopping after work on payday. Our neighbor, Mona, drove, but deep down I knew the chance of Mom going anywhere to find anything like an angel costume was highly unlikely. It left me resigned and thinking of what other things I could come up with on my own.  The odd sheet or pillowcase for a ghost or a well worn shirt of dad’s and a burnt cork to make a mustache were family staples.

Then one glorious  autumn day I came home from school and Mom announced she had a surprise for me. Out of a shopping bag she pulled a filmy blue nightgown and told me she was going to make my angel costume out of it. Oh, my. I was dazzled. I held the nightgown up to my face to feel the sheer softness of it. It was a woman’s size, trimmed with broad satin ribbons and my fifth grade sensibilities were charmed.

“Where did you get it?” I asked.

“Mona and I went to the Goodwill this afternoon and I found it. Do you like it?”

Of course I did! I held against me as she tucked and fussed. She was having fun, too! The nightgown had two parts. The layer underneath was shiny nylon and over that was a filmy layer of soft pale blue. It was way too big, but I trusted Mom would do her best to make it fit. And wings? I have a dim memory of entwined coat hangers wrapped in ribbon and sort of hanging off my back.

The day finally came for me to wear my designed-by-mom costume. She swept my curly hair up and stood back to admire her handiwork. I felt like a true Cinderella and couldn’t wait to go to school. We wore our costumes to class back then and paraded in the school yard to show them off. I was sure I’d be the best angel anyone had ever seen and I wasn’t disappointed. The other girls, Raggedy Anns, ghosts, fairy princesses, and clowns, all loved the feel of my gown. Mom had hemmed it and made a cummerbund sort of thing for my waist where the excess material was pulled up and puffed out. I wore my bedroom slippers to complete my look. I swished and twirled in front of my friends. I loved it and felt loved wearing it.

It’s a moment in time that I hold dear because in subsequent years we were back to ghosts, dad’s old shirts and and garbage bag monsters. There were just too many responsibilities at home with all of us kids for Mom to be able to do something so special every year. But it was one  happy little girl who went door to door that night and whenever I see a drawing or picture of a fairy-like angel, I think of Mom and my beautiful blue angel gown.  

Image: Free Digital Photos

You Never Know

I can’t remember whether I read my first copy of Ideals magazine in my mother’s home or somewhere else. I loved the publication because it was all beautiful pictures, encouraging stories and inspiring essays. One year,1977, I bought the autumn edition because I’d fallen in love with the cover. I still have it. I take it out every September and leave it where I can turn to a beloved page whenever I’m in the mood. I have several of the poems nearly memorized.

Yes, fall arrived this morning

I felt her tangy touch

Persuading me to wander

Down paths I love so much . . .

That’s the first stanza of a poem by Georgia B. Adams. Lovely.

Here’s the thing. It’s my mother’s fault. When she was still in her twenties, she and my father pulled up stakes in Minnesota and with their four children (and one on the way) they joined millions of other Americans in the westward trek to California – the Promised Land of the 50’s and 60’s. It must have been so hard for her. Consequently she never missed an opportunity to remember Minnesota and the days of her youth to us whenever we snuggled up on the bed to listen to tales of the “olden days”. And she would rhapsodize especially about autumn. The chill in the air, the colorful trees and turning over outhouses on Halloween were my favorites. My siblings and I fell in love with an autumn we were pretty sure we’d never experience.

Many years later I married and moved with my husband and son(and one on the way)to upstate New York. Now I had an autumn “seasonal experience” every year just like Mom had in Minnesota. Every bit of what she had instilled in us about the season was presented in my 1977 copy of Ideals. I pored through it and the romance of the season washed over me. I admired each and every one of the writers and artists who contributed to it. How I envied their way with words.

Here’s another thing. Many more years later, when I began writing, I hunted down the Ideals contributor guidelines. I wondered if I could ever be as good as some of the wonderful writers I’d found within the pages of that beautiful publication. Measure up? Probably not. But I gave it a shot. I wrote several simple, rhyming poems and sent them in. I waited for the rejections. I wrote other things. Then one day I got an envelope containing a contract from an editor – at Ideals – they’d like to use one of my poems in an upcoming Easter issue. I was gob smacked! And grateful and gob  smacked! I wish I could tell you how gob smacked I was. You’ll just have to imagine the awesomeness of it. 

And here’s what’s happened since.

I have a poem in each of these issues 2012, 2013, and this year Christmas 2017. God is simply amazing.  Right? 

Image: 1977 Autumn Ideals

Read Any Good Books Lately?

Okay, enough of this lazy business of recovering from out of town guests. Time to get a move on.  Time for a few book reviews, don’t’ you think? Let me tell you about . . .  

The Boys in the Boat by Daniel James Brown – Crewing. Whenever I heard the word (rarely) the first thing that came to mind was a crew neck sweater. Or maybe haircuts? Silly me. In this book I learned all about “crewing” as it relates to boats and water. The “boys” were nine members of the University of Washington  crewing (rowing) team and in at the 1936 Olympics they kicked butt. The path they had to take to get there will amaze you. The author focuses on the life struggle of one rower, Joe Rantz, and several of his crew mates. Your heart will bleed for Joe. In one instance he was left to fend for himself at the ripe old age of fifteen. He came home from school one day to find his dad, stepmother, and siblings all packed into the family jalopy and ready to leave – for good. Joe was told there was no room for him so he was on his own. At fifteen. Wait’ll you read about that! Anyway, the stories behind the story made this a terrific read and by the end of the book I was cheering like a crazy woman for that long ago crewing team. And Hitler never saw it coming.

Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand – Maybe “unbelievable” would have been a better title for this astonishing book. One of the reasons I read it was because I’d read Seabiscuit by the same author. Hillenbrand is one thorough writer! This is the tale of the Impressive life of Louis Zamperini. The years leading up to his becoming an airman in WWII were harrowing enough (he was also an Olympian – a runner), but as the story progresses, we find him stranded in the Pacific Ocean after his plane went down. He and two other men faced the elements for nearly seven weeks (catching a shark and eating its liver???) and when Louis and his pilot (the other man died) were finally rescued by some Koreans they were tromped off to prison camp. Ghastly. When you read of the cruel officer known as “the Bird” you’ll understand what I mean. So scary. But when Louis died at the ripe old age of 94 he had become a redeemed and forgiving man. He even sought out the Bird to offer him that forgiveness. He was a remarkable human being. Can’t recommend this one enough.

The Anarchist’s Dictator by Eric Sundwall – How smart do  you think you are? Our firstborn son has written this lyrical riddle and boy, ya gotta have some brains to get it. What is the Midgard Serpent and why do dolphins fascinate us so? Epsilon Xi might shed some light on the subject. Who is Uncle Murray – do you think you know? No, he’s not the dictator. Or maybe he is. In July of 2017 your name could be in the pool of readers who have taken a stab at naming the anarchist’s dictator. Big bucks at stake, too. The whole book is only 27  pages long and it may take that many years to figure it out but perhaps you’re up to the challenge. Check out http://anarchistdictator.net/  for more.

  

So, what’s on your book list?