Anger masquerades

Anger can be destructive or can be the greatest inspiration for a solving a problem. For people with latent anger, the outbreaks are often inflicted on other people - those they love, the old lady crossing the street (unless she hits the front of your car and inflates your airbag), your pets, yourself. But, most often latent anger masquerades as other emotions.

When I am angry at myself, sometimes my anger bursts out in a shopping spree or in fierce activity. Both relieve the stress. At other times, my anger eats itself into oblivion. When I get tired of being angry, I just don't care anymore. Whatever happens, happens. If whatever depends on my action, then whatever doesn't happen. Whatever.

At a masked ball, anger can be jovial cutting remarks, sexy flirting, silence, wall-flowering, drinking, dancing every dance until you drop, cutting in on a couple that seem very happy, envy, lying - almost any emotion it wants to be. Anger uses many disguises. Depression is only one of them.

Someone said that anger is fear; yes, that's one of anger's faces, but, again, not the only one. Fear of loss of possessions, spouse, prestige, whatever you value. Fear and anger are closely related.

Anger, fear and freedom are also related. As Janis Joplin sang, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." When you feel there is nothing left to lose, when you have that freedom, then fear and anger lose their meaning. Numbness creeps into the folds where emotions once lived. You have chosen to die - however slowly that death may be; you are not living - for, if you live, you have anger and you have fear and you have hope.

Also true is that another person's anger can drain your emotions if you let it. Then you are not living either. In these last days of Lent, the image of taking up your cross is appropriate; you must take up your anger and fear and ride it out, work it out, carry it forward to resolution.

I don't know where my angers and my fears lie, but I do know that I no longer care. The motions are here; the words are here; but the life is not. So on this Palm Sunday as many church congregations read the Passion story of Jesus triumphant entry into Jerusalem followed by his betrayal, suffering and death, I resolve to find my cross (my emotions - all of them) and bear it with as much courage and serenity as possible. Now, all I have to do is find this cross - the masquerader.

Update on Ancestry, fiber stuff, and health

John Dean and wife, he died in 1893
Wow, I've learned some really interesting things and even found a picture of my great-great-great grandfather - so I could identify who was in the picture of him that I have. Amazing. I knew we were related, but I didn't know who he was. The woman with him is undoubtedly his wife - the question is, which one? My guess is she's not the one to whom I'm related...Perilee Butler Dean, that's who she is. Probably my relative's best friend since they were born about the same time and lived in the same area. My relative died young, possibly in childbirth - and so Pop married her best friend. Of course, this is conjecture, but it will make a good fictional story about them.

I'm working a new pattern for a skinny scarf using Knit Col, a lightweight variegated yarn, and so far, it's looking great. Of course, I'm only on row 7, but, hey, so far, so good. It's a twelve row pattern; so I have six more rows to knit before I can really see what it is like.

I hurt. I've been sitting in front of the computer too much, and now I've gone to the garage and dug out my aunt's notes about our family. I think this stuff is addictive. I forgot to take my afternoon medicine; so my legs moved around a lot while we watched Jeopardy. Maybe I'll play a little Wii bowling to get some movement in today. Working at the shop on Thursday; so I have to feel good then.

Facebook and Genealogy Addictions - Part 2

"Facebook Addiction: The Life and Times of Social Networking Addicts", is the first fictional book to address what doctors and experts are calling Social Networking Addiction. The book takes a satiric look into the lives of twelve individuals who have entered into rehab (“Social Networking Anonymous”) to help kick their habit. Each chapter is the testimony of one of these individuals, all reflecting the vivid and creative imagination of the author. Recognizing the overall seriousness of this issue, Osuagwu collaborated with the New York Daily News to provide real life accounts of Facebook addiction gone wrong." From the website http://www.thefacebookaddiction.com

After the initial surge of puzzle solving with my Ancestry.com spree, I am back to looking for more details and stories about people closer to me and writing down stories about my grandparents and great-grandparents. However, I'm having lots of trouble getting back to my usual sleep routine. Part of that may be lingering jet lag from traversing two time zones on Wednesday, but I suspect more of it is due to staying up until 2 am.

Personally, I am a fickle addict. I spent several years and quite a few dollars making beaded jewelry, and I haven't done any for a couple of years now. Almost four years ago I learned to knit and crochet, and I have a full complement of yarn for almost any project I'd want to make, but my activity there is waning. A number of years ago, I began collecting frogs, then turtles. Now, it's Coca Cola stuff and miniature Christmas ornaments. The room overfloweth. So doth the garage, but I haven't started on the attic yet.

So many crafts call out to me. I begin with lots of enthusiasm and then I slow. Finally, I drag to stop and start something new. The thrill of new! There's the addiction.

That's true with my relationship with God and the Bible. If I can't drag new meanings from the Biblical texts, then I get bored with them and leave them alone for years. If I can't find new ways to have a relationship with God, then I get bored and stay home or, worse, get bored and go to church. God has a way of jerking my head back in place sometimes. Some days I'm just grateful to have a god in whom I believe.

Vacation

A blue footed booby and a blue whale - just teasers for more to come.

Game addiction

A number of friends seem to be addicted to the games you can play competitively on Facebook. Others play bridge on the internet with real people. The number of games that adults can play on the computer are seemingly endless. I do several of them each morning just to see how sharp I am that day, but I don't usually sit and play them to see if I can beat someone or get a higher score than I did before. And, so, my internet time is spent more often in looking at new yarns and patterns and following chatter on knitting and crochet groups to discover new ideas.

However - perhaps I should put that in all caps - HOWEVER, Thursday evening we watched Jeopardy as our first TV program since returning from Baja California, and we didn't immediately turn it off after the program was over. Suddenly, I am caught up in this African American dude, a former football star, tracing his genealogy, and he used Ancestry.com at one point. Bad move for me.

So, we tired of that quickly and I moved to my computer where the first thing I did was to examine Ancestry.com. I was immediately addicted. Now this football star was also out interviewing people and looking at cemeteries and hiring good help in his search. I'm online and being amazed at what I can find. This is like a puzzle, and I do love puzzles.

First you put in what information you know. If you can get back before 1930, all the better. Then, the program begins giving you clues - places where that name is found in census records on file up to 1900, marriage records from many states, and more usually, other people's research and public family trees. A little green leaf appears with each "hint".

So, I entered some family information that I remembered (lots more is written down somewhere in my files and stored for safekeeping, LOL). I got several little green leaves, and I clicked on them. As I reviewed the information, I discovered what my grandmother's birth name probably was - she changed it somewhere before Social Security began. I had always heard that here birth name was something like Pamelia; presto, her grandmother was Permelia. Other family records listed her as M. Permelia - so, now I have my grandmother's birth name. Incidentally, she was called Mae most of her life.

I keep clicking on these little green leaves and following people from Maryland, briefly through Virginia, and into North Carolina and Georgia. I can see when they moved from Georgia into Mississippi. I can also see how many brothers and sisters died before they were a year old. I remember lots of little graves in our old family cemetery. And, now I can connect with who they were. I had little interest when we were there. All I wanted then was to see the tombstone for the man who had his amputated arm buried. We used to race to see who could find the graves of both the arm and the man to whom it had belonged.

Tonight as I wait for my antihistamine to work, I don't dare go to that website. Thursday night moved into Friday morning before I finally went to bed at 2 am. I lost most of Friday in sleep and more time on Ancestry.com. I am addicted to following those little green leaves. And, when they run out, I can take names that are apparently dead ends and look for clues in census, birth, marriage records. For instance, Mary Dozier Vick, born in 1775 seems to have no family records on this particular website. So, I began looking for the name Dozier in the area where she was born - lots of them, but all the Marys were married to people whose names I didn't recognize, and few of them had parents listed. But, I dutifully traced the parents of those possibilities until I determined that none of them belonged to my Mary Dozier Vick. My great-grandfather was Nathan Dozier Skelton; so I'm pretty sure that Mary is an ancestor and that Dozier is a family name.

I found pictures of tombstones in Mt. Pleasant cemetery, wherever that is, and census records and lots of people who are related distantly. However, I know I can add lots of data in some places because my Mom kept writing down names and dates and places and spouses and children. She would love this program absolutely - unfortunately, so does her daughter. I am addicted to this puzzle.

Some family names fade away - Skelton is probably a derivative of Shelton - and they fit the Irish/Scottish background that my grandfather Skelton claimed. Ralph Shelton, an Irishman, married a Scottish girl, and their son changed his name to Skelton - possibly due to poor handwriting. My uncle was Ralph Skelton, an echo to an Irishman who may have been our ancestor.

So, what does all this mean for me. I have to ration my time on this website, but, like the football star, I'm discovering more about who I am and what traits I have (like moving around a lot)that may have been inherited from long-dead ancestors. Do I know who I am? Probably not. Does it matter? Probably not. But, the puzzle is fun. Maybe I'll go cemetery trekking one day. And, maybe I'll find Mom's notes someday.

by Emily

I'll tell you how the Sun rose
by Emily Dickinson

I'll tell you how the Sun rose --
A Ribbon at a time --
The Steeples swam in Amethyst --
The news, like Squirrels, ran --
The Hills untied their Bonnets --
The Bobolinks -- begun --
Then I said softly to myself --
"That must have been the Sun"!
But how he set -- I know not --
There seemed a purple stile
That little Yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while --
Till when they reached the other side,
A Dominie in Gray --
Put gently up the evening Bars --
And led the flock away --

Parsing Theology

Stream of consciousness thinking: Can we parse theology the same way we parse a sentence? The subject is God; the verb is "is" (from "I am who I am"). Given that statement made to Moses, can we say anything else for certain? I believe that everything else we say is just that: belief. But, isn't most of religion about belief? And, how do we pick and choose from all the different images found in the scriptures about God and in the New Testament about Jesus?

What else would I say to complete the sentence: God is....

- aware
- creative
- will reclaim all of creation not just some of it (universal salvation)
- mostly unknowable
- present


and, I like to think that God is:

- good
- has a sense of humor
- allows us to be co-creators
- all powerful, all good and all knowing (but I have serious doubts about this)
- an intervener in earthly matters
- a user of the willing as instruments of change and intervention
- able to really know every hair on my head (however small they may be now)
- listener of prayers
- expectant of my participation

What I think that God isn't is a much longer list some of which simply contradicts what others may believe/think: God isn't:

- all-knowing, all-powerful, all-good (contradictions in this trilogy)
- concerned with how we worship
- limited by time, space or other constructs of humanity
- going to "rapture" those who believe

So, this is something I will muse on for a few hundred years, but the truth is that I don't know anything about God beyond "God is".

You can go home

Yesterday I attended a funeral at my former church in Winston-Salem - St. Anne's, once known as the Pizza Hut on the Hill because of its roofline. Now, trees have obscured that detail, and a beautiful community building adjoins the church and day school. My partner helped create the interior of that community building before we moved away. I had returned to that church only once - to bury my god-son, Bill, a Vietnam Vet with COPD and a few years older than me.Now I returned to bury a friend, lost some years ago to Alzheimer's.

I walked into the past. The rector who sped my departure was gone, but everything else seemed the same. A few new faces, but the core remained. Everyone sat in their regular places; the choir sang familiar anthems; the retired choirmaster had returned; his wife played some of the anthems on the organ while the new young organist did the rest. The tri-fold board in the narthex was one that I had made. The music room is named in honor of my partner.

The peace pole has a few new pieces. The river birches are taller. The columbarium is still full of people whose graves I dug and whose ashes I placed. They hold the church secure, and we added one more avant garde lady to that assortment. May light perpetual shine upon them.

I cried. I cried for my own loss. And, in psychological terms, I processed a pain so that I can move along. My spiritual development was arrested when I fled; now I begin to feel the presence of God again. My lack of perception has been replaced with a quiet comfort and a gentle jogging: "Okay, back into the evangelism business, back into the pastoral care business." I call it business - because it is a busy-ness instead of the inertia of fear of being rejected, fear that I have failed.

Yet, yet, I knew that the desert time I had spent was essential. Prayer, theology, laughter with God and Godly people. Virtual pastoral care. Virtual evangelism. Not wasted time, but integrative, creative time walking humbly with my God.

Now the time is near for doing justice, assisting God in making the divine mercy recognized - mercy as the steadfast love of God - hesed in Hebrew. I will walk humbly with my God as I have done before, but I will add doing justice and loving mercy as I am physically and emotionally able. Thanks be to God.

Dead is a complete sentence

Dead is a complete sentence. Expectant faces look hopefully for other words, but dead says it all. Not "gone", not "sleeping", not "departed", not "passed over" - dead. People in the South in particular seem to euphemize the difference between alive and otherwise, commonly known as dead.

I know about dead. My blood relatives are all dead except one cousin. They are gone but not to Memphis or Biloxi; they are dead, buried in graves about six feet deep. While they may have "passed over", I have no knowledge of that, and I'm not sure what some of them would have passed over nor where they might be now. I have never felt the compassion that people would convey in those words.

"Dead" seems to have ancient Indo-European roots and means without life. I haven't researched it much, but it's a concise description of a human who no longer breathes.

I object to other euphemisms, too. I prefer precise terms in dealing with things on earth. I can tolerate all kinds of words for dealing with ideas, concepts, beliefs. For some things we have no words - sexual intercourse with a child or a woman with a child's mind. Rape is properly sexual intercourse without consent. A woman with a child's mind is not capable of giving or denying sexual intercourse; so rape is not appropriate for that senario. Sexual molestation can mean lots of happenings relevant to the body.My apologies, readers. I am one of the small percentage of people who are irritated by euphemistic terminology.

I do not like using the word "saved" in a spiritual/religious sense. Being "saved" means being rescued from destruction or harm; and as surely as we live and breathe, we are going to be dead. Being dead is not being saved from destruction. We cannot know what happens after a person is dead. We do not know that being saved (believing in Jesus Christ as your personal saviour) is going to help the dead person. We just bury the body or scatter the ashes. Being politically correct in our word usage often is confusing. Trying to soften the harshness of the language is not helpful to me.

Being bereft of life is being dead. One dies; one does not sleep without life; one does not pass over into some other land (although one might pass over from the state of living to the state of being dead - sounds like a suicide choice to me - oh, I've decided to pass over, a nonchalant rendering of what might be a horrible decision). I expect to die some day. I will not be sleeping that I might wake for the festivities of my friends during my memorial service. I will not have made the choice to pass over. Yes, I will be gone but not to Texas or on a cruise. My spirit, my breath, will no longer be present in the world.

Okay,end of my rant about euphemisms for "dead".

WIP (Work in Progress)

Crocheted and knitted coral reef in process - will be displayed at the East Carolina Diocesan Convention in February 2010

Happy New Year 2010

It was a coolish and grey New Year's Eve when the barge nudged the bank at the boat landing near the house. We did not hear it arrive quietly in the morning hours. The big blue boat pushing the barge looked like a World War II landing ship with it prow that would open onto the bank. Large pilings were strapped to the sides of the barge, but all was quiet around it.

The dark water barely rippled under the ominous clouds that gathered. Rain would come. A stillness permeated the air and damp. No wind wiggled the tree limbs or leaves left on the myrtle. No fish jumped. No boats left their wake in the creek.

The house still held its Christmas decorations like failing spots of joy in the dismal day, but the tall pines stood starkly against the sky, silhouettes of summer days. And, deciduous trees poured upward like dark paint streaking toward the heavens. Birds kept to their nests in the dogwood trees.

The magnolias ignored the gloomy weather, the forthcoming rain and pushed their glossy leaves forward. The white camellia buds continued to ripen unharmed by the cold nights.

Inside, the Wii twinkled it upbeat tune. Cats dozed happily in chairs out of the swing of the controller. The phone was quiet. Knitting, reading, holding hands. A very good ending for the year. Happy New Year 2010.

Being Sick at Christmas

UP HILL by Christina Rosetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

Thanks to The Me That Is

Christmas stories

Growing up on a small farm in Mississippi in the 50s, we heated with wood stoves. The only time the living room was heated was Christmas Eve and Christmas Day...and maybe the day we put up the tree. Seems like it was colder back then, but, of course, my Dad built the house out of green (unseasoned) wood and it crackled and popped as it dried - for years. Anyway.

The tree always went in the front window. We did string popcorn for it and used the fragile glass balls inherited from my grandmother. We always added things like the little mouse candle by tying a string around its middle. The 5 and 10 cent store where Mom worked also provided some red and silver balls. And, tinsel. Some years we were allowed to just throw it up and see where it landed. Other years we hung each strand piece by piece. But, in the earliest years, I remember that getting the strands of tinsel apart was almost impossible; so small globs were the rule of the day.

My brother and I were sent to bed at a reasonable time on Christmas Eve - usually some time after 10 pm because Mom had to work until 9 pm. Since we did not have a mantle, our stockings were pinned to the back of the sofa, and Santa arrived during the night to fill the stockings and lay out our unwrapped Santa gifts. Sometimes, we could hear noises in the living room after we went to bed, but we never got up, never peeked - especially after we realized that Mom was Santa and that she had to work until 9 pm, drive out into the country where we lived, feed us second supper and then put out all the gifts. After David and I were much older, Mom made us stay in the kitchen while she put out gifts; then we could have them. We all slept late on Christmas mornings then.

Of course, finding where she had hidden the gifts was a real challenge. She usually left the larger gifts at the store, hidden in the back among all the stock. But, our stockings were not always full; sometimes Mom forgot where she had hidden our stuff. When I was 15, we moved away from the farm and, in moving, found some coloring books that had been destined for our stockings when we were much younger - also some blunt pointed scissors and a few other things. What a laugh we had!

My Mom loved fine china and silverware even though we were "dirt poor". I usually got a plastic set of dishes and plastic or aluminum silverware. My first set had fluted edges on the dishes with flowers in the middle. I don't know how many sets of silverware I got but I have remnants of at least four. Finally, when my Dad was stationed in Cuba, I got a set of real china toy dishes. They had a deep red border with flowers, and I loved them. I still have them in the original box with not a single piece broken. That was the year that Mom got her Bavarian Linen tablecloth and a set of silver plate flatware...with daffodils. Getting real china took much longer for her. If I felt like ironing, we'd use that tablecloth for Christmas dinner, but the embroidery on it is so detailed that we had to hire someone to iron it when I got married.

My Uncle Lester and his wife Aunt Clyde loved me dearly. Aunt Clyde sewed beautifully, and she made a lot of my clothes. But, Uncle Lester was a farmer. He learned something of the carpentry trade the year I was six, and he made me a wooden stove. Each detail was carefully painted on and the door opened to reveal a wooden rack inside the oven. That year I got aluminum pots and pans with the baking pans being actually usable...still have at least one of those, too. Uncle Lester was kind and gentle hearted. He also made one for Mother's step-niece.

Aunt Edith also cared about me - I was the only granddaughter in the family. She gave me silk pajamas and then - one year she gave me a large jewelry box - black with two small and one large drawer and a top that opened with a mirror. It was not a gift for a child, but I loved it. And, I suspect that it's in one of those tubs in the garage marked "MM childhood junk". I used that jewelry box for years and years - well into my 50s.

One year, David got a horse for christmas. The horse arrived early in the Fall and David had learned to ride passably well enough for both of us to ride the horse. After Christmas one year, we rode down to Grandma Woods' house so that I could show her my new tea set. I didn't repack the tea set well, and it rattled loudly on the way home. The horse was spooked; David was a relatively new rider, and the horse dumped us. Mom was so frightened that she sold the horse. I cried and cried and apologized to David for making him lose his horse.

me with David's guitar

David wanted a guitar, and his first one was from Sears - a big ole thing with clef note holes. Later, after he learned to play well, Mom went to Memphis to the pawn shops on Beale Street and bought him the sweetest little Martin guitar. I've forgotten who went with her, but he was so pleased with it...and such a great sound. He and his two buddies, Jimmie and Jack, played for hours on our front porch or in the kitchen in winter. The only songs I remember from their practice was "Maybelline" and "Thunder Road", but they tried all the country/western songs. And, they played at Jimmie's pentecostal church on Sunday nights; so I learned a lot of good gospel songs.

Pain and death at Christmas

My lesbian friends are visiting parents this year - together. And, the pain is often great. One family insists that they sleep in separate rooms, another has twin beds for them, and one family says they aren't comfortable with their staying in the home. Most can't afford lodging elsewhere; so they sleep apart (and what are you going to do in your parents home except sleep, especially when you know the disapproving parents are next door or just down the hallway, or worse in the room underneath you?). Some don't go at all even though their parents are aging; some try to find room with accepting cousins or aunts. Some try to make the journey in one day. Those with children have it hardest. What do you say to a young child who wants to visit Grandma and Grandpa?

On Tuesday, a friend is burying her brother who died of colon cancer. She will be holding tight to her mother who says, "This isn't how it's supposed to be." He leaves two young children.

A memorial service will be held for one who took his own life - a choice he made because the pain of living became too great. We can speculate about causes: Vietnam, lack of family support, alcoholism, drug use, purposelessness.

So, as we prepare for the ritual birth of the Christ child, the baby who was God and human, life goes on with all of the pain, the deaths, the natural disasters as usual...except with a little more of all of it - the joy as well as the sad.

God came to earth to be with us - Immanuel - God with us - God did not come to take away the pain or the death or the joy or the desire. God came to teach us how to choose life. For life is breath and God's first act was to breathe upon the emptiness and chaos. Ruah in Hebrew.

I quote from a poem I learned long ago about friendship: "take what is worth keeping and with the breath of kindness blow the rest away." May God with you be the breath of life that helps you sift the pain and the joy, keep what is worth keeping and with steadfast love and compassion blow the rest away.

Getting Rid of Junk

(photo borrowed from USPS-my preferred method of shipping using Click n Ship)

In cleaning out my boxes of junk from the garage, I seem to have made many people happy. My cousin called with questions about some of the items - like "What's this black and white fuzzy long thing?" Answer: A scarf I knit for your wife. "Who's in this framed picture?" What picture, describe it to me. A man in a white shirt and a woman. Answer: That's you're grandmother and grandfather when they were younger 1944. "There's a coin purse here with stuff in it?" Coin purse was grandmother's. Necklace inside was great grandmother's. Piece of paper is grandfather's driver's license when they first began issuing them in Mississippi.

A friend: "What's this long black thing with a star shape on the bottom?" Answer: a handy-dandy meat masher to use in non-stick skillets from Pampered Chef. "You sent soap; do you think I'm dirty?" No, it made the box smell good.

Another friend: "Um, why are you sending me bottles?" Answer: so you can smash them up and use them in your glassworks. Where did you get these glass door knobs? Answer: From my great grandparents house in Mississippi before it was torn down.

And, the universal question "Why aren't you keeping all of this stuff?" Answer: I have way too much stuff and no children or grandchildren who might appreciate it.

So look out, buddies. You may be next on the list for a mystery box.

Long time, no write

My friend Lindy, who up and moved all the way from Texas to Wuxi, China, and surprised us all, has pointed out that I haven't blogged in a while. No matter what I write, it would be boring in comparison to her wonderful pictures and commentary about life there. She played with a band one day - a group of women who were wonderfully dressed and wore dashing red hats. They let her play the drums and then the cymbals and put one of the hats on her and took her picture. Well, +Clumber photoshopped the red hat onto several profile pictures on FaceBook. Two of us got different colored hats, though. One was black, and mine is blue.as you can see from the picture. I'm delighted to have the blue hat and have decided that I will be the flag waver since I don't "do" music well.

Speaking of that, I missed Lessons and Carols at church last week because I was getting ready for our annual Tree Trimming Party - our 10th. But, my first tree trimming party was in 1988. This year we had short pork ribs cooked in the oven slowly with Memphis dry rub (my version, very sweet), then slathered lightly with a more tart wet sauce and baked a bit more. Only four were left; so I guess everyone liked them. We also had some almost tasteless shrimp (a round frozen tray that I bought - won't do that again), my own spinach dip, Lisa's Tex-Mex 5 or 7 layer sort of dip, black bean hummus (again my creation with baked onion in it), sugared pecans, cupcakes from Miss Kitty's bakery, and all sorts of non-alcoholic drinks. That non-alcoholic is because some of us are allergic to alcohol. When we drink, we break out in handcuffs.

I've taken leave from my wonderful job at the yarn shop. No, I'm not sure how long, but not permanently. My mornings are not so good lately. I won't go into detail but simply say that fibromyalgia is worse some days than others, or some weeks. I've been reading about XMRV, a retro virus that is thought to "cause" chronic fatigue syndrome. Most of the symptoms fit me, although my partner disagrees slightly. I've thought of getting tested for the virus, which shows up in white blood cells, but no cure or real treatment is available. Giving a name to my pain and problems might help. And, XMRV might be more believable than fibromyalgia.

Here's my recipe for spinach dip:
1 or 2 boxes of frozen chopped spinach (I used 2 Green Giant - all I could find and they are small)
1 package Knorr's vegetable soup mix
1 16 oz carton of reduced fat sour cream
1 package 1/3 less fat cream cheese
1 cup of pecans
1/2 package of dry Ranch Dressing mix
Garlic Salt (about 1 teaspoon for me)
Cayenne Pepper (1/4 teaspoon for me)

Thaw and squeeze the water out of the spinach.
In food processor (mine is more than 20 years old) chop cream cheese into pieces, add pecans and sour cream. Blitz for a bit. Then add the rest of the ingredients. Blitz some more until the texture is grainy but not chunky. Place in refrigerator for some time to let the tastes mix well. Use finger to clean the food processor bowl, place finger in mouth and close lips around finger. Remove clean finger and savor the great taste. Don't chew the finger; that hurts.

A Sorting Hat was needed

Not for me but for all the papers I found in the tub labeled "family stuff" in the garage. I filled it full of things I didn't want to see after Mom died. Her scrapbook from high school filled with valentines, gift cards, notes, graduation invitations. Letters from my brother (died in 1961) who was apparently dating three girls - one in Mississippi, one in San Diego, and one somewhere North of San Diego - while he was stationed there with the Navy...and letters asking Mom for money. Three marriage licenses for Mom and two divorce proceedings. Marriage licenses for others in the family, birth notices - birth certificates, baby books for me and my brother, records from the farm. Mom's graduation certificate from junior high school - bound in the softest purple suede.

Letters from my brother's father to Mom, her parents, my Dad, and also letters this guy's parents to Mom. From the tone of the letters, I suspect that Mom met David's father when he was buying whiskey from her Dad, Mike, my grandfather.

WW2 documents and letters and Dad's big book of the 24th Construction Battalion. Rationing stuff.

Lots of receipts, letters from grandmothers, grandfathers, uncles, aunts, former landlady,

The trash bag got fuller and fuller. My brother is dead and so are his son and wife. I have no children. My nearest relative is a cousin in Mississippi, and I'm sending him some of the WW2 stuff - especially a mushy letter from Dad to Mom when she was in high school and another after they were married. I think he'll get a kick of that - Mom was kind of neutered by Dad's alcoholism. But, I'm keeping the letter from Mabel to my Dad where she refused to marry him because he'd never loved anybody but Lucy (my Mom). And, I kept one page of a letter where my brother wrote about how much he loved me.

I save birth announcements to send to those who were born - perhaps they don't have them. I'll send the graduation announcements to some museum in Mississippi. A few photographs without identification went into the trash.

But, I stuffed all the letters that I'd written to Mom over the years back into the box. I'm not sure I want to know that I begged for money just like my brother or what stunts I was up to when. If I were famous, these letters would bring lots of money because I was always deviously honest with Mom. She could read between the lines and so could anyone else.

My Dad helped build the naval base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, and one letter dealt with the men refusing to work. There's a picture of him drinking his better with his arm around a cute Cuban woman. So much for the letters he wrote begging Mom to come back to him and promising faithfulness. Even a letter from a woman he met in the South Pacific who invited him to come back there.

I got cold as darkness suddenly came; so I threw the rest of the stuff back in the tub for another day. More later.

Geometrically increasing pace

The pace of life and of new things increases geometrically. One new piece of technological hardware begats hundreds of new software applications - not only for that piece but for other pieces. And, the competitor has to keep up or lose business; so two or three or five new similar hardware items pop up - and each one has a different operating system with different programs to do the same thing. After a few years some of the competitors have dropped out of business and their products become obsolete. This is a minor glitch in the geometrically increasing idea.

When I finally finished college at age 35, Cobol II could be used as your language requirement. You seldom hear about computer languages any longer - programs in some of these languages translate ordinary words and numbers and boxes and pictures into the ideas you don't write on paper with pencils. And, we called them lead pencils - they are carbon and you don't need a sharpener.

Inventions and discoveries are abounding. Take Windows 7 for instance. Some technology just doesn't excite me. I don't play X-Box games (and is Nintendo surging ahead?), but I do have a Wii - a gaming device that I use primarily for exercise. And, now Windows 7 has arrived after extensive testing. I spent two minutes with it in Staples last week - now I crave a new computer with Windows 7 so that I can figure out how it does the things I like to do - better - worse - quicker (quicker is always better, huh?) - easier?

My Prius Hybrid can now be adapted to run on electricity alone. A gasoline engine combined with an electric system that has evolved into a different kind of car - one that has been available for some time. However, the Prius has made the idea more popular. It was state of the art. Now, almost every manufacturer is copying its system, adapting it, making it better, going one more step.

International relations seem to work the same way - a new election or coup and we're friends with a country that was our enemy. And, other countries fall into line with that thinking - so for a while, peace is more likely in that part of the world. Hillary Clinton must be exhausted - trying to form coalitions that cause a domino effect for peace and prosperity for all. One domino falls to the side, and the set-up has to be redone.

In my life, this increasing pace is new combinations of fibers for yarns, new operating systems for computers, new exercises on the Wii, new formats for banking (what happened to cash and checks?), new cleaning products (when all I wanted was something for these wood floors), and what happened to that product that I used to help remove or cover up scratches on wooden tables (does the Vermont Country Store carry it now?)?

I don't envy the young people of today. They have to know so much more than I did - along with most everything I knew then, too. Pregnancy was the direst consequence of sex with your boyfriend - now it's a fatal disease. I'm not saying that the world is moving too fast; what I'm saying is that I don't keep up. I have chosen my areas of increasing knowledge, and they are few. I look interested when others talk about things outside those areas. My friend, David Keill regularly writes on Facebook in a lingo that is outside my knowledge. So, I admit my ignorance and go on reading it anyway - maybe someday it will all make sense.

Keep on truckin', kids. The pace is getting faster and the race is getting bigger.

Sunday Cat and Dog Blogging

We are visiting friends in Denver, CO, and here are pictures of some animal friends:

the forms of space

This slightly altered photo of an early morning boater on our creek reminds me of the swirls around Saturn and of some other galaxies. How closely akin is the geometry of life to the wonder of God!