How to Eat a Brown Derby

The first time I ever remember eating a "dipped top" cone was in Marlin, Texas at the Dairy Queen . . . but my cousins called it a "Brown Derby." However, they didn't show me this great trick! Get lots of napkins ready. Slowly eat the hard chocolate shell, hand-picking each piece off the ice cream. When finished eating the "derby," knock the vanilla ice cream off the top (use one of the napkins and kind of scrape it off til it's even with the cone). Throw the uneeded ice cream out the car window--it's not littering if it's biodegradable. Take little bites, working your way all around the baby cone, which is filled with just the right amount of ice cream. When finished, don't throw those napkins on the ground--that would be littering.

A Thanksgiving Epiphany

[first get the tune to “Oh Happy Day / When Jesus Washed My Sins Away” going in your mind] “Oh happy day, Oh happy day, my blower sucked, my blower mulched, my blower bagged all my leaves away . . . Oh happy day . . . !”
For the last few weeks, I’ve been looking out the window at my withered up garden waiting to be put to bed for the winter, at a flat of blue and yellow pansies waiting to be transplanted by the mailbox, at four bags of bulbs waiting to be buried so that next spring will prove that something was planned ahead of time . . . and then there were ALL THOSE LEAVES blanketing the front and back yard. Just thinking of it was paralyzing, until yesterday when we discovered that our Black and Decker “hay” blower can also vacuum!

What a feeling of power to watch piles and piles of leaves disappear up a big plastic cylinder—filling one biodegradable bag after another with perfect bits of mulch that will cover our county's walking trails—I felt so . . . so green!

It was such a great feeling, that after clearing and pitch-forking my garden, I covered it up with a beautiful "quilt" of the colorful confetti! My sense of accomplishment is worth every Advil I’ll have to take to get out of bed to make my Cranberry Jezebel sauce for Thanksgiving dinner!

"Books, Like Friends, Should Be Few and Well Chosen" Samuel Johnson

Top 12 Recommendations

(still life-impacting since 1972)

The Chronicles of Narnia (C.S. Lewis)
The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
Something More (Catherine Marshall)
From Fear to Freedom: Living as Sons and Daughters of God (Rose Marie Miller)
Abandoned to God: The Biography of Oswald Chambers (David McCasland)

Turn my Mourning into Dancing: Help for Hard Times (Henri Nouwen)
Celebration of Discipline (Richard Foster)
Prayer: Finding the Heart’s True Home (Richard Foster)
The Good News About Injustice (Gary Haugen)
The Middle of Everywhere: The World’s Refugees Come to Our Town (Mary Pipher)
Orthodoxy (G.K. Chesterton)
God is the Gospel (John Piper)

. . . okay a Baker's Dozen . . .

Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll

(my earliest self-read favorite in 1963)

Thankful for Simple Gifts

I'm warming my toes next to the fireplace, enjoying the first cheery fire of the season, sipping Ginger tea, and thinking how yummy it feels to be home. I might just close my eyes for a little cat nap . . . but then I remembered a picture I snapped in September when I visited Cafe du Monde in New Orleans. I rememeber thinking how lovely it was to be sitting on a covered patio sipping coffee and eating beignets with my daughter and new son-in-law. At the same moment I looked over and saw this cute little Asian man, perfectly at rest amid all the clanking dishes, touristy conversations and sidewalk musicians. Taking a few moments each day to come to rest and enjoy simple pleasures, fills our lives with riches that can't be taken away and shouldn't be taken for granted.

Love You Rainor Shine!

At first I thought this was a picture of Rainor's recent incident with Vicks Vapor Rub, but on closer examination he was just stomping around in a few rain puddles--at 15 months, life is full of new discoveries every day! This fall, we've been hanging out every Monday while Anna is in school, but tonight we're having a sleepover . . . hopefully heavy on the sleep since he's been sick all week! We read one "[k]" after another, danced with The Wiggles (I'm gonna have to investigate those four Aussies), and were mesmerized on Netflix Instant by Hopla (a Flemish-Belgian 3D cartoon for infants). Speaking of dancing, I gotta getta video of this little guy's moves--he dances like a beatnik* --I think he has inherited Pops' dancin' machine gene! I really should be snoring right now,but I keep reflecting on my 17 year-old nephew's Facebook status last week: "Even my worst days ain't that bad." Amen, Andy Rose!

* Beatniks were before my era. A cool 50's youth culture.Wore berets and turtle necks. Hung out in coffee shops playing bongos and reciting poetry (and experimenting with marijuana).Pre-dates the hippie movement by about 15 years. Alen Ginsberg and Jack Keruoac were beatniks. So was the character named Maynard G. Krebs on the 1960's Dobie Gillis Show...

Up for Interpretation

Some of you know that I have a history of pretty strange dreams that I sometimes remember in great detail . . . I recently came across this 2006 account that I had totally blocked out: "Another one of my bizarre dreams came last night. I was living in a house of terrorists/aliens, but I was considered "family." I kept moving from room to room because there were "dangerous" people coming. At one point, I went to warn Amanda, but I could barely hear her voice. She was trying to tell me that something was happening to her--I saw her from behind and she looked like a toddler. When I turned her around, she barely had a face anymore and was withering up. The next thing I knew, there was some kind of raid and I was hiding in an outdoor flower bed on the side of the house--a raised, brick one that had been built, but had nothing planted in it. I was lying on my side when STEVE MARTIN came and sat on the edge of the flower bed. He didn't seem surprised at all to see me, and we began a nice conversation until a couple of policemen came along. They never saw me, and didn't bother with Steve since he was a celebrity. When they finally left, Steve told me that he had always wanted to meet me and had enjoyed seeing my work! I told him I had only been on "poop" shows and didn't know how he had ever seen me . . . but he had, and wanted to get to know me better and that was the end of the dream." The only possible "trigger" I recorded was that I had watched "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" before going to bed. Recently I was telling David that I wish God would give me some real dreams like Joseph (thus the "technicolor coat") However, upon further consideration, maybe I should keep my dreams to myself lest someone throw me into a big cistern. I dreamed abouta cistern once, like the one on Petticoat Junction . . .

Sari Bari Songbook

If you want to enjoy the outcome of deep faith, God-centered music, lasting friendships and ample art supplies, click here to see what five friends created for our dear ones' home worship in India .

The First Convertible Ride

Oh, to be three and a half again, and on your first convertible ride . . . at night, no less! The fall air was a little chilly as we sped away from the suburban lights, but we forgot about it when we began to see some stars. Asha began counting: “I see one star, I see four . . . five stars . . . I see one hundred stars! I mentioned that God has put each star in its place and knows the name of every one. As we started up the darker mountain extension, Asha pointed out yet another star so I asked what she thought its name might be. Without hesitation she answered, “Starry Bari.” We were still laughing at her unconscious play on words—Sari Bari is a cause her parents championed in India—when her precious preschool lisp rang out again. “It’s so beautiful! I can’t stand it!" And that it was. The breeze. The moon. The dim silhouette of hills and trees. A simple ride with the top down had become a holy moment I’ll never forget. And a few months from now, when I’m lonesome for my precious friends on the other side of the planet, I will look up into the heavens knowing that Asha and “Starry Bari” are exactly where God has placed them and that He knows both of them by name. “Those who have insight will shine brightly like the brightness of the expanse of heaven, and those who lead many to righteousness, like the stars forever and ever.” Daniel 12:3

The Correct Way to Weigh Yourself

I can't believe I was doing it wrong all these years.

WE MUST SPREAD THE WORD.

I Never Thought I'd See the Day . . .

A two story Target in New Orleans complete with an escalator for shopping carts (glad I had my camera)!

Sisterhood of Unraveling Rants

Oh, how I needed last weekend . . . I was feeling over-scheduled, wound up and wrung out . . . but it only took five friends and a one-hour drive with the top down for my soul to begin s-l-o-w-l-y unwinding. Thought we were going to a rustic cabin, not The Potter's House, a beautiful farmhouse overlooking a small, quiet lake. Thank God for wild mushroom soup, enormous omelets, chipotle patty melts and Riesling--my tastebuds were satisfied to the max. Thank God for Balderdash, Ellen and Steve Carrell--my seratonin level hasn't been higher in a while. Thank God for time to walk, kayak, draw, write, and read . . . and just sit. Thank God for hours and hours to talk and process and imagine and pray! What surprised me most was the sweet peace that followed me all the way home and into this new week. Wouldn't trade it, or the love in that place or my heart!

Let Your Smile be Your Umbrella

Oh my cute, little heroic parents! Tonight starts day SIX that Chuck and Patsy have been without power after Hurricane Ike hit Galveston and knocked out the lights and phones in Houston. While I watched all four Houston networks streaming news on my laptop, my parents unfolded their "fruitful" day via cell phone. "We got up about 7 and did our morning routine . . ." that includes putting three different eye drops in 'Chuckle's' eyes every four hours (he had cataract surgery last Thursday morning before the hurricane hit). They also figured out that it is safer to take their nightly shower during the day when they can see what they're doing, so they changed their schedule (Patsy has been a little stressed that her electric curlers have been out of service). "Then we decided to drive around until we found an open grocery store . . ." When they saw cars at Randall's they went inside and found the staff working in the dark with flashlights! "And one of the nice workers took our grocery list and gathered everything on it--except of course there was no milk or ice." "But how did you pay for it?" I asked. "Oh, somehow they had enough power to run our Visa." You don't say. . . Next came the highlight of their day. They heard that Cleburne's Cafeteria had been open yesterday and decided to pay them a visit (as they do at least two times in a normal week) . . ."and we had the most wonderful hot, roast beef lunch with fresh spinach and ICE in our water!" After a good lunch, they took their groceries and bottled water home and "we've enjoyed the most serendipitous weather sent from the good Lord above--we even got a newspaper and our mail!" As I tear up my ridiculous complaint list from today, I stand amazed that a couple of octagenarians can keep their sunny side up despite the longest power outage their home has seen in the FIFTY years. "So what are you going to do tonight?" I teased before we hung up. "Oh, after it gets dark, we'll listen to the radio for about an hour and a half . . . (Chuck says they sit in the dark and stare at each other) then we'll open the windows with screens and go on to bed." Sleep well, dear ones--especially Chuck, who can hear anything over -15 decibels. Patsy can sleep through anything, although she admitted that she went to bed in her clothes the night the hurricane hit . . . just in case they got evacuated, she didn't want to be rescued in her pajamas.

FYI . . . On Thursday (18th) my mom unconsiously flipped a light switch in the house and there was LIGHT!

Hometown Hurricane in Houston

I'm dizzy from watching Ike spin, counterclockwise, about to inundate the crummy brown-sanded beaches I haunted as a kid. . . and then it will plow fifty miles inland through my pancake-flat hometown. My parents have waited out 50 hurricane seasons in the house where I grew up, and have only briefly lost power and have never had the house flood. We have had to canoe our way around the neighborhood, however--in college my sister and I got stranded in one of Houston's frequent floods, when a city bus sent a wave of water over the HOOD of our car--ironically we were at the intersection of Scott St. and NOAH. In 1961 during Hurricane Carla (I was five), we heard our birdhouse hit the roof while we played Old Maid by candelight . . . in 1983 (11 weeks after our twin boys were born) we spent five days with my parents after Hurricane Alicia knocked our power out an hour farther inland . . . in 2005 after Katrina, my parents agreed to evacuate ahead of Hurricane Rita but after 8 hours they were still within the city limits and stranded on the interstate--more people died in the evacuation process than in the storm. So needless to say, my parents are not leaving Zone C--their neighborhood's evacuation designator. They've been told that their chances are better staying put than leaving. Thankfully they have plenty of peanut butter and Frito's, masking tape and a hand crank radio, along with concerned neighbors who have already been over to see how they can help them secure their home. But nothing like the surge that is expected to travel from the coast, up the Houston ship channel and right into town has ever occured since the Hurricane of 1908 when 6000 people (without the benefit of 3D Stormtrackers) were killed in Galveston. I'm okay, but I'm telling you . . . between Amanda's apartment being destroyed during the February tornado, her 10 day evacuation from New Orleans during Gustav, and Ike threatening the Everett clan in their 'fraidy holes between Clear Lake and Conroe, it's been difficult to stay centered in the "calm day of the eye." I'm talking it over with Jesus Adonai, the Master over all creation.

I Dream of Genie

How many Aggies does it take to re-program a garage door opener? None, because at the risk of sounding overly-suburban, I'd like to announce that we finally figured out how to program it ourselves! If you're thinking "What does S-O spell?" please humor me. Three years ago, we donated my old van to Goodwill, and OOPS . . . my transmitter was left in it. After that, we shared the other transmitter until OOPS . . . one of us lost it, too. Two years ago, I bought a replacement transmitter at Home Depot but we never could figure out how to make it work. Chalk it up to three college graduations, two marriages and a grandchild, but until now, it wasn't a high priority. The empty side of the garage has housed my convertible on the random days I've been willing to jump out of my car, use my single house key to open the front door run to the back door, push the garage door opener button, get back in the car, drive in the garage, and push the button again to close it. No telling what the neighbors have thought as they've undoubtedly watched this routine repeated scores of time! I don't know why, but today was the day I ventured to suggest that we dig out our Genie book and try once again to make the darn transmitter work.

It took a while, but we found the instruction book, the replacement transmitter, our Philips screwdriver and stepladder. We read the instructions and tried to follow the directions, but nothing happened. Since it had been so long, we decided the battery must have gone dead. I opened the back of the transmitter with a coin, like it said, but the whole "mother board" popped out, along with an unidentified plastic piece. It figures. We drove to the Walgreens to buy another battery, put it in, replaced the circuit board and tried it again. Nothing. David went in to eat lunch. I couldn't accept this. I have a Master's degree, and faithfully read instruction booklets--I even tore out the other three languages so I wouldn't get distracted!! So I checked the battery position, replaced the circuit board . . . and spotted where that little plastic piece that was meant to go--OOPS . . . it flipped the switch that changed the signal frequency and allowed the button to be pressed all the way down. Not wanting to get my hopes up too high, I held my breath as I pressed the Learn Code button, and watched the flashing light became . . . SOLID! I pressed the button one more time and . . . the angels in heaven rejoiced!! I proclaimed the marvelous gospel and David came running. I'm sure the neighbors thought we were nuts as we opened and closed and opened and closed the door. We were on a roll. Next we programmed the transmitter on my convertible visor. Then we got the transmitter to open the other garage door! And in less than two hours, my Saturday morning wish had come true. Both cars were sitting side-by-side inside the garage as I watched the doors go down in perfect synchrony. I couldn't have been happier if I had found Aladdin's magic lamp under all the junk that's still in my garage.

I (Heart) School Supplies

Ever since I carried my first Big Chief tablet and Crayola Crayons to kindergarten back in 1961, I have been in love with school supplies! New watercolors, Lefty scissors, and a set of map pencils have been replaced by multi-colored Sharpies, a full-sized paper cutter and scented dry erase markers., but my feelings of simple pleasure are the same. The first day of school was always the day after Labor Day, so today it just felt right to return to my ESL classroom. I enjoyed all the table-arranging, roll-organizing and volunteer-orienting, but what really made me happy was laying out all the school supplies! Black medium point pens, sharp sunflower yellow #2 pencils, laminated, rewritable name strips, and a great big "sticky" chart. To top off my day, I spent an hour in the Parent-Teacher Store on the way home! It’s a ritual I’ve been devoted to for decades . . . my New Year is really marked by the Academic calendar. I guess I acknowledged what that makes me, when I returned to my place after the break at a continuing education seminar, to find that all my pens and highlighters had been arranged to spell N-E-R-D. That’s okay, Melinda, I will wear that label proudly, just like the perfectly printed name tags I made for my English students today!

IT’S MY (TWIN) BIRTHDAY

Fifty two years ago today, I was born in Houston, Texas, just twenty months after my sister, Suzanne. I’m told that we got along very well though we are very distinct individuals. She loved dresses, I preferred cowboy boots. She played with dolls, I loved my brown Tonka truck. She colored inside the lines, I caught frogs in jars. On my fifth birthday, something radical happened . . . a third sister was born! “Your little birthday present came today!” Honey and Papa breathed with reverence. “I didn’t ask for a baby” I whispered grudgingly. Seven year old Suzanne was thrilled—another doll to play with. I thought babies were boring—Amy wasn’t any fun. A few days later, I went to kindergarten and after that, I have absolutely no memories of my sister for a few years. I’m told we got along very well (even though she's REALLY unique!). Suzanne and I played school, Amy dressed the cat in doll clothes. Suzanne and I cheered at football games, Amy went to Gran's house to make pralines. Amy was obsessively neat, I was creatively messy. Suzanne and I left for Baylor, Amy . . . a few more years I don't remember.

I do have memories of what happened every year around our birthday. Money and time were tight and our mom wasn’t going to make two birthday cakes or hold two birthday parties the same week . . . so began the illusion of the twin birthday. One year, Amy got to choose the cake; the next year, I could choose. One year Amy got to have a birthday party; the next year was my turn. In my mind, that really stunk. Suzanne’s birthday was December 27 and she got the full treatment two days after Santa came. The only redeeming thing about sharing a birthday with Amy was the several years she was convinced that we would cease to have a twin birthday if she didn’t do exactly what I said. I also may have fabricated something about finding her in the gutter and deciding to let her share my birthday since we weren’t certain when she was born. If you’ve ever read The Birth Order Book, you’ll recognize that I was the quintessential middle child!

You’ll be relieved to know that I finally outgrew those childish attitudes and began to enjoy the novelty of being born on the same day as my sister. Most years, Amy sends me a card that says “Happy [one year older than I really am] Birthday”; my annual reminder that she’ll always be five years younger. Revenge works. Now that we’ve lived 661 miles apart for twenty two years, I’d give anything to share a birthday cake or party with her.

My birthday wish this year? I’d love to meet a number of people who were born the same day, same year as me. In my lifetime, I’ve only met one, and he married my cousin Bonnie. It’s a cosmic feeling to know that someone else entered the world on exactly the same day as you—that's a real twin birthday!! So if you and I happen to share August 30, 1956 (or any other year), let’s celebrate the gift of life together in wonder.

On Simplicity: I was Going Through My Closet . . .

If I really prefer to go barefoot, why do I own FORTY pairs of shoes? One may avoid that question by meditating upon more than 2,700 pairs of shoes that Imelda Marcos left behind when she and her dictator husband fled the Philippines in 1986. Some claim that her shoe collection once numbered 5,400! She later corrected this gross exaggeration. “I did not have 3,000 pairs of shoes,” she clarified, “I had 1,060” (If she changed her shoes three times a day, it would take her almost an entire year--353 days--to wear them all)! Thank you for clearing that up for the millions of poverty-stricken Philippinos you and Ferdinand left behind. So . . . when I was cleaning downstairs yesterday, I found six pairs of my shoes between the front door and my closet—probably because I have always preferred to go barefoot. One of my earliest childhood memories is the scrumptious feeling of the cold hardwood floor on my hot, bare feet when I entered Mr. Pinno’s store in Marlin, Texas. He didn't have a sign that read, "No shirt, no shoes, no service." Even when my mother argued that I would catch my death, cut my foot open (I did), get third degree burns or ruin my arches, my always-painted circus toes had to be free to wiggle and breathe. Never mind that I smashed my big toe in the car door when we took a car trip to Estes Park, Colorado. “Honey” (my grandmother) wouldn’t quit singing, “To Bear Lake, to Bear Lake to see all the snow; Home again, home again with a busted toe!” “BURST”, my English-teacher mother corrected, horrified.

Refocusing on my initial question, let me clarify why I need my forty pairs of shoes. First of all, some aren’t really SHOES . . . there is a pair of slippers under my bed that my mother gave me before I had surgery three years ago (so I wouldn’t catch my death or get pinworms in the hospital). I have eight pairs of boots that I’ve had for years—in a place like Nashville, you can’t give those away, especially my red Baby Lamas and pink “Chukka” boots. You can’t really count the six pairs of pumps, or the four pairs of rubber thongs—sorry, six—there are two pairs on the top shelf with my painting clothes. I hardly ever wear any of those, but you have to match at weddings, funerals and the beach. My seven pairs of “flats” keep my feet close to the barefoot position and don’t ruin my arches, Mother. My four pairs of "mules" are definitely needed because they can be kicked off in a flash—and I actually LOVE my turquoise Dr. Scholl’s western mules--except I can't wear them with capris until I turn 70. Of course one must have a pair of athletic shoes—I do. Finally, I couldn’t do without my five pairs of SANDALS—about the closest thing there is to barefoot when you are required to wear shoes!

Slippers + 8 + 6 + 6 + 7 + 4 + 1 + 5 . . . oh, technically I only have THIRTY-EIGHT pairs of shoes. Dang it!! I forgot my garden shoes in the garage and my very fun “hobbit” shoes that Joel and I found at a consignment store--they are in their own category--making a family memory. Okay I really must keep the shoes. I won't buy any more for a long time. Now, I must go work on my Gospel Transformation lesson. Is it on Self-Justification? No, that was last week’s lesson. Anyway, if I ever visit the Philippines or Manila, I probably won’t drive to Marikina to see Imelda Marcos’ shoe collection at The Shoe Museum, but before she dies, I would love to ask her to elaborate on why she owned a bulletproof bra.