Yesterday, I came home from the prolife clinic where I volunteer as a patient advocate on Friday afternoons, in tears because of circumstances that make someone feel they have no other choice but abortion. Having the baby, she said, would mean the end of her job (on a ship for a year) with no possibility of returning.
The truth is this: When a woman is pregnant, she can make one of three choices: 1) carry to term and parent the child; 2) carry to term and adopt out the child; 3) kill the child. Not one of those choices is easy. Some think Number 3 is easy, quick, and convenient. It is not. It's expensive. It hurts a lot. It has a long-lasting negative effect and takes a huge toll on the mother's mind, body, and life. And, of course, it ends the life of the little innocent baby in there. Painfully. Brutally. Irreversibly.
I have counseled many women during the three years of volunteering at the clinic. Never have I seen a woman like this client who believed there was absolutely no other choice available to her but abortion. I prayed for her, and mourned ...
This morning, I was reading God's Word in Luke where Jesus sent out His disciples to preach and heal the sick. He told them if they went into a place and the people would not receive them, to leave and shake the dust off their feet as a witness against them. I don't know if there is a parallel to this situation. I want to have hope that somehow the Lord will turn her around and heal her heart. I know that if she aborts, as she seemed determined to do when she departed, it will hurt her (body and soul) and have a long lasting negative effect on her life. It's very hard for me to just turn away from that truth and "shake the dust of that [response] off my feet, as a witness against [her]."
Another thought is that Jesus told the disciples to heal the sick. This was early in Jesus' ministry. I wonder how that played out. Imagine being a disciple and encountering someone with a really difficult sickness. Exactly what did they do? How did they go about it? I think they told the people about Jesus and said if you have faith in Him, you are healed. They were full of faith and excitement about what they had seen the Master doing and heard Him saying.
I am not a doctor nor a psychologist, but the Lord has commissioned me to heal the sick at the clinic. Yesterday I (He) was rejected, and I could see the sick one rejected God's message, shaking the dust off her feet as she left the clinic on her way to the abortion mill...
It's very hard to shake the dust off my heart...
I take comfort in knowing that Jesus is still working, giving hope. And if she kills the little one, He will welcome that little baby into His heaven.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Taking a Break...
Some of you, dear Readers, have commented that you wanted me to "keep 'em coming" (stories from my life). I am thinking about temporarily taking a break from posting to this blog, but before I do, I would like some feedback from you who have read my posts.
I began this blog as an avenue to write down my memories before I forget them. I've had a tremendous response to this blog, over two thousand page views in less than five months. I've been thinking a lot about putting these stories into a book. Many of the people who might be interested in reading about the way it was in the fifties and sixties are old folks like me, but a majority of them never go online. They would much rather have a physical (good old-fashioned) book they can hold in their hand while rocking in their favorite comfy chair with some quiet time to read. There are some who have electronic books such as Kindle or Nook, who would like to read that way, but most still read regular books.
So I am taking a break from writing this blog in order to make a book out of what I've written so far. I'm finding time-consuming editing is required to put all these stories in book form. I'm not yet sure whether to go with a publisher and sell on Amazon, or just self-publish enough books to give to my family and sell to others...
I'm not much of a seller. I would greatly appreciate the thoughts, wishes, and advice from readers of "Grannie's Memories." Should I publish a book through a publisher? What should be the price of such a book? Would you recommend "Grannie's Memories" to your friends and family?
You could respond by 1) posting a comment on this blog, or 2) commenting on Facebook, or 3) email your response to me (granniegoins@yahoo.com). I would love to receive your suggestions, tips, ideas, experience, even your criticism if it could be construed as constructive... (I'm smiling.)
I began this blog as an avenue to write down my memories before I forget them. I've had a tremendous response to this blog, over two thousand page views in less than five months. I've been thinking a lot about putting these stories into a book. Many of the people who might be interested in reading about the way it was in the fifties and sixties are old folks like me, but a majority of them never go online. They would much rather have a physical (good old-fashioned) book they can hold in their hand while rocking in their favorite comfy chair with some quiet time to read. There are some who have electronic books such as Kindle or Nook, who would like to read that way, but most still read regular books.
So I am taking a break from writing this blog in order to make a book out of what I've written so far. I'm finding time-consuming editing is required to put all these stories in book form. I'm not yet sure whether to go with a publisher and sell on Amazon, or just self-publish enough books to give to my family and sell to others...
I'm not much of a seller. I would greatly appreciate the thoughts, wishes, and advice from readers of "Grannie's Memories." Should I publish a book through a publisher? What should be the price of such a book? Would you recommend "Grannie's Memories" to your friends and family?
You could respond by 1) posting a comment on this blog, or 2) commenting on Facebook, or 3) email your response to me (granniegoins@yahoo.com). I would love to receive your suggestions, tips, ideas, experience, even your criticism if it could be construed as constructive... (I'm smiling.)
Monday, September 19, 2011
Homeless
Here are my thoughts about a homeless woman I’ve befriended…
Lee
I saw you often on the street
Pushing your cart. I noticed your feet.
Dirty… in flip flops, I noticed your feet.
Clothes were not ragged, but fancy and filmy,
Long ruffled skirts, hanging way low,
But not long enough, for still they would show
Those thick, dirty flip flops and crusty brown feet.
Waist length gray hair. In days long ago
It prob’ly was pretty. How do I know?
Now it just hangs there, not curly, not straight,
In no current fashion, just all out of date…
Seems to me it’d be hot when the sun’s pouring down,
Or cold and all sticky when it rains on your crown.
That long, dirty hair, hanging, tied with a bow.
Pushing your cart; it’s always piled high.
When not being pushed, it’s waiting nearby.
All your life is in there; boxes, bags, and a coat.
Do you fear losing all to some druggie cut-throat?
Do you sleep by that cart? Where do you sleep?
Ever lean on that cart, exhausted, and weep?
I’ve seen you push your cart.. I’ve never seen you cry.
One day you were sitting on the curb in the shade,
Your cart nearby… Now, could I persuade
You to tell me your name, if I told you mine?
“Lee,” you said softly, your mouth a straight line,
Looking down at your feet. “So, Lee, How can I pray for you?”
“However you pray… Whoever you pray to…
I need Hope,” you said. So that’s what I prayed.
Jesus offers you hope. He doesn’t mind
Those crusty brown feet. He always is kind.
That dirty gray hair, the cart full of stuff…
He sees beyond that, through the attitude tough…
“Dear Jesus,” I’m praying, “give hope to this Lee…
The same measure of hope You have given to me.
It’s You, Yourself, Lord, that Lee needs to find.”
Norma Jean Thomas
2008
Thursday, September 15, 2011
The Cost of Things...
My husband, Jack, is a Cabinet Maker, or Woodworker, or Carpenter. Call it what you will, he works with wood. He is retired, but has done “side work” from time to time since I have been married to him (about six years). He repairs cabinet doors, drawers, and bread boards for some old apartments in El Cajon. He does the work here at our home, out in his work area in front of the garage.
He has not been doing much of that kind of work for a few years, but just picked up a few items to repair last week. We were talking about those particular apartments as we are thinking how unusual it is for more modern apartments to have built in bread boards.
“How old do you think those apartments are,” I asked him.
“Oh, I’m sure they’re at least fifty years old,” he replied.
“That would mean they were built in the fifties, or sixties, “ I told him.
“They are all two-bedroom units,” he said, “one bathroom, a kitchen, a dining area, a living room, a hall. That’s all. And they rent for I think about eight hundred a month.”
“Typical size rental units for back then,” I said. “But I bet when they were new, they rented for about sixty dollars a month.”
We discussed how “low” rent was when we rented houses and apartments in the sixties in different places. (As it happens, both of us with our former spouses rented on the same street in Spring Valley back in the sixties, even though we didn't know each other.) We agreed that two bedroom units rented for sixty to eighty dollars a month. Some even put down payments on houses and their payments were less than a hundred dollars a month; they were, in fact, about the same as rent.
Food has increased in price, too. Imagine milk in a (ten-quart) “cowtainer” for $2.10. That’s what it was in San Diego in 1969. That’s eighty-four cents a gallon.
When Dave and I moved to Alaska in 1969, we bought gas at a bulk plant in Los Angeles for twenty-one cents a gallon. But even in the highest priced gas stations it was about thirty cents a gallon in those days.
Before we moved to Alaska, our weekly grocery budget was thirty-five dollars. That was generous, too; I didn’t have to be careful or frugal. I bought lots of meat, even really nice steaks and roasts. We dined out (not fast foods because there were very few of them then) usually once or twice a week.
I have to say wages were lower in those days, too. My first job at Goodyear Tire & Rubber in Los Angeles as a Clerk Typist garnered $350 a month. Dave’s high construction wages were $5 an hour. Had he worked all year long (he didn’t) we would have earned $14,620 in combined wages in a year. That was about the price of a house in those days. A new car with all the bells and whistles could be had for four or five thousand dollars, unless you bought a Cadillac. That would be maybe six or seven thousand. Of course any of those cars would only get about seven miles to a gallon of gas, but who cares if gas is less than thirty cents a gallon? You can fill the tank for six or seven dollars.
In the big cities it was easy to get a job. Besides at Goodyear, I worked in a lock factory assembling doorknobs, at American Honda Motor Company as a secretary, at HITCO (a fiberglass company) in research and development in the first five years I was married to Dave Goins. It seemed to me anyone who really wanted to work could find a job. I don’t think I knew anyone who couldn’t find a job if they wanted to work.
It’s a different world today, isn’t it?
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Old Friends...A Story
Yesterday we were guests at a party. It was the Golden Wedding Anniversary Party of my very best long-time friend, Jean. She and I have the same middle name and have been friends since 1964. Jean is a first cousin of my first husband, Dave. Jean's husband, Bobby, was best friends with Dave from childhood.
This is the story of Dave and Bobby's friendship.
They met when they were kids. Both families had moved from the South to California in the early 1940's. I think they first met in Riverside, California where they worked (the whole families) in the orchards and fields, harvesting the crops. They attended the same church. During the War (WWII) they moved to the San Diego area where Bobby's dad worked in the aircraft industry and Dave's dad, who was blind, became a buyer and seller of used cars. He could listen to a car running and tell what was wrong with it.
At age twelve, Bobby and Dave spent a lot of time together riding their bikes all over the San Diego area and East County. They would pick up cigarette "ducks" on the sidewalk and smoke them. (They both became addicted. Fortunately, Bobby quit in his thirties, but Dave continued to smoke throughout his life.)
In 1949 when they were fourteen, they had a nearly fatal adventure that they both remembered and talked about the rest of their lives. It started when Bobby found a five by forty-five-foot plywood canoe that had been abandoned, washed up on a beach at the San Diego Bay. Bobby drug it home and stole some tar from a nearby house that was being re-roofed. He heated up the tar and poured it into all the holes he could see around the rim. He made it water proof enough to row on a calm lake. The trouble was that there was no calm lake nearby to row around on.
On a nice Sunday morning in October, Bobby and Dave took off right after church and put the canoe on top of a little wagon, and pulled it out to the Bay. Their plan was to row it across the Bay at about 32nd Street. Bear in mind this was in 1949 long before all the streets and buildings were in the area.
They pushed off the canoe into the water and began to row. When they got out in the middle, they found themselves in deep trouble. The waves coming in kept breaking over the shallow sides of the canoe. Soon they were swamped and would have sunk had they stayed in the boat. They got out and began to swim along side the boat which would stay just barely under the surface as long as only one boy was holding to it. The waves kept breaking on them and if both held to the boat it would go down deeper. So they took turns "resting" and holding to the boat, one boy swimming, the other resting, back and forth.
They struggled for several hours before anyone saw them. Even though it's not normally cold in October in San Diego, the sea water was mighty cold. They soon were so exhausted with their struggle that they were thinking they were not going to survive. Bobby told Dave, "I never have prayed before, but I'm praying now..." And Dave replied, "Me, too."
After they had been in the water about three hours or so, a couple of sailors came out on the pier and noticed them. The sailors were about two to three blocks distance from the boys, but could see they were in trouble. They started trying to flag boats to go and help them, but with no cell phones or megaphones or other means of communication that we take for granted in this day, it was about two and a half more hours until the sailors finally got the word to the Navy Fire Boat, which came out to rescue them.
By then, Bobby told me, he had swallowed so much salt water he was vomiting. When they were taken onto the Navy boat, they were so weak and exhausted and cold, they couldn't walk. The crew had to pull them up and wrap them up.
The sailors transported them to the nearby Naval facility on 32nd Street and put them on cots, wrapped them in warm blankets, offered them hot, black coffee. Bobby was astonished that Dave asked for sugar and cream. Bobby was just glad to be alive and have something hot to drink. Neither of them realized Dave's troubles were not yet finished.
Parents were called.
Bobby's parents came for him and thanked God that he hadn't drowned.
Dave's parents came for him and took him home and gave him a whuppin'.
Now, I believe in spanking, though not necessarily in every situation. I think age fourteen is quite a bit past the age when spanking is appropriate. I feel bad for Dave in that situation, though, because I feel the experience in the water had already "spanked" him. I suppose Dave's parents were not sure their hard-headed son had learned his lesson about how big, cold, and unforgiving the ocean can be. When I first heard this story, I confess I judged Dave's parents harshly for their decision on that particular discipline. That was before I found myself raising Dave's (and my) hard-headed son, though. In raising Jon, I learned that boys can be so hard-headed that they sometimes don't learn lessons just from a bad experience.
What do you think?
This is the story of Dave and Bobby's friendship.
They met when they were kids. Both families had moved from the South to California in the early 1940's. I think they first met in Riverside, California where they worked (the whole families) in the orchards and fields, harvesting the crops. They attended the same church. During the War (WWII) they moved to the San Diego area where Bobby's dad worked in the aircraft industry and Dave's dad, who was blind, became a buyer and seller of used cars. He could listen to a car running and tell what was wrong with it.
At age twelve, Bobby and Dave spent a lot of time together riding their bikes all over the San Diego area and East County. They would pick up cigarette "ducks" on the sidewalk and smoke them. (They both became addicted. Fortunately, Bobby quit in his thirties, but Dave continued to smoke throughout his life.)
In 1949 when they were fourteen, they had a nearly fatal adventure that they both remembered and talked about the rest of their lives. It started when Bobby found a five by forty-five-foot plywood canoe that had been abandoned, washed up on a beach at the San Diego Bay. Bobby drug it home and stole some tar from a nearby house that was being re-roofed. He heated up the tar and poured it into all the holes he could see around the rim. He made it water proof enough to row on a calm lake. The trouble was that there was no calm lake nearby to row around on.
On a nice Sunday morning in October, Bobby and Dave took off right after church and put the canoe on top of a little wagon, and pulled it out to the Bay. Their plan was to row it across the Bay at about 32nd Street. Bear in mind this was in 1949 long before all the streets and buildings were in the area.
They pushed off the canoe into the water and began to row. When they got out in the middle, they found themselves in deep trouble. The waves coming in kept breaking over the shallow sides of the canoe. Soon they were swamped and would have sunk had they stayed in the boat. They got out and began to swim along side the boat which would stay just barely under the surface as long as only one boy was holding to it. The waves kept breaking on them and if both held to the boat it would go down deeper. So they took turns "resting" and holding to the boat, one boy swimming, the other resting, back and forth.
They struggled for several hours before anyone saw them. Even though it's not normally cold in October in San Diego, the sea water was mighty cold. They soon were so exhausted with their struggle that they were thinking they were not going to survive. Bobby told Dave, "I never have prayed before, but I'm praying now..." And Dave replied, "Me, too."
After they had been in the water about three hours or so, a couple of sailors came out on the pier and noticed them. The sailors were about two to three blocks distance from the boys, but could see they were in trouble. They started trying to flag boats to go and help them, but with no cell phones or megaphones or other means of communication that we take for granted in this day, it was about two and a half more hours until the sailors finally got the word to the Navy Fire Boat, which came out to rescue them.
By then, Bobby told me, he had swallowed so much salt water he was vomiting. When they were taken onto the Navy boat, they were so weak and exhausted and cold, they couldn't walk. The crew had to pull them up and wrap them up.
The sailors transported them to the nearby Naval facility on 32nd Street and put them on cots, wrapped them in warm blankets, offered them hot, black coffee. Bobby was astonished that Dave asked for sugar and cream. Bobby was just glad to be alive and have something hot to drink. Neither of them realized Dave's troubles were not yet finished.
Parents were called.
Bobby's parents came for him and thanked God that he hadn't drowned.
Dave's parents came for him and took him home and gave him a whuppin'.
Now, I believe in spanking, though not necessarily in every situation. I think age fourteen is quite a bit past the age when spanking is appropriate. I feel bad for Dave in that situation, though, because I feel the experience in the water had already "spanked" him. I suppose Dave's parents were not sure their hard-headed son had learned his lesson about how big, cold, and unforgiving the ocean can be. When I first heard this story, I confess I judged Dave's parents harshly for their decision on that particular discipline. That was before I found myself raising Dave's (and my) hard-headed son, though. In raising Jon, I learned that boys can be so hard-headed that they sometimes don't learn lessons just from a bad experience.
What do you think?
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Book Burning in Bakersfield... a Story
Remember Dick and Jane, Spot and Puff?
They were the chief characters in my first grade reading books in Pine Bluff, Arkansas when I was six years old. Instead of learning phonics, I learned to read by recognizing the whole word at once.
"See Spot run..."
"Jane will not play..."
"Where is Dick?"
"This is Puff. She is a kitten..."
By the time I was in fourth grade, I was devouring whole books. I would get lost in them. I often got in trouble because I didn't quickly respond to Mama's summons to come to dinner, so lost was I in a story.
I began to collect books at an early age. This activity was somewhat curtailed in my childhood since we moved so much, but since in moving I didn't have to be responsible for the whole household's boxes, I was able to keep track of my own books and other treasures without giving up any of them.
Not so after I married Dave. We moved several times before we made the monumental move to Alaska, but during those five years I bought a number of books. I was a member of a book club, and therefore added regularly to my collection. Dave learned early on that while books are not heavy individually, a whole box of them can nearly break your back. He complained loudly, but I ignored him. It never occurred to me to reduce the number of books somehow... Some of them I felt I could not bear to part with; they were like old friends. Some of them I had not read, but intended to some day. Some of them, like the dictionaries, a person would probably never read the whole thing through, but certainly would like to look up a word from time to time. I just let Dave grumble.
After we moved to Alaska in 1969, Rachel grew from a babe-in-arms to a curious toddler. Then we returned to San Diego for about a year, hauling a covered trailer with our basic belongings, like clothes, dishes, tools, sewing machine in cabinet, pictures, and, of course, books. Lots of books. Heavy books.
Then after a few months of no work in San Diego, Dave decided he could surely get a North Slope job, so we moved back to Alaska again. That time he bought a big truck and packed... yes, you guessed it, our furniture, plus our basic belongings, like clothes, dishes, tools, sewing machine in cabinet, pictures, and, of course, books. Lots of books. Heavy books.
By then Rachel was talking ninety miles a minute. She loved being read to. I started collecting Dr. Seuss books, from ABC to Green Eggs and Ham. I read them to her all the time, and she adored them. After a few times of hearing the same ones over and over, she could quote them verbatim. So I was always buying more and more of them, plus other chlidren's books. I bought them at bookstores. I bought them at thrift stores. I bought them at garage sales. Our collection of books was probably doubled or tripled by the time the Cat In the Hat came to our house.
After Jon was born in 1975, we moved back down to the Lower Forty-Eight, so we could be near my parents while Dave worked on the North Slope. The children and I flew down after Dave had bought a forty-acre farm near Bakersfield. Dave hauled all our stuff in a big truck he bought at an auction. He brought all those books along with everything else, complaining all the way. He didn't complain about clothes or shoes or dishes or tools. All those things he considered useful. He just did not see the value in having a whole library of books, when he was not really into reading, but he was the one who had to pack them and lift the heavy boxes, and figure out where to put them after hauling them forty-four-hundred miles several times.
We stayed in Bakersfield only a few months. My parents briefly enjoyed their grandchildren until Jon was ten months old and Rachel finished the first grade. Dave worked on the North Slope, on the Pipeline, during those ten months. He finally decided it was not worth it to be gone from family so far away and so long at a time. He quit the high paying job on the North Slope and returned to Anchorage, to three side-by-side vacant lots we had bought during our previous years in Alaska. We had stored a couple of eight by forty trailers there as well as an old camp trailer. He lived in the camp trailer while he set up one of the bigger trailers with water and septic tank, and then started building a house on one of the lots. He lived on one meal a day (at McDonald's) for a couple of months until he had the trailer (sort of) ready for the family to live in it.
In June, 1976, I flew back to Anchorage, bringing Rachel who had just finished first grade, and Jon, ten months old. Dave settled us in the eight-by-forty trailer and finished building the house during the fall and winter. In the spring of 1977, we moved into the house with hardly any furniture, except the necessary things which we bought at an auction in Anchorage.
Dave returned to Bakersfield, rented out the farm, and with that big truck and brought our stuff back up the Alcan, forty-four hundred miles.When we unpacked the truck, I could not find our books.
When I asked Dave where were the books, he half turned away, shrugging his shoulders.
"Didn't you pack them?" I asked. I couldn't imagine that we had zero books. There should have been at least six or eight boxes of them.
"No."
"What?!" I just knew he was kidding.
"I burned them," he said, again facing me squarely. "I was tired of hauling all those books up and down the west coast. I tried to sell them with the furniture and stuff, but nobody wanted them. So I burned them."
I was devastated. I wondered why he didn't give them to a thrift store or something.
He said in order to do that he would have had to pack them, in which case he might as well have put them in the truck and brought them to Alaska. "We're gonna live right here from now on, and I'm not hauling books anywhere else if we move."
So that was that.
I began collecting again, though. I ended up with a huge collection of Dr. Seuss books by the time Jon was old enough to enjoy them. All my children could quote a lot of those books...
They were the chief characters in my first grade reading books in Pine Bluff, Arkansas when I was six years old. Instead of learning phonics, I learned to read by recognizing the whole word at once.
"See Spot run..."
"Jane will not play..."
"Where is Dick?"
"This is Puff. She is a kitten..."
By the time I was in fourth grade, I was devouring whole books. I would get lost in them. I often got in trouble because I didn't quickly respond to Mama's summons to come to dinner, so lost was I in a story.
I began to collect books at an early age. This activity was somewhat curtailed in my childhood since we moved so much, but since in moving I didn't have to be responsible for the whole household's boxes, I was able to keep track of my own books and other treasures without giving up any of them.
Not so after I married Dave. We moved several times before we made the monumental move to Alaska, but during those five years I bought a number of books. I was a member of a book club, and therefore added regularly to my collection. Dave learned early on that while books are not heavy individually, a whole box of them can nearly break your back. He complained loudly, but I ignored him. It never occurred to me to reduce the number of books somehow... Some of them I felt I could not bear to part with; they were like old friends. Some of them I had not read, but intended to some day. Some of them, like the dictionaries, a person would probably never read the whole thing through, but certainly would like to look up a word from time to time. I just let Dave grumble.
After we moved to Alaska in 1969, Rachel grew from a babe-in-arms to a curious toddler. Then we returned to San Diego for about a year, hauling a covered trailer with our basic belongings, like clothes, dishes, tools, sewing machine in cabinet, pictures, and, of course, books. Lots of books. Heavy books.
Then after a few months of no work in San Diego, Dave decided he could surely get a North Slope job, so we moved back to Alaska again. That time he bought a big truck and packed... yes, you guessed it, our furniture, plus our basic belongings, like clothes, dishes, tools, sewing machine in cabinet, pictures, and, of course, books. Lots of books. Heavy books.
By then Rachel was talking ninety miles a minute. She loved being read to. I started collecting Dr. Seuss books, from ABC to Green Eggs and Ham. I read them to her all the time, and she adored them. After a few times of hearing the same ones over and over, she could quote them verbatim. So I was always buying more and more of them, plus other chlidren's books. I bought them at bookstores. I bought them at thrift stores. I bought them at garage sales. Our collection of books was probably doubled or tripled by the time the Cat In the Hat came to our house.
After Jon was born in 1975, we moved back down to the Lower Forty-Eight, so we could be near my parents while Dave worked on the North Slope. The children and I flew down after Dave had bought a forty-acre farm near Bakersfield. Dave hauled all our stuff in a big truck he bought at an auction. He brought all those books along with everything else, complaining all the way. He didn't complain about clothes or shoes or dishes or tools. All those things he considered useful. He just did not see the value in having a whole library of books, when he was not really into reading, but he was the one who had to pack them and lift the heavy boxes, and figure out where to put them after hauling them forty-four-hundred miles several times.
We stayed in Bakersfield only a few months. My parents briefly enjoyed their grandchildren until Jon was ten months old and Rachel finished the first grade. Dave worked on the North Slope, on the Pipeline, during those ten months. He finally decided it was not worth it to be gone from family so far away and so long at a time. He quit the high paying job on the North Slope and returned to Anchorage, to three side-by-side vacant lots we had bought during our previous years in Alaska. We had stored a couple of eight by forty trailers there as well as an old camp trailer. He lived in the camp trailer while he set up one of the bigger trailers with water and septic tank, and then started building a house on one of the lots. He lived on one meal a day (at McDonald's) for a couple of months until he had the trailer (sort of) ready for the family to live in it.
In June, 1976, I flew back to Anchorage, bringing Rachel who had just finished first grade, and Jon, ten months old. Dave settled us in the eight-by-forty trailer and finished building the house during the fall and winter. In the spring of 1977, we moved into the house with hardly any furniture, except the necessary things which we bought at an auction in Anchorage.
Dave returned to Bakersfield, rented out the farm, and with that big truck and brought our stuff back up the Alcan, forty-four hundred miles.When we unpacked the truck, I could not find our books.
When I asked Dave where were the books, he half turned away, shrugging his shoulders.
"Didn't you pack them?" I asked. I couldn't imagine that we had zero books. There should have been at least six or eight boxes of them.
"No."
"What?!" I just knew he was kidding.
"I burned them," he said, again facing me squarely. "I was tired of hauling all those books up and down the west coast. I tried to sell them with the furniture and stuff, but nobody wanted them. So I burned them."
I was devastated. I wondered why he didn't give them to a thrift store or something.
He said in order to do that he would have had to pack them, in which case he might as well have put them in the truck and brought them to Alaska. "We're gonna live right here from now on, and I'm not hauling books anywhere else if we move."
So that was that.
I began collecting again, though. I ended up with a huge collection of Dr. Seuss books by the time Jon was old enough to enjoy them. All my children could quote a lot of those books...
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Never Forget
These days I often forget what I'm doing right in the middle of doing it. If there is something I need to remember, I must put a visual reminder. Sometimes, even with the reminder, I stare at it and think, "Now why did I put this here?"
Growing up, I used to hear grown-ups talk about where they were on Pearl Harbor Day. My parents knew all about the hardships and sorrows of world war. They experienced the Great Depression of the 1930's firsthand. Mama used to talk about how certain items were rationed "during the war" such as sugar and other commodities. Most people I knew were very patriotic and glad to sacrifice for the American Cause.
Since I was born about six months before the end of World War II, I don't remember any of that, except for the black and white movies I saw about the Depression or the War. It was totally normal to me to love my country and be honored to stand and salute Old Glory. It was not joked about nor was disrespect tolerated.
After I grew up, being just a little older than the Hippie Generation of the '70's, I was astonished at the attitudes of disrespect for our great country that "cropped up." When President John F. Kennedy was shot in Dallas, Texas, I mourned for a long time. Everyone I knew could tell you exactly what they were doing when the news of his assassination came on television.
We are about to arrive at the ten year anniversary of the saddest event in recent American history... Nine One One. Like the assassination of the President, it was an event most every American adult could tell you where they were and what they thought when they first became aware of it. With all the media available to all of us that day, countless millions of Americans witnessed those horrific plane crashes that forever changed the way we travel in this country.
I was at work at the landscape company in my little office, when a co-worker, his cell phone to his ear, said, "The World Trade Center has been bombed..." In a nearby room there was a television set normally used for training classes. As I passed that room, I noticed the set was on and showing a huge plume of smoke coming from one of the twin towers at the World Trade Center. Just like the time when Kennedy was shot, there was nothing else on television with any significant number of viewers, for days, probably weeks.
My daughter, Beth, had been looking for a job around that time. She had applied for and been hired at the San Diego Airport. That was to have been her first day of training. She had arrived early, and was sitting in her car in the parking lot waiting to go inside. She was listening to music from a CD player in the car, not the radio. Foot traffic was flowing around her normally, not particularly heavy. Suddenly, a huge crowd of people poured out of the terminal building, and spilled into all the parking lot. At first she thought it must have been some big flight had arrived and all the people were leaving, but it was a far greater crowd than that would have generated. They just kept coming and kept coming. When she did get inside the terminal and reported to the proper place for her orientation, she found out what had happened and that the airport was being evacuated.
Beth's job never did materialize. Air travel has never been the same since that day. America has never been the same since that day. Most everyone remembers where he or she was that day when they heard the news. Some say they will never forget...
I may forget. That's one reason I'm writing this all down. I want my grandchildren to know about that point in history from my perspective. Even if I'm around for quite a while to tell them about it, I'm finding that these days sometimes my Rememberer is broken while my Forgetter is getting better. (I'm smiling.)
There is one historical event I never want to forget. It is the most important event that ever happened in human history. It happened when God Almighty, the Creator of the universe became a human (on purpose!) and walked among us. Particularly, it happened when He laid down His life for His friends. He gave up His life so His friends (you and I) could live in eternity with Him. The death of Jesus Christ on the cross is the pivotal event in history (His Story).
The world today is a different world for my grandchildren than it was for me. It's more complicated, it seems. There is more hatred and violence and ... well, SIN than ever before. Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just seeing more from my perspective of a Grannie. The bottom line is this: Christ died for the ungodly. There will never be so much ungodliness that His bloody death will not be enough to redeem us from. He paid for our sins. If we accept that, we're His. Forever.
Oh, yes! I like it. I tell you, I really like it.
Growing up, I used to hear grown-ups talk about where they were on Pearl Harbor Day. My parents knew all about the hardships and sorrows of world war. They experienced the Great Depression of the 1930's firsthand. Mama used to talk about how certain items were rationed "during the war" such as sugar and other commodities. Most people I knew were very patriotic and glad to sacrifice for the American Cause.
Since I was born about six months before the end of World War II, I don't remember any of that, except for the black and white movies I saw about the Depression or the War. It was totally normal to me to love my country and be honored to stand and salute Old Glory. It was not joked about nor was disrespect tolerated.
After I grew up, being just a little older than the Hippie Generation of the '70's, I was astonished at the attitudes of disrespect for our great country that "cropped up." When President John F. Kennedy was shot in Dallas, Texas, I mourned for a long time. Everyone I knew could tell you exactly what they were doing when the news of his assassination came on television.
We are about to arrive at the ten year anniversary of the saddest event in recent American history... Nine One One. Like the assassination of the President, it was an event most every American adult could tell you where they were and what they thought when they first became aware of it. With all the media available to all of us that day, countless millions of Americans witnessed those horrific plane crashes that forever changed the way we travel in this country.
I was at work at the landscape company in my little office, when a co-worker, his cell phone to his ear, said, "The World Trade Center has been bombed..." In a nearby room there was a television set normally used for training classes. As I passed that room, I noticed the set was on and showing a huge plume of smoke coming from one of the twin towers at the World Trade Center. Just like the time when Kennedy was shot, there was nothing else on television with any significant number of viewers, for days, probably weeks.
My daughter, Beth, had been looking for a job around that time. She had applied for and been hired at the San Diego Airport. That was to have been her first day of training. She had arrived early, and was sitting in her car in the parking lot waiting to go inside. She was listening to music from a CD player in the car, not the radio. Foot traffic was flowing around her normally, not particularly heavy. Suddenly, a huge crowd of people poured out of the terminal building, and spilled into all the parking lot. At first she thought it must have been some big flight had arrived and all the people were leaving, but it was a far greater crowd than that would have generated. They just kept coming and kept coming. When she did get inside the terminal and reported to the proper place for her orientation, she found out what had happened and that the airport was being evacuated.
Beth's job never did materialize. Air travel has never been the same since that day. America has never been the same since that day. Most everyone remembers where he or she was that day when they heard the news. Some say they will never forget...
I may forget. That's one reason I'm writing this all down. I want my grandchildren to know about that point in history from my perspective. Even if I'm around for quite a while to tell them about it, I'm finding that these days sometimes my Rememberer is broken while my Forgetter is getting better. (I'm smiling.)
There is one historical event I never want to forget. It is the most important event that ever happened in human history. It happened when God Almighty, the Creator of the universe became a human (on purpose!) and walked among us. Particularly, it happened when He laid down His life for His friends. He gave up His life so His friends (you and I) could live in eternity with Him. The death of Jesus Christ on the cross is the pivotal event in history (His Story).
The world today is a different world for my grandchildren than it was for me. It's more complicated, it seems. There is more hatred and violence and ... well, SIN than ever before. Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just seeing more from my perspective of a Grannie. The bottom line is this: Christ died for the ungodly. There will never be so much ungodliness that His bloody death will not be enough to redeem us from. He paid for our sins. If we accept that, we're His. Forever.
Oh, yes! I like it. I tell you, I really like it.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
To Have... To Do... To Be...
I have a new great grandson, Raiden Alexander Young. He was born this past week to my granddaughter, Stacey, in Las Vegas. I haven’t had many opportunities to be around Stacey since she’s grown up. But I remember when she was born. I was there.
Stacey was Rachel’s second-born. She was born in Anchorage, and since I had not been with Rachel when her first-born (Ezekiel, aka Zeke) was born, I made sure I got to the birthing center and was allowed to go into the delivery room. It was the first time I had ever watched a baby be born, except in the mirror when my children were born, or on a video in child-birth classes.
There is something awesome about the birth of a human being, especially when he or she is kin to you. God puts this special awe in us as we see this little new person, all wet and upset, come forth into this tough world in which we live. We want to look at that baby, examine carefully to see if all the necessary parts are present and in working order. Who does she look like? Does he have a lot of hair, or is she bald? Is he strong and kicking? Or just mildly upset about the long-lasting short jouney she's just taken from the inside world to the outside world?
When Stacey was born, after we oo'd and ah'd for awhile, while Rachel and Dale examined her and found out she was a girl (in those days most people didn't find out that information until the child was born, as ultrasounds were uncommon), they cut the cord and took her over to the incubator to dry, while her parents spent a few comforting moments holding hands and the medical people finished their job. I (Grannie) got to watch over the new baby at the incubator. As the warm air circulated gently around her head, the hair that had looked brown or tan while still wet, began to glow and lighten until it was ... well, "orange" is the only word I could think of.
I turned around, and said loudly enough to get Rachel's and Dale's attention, "This baby has orange hair!"
Now that Stacey is a woman (with an orange-haired son), I've learned that the proper label for her hair color is strawberry blonde. She is a person who has grown up to completely refute all those "blonde" jokes we used to hear. From a young age she has been for the most part, smart, capable, organized and energized. (Of course, you're hearing that from her Grannie, and you know how that goes... I'm smiling.)
I've been thinking about children and grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren this week. If being a Grannie means I'm getting older, does being a great-Grannie mean I'm really over the hill? I've already told you in these stories that I'm forgetful. I'm having many more of those senior moments than I used to. But these days I'm having a lot of memories as I write these pages. Looking at the overall memories, I believe they outweigh the things I've forgotten.
For instance, memories of my childhood reflect the physical objects that were important to me in that stage of life.
- I had a few toys (not as many, I'm sure, as Raiden Alexander Young will have), but I "breathed life" into my dolls, even my paper dolls.
- I watched (and helped) my big brother build little roads through the grass and joyfully helped him putt-putt-putt his little metal trucks along those tiny hand-made streets.
- In the house on Barraque Street in Pine Bluff, I naughtily retrieved white powders (probably salt, baking powder, maybe flour) from way up on the kitchen shelf, and "cooked" at the kitchen table while I was supposed to be taking my nap until Mama returned from work.
- I had strap-on roller skates on which I skated up and down the block on our sidewalk in Pine Bluff. That was great fun, even with the falls, or the skinned knees and toes.
- Jim and I had bicycles which we rode around. I stayed close to home, but Jim wandered all the way to the store sometimes. Maybe farther.
- I played "Hermia" in the Shakespeare play, "A Midsummer Night's Dream."
- I went to youth camp far away from home and parents.
- I went to Bible Training Camp in Fresno for a month.
- As a high school senior, I visited our nation's capital for a week.
- I went far away from home and parents. I got a job, became a Clerk Typist.
- I married, became a wife,
- and then a mother...
- and eventually I became a widow.
- Later I became a caregiver for my mother. When she could no longer safely stay in my home, I put her in a nursing home.
- There I became her constant visitor, and in wheeling her down to the "church service" in the home, I met Jack, one of the ministers at the nursing home.
- Eventually I became his wife.
- By marrying Jack, I became a step-mother to his six children and their spouses, step grandmother to their children, step great-grandmother to their grandchildren.
In looking at this, it appears we define ourselves in three ways as time progresses:
- As children, our lives and activities are centered around our toys, our play, our learning tools... (what we have).
- As teenagers, we begin to focus on our peers and social activities... (what we do.)
- As adults, hopefully, we finally come to know who we are...
Since I am God's Child, I'll be Home with Him.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Bragging Rights... a Very Short Story
In the summer of 1975, we lived in Anchorage, Alaska. Rachel turned six that summer, and Jon was born in August. Rachel was a precocious little girl. "Spending the night" with a friend, or having one or more overnight at our house was the ultimate fun thing for her. There were several little girls about Rachel's age whose families attended our little church. Sometimes we had sleep-overs involving all of them at once, and sometimes we moms could only handle two little girls at a time.
I remember once when I was babysitting for one of the moms who had an only daughter. She, too, was precocious. I think she was the only one of all Rachel's little friends who could out-talk Rachel. My sewing room in that house opened directly off the living room where the girls were playing that day. I listened vaguely to their chatter, while trying to concentrate on my task at hand. I didn't check on them as long as the chatter remained at an even level with no raised voices or tones of disagreement.
They did well with each other for quite a while. Then, in describing something they were imagining, they began to disagree on exactly how it should be. A mild argument began and slightly raised voices caught my attention.
Here's where my memory has holes in it. I will just repeat the parts of the conversation that I remember:
Rachel: It's supposed to be right here...blah blah blah...
Stephanie: Nuh-uh! It should be over here... This way... blah blah blah...
Rachel: No. It needs to be taller. Blah blah blah. It has to be this way...
"Nuh-uh!" Stephanie's voice was getting higher.
"Uh-huh," Rachel insisted, "this way. Blah blah blah..."
"Nuh-uh!" Stephanie insisted, "This way." (By this time they had my attention, though I hoped they would resolve their points of view and agree without me having to go in there.)
"No, Stephanie," said Rachel, very calmly, as if explaining something to a very young child. "It has to be this way."
"No." Stephanie was equally firm.
"Yes." Rachel was not giving in, not one inch.
"No!"
"Yes!"
Short pause. "Why?" Stephanie's voice had returned to normal.
Rachel seemed pleasantly surprised that Stephanie didn't continue the yes-no argument. She sighed. Then, patiently, as if this would settle the matter: "Because my Dad said blah blah blah..."
Another short pause, and then Stephanie's equally confident voice: "But my Dad said blah blah ..."
Instantly Rachel replied, "No. My Dad said."
Stephanie: "My Dad said."
Rachel: "My Dad said... and he's older than your Dad."
Stephanie paused, seeming to consider which dad was older. Then: "How old is your Dad?"
Rachel, confidently, proudly: "He's thirty-five." In the sewing room I smiled.
Stephanie, instantly: "Well, My Dad is a hundred and fifty thousand, and He knows everything!"
End of argument. Time for me to leave my sewing and go distract those girls with cookies or something they could agree on...
Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could always remember that no matter what our failings and shortcomings, our ignorance, our desires and longings, our Heavenly Father is older, wiser, richer, greater than anyone or anything opposing us?
On the other hand, wouldn't it be even better if we could always remember He loves even those other Selves who might oppose us? And better yet... if we could remember He wants us to bless those other Selves instead of trying to One-Up them?
I remember once when I was babysitting for one of the moms who had an only daughter. She, too, was precocious. I think she was the only one of all Rachel's little friends who could out-talk Rachel. My sewing room in that house opened directly off the living room where the girls were playing that day. I listened vaguely to their chatter, while trying to concentrate on my task at hand. I didn't check on them as long as the chatter remained at an even level with no raised voices or tones of disagreement.
They did well with each other for quite a while. Then, in describing something they were imagining, they began to disagree on exactly how it should be. A mild argument began and slightly raised voices caught my attention.
Here's where my memory has holes in it. I will just repeat the parts of the conversation that I remember:
Rachel: It's supposed to be right here...blah blah blah...
Stephanie: Nuh-uh! It should be over here... This way... blah blah blah...
Rachel: No. It needs to be taller. Blah blah blah. It has to be this way...
"Nuh-uh!" Stephanie's voice was getting higher.
"Uh-huh," Rachel insisted, "this way. Blah blah blah..."
"Nuh-uh!" Stephanie insisted, "This way." (By this time they had my attention, though I hoped they would resolve their points of view and agree without me having to go in there.)
"No, Stephanie," said Rachel, very calmly, as if explaining something to a very young child. "It has to be this way."
"No." Stephanie was equally firm.
"Yes." Rachel was not giving in, not one inch.
"No!"
"Yes!"
Short pause. "Why?" Stephanie's voice had returned to normal.
Rachel seemed pleasantly surprised that Stephanie didn't continue the yes-no argument. She sighed. Then, patiently, as if this would settle the matter: "Because my Dad said blah blah blah..."
Another short pause, and then Stephanie's equally confident voice: "But my Dad said blah blah ..."
Instantly Rachel replied, "No. My Dad said."
Stephanie: "My Dad said."
Rachel: "My Dad said... and he's older than your Dad."
Stephanie paused, seeming to consider which dad was older. Then: "How old is your Dad?"
Rachel, confidently, proudly: "He's thirty-five." In the sewing room I smiled.
Stephanie, instantly: "Well, My Dad is a hundred and fifty thousand, and He knows everything!"
End of argument. Time for me to leave my sewing and go distract those girls with cookies or something they could agree on...
Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could always remember that no matter what our failings and shortcomings, our ignorance, our desires and longings, our Heavenly Father is older, wiser, richer, greater than anyone or anything opposing us?
On the other hand, wouldn't it be even better if we could always remember He loves even those other Selves who might oppose us? And better yet... if we could remember He wants us to bless those other Selves instead of trying to One-Up them?
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Storms... of Weather and of Life
As I am writing this blog, my husband is glued to the television to hear the endless reports of the gigantic Hurricane Irene ripping up the East Coast, spawning tornadoes and torrents, destruction and devastation. I've never been in a hurricane. I hope I never have to see one up close and personal.
As a child I lived in the South where tornadoes happen every year. Our home was in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. I never experienced a tornado there. I remember someone taking us for a ride in the "country" around there after tornadoes had passed through. I saw old houses with tin roofs gone, barns in splinters, and trees uprooted. I was told tornadoes had not hit our town because it sat on a rise of land that seemed to make the tornadoes jump right over us. I was glad for that information; however, it didn't really comfort me during thunder storms when the lightning was striking all around us and the crash of the thunder was horrendous.
Many years later when I lived in Anchorage, Alaska where tornadoes are hardly ever a reality, a tiny twister did indeed twist part of the tin roof off our home and deposit it in someone's yard about a block away. That was scary. Our pastor and other friends arrived the next morning to help Dave cover the hole with tarps and secure it down. It remained like that for several years, until after Dave died and I had another metal roof put in over the hole.
I've been through a couple of dust storms, the first one being covered in this blog. (See Dust Storm...a Story, May). The other one was in the '60's when Dave and I were on a road trip through Arizona. (They must have a lot of them in Arizona. I just saw an aerial image on television of Phoenix, Arizona buried in this rolling cloud of dust.) On our road trip, the traffic was slowed down to a crawl out in the desert where normally people would be traveling over eighty miles per hour. Heavy rain was converting the thick dust into thick mud. For awhile, we were creeping alongside a camp trailer being towed. Thick mud was sliding down the side of it. Our line of traffic was stopped for a few minutes, and our big, heavy car was jumping up and down, so strong was the wind.
The worst storms I've ever experienced, though, have been Storms of Life. I know everyone experiences them. Times of sickness... Pressures from a job or other situation... Concern over a wayward teenager... Or your husband gets put in jail... Or ... dies. Those are the times when you have to force yourself to do each task that comes to hand. You can't think clearly. You can't seem to accomplish anything. You feel you are carrying the whole world on your shoulders, and the weight of it is horrendous.
We need Someone on Whom we can depend when storms come, in Whom we can rest. We need Someone Who is able to take care of any kind of problem that arises, Someone we can totally trust, no matter what. I remember as a child listening to the rain drumming on the roof of our house in Pine Bluff. I liked that sound if I was snuggling under the cover next to Aunt Berl or Mama. I felt so warm and safe. I didn't have nightmares; I knew the problems that might arise would be dealt with by the adults in my life, and I could trust them to take care of me.
I feel the same way about Jesus, right now while I'm old and gray-headed. There are any number of disasters that could befall me these days. I may not yet have gone through all the storms the Lord will allow in my lifetime. I don't know what is coming around the bend in the road. I don't worry about it, though. I know the same Jesus Who walked out across a tossing sea to a tossing boat full of scared, shaky disciples and made everything calm down.
I know that whatever storms come my way, He will give me whatever help I need to cling to Him till He takes me right up to the place He has prepared for me... and "for all those who love His appearing..."
Romans 8:35Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?
As a child I lived in the South where tornadoes happen every year. Our home was in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. I never experienced a tornado there. I remember someone taking us for a ride in the "country" around there after tornadoes had passed through. I saw old houses with tin roofs gone, barns in splinters, and trees uprooted. I was told tornadoes had not hit our town because it sat on a rise of land that seemed to make the tornadoes jump right over us. I was glad for that information; however, it didn't really comfort me during thunder storms when the lightning was striking all around us and the crash of the thunder was horrendous.
Many years later when I lived in Anchorage, Alaska where tornadoes are hardly ever a reality, a tiny twister did indeed twist part of the tin roof off our home and deposit it in someone's yard about a block away. That was scary. Our pastor and other friends arrived the next morning to help Dave cover the hole with tarps and secure it down. It remained like that for several years, until after Dave died and I had another metal roof put in over the hole.
I've been through a couple of dust storms, the first one being covered in this blog. (See Dust Storm...a Story, May). The other one was in the '60's when Dave and I were on a road trip through Arizona. (They must have a lot of them in Arizona. I just saw an aerial image on television of Phoenix, Arizona buried in this rolling cloud of dust.) On our road trip, the traffic was slowed down to a crawl out in the desert where normally people would be traveling over eighty miles per hour. Heavy rain was converting the thick dust into thick mud. For awhile, we were creeping alongside a camp trailer being towed. Thick mud was sliding down the side of it. Our line of traffic was stopped for a few minutes, and our big, heavy car was jumping up and down, so strong was the wind.
The worst storms I've ever experienced, though, have been Storms of Life. I know everyone experiences them. Times of sickness... Pressures from a job or other situation... Concern over a wayward teenager... Or your husband gets put in jail... Or ... dies. Those are the times when you have to force yourself to do each task that comes to hand. You can't think clearly. You can't seem to accomplish anything. You feel you are carrying the whole world on your shoulders, and the weight of it is horrendous.
We need Someone on Whom we can depend when storms come, in Whom we can rest. We need Someone Who is able to take care of any kind of problem that arises, Someone we can totally trust, no matter what. I remember as a child listening to the rain drumming on the roof of our house in Pine Bluff. I liked that sound if I was snuggling under the cover next to Aunt Berl or Mama. I felt so warm and safe. I didn't have nightmares; I knew the problems that might arise would be dealt with by the adults in my life, and I could trust them to take care of me.
I feel the same way about Jesus, right now while I'm old and gray-headed. There are any number of disasters that could befall me these days. I may not yet have gone through all the storms the Lord will allow in my lifetime. I don't know what is coming around the bend in the road. I don't worry about it, though. I know the same Jesus Who walked out across a tossing sea to a tossing boat full of scared, shaky disciples and made everything calm down.
I know that whatever storms come my way, He will give me whatever help I need to cling to Him till He takes me right up to the place He has prepared for me... and "for all those who love His appearing..."
Romans 8:35Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?
36As it is written, For thy sake we are killed all the day long; we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter.
37Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us.
38For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,
39Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
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