Life lines

I don't mean the line that runs across your palm, that favorite of palm-readers the world over. My reference is supposed to be a play on words, a twisting of the utterly inappropriate term "laugh lines." You know, that lighthearted misnomer that some joker created to describe the deep indentations near mouth and eyes that are supposedly caused by too much joviality?

Yeah, right.

Mine are now Life Lines. As in, caused by life. It's been a stressful couple of weeks. I won't burden you, dear reader. But please pray that my family and I will have wisdom and compassion in generous doses.

This painting is a few days old, completed before things became too topsy-turvy. It features a quick rendering of our very own garden-grown, heirloom tomatoes. We've eaten plenty, and will eat more. One must indulge when the indulgence is in season.

Take nothing for granted. Perhaps that will be my new mantra. Can a Christian have a mantra?

Busy, busy

The days fly by during this time of year. There are too many places to be, school- and sport-related tasks for my little dude, garden items to harvest and preserve, a filthy home that begs for attention, a misbehaving cat who may or may not have an intestinal disorder, and the quiet but insistent footfalls of autumn as it nears...

I finished a couple of paintings recently—one a commission of a neighbor's pet kitty, and the other just for me because I liked it (a nuthatch, in case you're not familiar with that type of bird). I made salsa, twice. And froze some tomato sauce. Next on the list? Peeling apples for apple butter, in between layers of paint on an old wooden chest that needs a facelift.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll force myself to get registered on LinkedIn in an attempt to drum up some freelance proofreading. I so prefer the painting and preserving; if only those pastimes paid better. Sigh.

Filtered (and filter) thoughts

Here's something I'm not going to write about: the denial-turned-melancholy in my heart when I walk along our road and see the first leafy hints of autumn, fluttering nonchalantly to the ground, spinning dizzily as they fall.

And the feeling in my stomach when my son climbs on the hulking yellow bus and rides away from me. I'm not going to write about that either, because I don't want to ponder the empty feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with an inadequate breakfast. I choose not to dwell on his fleeting childhood that I am free to witness, but never to slow or delay. The uneasy feeling that time is slipping away from me, and moments are passing more quickly than I can record them—I'm not going to write about that.

Maybe I could write about how I recently canned homemade items from garden produce. That would be a happy post, right? Well, no. Not when I remember how much work and how many tomatoes go into creating a very small assortment of canned goods. Besides, I've already written about it here and here.

Hey, I know! I'll write a letter!

Dear Makers of the Kindle E-Reader:

I am the owner of an older model Kindle Fire. I love it, except for one design flaw—when I'm sitting in reasonably bright light, reading from the Kindle, I have to place the reader in such a position that I see my own, awful, loose-skinned lower neck reflected back at me from the smooth surface of the reader. The sight of that hideous neck skin is so ugly, and so much resembles a turkey wattle, that I am sickened and thus rendered too ill to finish my Kindle activity. I'm guessing that you've already addressed this flaw in newer models of the Kindle Fire, but that doesn't help me as I am unable to part with that much cash again when I have a perfectly good Fire in my hands already. Perhaps you offer some kind of beauty filter? A scrim of sorts to fit over the Kindle surface, something that will soften or alter the appearance of my awful lower neck? I'll hope to hear back from you soon with a solution to this issue.

There, that ought to do it for today. Happy Labor Day weekend!

Sunday evening at Turnbull Lake

The husband and I were hurrying once again. We tried to ignore raindrops spitting on us as we began our belated drive from a family occasion on the opposite side of town. We were likely going to miss the whole thing, I fretted, hadn't got out the door when we'd planned, and we scanned the threatening skies and sped northward. We were forced to stop repeatedly for a plethora of reasons, it seemed. I pondered the wisdom of this decision... Yet we drew closer. Does this number 7 on the map mean that this stretch of the trip is 7 miles long? That can't be right. Shouldn't we be there by now? Is that a splash of rain or a dead bug? And then, familiar faces ahead, silly teenagers that we knew—they were pointing out parking places with excessive drama. Todd maneuvered our big station wagon to the indicated spot (yes, we still drive a station wagon, not an S.U.V.) and turned off the engine.

We leapt out, and I could hear people singing softly; we scurried up a steep backyard slope and saw many human backs standing before us. Small, tall, thick and thin, dark and pale. As unobtrusively as possible, we threaded our way through the many bodies, then landed at a spot near friends. I dropped the quilt I'd been carrying (for sitting on the ground in relative comfort, if we chose), and the kid and I kicked off our shoes. Lyric sheets were shared, and we joined the throng and sent hymns of praise Heavenward. Voices rose together, and we took turns gazing first at a beautiful lake of considerable size, then at the lightening sky.

The moment was approaching, and my son couldn't see; he is only 8, after all, and even shorter than I am. I took his hand and we carefully made our way to one of the picnic tables near the back of the gathering, where a stretch of empty wooden bench offered "high ground" on which my little dude could stand, thus gaining a better view. We watched as a widely varied group of folks began to populate the small beach next to the water. There were statements, explanations, and prayers. Then names were called, and one by one—children, old men, new moms, sheepish teens—each person stepped forward to be reborn. Pastors waited in the water, and the people came to them; some were shy, some confident, a few wiping at their eyes. Of course we applauded each time a soul was renewed. They came up out of that water dripping, and smiles abounded in both the dipped and the watchful. Were you wondering about those gray clouds that had dogged us all the way there? Well, they hovered and teased, but they never wept a single drop.

Afterward there were boat rides, wading, opportunities to feed the lake owners' tame fish, much visiting, and a general hubbub of joy.

From one family event to another, from blood connection to a brotherhood and sisterhood borne of confession and water: How blessed am I to have both.

At last, a new painting

Finally I've finished another painting. (Painting in July and August is just plain difficult. Unless I have time on my hands and, in this current monsoon summer, a covered patio under which to pitch an easel... which I do not.)

My source for this one was a lovely photo taken by the fine folks at North Woods Ranch. It features one of their fuzzy beasts, eying the camera (with suspicion?) on a foggy and somewhat mysterious morning. Every time I look at it, I think of the song "Misty Morning Hop" by Led Zeppelin. Not that the cow looks ready to hop around—especially not to that thumping tune. But the mist, people. The mist.

So. It's for sale in my Etsy shop.

Not much else is happening here. We are sadly marking the days until school begins. We camped out in the yard last night, and let me tell you, there are plenty of creatures stirring around 2:30am. Including me, with a small hill and at least two tree roots under my spine...

Enjoy the weekend; I hope you are able to squeeze in at least one activity that delights you.

Ahh, yesteryear

Every now and then, a ditty from my childhood pops into my mind unbidden. I do not know from whence it comes, but it comes nevertheless. One of my recent inexplicable memories was a child's book that included a song.

Back in the day, we didn't have all this here techno-gimmetry. We had a handful of read-aloud books with little 45-rpm records that fit into a slot in the back cover of the book. I'd get the turntable ready, and clumsily put my record on it, then set the needle in position and hurriedly open my book to read along to the scratchy story. I believe I had a rendition of Bambi, or maybe some other tragic Disney story, but my favorite read-along was Johnny Fedora and Alice Bluebonnet.

Being a clueless child, I didn't realize that the genius of Johnny and Alice's story was found in the liltingly beautiful voices singing the words to the storybook—none other than the fabulously talented Andrews Sisters. Add one corny, touching love story to those gorgeous pipes, and you have a winner.

I told my son about it, and he was curious. I found it on YouTube (of course I did, because if you look hard enough, you can find anything on YouTube). I made him listen to it, which he didn't mind because it turns out that my little storybook was based on a cartoon movie that accompanied the song. Then my husband heard us singing the words; it turns out that he was not familiar with this classic. Can you believe it? Grew up in a cultureless vortex, that one...

So we made him listen and watch, too. He wasn't as entranced as I thought he should have been. Alas. I try to bring meaning and purpose to his life in every way I can. If he refuses to accept my offerings? That is beyond my control.

What's that, reader? Is it possible that you, too, are unfamiliar with this gem of Americana? Well, now, we can't have that.

Go here. Enjoy. And remember a time when even children's entertainment was of a higher class.

Pondering other people's youth...

So, a few years back, my husband and I scanned a ton of old slides for my parents. We watched as each tray-full revealed painfully young, gangly versions of the people I call Mom and Dad. We saw faraway places (my dad did a stint in the Navy during the Korean War), we saw nattily dressed youngsters who turned out to be elderly aunts and uncles and family friends, and we marveled at how America had gotten a lot more big and full of itself in the past twenty or thirty years. It was a sentimental journey because we knew some of the travelers. It was nostalgic. It was mostly fun and light.

More recently, we scanned a bunch of slides for some of my parents' neighbors. They, too, are family friends, but not quite on the same level of familiarity as many of that first bunch of images we handled years ago. To add heft to the occasion, these slides were being scanned for an upcoming sober family occasion, when family was gathering around a very ill, fading member. These films were full of many strangers, at least to me. Over and over, I popped the slim cardboard squares into position, hit some buttons, and waited while the pictures contained therein were magically transformed into digital images. The act was performed quickly, because the task was somewhat urgent, and yet I found myself staring at the pictures that appeared on my computer screen. Children, dressed in past clothing styles, sporting old-fashioned hair cuts; yards and homes now mostly gone, or changed beyond recognition. People in a small town, riding ponies on the street (my goodness, when was the last time you saw that around these parts?) Men working on and posing with their cars, showing off, hamming it up for the camera. Women in swimsuits and pretty dresses, smiling at the viewfinder.

My husband and I scanned slide after slide, marveling at the likely correct assumption that many of the featured faces had departed this earth, that the children we studied in the pictures were now older than we are. We grew quiet and thoughtful. At one point, he turned to me and said, "What do you want out of life? What do you want to accomplish?"

And I lazily replied, "I don't know." I didn't want to think about it, the impermanence of my time here, the fact that we are all just passing through. Even as a believer, even while I consider myself a citizen of Heaven, I still want my time here on this little blue planet to matter. I don't want to end up a 2-D image so removed from this moment that it seems fictional. What do I want to do? To be? To accomplish?

I still don't know. I should probably say that I want to lead others to our Creator, and I do. Is that enough? Does any of it really matter? We're just blips on a radar, really. Dust. Not to God, but to this world. It's a sobering thought, yet also refreshing in the same way that realizing no one is watching my show was liberating. We're all going to be pictures on a screen someday, and likely not the Big Screen that many in this media-saturated culture are shooting for.

Let's just live, and be kind, and give our best, and bite back the things that maim others. Ours is but a fleeting moment on Earth, after all. A snapshot, if you will.