Interlude

The Sound of Silence

I've been silent for 3 months because of the tragic death of a stellar young man and friend in our community.  I couldn't bring myself to prattle superficially when words of profound comfort were needed.  I also couldn't bring myself to write about the loss because it's not my pain to own.  Mine is a stubbed toe compared to the avalanche of pain that has buried his family.  I pray for them to reach a little closer to the surface every day.

I'm Back

If you read my previous blog you may be wondering if my back is better.  Healed?  No.  Functioning at a reduced capacity?  Yes.  I've returned to teaching 2 dance cardio classes a week and lifting 50 lb feed bags (though verrrry cautiously).  I don't have constant pain, but I'm reminded of my injury every day with twinges and tightness. 

I'm reminded daily to find my satisfaction in God because I can't just do what I want when I want. 

Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love,
that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
for as many years as we have seen trouble.  Psalm 90:14-15

Desperado

Ouch

I blame my pastor.  Is that the opposite of saying, "The devil made me do it?"  Okay, let me back up. 

I woke up Sunday morning with a bit of a sore back, but nothing out of the ordinary for this quickly deteriorating body.  However, after church I made a poor decision to dig out compost from the great pile 'o' poop in the goat pen Sunday afternoon.  I came in very sore and suddenly unable to put my pants on.  It was exacerbated throughout the day until I was a complete invalid, shrieking in pain at any movement that involved my spine.  I have never experienced pain like this.  Even the most basic of human needs, using the bathroom, became a journey of exquisite torture. 

After 48 hours on my back in bed I was incrementally better - well enough to sit up on the couch.  However, the littlest of movements still caused sharp pain, so not only did Bill have to help me with my activities of daily living (medical jargon for feeding, clothing and bathing oneself), but he also had to pick up all my chores.  These included caring for goats, chickens and cat and all the tender plants we had just planted, plus picking ripening fruit.  And don't forget my daily chore of nagging the son.  I would've needed a megaphone to do that from my bed. 

Since I have been unable to bend down for anything, I actually have gotten quite dexterous at using my toes.  These are my newly acquired pedally-motored skills: sorting laundry, picking up clothes off the floor, petting the cat, pulling out the dishwasher rack, pulling weeds, and even texting! 

So, back to my initial statement.  I blame my pastor because of the sermon he gave that morning.  It was innocently enough titled, "The Filling of the Holy Spirit 2."  (I missed Holy Spirit 1 so I couldn't tell you what it was about, but if it was directed by J.J. Abrams I'm sure it was a blockbuster.)  The premise was that receiving the Holy Spirit at the point of salvation was not the same as being filled with the Spirit.  Then he gave the steps to being filled:
1. Repent in regard to Jesus (if you haven't already).
2. Repent in regard to sin: renounce your sin and indulgences. Turn away from them.
3. Be obedient - marked by surrender.
4. Desire more.  We must be unsatisfied before God will satisfy us, and here's the kicker - we must be desperate before God can fill us. 

It's that word, "desperate," I blame him for.  I've never felt more desperate than I have lying on my back, totally helpless to even roll over without excruciating pain.  Desperate to make the pain go away. Desperate to get up and take a hot shower.  Desperate to take care of myself.  Desperate to walk outside. Desperate to have my body functioning at the normal frantic pace I keep.  Desperate to do what I want to do.  That's the point, isn't it?  Sometimes God needs to yank the rug out from under us to drag our attention away from ourselves.  And I landed flat on my back. 

One of my biggest frustrations with injuries is having to stop my usual exercise.  Not only do I hate to have my muscles atrophy, but I was also teaching two dance cardio classes a week and about to start a third.  I have to admit that I obsess about my body in an unhealthy way.  I read these verses this morning:

"Have nothing to do with godless myths and old wives' tales; rather, train yourself to be godly. For physical training is of some value, but godliness has value for all things, holding promise for both the present life and the life to come."  1 Timothy 4:7-8

What?  You mean focus on eternal things rather than superficial?  But it's so much easier to focus on what is in front of me.  Something we always say at our house is, "Better a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy."  And going back to #4, there's that part about being unsatisfied so God can fill us.  Remember that refrain that moms everywhere tell their kids?  "Don't fill up on junk before dinner!"  Why?  Because we want them to be filled with the good stuff that will give them energy, help them grow and be healthy.  We want them to come to the table unsatisfied so we can satisfy their hunger in a way that is best for them and their future. 

Bear with me while I take this analogy a little further.  Imagine mom (June) does not warn child (Dick) to wait for dinner.  Dick eats two Ding Dongs and a bowl of Captain Crunch one hour before dinner.  June sets a lovely dinner before Dick containing the 4 Food Groups (I was raised in the 70s, y'all), and he just picks at it and eats a little.  Is Dick satisfied?  Sure.  But the sugary food will leave him short of what he needs to grow and be healthy, and increase their dental bill to boot. If he had waited until dinner time, he would have been desperate for food and eaten all he needed.

Eight Weeks Later...

It has been 8 weeks since the injury and I thought by now I would have some pat, clever and sagely witty ending to this story.  Alas, I don't.  I still sit here with mostly bearable twinges of pain, unsure how to progress physically, and awaiting a spiritual lightning bolt that would rouse choruses of Praise the Lord!   Until then, my prayer will be this from Psalm 90:14-15:

Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love,
that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
for as many years as we have seen trouble. 

Call Me Old Fashioned

Ma Bell

Remember the good ol' days when there were operators sitting at a large console counting, "One ringy dingy, two ringy dingy?"  Okay, I don't either, but I do remember dialing 7 numbers to call my friends, and it stunk if they had a lot of 9s and 0s in their numbers because if your finger slipped you had to start all over again.  And in every teenage-infested American household could be heard some form of this plea: "Get off the phone!"  (Many with an added expletive to emphasize their exasperation.)  You see, young ones, only one person in each household could be on the phone at one time.  I know, an impossible scenario to imagine but it's true.  So if there were 3 or more girls per house, there would be some serious cat fighting for phone time.  Nowadays you can insult your sister by text in the next room while sending cute pics of yourself to your boyfriend and scan your Likes on Facebook all at the same time.  What progress!

These telephonic ponderings were brought on by a call to our phone/internet/cable carrier to try to lower our bill.  Everything is "bundled" these days for a "lower price," so I was wondering what our cost would be if we eliminated our land line.  I admit that I'm attached to it like an umbilical lifeline.  I can't imagine my house without the phone hooked up to actual cables that attach to our house.  I have many good reasons why we should keep it.

1.  In case of emergency, we know it doesn't have to be charged so it will always be there.
2.  We've had this number for 14 years so if someone we haven't seen in a long time decides to try to get ahold of us they have the same number.
3.  If everyone got rid of their land lines then there could be no more thrillers in which the bad guy cuts the phone lines so the poor helpless inhabitant can freak out. And remember When A Stranger Calls?  Only the best thriller ever.  At least for those of us who ever babysat.
4.  It gives the telemarketers someone to torture.

So despite my fear of progress, I posed the question.  The young man -- I'll call him Melvin -- informed me I could cut $12 off my bill by going to a "basic" phone that allowed for free incoming calls and 5 cents a minute for all outgoing calls in Oregon.
Me:  That sounds good.  How much for calls outside of Oregon?
Mel: I don't know.
Me:  Uh, that's not going to do it for me.  I need to know how much I'll be charged to use my phone.
Mel: Uhhh...
Me:  Can you perhaps ask someone?
Mel:  Okay.
10 minutes later...
Mel: So it looks like all outgoing calls are 5 cents a minute, I think.
Me: You think?
Mel:  Yeah.
Me:  (Sigh), okay. Let's do it.  But before that can you tell me why my bill went up to $121?
Mel: I show that the last bill you paid was $119.
Me: Okay, well I can't find that one.  All I know is for February and March I was charged $121.
Mel: So you want to pay $2.00 more?
Me: No, I want to know why I was charged $2.00 more. 
Mel: I don't know.  I can only see your last bill. 
Me: But surely you have the information somewhere.  I mean, you are my telephone and internet company and you specialize in communication, right?
Mel: I'm sorry, ma'am but I can only see this one bill.  But I don't understand, do you want to pay $2.00 more?
Me:  Nevermind.  Thanks.

See how far we've come!

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

All My Chickens

After two months of nonreality, I'm back in my own reality show, Fake Farmer.  Thankfully there are no actual cameras following me around.  If so, they would catch me talking to my animals, singing hymns while I dig in the dirt, and stomping around in my black rubber boots and shorts so old and ugly, Bill would burn them in a second if he could.  Top that off with a stretched out, stained tank top and a yellow headband, circa 1973, to hold my mop of hair out of my face.  Woo-eee, what a babe. Of course, no one would watch anyway.   The only dirt stirred up around here is in the garden.  Well, there was the one scandalous time...no I couldn't...well, okay.  You see, Maren the hen had a thing going with Richard the Rooster.  They had a nice little love nest.  However, when Maren was busy sitting on the eggs, Richard started ANOTHER love nest with Hueva.  But Hueva actually had a love chick with the neighbor's rooster, Robert.  The feathers really hit the fan in Cooperstown.  And don't even get me started on Henny's evil twin, Penny.

The Curse

So as I was toiling outside in my foxy outfit, I started thinking about Genesis Chapter 3 in which God hands out the three curses after the big hoo-ha in the Garden of Eden (hoo-ha being original sin and the fall of man).  First, the serpent loses his legs and has to eat the dust of the earth.  Second, Eve is told, "I will greatly increase your pains in childbearing; with pain you will give birth to children." Gen 3:16.  Third, Adam is told, "Cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat of it all the days of your life.  It will produce thorns and thistles for you and you will eat the plants of the field. By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food...." Gen. 3:17b-19a.

So I understand first-hand the women's curse, having had the privilege of delivering two babies.  My husband will even tell you that I was cursing Eve while delivering my pumpkin-headed, barrel-chested boy.  You get the picture.  I'm really not being facetious when I say it was a privilege.  If given the chance, I would do it again in a second, but it did hurt.  Sooo, why then, when I garden do I have to deal with thorns, thistles, sweat on my brow, etc.?  That was the man's curse.  I mean you don't see men suffering while we deliver babies.  Okay, I'll give you the preceding 9 months of crankiness, irrational tears and the oft-uttered question that husbands fear the most, "Do I look fat?", may inflict a little grief, but come on, that's not fair. 

I have found that there's a pest and disease for everything I grow, and somehow it finds its way to my little plot of land.  Even when I lived in the suburbs and had a tiny raised bed garden, green worms managed to find my little broccoli plant and camp out there and gross me out.  Out of all the millions of broccoli plants in the world, why mine?  

A current case in point.  I had planted strawberries when we first moved here, but when I went to pick them, there was a bite out of 75% of them by either a slug or a rolly polly bug (these are not as cute and innocent as they seem).  I finally gave up on them.  So two years ago I asked Bill to build me a raised bed strawberry garden to help combat the slugs. I bought 100 fresh and new strawberry plants, ordered from a reputable garden company.  It has worked. For slugs, anyway.   However, the first season they developed a fungus which causes the leaves to turn brown and dry up.  Even worse, the fruit becomes mummified.  I have tried to combat it with hydrogen peroxide, and even copper this winter, but it hasn't worked.  Besides the fungus, there are also ants building little condos underneath the plants so when they come up for air they have a nice little buffet spread out before them.  They will nibble the bottom of any strawberry touching the dirt.  This year, to add insult to injury, I also have to contend with bird attacks and spit bugs.  What is a spit bug, you ask?  Disgusting. That's what it is.  They leave blobs of spit all over the plant.  When I picked the first crop my arm was slimed all over. 

And now the birds are not content with attacking my blueberries and cherries.  They come in like stealth bombers and destroy previously lovely red berries, leaving a blood red path of destruction.

Yes, I do still get to enjoy many delicious berries, but it is certainly by painful back toil and the sweat of my brow (and the slime of my arm).

Proverbs 14:23 says, "In all toil there is profit, but mere talk tends only to poverty."  I guess I better stop complaining and get to work, especially in light of Proverbs 21:19, "Better to live in a desert than with a quarrelsome and ill-tempered wife."  Bill has been dreaming of Palm Springs an awful lot lately...

 

Beach Bum

After 26 days on the road, we wisely planned a one month recovery period - at the beach.  Balboa Island, Newport Beach specifically.  We chose this spot for several reasons:

1.  We love the beach.
2.  It's our daughter's last track season and we could catch the last 3 meets of her career.
3.  We love the beach.
4.  Our youngest son is here also.
5.  We love the beach.
6.  We found a great place to stay on Balboa Island. 
7.  We have lots of friends and family in the area.
8.  Did I mention we love the beach?

We decided this vacation would be a combination track-meet-watching, socializing, and early 25th anniversary trip.  That's how we justified the cost, anyway.  I first heard of Balboa Island last year when we were living in Fullerton and a group of women from church had a lunch outing here. 

Fun Facts about Balboa Island:  It has a perimeter of 2.6 miles, is 21 blocks long and 5 blocks wide.  It's a man-made island that was dredged and filled right before World War I.  The average dress size of the female island resident is 4.  Okay, I didn't find that last fact in the museum, but it was arrived at by deductive reasoning.  We go for a walk every day, and so do many of the residents.  That's where the similarities end.  These women all wear form-fitting leggings or yoga pants and tops.  These are not the loose-fitting, spare-tire-hiding tops I've come to wear.  There are no rolls to hide on their Pilate-perfect forms.  And I'm not just talking about 20 to 30-somethings.  I'm talking women in their 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, and I daresay 80s with perfect figures.  The only cottage cheese on this island is in the grocery store.  I don't know how they do it.  Maybe there's a Stepford Wives thing going on here...

We rented the top floor of a cute little house that was plenty roomy for us.  Things were a little outdated, however.  For example, the microwave was probably made when thongs were something you wore with bellbottoms - on your feet. 




We were welcomed with a nice hospitality gift

Though we were on vacation, daily exercise was a must.  Because you know, we're health nuts.  And, um, it helped us to rationalize frequent consumption of Balboa Bars, a gorgeous concoction of a square of vanilla ice cream on a stick, enrobed in chocolate something-or-other and rolled in your choice of toppings.  Chopped almonds and Heath Bar (not to be confused with health bar) for me, and peanuts and Choco-Jimmies for hubby.  How anyone would prefer little plasticky sprinkle things over chopped up toffee and chocolate is beyond my comprehension.  Oh, and there were also chocolate-dipped frozen bananas, also rolled in toppings.  I could never work there because I'd be dipping my finger in chocolate and rolling it in all the possible topping combinations daily.  You know, like a scientific study. 

So here we are riding our bikes to Corona Del Mar.  That was a fun ride until we got to the steep, steep hill that made my pedals freeze in mid-rotation so that I had to jump off and walk or fall over from lack of forward progression.




3 B days: Backpack chairs on bikes to beach

Other times we took our bikes on the ferry and rode up and down Newport Beach. 







Standing on the jetty on Corona Del Mar

Then there was the walking.  The unfortunate thing about walking around Balboa Island is you can't look out at the beauty of the harbor too much or you risk stepping in the residue of their most pampered residents.   It was beautiful, but you had to constantly look down for land mines.  Yes, they dutifully carried their plastic bags, but when the dog does the doo on the concrete, the doo goo leaves residue.  Hey, that brings out the Dr. Seuss in me:  It's true that I eschew the doo when the view is the hue of blue and there's a crew in a canoe on the Pacific stew.  I knew that the residue of the doo leaves a booboo like glue in which few can stand the piu.  Therefore, this Jew grew to pursue the steps without the curlicue of doo.

Okay, got that out of my system.  Back to those pampered residents.  I actually saw a dog riding in a basket with a purple dress and matching purple, flower-shaped sunglasses.  I wonder if she picked out her own outfit using the helpful Garanimals tags. 

My favorite man in front of one of my favorite houses

We never tired of looking out at the harbor

One other form of exercise that we tried 3 times was paddleboarding.  I've been wanting to try it for a while.  The problem is, I have this irrational fear of water, especially large bodies of water.  For instance, bigger than a kiddie pool and deeper than my height.  Knee-trembling fear made my forays on the water more challenging, but I eventually calmed down enough to paddle around and have a good time.  Of course, knowing my husband is an excellent swimmer and would save me if I fell in gave me more confidence too.  Eat your heart out, David Hasselhoff. 

So that was our wonderful, relaxing, fun-filled, chocolate-covered beach house vacation.  

Blessings:
1.  The landlords were super nice and invited us to stay for free when we come back for graduation, and even pick us up at the airport.
2.  We were able to spend time with many friends and family members.
3.  We had great weather.
4.  We were able to be there for our son's premiere and our daughter's track finals (where she finished with a flourish).
5.  My man. 

Road Trip: Conclusion

The Professor and Mary Ann

As their popularity increased, their agents must have had enough leverage to get the Gilligan's Island theme song revised to finally include their characters rather than "and the rest."  Likewise, I remembered a noteworthy stop in Georgia, a lovely state that I too quickly dismissed as just another state to traverse as expeditiously as possible.  Bill, being a golf nut, had to stop in Augusta to peek at the Masters golf course.  And peek was all he got.  We drove entirely around the golf course before figuring out there was one tiny little opening that was not hidden, gated or barb-wired.  He parked the car across the street and walked over with dad-in-law to get the chance to tiptoe on hallowed ground and capture this sojourn on film. 

There was a security guard in plain site in his booth right at the opening who cheerfully greeted my husband.  Bill stared awestruck at Magnolia Lane.  Dad-in-law wanted to get a better picture for Bill by walking down Magnolia Lane and taking a picture from the other end.  After taking about 3 steps past the guard shack and unable to hear warnings, an unseen police officer sprinted out from the golf version of  NORAD and almost tackled this 85-year-old saboteur to quell the threat.  Augusta National Golf Club raises exclusive to a new level. 


After zipping through GA and AL, we stopped in Vicksburg, MS because Bill is a Civil War buff.  I was sobered by this huge park dedicated to the memory and history of the siege that turned the war to the Union army's advantage.  Almost 20,000 Americans were killed or wounded during the campaign and 47 day siege. 

From Mississippi we sashayed through the corner of Louisiana and returned to Arkansas to see a long lost nephew of Bill's.  The reunion was sweet. 

These Boots are Made for Walking

We then returned to Ft. Worth to kick our heels up, pull ourselves up by the bootstraps, wait till the cows come home, and all that cowboy stuff.  I spent another great evening with my Cohen cuz and her family, then got up early to ride my longhorn to the Justin boot factory. 

Just ignore those steps.  I really leapt onto it. 

 

After about 8 cumulative hours of trying boots on in the southern states, I finally chose a pair that I loved and Bill chose two!

Finally, we were on the home stretch.  We decided to stay in Carlsbad, New Mexico because 1) We were hoping to see some of the Carlsbad Caverns, and 2) We couldn't bear the thought of repeating the same long, dreary drive across west Texas to El Paso.  Granted, the roads to New Mexico are only slightly less bleak, but it was a new bleak.  So we are trucking along a vast stretch of flat, repetitive landscape on little Highway 176 in New Mexico when all of a sudden this appears:

There was nuth-ing in sight.  No people, no cows, no sheep, no armadillos - dead or alive (which, by the way, I was very disappointed not to see).  I thought it might be a candid camera gag.  Or bored residents who would get a good laugh out of watching people stop at a red light in the middle of miles and miles of nothingness.  We sat there.  Cars started piling up behind us.  Suddenly a big dirt hauling truck barreled past us blatantly ignoring the red light. We sat there.  Another dirt truck barreled by.  We sat there.  Another dirt truck drove past, and then a few people behind us who were tired of this twisted joke.  But like good law-abiding citizens, we sat there.  Finally after about 20 minutes a small pilot truck was seen in the distance kicking up dust.  He led a long line of cars toward us and then finally we got to follow him out of no-man's land time out.  I never did see the light turn green, though. 

I guess they were repaving the road because when we arrived at our hotel, our entire car, including the bikes on the back were repaved too.  It looked like crazed monkeys had flung beige mashed potatoes all over and under our car. 

The Stats

Over 8000 miles traveled.
13 different states.
4 relatives reunited.
2 boat tours.
2 ostentatious house tours.
1 sweet experience

Blessings:

• We thought we had a good plan.  God had a better plan.
• Our truck broke down the first day of the trip and we were able to regroup.
• We avoided almost all the bad weather.
• Our hotel angel made our lodging very affordable and very comfortable.
• Visits with loved ones spread far and wide.
• In-laws that I like and love and who put up with me.
• Husband that I love even more.

"Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen." Ephesians 3:20-21

Road Trip: Chapter VI

Charleston, y'all

Ever since I saw Gone With The Wind when I was about 11 I've wanted to see a plantation.  I also wished I had a charming accent so I could make one syllable words into two.  "Oh Ray-ett, I do declay-uh!"  We did visit Boone Hall plantation in Mt. Pleasant, but I was disappointed because it didn't look exactly like Tara, although the tree-lined drive was perfect. 

 

 

If you haven't seen the movie you have to watch it.  Then watch Carol Burnett in her spoof, "Went With The Wind."  One of my favorite sketches.

 

 

 





 

Of course the sad part of plantations is that their very existence thrived and depended on the whipped backs of slaves.  We spent a good deal of time going through slave row as well.

Bimbo Bisque

Part of our travel experience always involves sampling local specialties.  Our tour book said we MUST try she-crab soup, shrimp and grits (gree-its) and Huguenot torte.  So try we must!  We scored all three with a good recommendation to Fleet Landing right on the water in Charleston.  The shrimp and grits were good, but the she-crab soup and Huguenot torte were amazing.  The torte wasn't really a torte, nor was it Huguenot, but when you're stuffing warm apples and pecans and sugar and rich vanilla ice cream into your mouth, who really cares?  Now if I were to have a soup that comes from girl crabs only, I would name it Bimbo Bisque just so I could have a good laugh every time someone ordered it.  Go ahead, try it and keep a straight face. 

And the rest...

We took another boat tour, this time of the Charleston Harbor, including Fort Sumter.  Don't know why, but they love to brag that they started the war.  Speaking of tours, remember when the Gilligan's Island theme song totally dissed the Professor and Mary Ann by saying, "And the rest"?  Well I'm not trying to dis Georgia or Alabama, but we just drove through them too quickly to glean anything noteworthy about those fine states.  Besides, I didn't see any machinery made entirely out of bamboo and coconuts. 

Blessings:
Good food with good company.
Beautiful weather in Charleston.
We came back from our "3 hour tour."