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| Tuesday, February 28, 2006 |
| "He Stinketh" |
Like Martha said about her brother, Lazarus, who’d been dead four days when Jesus arrived, “he stinketh.” Stinking Sanders stinketh. I mean he really stinks! I don’t think he gets his stinking feelings hurt when I say that, but I could be stinking wrong. Can you hurt a stinking dog’s feelings? He’s oblivious to his own stench! He just knows he wants lovin’ and attention and never stinking gives up trying to get it.
When he’s freshly groomed, I pet him a lot. I throw my arms around him and hug him. I let him snuggle up next to me on the couch. When he’s freshly groomed, he’s easy to love. But when he stinks…, whoa Nelly! My olfactory nerves are assaulted, and Sanders becomes instant canis non grata. Unwelcome dog. I can’t throw my arms around a stinking dog. How DOES a dog manage to find ways to make itself smell so nasty in such a short amount of time, anyway?
But let me explore the word, “stinking.” We use that adjective too much around here, because it’s been one of our favored descriptive words since 1981 when we saw the movie Time Bandits.
“Lads! Here's to stinking rich!”
“Yeah!”
“And to Kevin.”
“Yeah, Kevin!”
“Stinking Kevin.”
It’s a very useful word in the English language! It doesn’t cover as many parts of speech as the ‘f’ word in contemporary English, but it’s an unassuming alternative.
I bet you use it, too. Tell me you’ve never said, “We don’t need no stinking badges.” (Trivia Alert: The actual line from The Treasure of the Sierra Madre was,
“Badges? We ain't got no badges. We don't need no badges. I don't have to show you any stinking badges.”)
When Stinking Sanders gets too close to me and I’m trying to decide whether to pet him or shoo him away, I’m stirred to wonder. Does God have a sensitive nose, too? He sure loves the smell of a perfect sacrifice. Genesis 8:21 says He smelled Noah’s clean offerings as a “sweet savor.”
And Philippians 4:18, “…a fragrant aroma, an acceptable sacrifice, well-pleasing to God.
And Ephesians 5:2,” and walk in love, just as Christ also loved you and gave Himself up for us, an offering and a sacrifice to God as a fragrant aroma.”
So He has a sense of what stinks and what’s fragrant, albeit not our human sense of same. And He provided The Acceptable Sacrifice that makes us fragrant enough to seek His attention and not get shooed away.
I guess I’m too hard on Stinking Sanders. A little shampoo, a little clothespin on the nose if necessary. A little breath mint. Matter of fact, he cleans up pretty good.
“Here, boy. Nice doggie.” |
| posted by Joye @ 10:53 AM |
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| Saturday, February 25, 2006 |
| On Being and Nothingness |
Remember the episode of Seinfeld where Jerry and George pitch the idea for a T.V. show about nothing? They meet with network television bigwigs and try to convince them to produce a sitcom starring Seinfeld et al. doing everyday, mundane life. Actually, there are lots of those on television; they’re called “reality shows.” Viewers can tune in to watch “ordinary” people interacting in unscripted situations and events. I guess reality T.V. is hugely popular right now. Here’s a reality for you: since our lives are all about nothing, my husband and I could easily star in our own hit show! Hmm, what could we call it? Maybe, “Being and Nothingness?”
Take today for instance. Viewers would tune in to watch this real-life scenario: It’s Husband’s day off. It rains all day. They decide to go out and enjoy this precipitation rarity. Husband helps wife put her coat on, but holds the sleeve shut so she gropes around in a clumsy attempt to stick her arm through it. She rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue at him because she’s been the victim of the same joke off and on for thirty-two years (Humorous Interlude). First, they drive to a bookstore to exchange a bible. Wife cracks joke to clerk about how many bibles Husband already owns. Husband is slightly embarrassed, but takes it in stride (Tension Builds). Next they cross the freeway to another bookstore to browse the books. They lose each other in the store, wind up at the front of the building, and spy each other across the room. Closest thing to an argument ensues, “Where were you? I looked all over the store for you!” “Sorry, I went to the restroom.” “Oh. Wanna go to Barnes & Noble?” “Okay.” (Climax of This Week’s Episode). Then they cross back over the freeway and go to another bookstore, sniff out several books and magazines apiece, and settle into the corner of the bookstore café with a frothy beverage. They lounge around there for a couple of hours, buy two books, and drive home (Resolution). They spend the rest of the day on their respective laptops or with noses poked into books—not even the newly purchased books—occasionally commenting or sharing from their reading (Dénouement). What can I say? They like books.
So, do we qualify for our own T.V. show? As humdrum as that sounds, it’s our unqualified favorite way to spend the day together! Wanna know what we’re reading? I’d tell you, but that would spoil the ending. |
| posted by Joye @ 1:01 AM |
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| Wednesday, February 22, 2006 |
| A Place to Hang Your Hat |
About a month ago, we put up two hook rails on our entry wall. You know what a hook rail is- a piece of wood with a row of coat hooks attached to it. I don’t think Mike really saw any need for it, but he went along with me, even mounted them on the wall for me. We won’t often have need of coat hooks in this part of Texas, but they look purty, and they seemed like a good place to collect diaper bags, wooly woobies, tiny purses—things that find their way here in the clutches of our grandbeauties.
I think every one of those twelve hooks was occupied this past weekend, during a late season cold snap when Mike's folks came to visit. I wish I’d taken a photo of it: my father-in-love’s grey, tweed driving cap hanging atop his blue Wapelo Mutual jacket; my mother-in-love’s little black purse and coat; Squeal and Squeak’s miniature red coats and second-hand sweaters, and Squish’s little bunting all snuggled in amongst the grown-ups’ coats; and ours and the kids’ winter things crowded in with the rest. It was a rare family portrait. Four generations represented in a practical, functional yet very poignant way that made my heart smile. I knew hook rails would be a good idea! |
| posted by Joye @ 1:40 PM |
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| Tuesday, February 21, 2006 |
| These Things I Remember |
Last night I sailed through evening with my seat firmly planted on the sofa, and Mike right across from me in his reclined recliner. We were experiencing a little “riptide” on our journey. I was channel surfing the television waves, and there was nothing to watch. Undeterred, I surfed on until something worthy of our attention popped up on the screen. It was a PBS special entitled, “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” with a lot of bluegrass celebrities a’pickin’ and a’grinnin’.
In just the brief moment of a dobro’s whine, a banjo’s laughter, and the easy cajole of a few guitars, I was transported back to my childhood in 1960’s California to a living room densely filled with cigar and cigarette smoke; with the odor of too many cans of beer being consumed by too many people packed into a too warm, too close room.
The living room walls were a pale, sea green. An assortment of scattered lamps cast wavy shadows, creating a dreamy, abstract coral reef on the walls. Gray currents of smoke heaved and swelled through the air. The musicians seemed to play underwater, anchored to the bottom of the sea by their bass fiddles and their steel guitars.
Sometimes the people were my relatives: Aunt Jo and Uncle Steve, Uncle Steve’s brother Jerry and his wife, Doris. Sometimes they were friends: guys from my dad’s bluegrass band and their wives and children. Sometimes the women all sat around the yellow formica table with matching vinyl chairs in the kitchen, and chatted over Pepsi’s or cups of coffee, while the men played into the night in the front room. Other times the women sat in and sang along. I loved to hear my mom sing- her untrained voice lifting in sad, lovely song ... “Oh he taught me to love him and promised to love. And to cherish me over all others above. How my heart is now wond'ring no mis'ry can tell. He's left me no warning, no words of farewell.”
Wildwood Flower, Freight Train, Down in the Valley. Many other songs they sang told of looking forward to an eternal life in Heaven, and of a deep, abiding faith in God. Those songs meant nothing to me at the time, and even less than nothing in my adolescence. But now, I look back and see what a banquet of rich partakings was set before me, and I wish I could go back and savor it. Learn to play the guitar. Sing the songs. Break off a piece of that rich pie, put it in my pocket, and carry it with me through the years; able to pull it out at any moment in time and taste it or share it with someone else.
Those years ago, my young mind was devoted to playing children’s games, not musical instruments. We had our own little sub-culture going on under our parents’ noses and paid no conscious attention to the music. But it permeated our little souls just the same, as we chased kittens through the grass or chased each other through the house. Lots of chasing.
Over time, the jam sessions ceased. A major blow came when one of my dad’s band mates separated from his wife. Shortly after that, the wife took in a boyfriend who beat her six-year-old son until he died. Another blow to musical continuity came when my Aunt Jo and Uncle Steve moved away to Arkansas.
The weekend sessions eventually became just my dad and my Uncle Ken playing guitar on an occasional weekend, bolstered by a few beers and plenty of William Penn cigars. But by then, their songs were evolving. The influence of Sixties icons Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, etc. began to bring new colors into the palette of their song repertoire. Life morphed, chameleon-like, taking on new hues and colors. Sometimes I wonder what ever happened to my parents’ friends from those days, and my childhood playmates that by now I’m sure are chasing after more complex things. Like the song goes, “The answer my friend, is blowing in the wind. The answer is blowing in the wind.” |
| posted by Joye @ 4:20 PM |
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| Friday, February 17, 2006 |
| Morning Glory |
| Mike’s day off. We met Lindsay and the girls, Squeal, Squeak, and Squish, for breakfast this morning at Cracker Barrel. Squeal makes me feel like a kid again: acting silly and cutting up together at the dinner table. Grampa Mike fed bananas to Squish, so she was a happy little squirrel. Squeak was busy exploring life on her own wee planet, as always. She lined up the plastic golf tees (from the Cracker Barrel puzzle) on the table and giggled at her cleverness. I didn’t get to visit much with Lindsay, but I think she had a nice talk with her dad. Oh, how blessed are we, and don’t we know it! Sometimes when I talk to other grandmothers, I feel a little guilty about having our ‘quiverful’ so near by. But just a little guilty, I don’t want to be ungrateful for God’s good blessings. The old hymn says, “Count your blessings, name them one by one.” We name Squeal, Squeak, and Squish at the top of our list. |
| posted by Joye @ 2:59 PM |
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| Wednesday, February 15, 2006 |
| Thirty-Two Years of Wedded Bliss? |
Maybe not all bliss, but lots of bliss! To kick off my new blog, and on the occasion of Mike's and my thirty-second wedding anniversary, here is a poem I wrote a couple of years ago:
Old Married People Asleep Together
You lie beside me;
I feel your warmth.
I hear soft slumber
In your breath upon the pillow.
Carry us, O sleep,
With billowed sails;
Filled with life we've shared.
Take us ever to the land of dreams
On a ship buoyed but not adrift,
Lifted with years of living-
Of loving and of giving,
Of ebb and flow and long ago,
Of remembering and now.
Take us on that nightly journey,
Rightly tossing to and fro,
Cast our ballast to the deepest,
Bring our treasure to the crest.
Bouncing, bouncing on the waves
Of our together rest. |
| posted by Joye @ 12:25 PM |
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