My Dad



My Dad as a teenager in the
early/mid  '50s.



A couple days ago, I shared a rabbit trail I'd stumbled upon which led into the life of Navy Admiral Hyman Rickover, a man, who though he was widely admired, was also a controversial figure toward the end of his long career -- in the 1960s and '70s.  While I was reading through the factoids on his biography sites, I wondered what the average Navy man thought of his admiral at that time.  Was he respected by his men?  Did they bristle at the allegations of misconduct aimed at him in his later years?  Or was he considered a relic and a dawdling old man who'd lost his edge?  I know someone who would know the answers to these questions, and I'd give anything if I could ask him.  But my Dad, a twenty-year veteran of the Navy has been waylaid by Alzheimer's and this topic, that five years ago would have lit the old Navy-day fires, wouldn't even spark an ember now.  It's a heaviness knowing this. 

You see, there was never anyone in this world smarter than my Dad.  He knew everything, knew how to do anything, could solve any problem.  He could drive over winding roads through mountainous terrain, pointing things out to us through the side windows, the whole time never looking at the road, and yet stay safely in his lane, always aware of exactly where he was.  Now my Dad can't remember the word for "glass" and drinks coffee creamer if someone doesn't stop him.  If he's in his own home and my mom is in sight, he's ok; otherwise, he gets confused and disoriented. 



My Dad on the far right.  Get a load of that mug.
I'm thinking he didn't want his picture taken...



He's still my Dad and I'm so grateful we still have him with us, but it's hard to go home and see how far the man is from the man that was. It's especially hard for my mother, who depended on him her whole adult life. A caregiver for him now in much the same way she was for us kids when we were little, she must now supervise his every move.  She lays out his clothes for him on Sunday mornings and goes in a few times to make sure he puts them on.  He can no longer make the morning coffee and feeds the dog so many times a day, that the dog is seriously overweight (she looks like an overstuffed couch).  In the same way, my Mom has to keep a close eye on my Dad to be sure he doesn't take his medications twice.  She never used to give bills a second thought and now she's going through the reality of putting his affairs in order in the event that he should need to go to a care facility.  All of her grown children and her son-in-law stand ready for the wiggle of her finger to help, but the safe and sheltered haven of my Dad's capable, responsible self is gone forever.  It breaks all of our hearts, but it burdens my mom in a practical daily way. 

 

My Dad with me and my brother, Steve,
in about 1966.

But the man I grew up with is still in there.  And, thankfully, it's the soft, sweet version of my sometimes gruff, authoritarian Navy Officer Dad that has survived.    Though he gets cranky and upset at times, most of the time he's smiling and looking for a joke.  Well, at least when I see him; it may be his "company" face rising to the top.  Regardless of his condition, my Dad still does love to have his family around him.  Even though he may not remember who the grandchildren are individually,  he knows they belong to him, and, though he may or may not remember my name, he still knows I'm his daughter. How could he forget? We used to be sparring partners, recreational debate opponent,s in my teen years -- and he was usually the winner, though I wouldn't admit it to him then.  My mother used to get so upset: "Will you two stop arguing?!"  

"We're not arguing!!" We'd yell in unison.  And we weren't. We were just exercising each other's barometers and measuring brain power and tolerance.  Dad had the brain power and I had no tolerance for it.  But my Dad respected that I didn't back down from him if I had at least some semblance of a reasonable argument.  And I respected him because he was my father - but even more so, because he was the man he was -- and still is: a good man, an honorable man,  a faithful son of the Church, the man who made me what I am.


God willing, if I play my cards right, I'll get to heaven someday where I'll get another chance to have a good non-argument with that man -- my Dad.  And I expect he'll still be the winner. He'll still be right.   And that'll be OK.




My Dad and his shipmates in an audience with Pope Pius XII in the late '50s I think.
He's on the pope's right side, about 6 sailors over in the first row standing.

 

Mom and Dad, with Steve, me and Greg in the front row, Nina in Mom's arms.
Late '60s



Pigtails

When I was a little girl, my mother struggled to make sense out of my sister's and my hair.  We both had thick, curly tangles that were both the pride and the bane of her existence.  Oh, my goodness, how well I remember the torture of getting our hair done in the morning! Mom had a silver metal comb she used to murder her way throught the knots.  Nina and I still talk about that comb.  My Mom says it was the only thing she could use that wouldn't break in our hair -- so you can imagine the knotty messes she had to go through -- and how we felt about it.  And, to make matters worse, the style du jour of the late sixties was pigtails. Back in the days of Buffy and Jody, they were thee thing for little girls. Poor us... pigtails were as good a way as any to corral our curly locks, and my mother was a brave Navy wife, so we were in for it...  

Until my Mom couldn't take it any more and took my little sis and me to the "pooty parlour" where she had those curly locks snipped right off, to the protestations of the beauticians who said it was a crime to cut off our beautiful hair.  To which my mother responded, "Well, then, you come over to our house every morning and comb out the knots!"  Which, of course they weren't going to do.  So they cut our curls and taped a couple of them to their mirrors, and we went home with bouncy little bobs and said goodbye to the silver comb of torture, thus ending the days of the pigtails.

For Nina and me.

Though they really aren't the thing anymore, we still do the "do"  here at our house occasionally.  And let me say this about them -- from the other side of the comb: Pigtails are not just a hairdo, they are art.  

I spent a good ten minutes this morning making Anna some before school and we're both still recovering from the stress. It's a job requiring the skill of a watch maker, the eye of an artist, and the patience of a saint.  First, you have to find something to make the part straight, which in our house is a challenge in itself. As there are never combs to be found, we have to be creative.  It was a pencil we resorted to this morning. After four daughters and many years of doing this, we've discovered that pencil lead doesn't leave a mark on the scalp. A mechanical pencil with the lead stuck in is our parter of choice, generally, but we couldn't find one, so a yellow number two had to do. 

Once you've found a parting instrument, the real work begins, though.  It's all about dividing the hair evenly into halves with as straight a line as possible from the bangs to the hairline at the neck.  Considering a fairly artistic eye and a steady hand, this would be easy-peasy if  I didn't have to factor in the wiggling little girl who belongs to the head I'm working on -- who turns her head just when I'm drawing the part and whines at every knot the brush finds. But, with perserverence, after two or three attempts, I get the part down the actual middle of her head and, with a little tweaking with the pencil, I manage a fairly straight line.   Then I grab my brush and smooth out the first section over her left ear, and gathering it into my left hand, I take the pony-tail holder from between my teeth  and wrap it around the pigtail several times, nice and tight up against her head.  But, you know those funny, messy little hair-bumps you get when all the hair's not quite brushed smooth?  Yeah, well, can't have that. We do it over, and, successfully rebrushed and refastened, Anna wriggles and sighs and rolls her eyes.  But  we aren't done yet.  There's still the second pigtail to capture and secure and it's the problem of getting that second pigtail even and symmetrical that ends many a pigtail quest...

But, in the end, it's worth the trouble.

Have you seen that greeting card?  It's right when it says:

                                                                         Pigtails

They're like a party for your hair.

Yep.  Because we all know how much behind-the-scenes work goes into a party.

School Photos

I don't know about you, but I'm usually a little underwhelmed by school photos.  The traditional poses are, well... traditional, and therefore sweet in a reminiscent sort of way, but half the time the children's smiles are forced, their hair is more often than not left uncombed, and the backgrounds are canned.  As homeschoolers, we've missed out on the annual autumn routine of picture day. And I've been alright with that. Once or twice we've sprung for photos offered  through our parish and, nowadays, our teenagers have theirs taken at Catholic boarding school, but, I have to say that I'm not heart broken that our homeschooling ways have prevented the traditional parade of school photos to document the years.  We've made up with an inordinate amount of computer space devoted to the bazillion photos I've taken of the kids going about life as usual.  I have not missed the mugs.

But...  I have to say I've been thrilled with the way the children's new school does its photos.  One of the mothers who is a part-time teacher at the school is also a talented photographer.  One day a couple weeks ago, she came in and took all of the children's pictures, some with traditional sold blue backgrounds, some taken around the school property and in the grotto near our church.  A wonderful, patient woman who knows all the children well, she worked with the kids to coax out their best smiles and made sure their hair was combed and their postures good. Then, after only a week, she had all the pictures filed on her computer, arranged by family, and we were able to buy a disc containing them all, some in black and white, many in color - and it cost us less than $30 -- for more than 140 pictures!  All good pictures.  Now, I have the option of printing out the ones I want, as many as I want, in the sizes I want on my own computer or professionally.  I cannot imagine a better way of doing this.  My, how I love technology!  And our friend, KJ, who did such a wonderful job as photographer -- holy cow -- she just rocks! 

You know you'll be seeing some of these pictures, right? 

Here are some of the black and white to start with:



Theresa (11)




Gabe (6)





Anna (7)




And here's my Kindergarten school picture.
(Kindygarteners didn't have to wear uniforms...)
Looks just a little like someone else pictured here, huh?



O God, Thy sea is so great and my boat is so small.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

 

* This small prayer is known as the Breton Fisherman's Prayer,  originating in honor of fishermen from Brittany in northwest France.

 U.S. Navy Admiral Hyman Rickover had this prayer engraved on a plaque and  presented  it to President John F. Kennedy.  The admiral would afterward present the same type of plaque all new commanders of Polaris submarines.

Admiral Rickover led a long and influential career in the Navy, safely ushering our sea forces into the nuclear age.  He is distinguished as the longest-serving Naval officer in U.S. history, completing 63 years of active duty.  The following beautiful quote from Milton's In His Blindness was read by former President Jimmy Carter at Adm. Rickover's funeral in 1986:


"...God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."
 
If you'd like to read more about Admiral Hyman G. Rickover, the longest serving Naval officer in U.S. history and the "Father of the Nuclear Navy," you can go here.  (I got started with the little prayer and ended up on a deepwater rabbit trail that kept me up past my bedtime reading about the life of this amazing and controversial man.  God bless him. May his soul rest in peace.)

Saturday Updates

* Just found out this morning from Nicole that Paul's MOS will be the one we've prayed for: the Marines will be the proud employer of a stellar Logistics Dude sometime soon, which I think means he will, indeed, be training in North Carolina for a couple of months.  Any NC relatives reading will be pleased to know they'll get to see more of my baby grandson than I will for a little while at the first of the year! (I'm so jealous!)  I guess it'll be a while yet before we find out where his first assignment will be, but CA is in the prayers.  Right now we're all praying that little Gavin decides to come well before Paul's big graduation day, December 16th, the day after the baby's due date.  It would be so much easier on your Momma and Daddy, Gavin, if you'd show up around, say the 12th, so your other grandma can get there for your first few days -- and then this grandma (Mommom to you, sweetie patoot) can tag team visit, too...

* A lot less important, but significant to the egg gatherers here-abouts:   Cathy and I went and picked up five more laying hens this morning after Mass.  We'd lost that many since July, what with one thing and another, so now we're back to fifteen chickens, which includes Fr. J's hens that we're babysitting for him...  We've got six dozen eggs in the fridge now and more coming all the time.  I think I'm going to have to get in the habit of making the children eggs for breakfast again... 

Have I ever mentioned that Cathy named one of the roosters after her brother, Kevin, so whenever we're talking about one or the other, we have to specify?  As in:  "Kevin's out there being mean to the girls -- I mean Kevin the rooster." or "Kevin -- I mean Kevin, my brother -- had better be here for Christmas, or I'm going to fry him for dinner when I see him."

*  Oh!  Just got a big load of hay, too.  And now Dan is pushing me to have a barn sale to get rid of my stuff so he can fit more hay in.  Like the barn is meant for hay and not all my old wrought iron and furniture?  Seriously. 

* Other incidental news:  For our Date-Night-In last night, Chef Dan prepared salmon in our smoker on the back porch.  He knew he'd hit a home run with that choice, as I love, love, love smoked salmon, but he found some asparagus, made hollandaise sauce, and poured us some red wine, too, so the dinner was outta- the-park delicious.  And we watched the movie Knowing with Nicholas Cage, which was exciting but extremely weak in the storyline, we thought.  It seemed to us to be a Signs wannabe that wimped out of a solid Christian message.  Though the characters struggle with the same question of an atheist's view of random events vs. the Christian idea of providence, Knowing introduces an alien-life "determinism" to the mix -- which theme they then muddy up with just enough Christianity to really confuse the story.  Weird.  It only had two blasphemies (though one is too many) and no real modesty or purity problems, but the mixed messages in the plot make it a no-recommendo -- especially for children.

* And, not like it would be surprising to anyone, but it's October and I haven't seen my two high-school kids (except for a couple of brief moments in September) for two months now, and I miss their faces.  So I'm posting them here, because I just want to look at them...

These two:

Aren't they cute?  This was about five years ago when they went to CA together
to visit with Grandma and Grandpa.  (Check out the boogey-board burn on Dominic's
chubby little belly...  )



Michelle (15) last spring. What a difference a couple years make.
She's so grown up now!  But that same beautiful smile still lights
up rooms everywhere she goes.  :)



Dominic's junior year school picture.
He's a senior this year.  Chubby little belly is long gone.  :(
All the other pics I have of him on this computer, he's either in
the distance or making a silly face.  



This silly face.



Gosh, I miss their goofiness!

But, all reports are that they're doing great at school in Nebraska, are a pleasure to have in class, and only err toward being too sociable at times.  My children too sociable?  ;0)  You'd think they were teenagers or something.



* Missing lots of other faces, too.  Can't WAIT to see Paul and Nicole and GAVIN in December!  Hope to see Jon pretty soon, as (thank-You, God!) Jon got a job in Denver and will be there going to college for the foreseeable future.  And, Kevvy, who has been in Minnesota, is returning to the Denver area to go to school, too, so we'll hopefully be seeing him soon, too.  Yay!   And Thanksgiving is coming soon, so we'll be seeing most everybody in about a month and a week.  We're already preparing for a house full...



Feast of St. Teresa of Avila

Oh my Lord! How true it is that whoever works for you is paid in troubles! And what a precious price to those who love you if we understand its value. ~ Saint Teresa of Avila

Life of St. Teresa of Avila here.

Coloring page here.

Pan de St. Teresa (yummy French bread-type recipe!) here.

St. Teresa, pray for us!

Seven Sorta Quickish Takes

1. Today is Art Class Day!  One of my favorite days of the week, Friday is the day I get to go over to the children's school with my super-helper Cathy and play with the kids for a while.  William comes along  with us to sit in on the kindergarten class where he thoroughly disrupts everything has a ball, and Dan comes in later in the afternoon and teaches computer class.  It's an almost all-day affair that usually ends with a family rosary in front of the Blessed Sacrament -- and then a really crummy Friday night dinner because Mom's too pooped to cook.

2.  But...  Today is also Date-Night-In at our house. -- so I'm expecting to be treated by Dan.  We just recently resurrected this old tradition, and it's about time.  You'd think that with Dan working from home I'd have him all to myself, maybe even see more of him than I want to.... but this is soooo not the case!  Oh, my word!  Picture a woman in labor having any interest in spending quality time with anyone, even (maybe most especially) the father of her child.  That's Dan right now: he's giving birth to a bouncing baby solar company, and when we see him, he's so distracted, I don't think he's seeing us.  Bless his little computer-screen-shaped heart.

But, what is Date-Night-In all about, you ask?  Well, I'll tell you.   As the title suggests, we stay home, but we put on a movie for the children and set them up with some kind of dinner -- or let them make something (like grilled cheese and tomato soup or something else really easy), then we sneak off and have a picnic in our room and watch a different movie there.  With the door shut (most of the time) and no interruption (sort of).  Dan and I take turns choosing movies and dreaming up a special Friday night meatless dinners, going to great lengths to outdo one another. 

A couple Fridays ago, Dan brought home jumbo shrimp and cocktail sauce and made black and tans (Guinness topping Fat Tire that time, I think).  We watched Legend.  (Great movie, but lots of jump scenes!  There was cocktail sauce everywhere by the end of the film...)   Then the next time around I made a dippy dinner; I served a couple different kinds of special crackers and made spinach dip, crab dip, and  baked Brie topped with pesto -- plus I got a sampler pack from Breckenridge Brewery. And we watched the old classic, Rebecca.  Dan had never seen it before and actually stayed awake to the very end.  (Will miracles never cease?)

Tomorrow night it's Dan's turn, though, so there's no telling what's in store...  But I won't have to cook it, so it's all good! (I'll let you know.)

3. You've heard all the news coverage about the poor miners trapped for two months in that mine in Chile?  What an amazing tale of courage and perserverence!  We'd been following the story with interest since, for some unknown reason, our daughter, Cathy, is fascinated by anything having to do with mines. And, what a drama unfolding!  How often do these things happen with even a chance of a good outcome, you know?  After all the waiting and drumroll, we were all thrilled to hear that an American miner had finally broken through to the trapped men,  but, imagine our surprise to learn that the drilling company is my brother, Steve's, company, and that he is personal friends with Jeff Hart, the man whose drill broke through!  Like, Wow!  Is that cool or what?  As if anyone doubted it, it sounds like our Coloradan, Mr. Hart, is a great guy.  What a small world.  (Pretty darn small if obscure little us has a third degree of separation from a world famous hero!)

4. I think I've said it before -- it's a very interesting countryside we live in, here in western Colorado.  There are areas you travel over that look like moonscape: vast barren valleys, ringed by dry adobe mesas and pitted with deep, winding aroyos.  The huge, flat-topped Grand Mesa looms over the valley to the north, and the soaring San Juans' jagged peaks already dusted with snow rise to the heavens on the south end of the valley.  In between there's rich, irrigated farmland, dotted by the craziest little Dr. Seuss hills with little towns and hamlets tucked in beside the Uncompahgre River.  Then, there's the rising of the land to the west, which we'd never really explored before, the Uncompahgre Plateau.  It's a vast wilderness of aspen and evergreen forests, a hunter's paradise, that stretches almost to the border of Utah, where it disappears into the sagebrush and adobe dry land again. We got to take a drive through it Wednesday afternoon and didn't have a map, but, by the grace of God, and a basic knowlege of the compass, we wound our way through the dirt backrodes, making a gigantic circle that eventually pulled us up practically in our own back yard.  And in the vastness of the wilderness out there and the honeycomb of roads hidden in the trees, that's no small thing to thank God for.   If I didn't think my husband would doubt my faith in his tracking sense, I'd say it was a miracle.  

And a lovely drive.  Here are a couple shots of it (but not very good ones as my picture-taking muse seems to be on vacation with my writing muse...):

Oneof the roads we traveled down through the Uncompahgre forests.



Another shot, looking south from a hilltop toward an arm of the San Juans.

5.  Saturday -- or sometime next week -- Paul and Nicole will be finding out Paul's MOS (Mililtary Occupational Specialty) after TBS (The Basic School).  This determines where he and Nicole and the baby (who is due mid December) will be going for the next round of training, and will ultimately figure in determining his first duty assignment.  We're all praying that he'll get his first choice -- Logistics, and that he will train at Camp Lejeune (near all my mother's relatives), then will be assigned somewhere in California, where they'll be an easy-ish drive for us to come visit and a hop, skip, and jump from Dan's parents.  
What are the odds we'll get everything we hoping for?  Not great, I suppose.  But, we're praying, anyway, and putting it in God's hands.  That way, whatever bingo balls come up will be His choice and we'll know they're the best choice.

Please, if you have a minute, could you pray with us for God's will for this new little family?

God bless all our men and women in uniform and keep them safe in body and soul.

6.  Dan got to have lunch this past Monday at the Beverly Hills Hotel with some business associates from Spain. (snort) Isn't that something?  I had tomato sandwiches with Cathy and William at the kitchen counter on Monday, while listening to Rush Limbaugh on the radio.  I thought the company here was pretty stellar, though, and we made the tomato with basil and mozzarella on flatbread, so lunch was delectable.  About his lunch in Beverly Hills, Dan will only say, "It was whelming."

7.  Speaking of Rush Limbaugh, though.... I just read something that said he was a tenth cousin of President Obama's.  As is Sarah Palin!  Speaking of a small world.  This geneological factoid doesn't say much, though, really, except that our country is most definitely a melting pot.  Ideologically, it doesn't prove or disprove anything, either.  I probably have more in common with my landlord, the cowboy, than I do with some of my first cousins.  And, I expect none of the parties included in this research cared more than to just laugh at the relationship.  It is to laugh.

 I'm afraid I don't know of any blood relatives of importance other than some vague historical figures (which I might have to post on just to have a record of them), and a supposed direct link to Miles Standish (I think he's the guy...) that could give us an "in" to the Daughters of the American Revolution, should we ever want it.  But, after hearing about Limbaugh and Obama, I've started to wonder what else we might find if we dug deep enough...  Anyone out there have a distinguished or otherwise famous relative that you know of?

7 1/2  I'd post some more  pictures throughout this post, except I told Dan an hour ago I'd be right along... (It's getting on 11 p.m. here now) And y-a-w-n!  I'm tie-yud! So I guess I'd be smart to git-along.   See y'all soon.

Has Anyone Seen My Muse?

 I've been having a dickens of a time on here lately keeping my Ts crossed and my Is dotted, to say nothing of coralling typpos and half-finished senten. Gracious, but it's embarassing to look back at some of my posts over the last month or two, the errors are so bad. =sigh= You know I have excuses for this, of course: I've been so busy, my computer time is limited, I have so many papers to correct that I'm red-ink bug-eyed...

 But, I don't have much excuse for the dry content I've squeezed out.  I just can't be creative lately.

Say I'm driving home from the chiropractor and think of something I really want to write about...  By the time I get to the computer, I can't for the life of me remember what the inspriation was, or, when I think about it some more, it seems trite or beyond my ability to do the idea justice. Then, when a topic comes to mind that I feel like I should be able to handle (like the post on homeschooling vs. conventional schooling vs. boarding away, which I've started three times now), I just can't seem to get it down.  The words won't flow and the ideas are stuck up the canal somewhere, too.

   In short, friends, my muse seems to have flown the coop.  Where she is, I do not know.  Maybe she's distracted by the new surroundings and is flying around outside with the cows and chickens; or maybe she's too comfy in our new log home and is snoozing somewhere in a cozy corner... Maybe she's just old and getting tired...  I just don't know.  I'll keep hunting her down, though.  And, if you see her, please send my little Muse home.  I miss her.

Here's how you'll know her:  I only get the occasional glimpse, but, she's pretty easy to spot.  She's got wild, kinky-curly hair and colored pencils stuck behind her ears; she has fluttery opalescent gossamer wings, but wears hiking boots and carries a laptop in a multi-colored backpack on her shoulder.  She is usually swinging a red-pen wand randomly about.   She looks like a cross between Lucille Ball and Mother Teresa.  Are you getting a mental image?  I wish I had a picture of her to share.  But, if you see her, you'll know it.  And, if you do, grab her and point her this way, will ya?
In the meantime, here are some of the other Muses in my world -- or what I think they'd look like:



I'd like to think my every-day,
all-purpose muse looks like this one.



But, this gal's more likely...







And, wouldn't it be nice to
have this sweet Mother
 be my Laundry Muse?





But I think mine looks more like this.




How 'bout this exuberant lass for
a Dieting Muse?



But more likely this one is the real thing.

 


 



The Donna Reed Housekeeping
Muse I'd like to have.





The Lucille Ball version that I've got.




Well...  anyway...  Off to commune with my Lesson Planning Muse, while eating popcorn and cheese with my Wedsnesday Night Movie Muses...


Watching the old Robin Williams/Shelly Duval live version of Popeye tonght.  What a strange movie...

 

So, get this...

I went to the U.S. Post Office yesterday to mail a couple of packages; one was  big box of hand-me-downs for my niece in Georgia, the other was a care package to my son, Kevin, in Minnesota.  The two packages, together, cost about $50 to send, and, don't get me wrong, though it was a kinda "ouch" on the budget, it was well worth it, especially since they were two cases of bringing the mountain to Mohammed, so to speak.  But, here's the weird thing:  when the clerk asked me if there was anything liquid, fragil, or hazardous in either box, she also asked if either contained correspondence.  Huh? Nobody has ever asked me this before, so I was taken aback.  (I don't know if this is something new or if  most clerks just don't ask...) In my surprise, I think I looked at her blankly for a minute before I said, "Well... of course they do."

"That means I have to add the cost of two first class stamps to the final amount," she said.

"You're joking,"  I said.

"Nope," she said.

"Well, I bet most people just don't tell you the truth, then, do they?"

She thought that over for a moment and said, "They may not.  But it's Post Office policy."

"Seems kinda silly to me, " I said.  "How would they ever know if people lied?"

"They can open packages to see," she said -- to my utter astonishment, I might add.  "Especially Media Mail.  If they open a package just marked 'books'  and find a letter, they'll fine the sender."

Oh. my. gosh.  This just doesn't sound very American to me.  Isn't it in Communist countries that you have to worry about the government opening and reading your mail??  Or, perhaps during times of war when national security may be on the line, they can certainly justify opening mail going to and from troops...  But, how do they justify this?  Is it an excuse to go looking through parcels?

Or is the U.S. Post Office so hard up that it feels it has to add another measley $.88 to a $50.00 transaction?

Anyway, it wasn't the clerk's fault.  She smiled a little apologetically and said, "You're right, though.  A lot of people just slip letters in and then don't declare them.  Thanks for being honest."

"Hmph," I thought.  "I can't tell you how much I'd like to fib about this, it's so stupid!"  But, I said: "Well, even if the Post Office doesn't know I lied,  I'd get caught in the end, anyway."

She looked at me funny like she didn't know what I meant; like she thought maybe I thought that the Post Office Secret Police would come after me...   So I straightened her out.

"God would know,"  I said. 

And, He would...  (I wonder how much Purgatory I'd get for an eighty-eight cent fib?)

I have to adit, though, after paying my extra .88, I started hatching devious plans to outwit the government on this stupid rule.What do you think?  Would it be bearing false witness to write a letter on the inside of the box and tell the clerk that there's no correspondence except what's on the box?  Or if I got an old white t-shirt and "decorated" it with a note or letter? Anyway... ==sigh==   Isn't it stupid to have to have to go to such lengths?

Next time I think I'll just go around the whole problem and go to Fed Ex or UPS with my packages.

Filed Under: Oh, My Goodness Sakes!

I'd say we're pretty happy.

But I'd be happier if I could still get ahold of some Chubbettes.

Check out that cute dress!

Howcome they don't make Chubbettes anymore? 
I need me some Chubbettes.

(Anyone else think these girls don't look very chubby, though?  To this day Lane Bryant catalogues feature skinny girls modeling chubbette clothes.  What's with that?)



The Feast of the Divine Maternity

October 11th



Mater Dei, my kitchen Madonna - on loan from my brother, Greg.



The Feast of the Maternity of Mary, which had been a feast day in Portugal since 1751, was extended to the whole Church by Pope Pius XI in 1931 to commemorate the 1500th anniversary of the Council of Ephesus.  It was at this council that the Church defended the doctrine of the Divine Motherhood of Mary against the Nestorian heresy, which denied the two natures of Christ, thus negating Our Lady's title, Mother of God.

A Catholic mother's thoughts on the Mother of Mothers...

There always seems to me to be a beautiful poetry in the Church's wisdom in the placing of feast days.  At Christmas time, we remember the maternity of Mary in such a beautiful solemn way, combining the awesome truth of her motherhood within the joyful picture of the entire Holy Family. Under the still starry skies of winter we see the tender magnificence of Mary's place in eternity; she is both a humble mother nursing her cherished Child in a lowly stable and the Queen of Heaven, Mediatrix of all Grace, Mother of the King of the universe.  When we think of Mary in the Christmas picture, she happily fades into the background behind the glory of her newborn Son. As it should be; as she wants it to be.

But here we are in October, a little more than two months before Christmas.  The world aglow with autumn color and surrounded by the fruits of harvest, we get a chance to contemplate Mary, herself, in a sort of prequel to the story of the Nativity.  How perfectly timed can you get?  Be sure there are no accidents in the universe!

Not only is this feast the perfect reminder that Advent is just around the corner, but it's also impeccably placed, in my opinion, for the morale of mothers. About this time in October we've settled into our new school year routine; the novelty has worn off for the children and the hard work of perserverence in their studies has begun in earnest.  Our mothering skills, in light of this challenge and looking forward to the bustle of the upcoming holiday seasons, are at a premium now.  Bless their little hearts (winkwink), the children can wear down our joy in motherhood sometimes, but  meditation on the Mother of mothers is the perfect antidote to discouragement, stress, weariness or enui.  At any time.  But right now, summer behind us and winter bearing down, it's a breath of brisk air to remember the fruit of Mary's womb, Jesus and to be reminded of the very fact of her motherhood. 

It's a consoling lesson to remember that Mary, who was conceived without sin, who is full of grace, spent her days with many of the same daily routines we know today -- the greatest difference being that the dear Little Boy she nurtured and  kept house for was God-Made-Man.  It's an awesome thought to contemplate.  Still, Mary sewed and and cleaned  and laundered and cooked and budgeted just like we do -- and neither received (in her time here) nor wanted acclaim for her humble work.  She preferred to save every moment of duty and sacrifice into her endless storehouse of grace. So she received no praise except Heaven's silent love and in her heart she anticipated the sword prophesied by Simeon.  But the Queen of Heaven smiled as she swept the floor clean for her sweet Child, the Saviour of our world, to play upon.  And He smiled up at her as His Heart spoke to her heart about you and me.  And how we would remember her as we do our duty for our families -- for Him. 

And now she reigns in Heaven ready to put her gentle hand beside ours as we go about our daily tasks.  Mary, the Queen of the Universe.  The Mother of God.  Our mother.

The Feast of the Holy Rosary

Madonna of the Rosary (with Mysteries of the Rosary) - by Lorenzo Lotto

(1539) Oil on canvas. Church of San Nicolo, Cingoli

Some thoughts about why I think the family rosary is vitally important...

I'm not a particularly structured person and have a terrible time sticking to schedules and routines.  In fact, the hardest thing about having three of the children enrolled in the Catholic school down the road is the necessity of living by the clock: 7 am, alarm goes off; 7:45, get out the door if we don't want to be late for the 8:00 bell; 3:15 pm, pick up the children; 3:30 pm, make sure the children have changed out of their uniforms and are starting their homework; 8 pm, if I haven't made lunches yet, I'd better get after it; 8:30 pm, get the kids started to bed so they won't be dragging in the morning; midnight, wake up trying to remember what that school-related thing is that I forgot to do...

If I didn't have ten children and a husband to keep track of I'd be a gypsy and sell tie-died shirts out of an RV or something.  I wouldn't even own a watch.

But, as much as I hate to admit it, order and routine really are a good thing.  Though our schedules were a lot looser and more in my control when we hometaught everyone, it was still necessary to keep a general framework around our daily lives then  -- to preserve my sanity and to give the children a feeling of security, and the most important crossbeams of this framework have been our daily prayers.

I remember from my own childhood the truth of the addage that children learn from what we do more than from what we say.  One of our neighbors growing up used to strongly warn her children about smoking, but the mother was a pack-a-day addict; darned if her children didn't end up being smokers.  Someone else we knew couldn't understand why his children had such foul mouths, even though he told them they'd sure as *%# not cuss around him!   In the same way, I think that some Catholic parents are intent upon their children staying true to the Faith, and they talk the talk, but don't walk the walk.   I've seen families build their days around sports events and practices or what television shows come on when and then, when little Johnny and Jane fall away from the Faith as young adults, their parents are dumbfounded.  They always took the kids to church on Sundays, and the children had always been raised to know they were Catholic; they may even have gone through twelve years of parochial school.  But, they didn't surround their children with the complete framework of their Faith.

 If a child knows all the players's stats of his favorite football or baseball team, or if he can name all the songs his favorite band ever recorded, or if she gets to every  barrel racing trial and places in all the events at the county fair...  but doesn't know the saint of the day, can't tell you in detail the lives of her patron saints, doesn't remember when he last went to Confession, and never prays the rosary, the parents have constructed a house that will fall.  It's all facade, with nothing behind it to hold it together.

If the Mass and the Sacraments are the foundation of a life of real faith, the rosary has to be the nails that hold everything else together. Praying the rosary is the best guarantee we have for personal growth as well as family harmony, and it's vital that it be prayed away from the church, as well as within it. It should be something that every Catholic can remember being part of daily home life from earliest childhood.  Because it's shared by a family within the walls of the home, children properly raised will associate comfort, peace, and togetherness with the rosary --  with the prayers themselves, with the intercessor of the prayer, Our Blessed Mother, and with the Faith, in general.  And, there's little doubt in a child's mind that religion is an important thing if Mom and Dad make a point to gather the family together every day to practice it.  Thre's little doubt that they believe in the power of prayer when the children see their parents committing to Our Lady's hands the worries and troubles of their lives.  And our world desperately needs prayers -- especially the prayers of children.  A bond of prayer within a family is the strongest, deepest security that parents can give their children; it brings the Holy Family into the very heart of the home.  And into the hearts of all the family members.

In short, there can never be harm in putting aside twenty minutes a day for the rosary, but there can be great harm in forgetting it.  Our Lady of Fatima stressed to Lucia, Jacinta and Francisco how very important it is to pray the rosary.  And the greatest of all mothers always has our best interest at heart.  If we love our children and want to help them save their souls, we have a duty as Catholics to lead them to Jesus through Mary through the rosary.

Our Lady, Queen of the Rosary, pray for us! 




Of all modern notions, the worst is this: that domesticity is dull. Inside the home, they say, is dead decorum and routine; outside is adventure and variety. But the truth is that the home is the only place of liberty, the only spot on earth where a man can alter arrangements suddenly, make an experiment or indulge in a whim. The home is not the one tame place in a world of adventure;
it is the one wild place in a world of rules and set tasks.

~ G.K. Chesterton

 

Because Adventures Don't Have to be Big Ones to be Fun Ones

About thirty minutes from our house is the tiny Ute Indian Museum, and though it takes only about fifteen minutes to go through, it is a major bore for a four-year-old who's used to the fabulously big and dinosaur-filled Denver Museum of Nature and Science. But, we forced William to go with us anyway, as Cathy and I went on a fact-finding field trip last week and -- all things considered, the little guy bore up pretty well.  He only whined a little as Cathy and I went around the exhibits learning about the history of the great 19th century Indian leader of our valley, Chief Ouray, and his charming wife Chipeta (whom it is rumored was a devout Catholic...).  And while we marveled over the pretty Indian dresses and the beautiful bead-work of the Utes, William only marveled that he was stuck indoors.  He was a boy with only one thing on his mind: tipis.  Outside the museum, on the beautiful grounds seven or eight tipis stood ready to be explored.  He'd seen them when we came in; he knew we'd seen them.  Why on earth were we wandering around a boring museum that didn't even have dinosaurs, when there were tipis outside??  But, finally.  finally.  Cathy and I were finished looking and Yuyum got to go out and explore. 

Woopee!  Sometimes patience (ahem) is rewarded.



Is this cool or what?

We want one.

Make sure and visit A Bit of the Blarney for more Adventure Tours!