My Christmas Season

Howdy! Heh, heh, well I'm back after like nine years of neglecting my blog. Actually, although I did go through a short period when I didn't feel like writing, I do have a very very good excuse. As a matter of fact, our internet server is doing weird things again so for the past month or more we have been unable to go to blogger.com or to comment on any blogs. Now I have once more been clawing at my bonds that keep me from my beloved blog and have been paralyzed to do anything on it! However, yesterday I was at Chad's and was able to draw up an e-mail address so I get to e-mail posts to my blog until we can get everything repaired. Oh dear, in fact it will probably be a very long time before anybody ever reads this because I've ignored my blog for so long! So now I must continue to describe much of my holiday season, just in case you haven't had enough of the holiday spirit already!

On the 11th of December a long awaited day arrived. After hours of planning, memorizing, organizing, inviting, decorating, gathering, rehearsing, indecision, playing, and especially baking, the infamous Dessert Banquet arrived with a bang. When one comes to an event such as this, in the beginning you often find yourself standing around twiddling your thumbs, chatting, smiling, and trying not to stare at all the people you don't know. Once we had finally decided to begin, I whipped out my violin, and after a few nervous tune checks we marched in front of buckets of eyeballs staring at us (the eyeballs were in their sockets, naturally). Bria, Craig, Mama, and I then went on to stun everyone with our musical talents, or at least Bria, Craig, and Mama did, I just sort of twiddled along.

Next came the listening to of gorgeous songs prepared by the bibleschool girls, followed by the climatic desserts. These included everything from homemade peppermint patties, coffee trifle, marshmallow & coconut snowmen, pies of various descriptions, and much much more food of the sweet variety. We gobbled these with gusto, accompanied with lively Christmas piano and much conversation. Then we were whisked through the eating and presented with the short dramatic skits, which we chewed with almost as much zeal. Of course there came the Christmas carol singing led by Uncle Tim, who told us the tale of Mary scoring so high on a code breaking test that the military has been giving her calls since, and plus there was plenty more eating. I'm afraid I don't feel like I can go into much more detail than that, as my memory is fuzzy on that event as time passes. However, once most of the guests had left then we spun through the clean up routine: rolling ribbons, scrunching up paper tablecloths, wrapping lights, folding fake greenery, and taking down the decorations from the tall poles. On this last task some people fell into a few very close calls, such as a ladder tipping one of the glass light fixtures sideways before someone cried out and stopped the oblivious ladder person. It's a good thing they did, because that lamp is probably irreplaceable.

Tuesday rolled in, much to my dread and excitement, for this was the day of my concert. Not just my concert, but the ConVal high school concert. I had to be there good and early at the gym, where they had pushed back half the bleachers for the stage and had turned the rest of the gymnasium into a large auditorium. After our practice, we idled around for fifty minutes before the concert, getting to know each other better especially through the telling of jokes. Our small string ensemble (consisting of eleven persons) were the first on the program, and we had to be ready. Then it was time to go out. Shoulders back, face calm, I quietly marched out onto the ground floor stage last in the line of black and white figures. I held my violin in a resting position until I seated myself, the loud chatter of the massive crowd splashing over my ears. Then the blinding stage lights were on, illuminating our white shirts like heavenly cloth and diminishing the crowd to dark shadows. It was hard not to look at the bright beams beating down on us, so instead with cold fingers I shuffled my music, making sure for the last time that it was in the right order. Shoving away nervous thoughts, I casually listened to my home schooled stand partner, telling me how they bought his one-hundred-year-old violin off Ebay for eighty dollars, but my thoughts weren't focused on the subject. My eyes shifted to my family, patiently sitting on the front row a few yards away, rooting for me. We waited, alert, with our bows standing tall on our right knee, and our instruments on our left (excepting the cellos and double bass of course, as those are too large to easily rest them on your knee). Soon the assembly grew quiet, and after they announced us, our conductor, we'll call her Mrs. Algy, came forward. As the audience applauded, my gaze rested on my mom, and I let out a long, slow yet visible breath to relax myself. She grinned. Next Mrs. Algy's arms were raised, and we lifted our instruments, the scent of rosin drifting about as we waited (I don't actually remember smelling it but it's just a good writing factor), our bows poised as I felt the familiar smooth strings denting my fingers. "Have fun!" Mrs. Algy mouthed. I smiled a little, and licked my dry lips. Then the concert began.

The music went well as we squeaked through Handel's Overture to the Messiah and some fiddle tunes, although I still wish we had sounded a little more professional, but what can you expect of high schoolers such as myself? Afterwards however I was faced with a dilemma. How on earth was I going to get all the way to my family sitting in the front row in the middle of the concert in front of this mass of people? After the band played their first piece, I had my answer. The cellist standing next to me flew herself to a closer seat in the front row during the applause, and why couldn't I? Except I had to race, without actually running, down half the gym in that amount of time. No sooner said than done, I was breathing a sigh of relief as I plopped down beside my mother. We then continued to watch the concert. But we were faced with another dilemma. My dad had gotten the brilliant idea of sitting in the front row so he could tape me. Now how were we supposed to leave discreetly in the middle of the concert? The family plan was to leave when the large band left. The fact is, the band never really left, so we ended up staying for the entire concert, whether we liked in or not.

The band was pretty good, with some pretty holiday songs, such as "The Night Before Christmas" with the narration and "On This Day Earth Shall Ring" which my dad is practically convinced is written by a Christian. Then we were rushed through the male chorus, the woodwind choir, the percussion ensemble (not generally my favorite but very well done), the female chorus, the jazz band (which was very enthusiastic!), the select chorus, a flute trio, the saxophone ensemble, and the concert choir. The flute trio was very enjoyable when they played "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy," and they were very memorable because before they started one of them wasn't sure where they left their music. The poor guy was probably very alarmed, and we could hear him as he turned and whispered hoarsely, "Where's my music?" Then very suddenly he realized that he was holding it in his other hand! Naturally this sent a ripple of laughter through the crowd and the band, and left him looking rather sheepish, though he laughed and took it well.

The rest of the concert was interesting but uneventful. The sax quartet played a beautiful arrangement of "Hark the Harold Angels Sing." It was also strange as I kept on recognizing various people: "Wait a second, that's the girl who was sitting in the front row at the Messiah sing next to one of the conductor's sons!" or "Sure enough! that's so-and-so from TCA!" "That is definitely my teacher's pupil's sister." Etc.; it's a small world, no?

When the choir sang I realized something important. It happened when they were singing "Big Band Santa" and I was almost positive that they were singing "Big bad Santa!" It just struck me that those people don't have anything worth singing about. How devastating is that? All they can do is make up little songs about "big bad Santa" and other such petty things. This realization gives me a huge new appreciation that we, as followers of Jesus, HAVE something to sing about! Isn't that just genuinely exciting?! I know it's something I tend to take for granted, but when you think about how others don't truly have anything to be really happy about, and we do, it's worth singing and rejoicing about it.

On Wednesday was the time for caroling. At seven I went down to the Main House and was astonished to enter the front hall and find it packed with fluffy people! Smothered in layer upon layer, peering out from underneath fuzzy hats and scarves, and looking rather hot at the moment but well prepared for the nearly 10 degrees outside. We then proceeded to stuff ourselves into the big vans, and I, as part of the overflow, found myself sitting in the back of the Mary's van next to someone who looked very Arab under a face scarf, but was in fact Katie. Next we drove hither and thither seeking whom we may devour--I mean, sing to. Following the appropriate rules for caroling, we wouldn't speak a word as we winced at slamming car doors and tromped, pretending to be noiseless, over the crunchy ice and up the walkway toward the front door. Then we would swing into a jolly carol, or into a more solemn "Silent Night" waiting in anticipation for the home owner(s) to come peaking out at us. A couple of people even began to take pictures of us as we stood there either talking or singing. We saw plenty of dogs, a college guy clad in shorts and bare feet, a woman who went running away to return with her baby, one of our few town librarians popping out surprisingly, a man with a strange accent, and several empty houses that could only listen silently to our singing, whether in delight or disfavor I could not tell, as houses are not generally emotional creatures. Lastly we got invited into a Hindu woman's house (all 32 of us, I believe), where she offered us hot chai that she had concocted herself. It felt good to stand in her living room, pressing my cold hands against my hot cup so that they tingled, and sipping my three inches of chai sparingly yet gratefully. She half reproached us for not telling her that there would be more of us coming, since she had prepared for us but hadn't expected so many. So finally we filed by the door and one by one received a hug or something such from her, and left behind the house, that despite the daunting fact that it hosted so many queer figurines and pictures of Hindu gods, was quite hospitable.

We returned to Fairwood and when entering the kitchen, were greeted by refreshing hot drinks that my mom made called Christmas Wassail that contained such things as cider, orange juice, lemonade, pineapple juice, allspice, cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. All in all it was very yummy, and they were complemented by bizcochitos, which are a kind of sugar cookie that I labored hard that afternoon on and I make every year. The whole treat was a huge success, and made us all feel very warm and satisfied with the evening.

Sunday came and it was time for our Christmas program. This is when instead of a regular service we have contributions from people in the church. First of all came the A. family, Mary and Brandon herding their three older boys up the aisle and onto the platform in front of a little microphone. James and Jeff looked quite dashing in their bright red suits, and Jonathon stood tall in between them. We sang a carol before they started, and then it took Brandon and Mary several seconds to get James' attention, who seemed to be looking in every direction but at them. Then using they're parents' hand motion prompting, with big grins Jonathon and James recited a verse or two saying something like: "And the angel of the Lord said to them, 'Fear not. For on this day I bring to you tidings of great joy which shall be for all people.' " They did a very good job of it, and Jeff just stood there sucking his fingers and staring at his parents which completed the cute trio.

After that the P. family came up front and little Gabriel held the microphone while Shawn and Gretchen delivered the Lord's Prayer with him, though he frankly didn't seem to need a bit of help. The M. family did a quartet singing "In the Bleak Midwinter" and then my family was up for a little instrumental presentation. Other people, such as Katie, Nate and Amy, and Bonnie read stories or pamphlets, while others such as Mr. and Mrs. L., and Dave, gave testimonies. Also my dad had a slide show of Christmas cards and of God's promises with background music from my concert to make it more unusual. It wasn't long though before we were moving downstairs to relish the goodies and get started with our Yankee Gift Swap. Little needs to be said when you have one of these, because there is always going to be something funny to laugh about as forty people fight over they're favorite gift. I did have a time when I was examining a squishy frog that Nate had and apparently didn't want, when he tried to quickly snatch my present and give me his. I didn't allow this of course, and instead ended up with a Tintin book that though not new, I was happy to have for our family collection.

So then the week flew by, what with finishing school, shopping, picking up Kendra from the airport, visiting relatives and whatnot, Christmas Day finally came. Now that I've come to it I feel like it is the the thing I least feel like describing, so I'm going to let you down this time and completely ignore what our Christmas was like.

Yesterday we set out on a grand task. Mom, Chad, Craig, Kendra, and I drove into Manchester to hit the stores in picking things for Chad's condo. Boy, was it a job! It included debating over couch covers, colors, pillows, shelves, pictures, frames, knick-knacks, clocks, candles, curtains, and much more. Dropping by places such as Ocean State Job Lot, Consignment Gallery, WalMart, Pier 1, Home Goods, Building #19, and all "that good stuff," we painstakingly made decisions left and right, being careful not to throw around too much money. We made it back to Chad's condo between three and four, having spent all day just raiding stores. Now our work was cut out for us. It's not necessary for me to say much about such things, when it's just all one thing after another, as Craig's trained eye goes over every bare spot on the wall and determines what would be the perfect thing to draw the eye. Then came finding studs, using a level, argueing the height, screwing or nailing and finally hanging the artwork. Excuse me as my brain gets dull on the details, but we did so many things I hardly care to account for all of them, and I doubt you would like to hear all of it either. However, near the beginning we did take great pleasure in decorating Wesley's room to welcome him home late that night. I helped pick out a lovely pink and purple My Little Pony poster and with Mom's gumption to buy that and plenty of hot pink crepe paper, she and Craig set to work in decking Wesley's room just perfectly to fit his needs. If you had approached his room, you would have found a large pink bow greeting you on the door, and as you entered you would have seen pink streamers draping from his ceiling and around his window, and beside the poster in large pink letters "WC" inscribed on the wall. We got a great kick out of it, and I'm sure Wesley is extremely grateful.

Wow, I sure hope you haven't fallen asleep. Have a happy New Year!

Apple Sauce Day

I was greatly saddened when I wasn't well enough to attend the great Fairwood Apple Sauce Day. However, I decided to post here today an article about it that I wrote last year for school. Here it is to celebrate the occasion.

Ever since I was small, apple sauce day has always been special. First, on the chosen autumn morning, you enter the Main House kitchen where bushels of juicy red apples lie in heaps all around. Then comes the cutting. About a dozen people crowd around a long table, perched on stools and chattering away happily. My hands wet with water and juice, I grip a cold knife, slicing freely while grabbing a tart bite here and there. The apple slurps in protest at being dissected, the blade knocks the cutting board, and then a heavy plink is heard as the apple piece sails into the bottom of a monstrous pot. Soon these are overflowing, and a bible school boy nabs them one at a time and brings them to the black stove to boil. When steam is bellowing out from its depths, he gingerly picks it up with flowery hot pads and races to the next point. Here is the actual apple sauce machine in all its humming glory, and the privileged worker scoops the steamy mush and dumps it into a bowl-like object. Squishing it down a funnel with a plastic red masher, it’s hot work but can be fun. In a matter of seconds, bright pink apple sauce coming gushing down a slide to collect in a large metal bowl, while the pulp rolls ponderously out the side and drops to its end in a garbage bucket.

As each aromatic bowl is brimming, it’s quickly replaced with another and swooped to the counter nearby. This is where you go if you want to steal some of the sweet concoction in a cup. Here a bible school girl bedecked in an apron measures out mounds of sugar to pour into selected portions of applesauce, before funneling the burning mixture into quart jars, marking them, and sealing them. Soon endless rows of warm pink jars are lined up on a small table in the corner, as well as on the floor and on a cart, ready to be deposited in the delightfully musty interior of the Main House cellar. Although apple sauce day is tiring to some, it is evidence of diligent labor and hearty teamwork, which can lead to many happy memories.

The Harvest Party

The famous, well-beloved, and long awaited for harvest party arrived last night. It was a dandy time, with many a strange person attending, often unrecognizable. And this is the account.

First I will start with the list of attendees. Tin tin reclined in her chair next to her grandmother, with a large blue sweater, tucked in khaki culottes, and peculiar topknot on her head. Believe me, I can only imagine the problems Megan had with getting that glue out of her hair. Next a very white and elegant bust statue stood on its Greek pedestal, with ivy gracing Katherine's hair very authentically. A sober Shannon and Bria perched on their seats as I entered, with the former wearing glasses and a swimming cap to be bald, and the latter dressed very obviously as a serious farmer's wife. The pitchfork and black frame gave it all away, labeling them definitely as Norman Rockwell's American Gothic couple. Next a very scary TJ lounged next to Uncle Tim and Aunt Sharon, with a hideous, contorted pink face (he was wearing a mask today), a furry shirt, and red leather pants. Then sitting around appeared to be a hairy headed, shoeless super hero Andrew (or that's what he said he was), then a brown faced Adam in farmer's gear, with a long bit of grass in his mouth, and using one of his many amazing voices to tell us squeakily about his skunk Fluffy Face that he was holding. Andy was helmeted out as a cave explorer, and a crooked horned Davie also sat as an absurd version of the Beast, with Kerry as the Beauty, in her own lovely purple gown. Van Lora apparently was a Lady Fall of sorts, with leaves in her hair and a medieval green dress. Brandon and Mary's family were the Peter Pan troupe, with Brandon as John, Mary as Wendy, James as Peter Pan, Rachel as Tinker Bell, Jonathan as Captain Hook, and little Jeff with a purposefully too small shirt on as Smea. I myself was a version of GI-Jane, with my camouflage outfit, Craig's humongous boots, and a brown and green painted face. The third year girls came in last as a surprise to the music of Pirates of the Caribbean. Sara Lee came swaggering in as Jack Sparrow, Sarah Ann dashingly defensive as a perfect Will Turner (she would have made Orlando Bloom jealous), Elizabeth beautiful as the Miss Swan herself, the bald-topped Bethany as the poppet pirate, and Kimberly leering with her eyeball on a fork, proudly displaying her ability to cross one eye.

A white-faced Diane led us, posing as Homestar Runner. We began with a game that each of us played within our teams. Organized in groups of six or seven, everyone would sit in a circle and each person would have a chance to roll the dice. Whenever one of us got the number four, we would shout, "Four!" then grab a pair of slippery gloves and proceed to open the present in the center, layer by layer. The problem was that it was taped very well, and with the gloves on it made it very un maneuverable. Then often by the time you got the gloves on someone else would be crying out the terrible number and clawing for the gloves to get an opportunity. Our team took forever, so we were the last one done, but it was discovered to be a candy bar inside the many layers of wrappings.

The next game involved listening to music. Each team would bid, say five seconds, meaning they thought they could hear the song for five seconds and be able to know what it was. We'd have five seconds to listen, five seconds to discuss, then we would provide the correct answer, and receive points. If we failed to provide the correct answer, we would get negative points. Horror of horrors! Some of the songs were easy, but sometimes when all you heard was an introduction, it made it very difficult.

After this we had a relay race. Four chairs were set up near the center of the room with balloons scattered about them. We were supposed to run up, sit and pop a balloon, eat what we would find inside, then run back for the next person to do it. I went twice, and started first, so I frantically dashed up, and had some problems popping the balloon. Finally managing, I saw the flash of an eyeball rolling on the floor, so I scooped it up and popped it in my mouth. Chewing, then swallowing, I rushed back. Someone mentioned something about a wrapper, and I realized to my shock that I had forgotten the wrapper and had eaten it, wrapper and all! No, wait, I still had a tiny wad of tin foil in my mouth. After that Aunt Sharon had hilarious trouble of not being able to make her balloon pop, for try as she might, she had difficulty because she was laughing so hard. Luckily, she succeeded. My team lost, but someone suggested that we be an honorary team because I ate the wrapper. haha

Next we went into the kitchen. "Ooh good, I like games in the kitchen," Mr. H. said, recalling last year's shaving cream and cheese curl incident. Diane assured him that this game wouldn't be messy. This activity was a puzzle. We had a lot of ripped up pieces of a calendar picture and we had to fit them together and glue them on construction paper. The calendar was a Norman Rockwell calendar, and our team got the picture of the cheer leaders. We labored away, though it wasn't an easy job for seven people to work on at once, and managed to gain honor by coming in second.

Finally we had an ABC scavenger hunt, having to find an item for every letter of the alphabet. The game was over in a flash, though we had some problems with the letter X, but once again we managed second place, just squeezing behind the first placing team.

The games were followed by picture taking and many refreshments. Practically everything we ate was a fruit dipped in chocolate: including strawberries, kiwis, bananas, and apples. But of course we managed to eat other goodies too, chicken being one of them. The picture taking was also an interesting time, with Nate threatening to taking crooked pictures and laughing when Kimberly screamed at him. Also that time was featured by James getting terrified out of his wits when TJ began to crouch on the ground and approach him. It's bad enough for him to do it without the mask, but with it produced disastrous results, and I could hardly blame James for turning bright red and screaming. A valiant pirate rebuked the offender for giving him nightmares, and with assuring words that she would take care of him, Kimberly whipped out her fake sword and began to beat her cousin most appreciatively. But the damage was done. James crawled up on the couch behind me and sat there shaking, and it was all Bria and I could do to soothe him and tell him it wasn't real and he was just pretending. Still, if he hadn't be so frightened it would have been just too funny.

Apple Sauce Day

To my great sadness I managed to miss the great Fairwood Apple Sauce Day. However, last year for school I wrote a little article about that event so full of many fond memories, and in honor of the occasion I shall post it here today.

Ever since I was small, apple-sauce day has always been special. First, on the chosen autumn morning you enter the kitchen where bushels of juicy red apples lie in heaps all around. Then comes the cutting. About a dozen people crowd around a long table, perched on stools and chattering away happily. My hands wet with water and juice, I grip a cold knife, slicing freely, while grabbing a tart bite here and there. The apple slurps in protest of being dissected, the blade knocks the cutting board, and then a heavy plink is heard as the apple piece sails into the bottom of a monstrous pot. Soon these are overflowing, and a bibleschool lad nabs them one at a time and brings them to the big black stove to boil. When the steam is billowing out from the pot's depths, he gingerly picks it up with flowery hot pads and races to the next point. Here is the actual apple sauce machine, in all its humming glory, and the privileged worker scoops the steamy mush and dumps it into a bowl-like object. Squishing it down the funnel with a plastic red masher, it's hot work but can be fun. In a matter of seconds, bright pink applesauce comes gushing down a slide to collect in a large metal bowl, while the pulp rolls ponderously out the side and drops to its end in a garbage bucket.

As each aromatic bowl is brimming, it's quickly replaced with another and swooped to the counter nearby. This is where you go if you want to steal some of the spicy sweet concoction in a cup. Here a bibleschool girl bedecked in an apron measures out mounds of sugar to pour into selected portions of applesauce, before funneling the burning mixture into quart jars, marking them, and sealing them. Soon endless rows of warm pink jars are lined up on a small table in the corner, as well as on the floor and on a cart, ready to be deposited in the delightfully musty interior of the Main House cellar. Although applesauce day is tiring to some, it is evidence of diligent labor and hearty teamwork, which can lead to many happy memories.

The very unfortunate curse

I have had the very unfortunate curse of getting sick. It's a nasty virus that includes fever, aching eyes, swollen throat, congestion, and finally an unusual susceptibleness of being tired. It is rather insufferable to go day in and day out being sick every day, with what feels like bare inches of progress, but luckily I'm feeling much more like myself, my throat being less scratchy and less bass-like. Haha, don't worry. . . I could still sing higher than my brothers, but not very much.

Half wonderfully and half regrettably, I have been well enough to do a good portion of my regular school each day, but it would often take me all day because I would have to take long rests between every subject due to me feeling worn out at the end of each one. However, on the weekend, I did go on a little movie marathon, which was entertaining. Sound of Music was one I hadn't seen in a while, and of course Ever After, Sneakers, and Prince of Egypt are excellent ones as well. Monday was featured with good old Chicken Run, and most of the evenings have contained an Andy Griffith with my mother. So you see I have been well supplied.

My life excitement overwhelms me

While I'm still writing about the subject of dancing, I found the other day that girls aren't the only ones that like to dance. As a matter of fact, I was helping clear the tables after dinner at the Main House when very suddenly I heard this blaring music of classical sorts blasting from the parlor! In my natural alarm I rushed to the dining room to peek in and see who it was, and low and behold were the bibleschool guys dancing. Hopping about in the dim interior of the parlor, I thought there was some sort of pattern at first, but then I saw that there wasn't. They would dance in a circle and then one of them would break off to do some spontaneous action of their own. It was a rather amusing sight to watch, but hey, who can blame them?

After this occurrence I was on my way home in the drizzly, chilly evening when I spotted Michael and Gabriel by the grape vine. When I greeted them, Gabriel pointed to the sky and said with a mixture of being excited and informative, "I just saw a leaf blowing down away from a tree and at first I thought it was Jesus coming down from the sky!" Quite a touching declaration, really.

So after this I soon went to sports and after that I went to observe the fascinating spectacle of fellowship meeting. This night was the festive activity of pumpkin carving and painting, and without too much ado they set to work in teams to dig out the slurping pumpkin pulp and scratch pictures in the face of the pumpkin. Of course the students were told that these were harvest pumpkins, not Halloween pumpkins, which meant you couldn't do any thing that implied evil things such as witches, ghosts, spiders, bats, or the New York Yankees. No, they didn't say the New York Yankees, but I still thought it was rather disobedient of Bethany to go ahead and paint the evil symbol on her pumpkin anyway.:D

Therefore the students came out with all sorts of ideas, from castles (taking away the bats removed their spookiness) to funny faces, from a cross to a man with a runaway dog, from scrolly designs to a happy fellow in a sailboat with the motto "Life is good" (the source of Elizabeth's designing inspiration was actually my shirt I which I was wearing from sports), they produced enjoyable carvings in all their orange glowing-ness. The pumpkin painters had fun too, as well as the modern art pumpkin person who had especial delight in pretending their fixture was bacon or some other such nonsense.

Yesterday I had my first art class, which I was very much looking forward to. We gathered at a homeschool mom's house, I met new people, and also got my first go at blind contour drawing, which I discovered I am terrible at. However, it's okay to be terrible at it because it's like drawing with your eyes closed so you're not expected to do super well, just learn how to awaken your right, creative side of mind. Then she set us to work to sketch some still life (a pottery pot and a couple pears, actually) and then a classical guitar. This was not so much as to teach us but to see what level our skills are at. We're probably going to critique each other's art next week. I finished last, but we then ended with choosing a picture of an animal that we'd like to draw next week. I'm not too partial to animal drawing, the fur not being my cup of tea, but I chose a frog that looked kind of fun and left feeling flushed and satisfied. My first real art training has begun.

Today I went on town trip. I was especially pleased to have all of my school done before I left, so I didn't have to worry about it when I got back. Anyway we went to WalMart and while we were waiting outside to be picked up the guys kept on laughing at something. A squeaking noise was emanating from one of their jackets, and it was soon discovered to be a bat inside that they had procured and were intending to keep. However our wait was a long one (twenty-five minutes over the pick up time) and eventually the tiny bat flew away, which is probably to the all around good of all, except the happiness of one particular lad, who kept grumbling how if they hadn't taken so long he could have kept his precious pet. In the meantime I got bored of just standing around, so I walked over to one of the curb islands in the parking lot and took a stroll on it. I ambled around and around and around, then switched directions and went the other way around. I tried to see how few steps I could take around, succeeding in about nineteen, then I would walk with one boot on the pavement. Next I walked in zigzags, then paced the length military fashion, then jogged the length. Pretty soon I got bored, even when one of the older men coming out of the store gestured that he wondered why I wasn't doing it more, and another older Walmart employee began to talk seriously to me about the weather, which was random. So I decided to be normal like everybody else and wait on the curb, and after a few more minutes the van finally came to our rescue. Phew! My life excitement overwhelms me.

Dancing Before the Lord

The Feast so far is going swimmingly, but that isn't what I've come to write about. Actually, the other evening some of us girls (the bibleschool girls, a girl named Rachel, Jayne, Katie, and me) got together for a hoopla with the horah. For the deprived few that don't know what it is, it's a dance that is used among the Jews, and it involves holding hands and dancing in a circle. It has a very constant, quick rythm that you have to follow however, or you very well could get lost. Hop-hop-hop-hop-cross-step-cross-step-hop-hop-hop-hop-cross-step-cross-step and so on. So now I found myself gripping warm, sweaty fingers on either side of me and then rushing round and round and round in the constant pattern of the horah with fast-paced, boisterous music from Fiddler On the Roof pounding in our ears to lead us on and trying to not get off the beat. Every once in a while a foot would get tangled and then the laborious task would be found to get back in step once again, all the time never letting go of the hands on either side. If I had to, I would hold on to my neighbors' fingertips in a fierce pinch for fear of ever letting go, because when that happened, there would be difficulty in joining again and we might have to start all over again. Faster and faster we seemed to move, Israel skirts swishing simultaneously, rushing on and on until we got cramps and were each all hot and out of breath. Or until the music stopped.

We tried two circles, with three in the middle, and this provided new dangers to avoid colliding with each other. With many close calls, we refused to be dizzy, laughing now and then, but mostly breathing as one the constant steps of hop-hop and so on. Besides near collisions, the only other minor injuries received were when Katherine briefly sprained her ankle and I knocked my heel straight into a pole. We still enjoyed each minute to the last, however, and left feeling like we had gotten our exercise. What a wonderful way to rejoice and dance before the Lord!

The search for extinguishing fires and the pulling of bells

Ahah! I had a startling revelation. In all of my busy-ness of school and what not, it suddenly occurred to me that maybe I could count some blog writing for school. Ding! (lightbulb) I put this question to my own dear mother, and she said yes! Oh brilliant am I, am I not? ha ha ha! Now I can occasionally do this (if I practice creative writing in the process) instead of my regular writing for school, which is quite a prospect because I can get two things done at once, though I still need to keep up with other projects. Okay, now, what is it I'm going to write about to make my time worthwhile?

The bibleschool has started in full swing! Ah yes, and it's funny how every year the class seems better than the one before. Not that there was anything wrong with the people in past classes, but somehow you come to enjoy the present people more and more and it seems to grow increasingly interesting. It's a very complicated situation.

Last Tuesday we lacked the benevolent Brandon and Mary to do fellowship meeting, so the load fell onto my dad's shoulders (actually, he probably volunteered). After coming down from a rather sweaty time at sports, everyone discovered that their exercise wasn't done yet. The activity was a scavenger hunt, called Fun With a Purpose. In this game each team received fifteen hypothetical questions that they could answer from the guidebook. This included things like: if you go to the gym and someone else is there who gets first priority, and what do you do when you're watching a TV program with staff permission (any bibleschool alumni have any answers?). This wasn't all, however. Oh no. The other part was that you had to find all of the fire extinguishers and pulls in all of the public buildings at Fairwood, including Fairview. The first team to find all of them, answer the most questions correctly, and have the best time, wins.

Not so easy. The fact remained that my dad didn't know how many fire extinguishers or pulls there were, so it would all depend on the student's accuracy. At this my dad changed his mind, and as I placidly watched the students rush out of the parlor, happy I didn't have to exert such energy, he asked me to help him find them. This meant we would have to rush around trying to beat the students, finding as many as possible. We would go together, or sometimes split up, our eyes scanning every nook and cranny for something red, which would be the giveaway to discovering our desired object. Not only that, but we had to remember where we saw all of them, and give a brief description as to where it would be located. In this manner we went through the garage, dining hall, wood shop, apartment building entryways, women's dorm, men's dorm (yes the whole team of mixed genders was allowed into both the men's and women's dorms!), Main House (sorry Mary, since you weren't there your apartment was included), gym, lodge, church, generator shed, and Fairview.

One of the biggest problems posed for me was the fact that I didn't want to turn on too many lights in various places. This would then attract the attention of undeserving teams that would have never thought of looking where I was, and as I did not have a flash light like the students, I would often grope about in pitch blackness, feeling for the door I knew would come in front of me, or stumbling about for a light switch. More than once the teams mistook me for an enemy team member, and would try to hide their findings from me, until I convinced them that they actually wanted me to see their discoveries. Running about madly from one building to the next, glancing through empty corners or spotting a flash of red, my feet grew tired from the relentless drive in which I was wearing absolutely the wrong shoes to do it in. I volunteered to jog through the dark up to Fairview, occasionally meeting a team, identifiable by the spot of light that a student would be carrying as a beacon. Exhausted, I tip-toed quietly through the dim halls of Fairview, then back into the dark night to return speedily to Daddy, counting and recounting the numbers and locations of all I had found. My last project was searching through the Main House basement, and finally checking under the seat of a gray van to locate the fire extinguisher bonus point. I threw myself down into a chair in the parlor to catch my breath and wait as the students filed back in.

The questions were answered, the numbers totalled, arguments sprung, but in the end the final tally was this: 43 fire extinguishers and 37 pulls, of which my dad and I had found 42 and 34 of. Not bad considering there were two of us and four people on each team. In the end Kimberly's team won, also consisting of Van Lora, Elizabeth, and Andrew. Hurray for the winning members! They received used books from the bookstore as a reward.

And I was thankful that I hadn't gotten to run my mile earlier in the day, because I was tuckered out as it was.

Concerning church mice and their funerals

The most astonishing thing happened in church today. We were having church in the basement, and I'm afraid that a few people might not have paid quite as close attention to the service as they might have, due to a new visitor, or visitors, that chose to grace us with their presence. It was a tiny personage, not much longer than an inch, with a pointed, gray visage, a humped back, and beady black eyes. Yes, we had a mouse in our meeting. Actually, as we discovered after awhile, we had two. I don't think they were very well behaved for church mice, however, because they didn't seem to be content with staying still for very long. It was most distracting when they scurried about on the stage, climbing on my dad's feet and nibbling the carpet. It was a source of quiet amusement for many. During one of these creature's travels about the room, it made it's way toward the sound person's feet. Today it was Derrick, and I don't think the mouse could have made a worse decision to choose to spread his curiosity at Derrick's feet. As I watched, he lifted both feet up as if to escape being traversed upon by the small vagabond, but then he did something I could hardly believe my eyes of. Derrick's black foot landed with such speed and accuracy, right upon the mouse! I flinched instantaneously, covering my face in my hands. I could hardly believe that he had just done that, not only that he would have the stomach to do it, but that he had the cruelty to do so. At the same time Craig was snickering softly next to me, and I could not repress the inexplicable desire to laugh out loud. We sat there in agony, try to smother the laughter that was quelling up inside.

It was still very distressing to see Derrick after the meeting dispose of a very still, if not a rather flat, mouse.

Poems sprouting left and right

Yip-de-ya-do-da, yip-de-do-day, oh what a day!

Okay, here's the scoop ya'll. This is just a little a collection of poems that I've written roughly from sixth grade to the present. Some of them are simple, some shocking, some hilariously ridiculous, but I hope you enjoy them all, despite their amateur writer.

This one I wrote on our trip out West a month or so after I turned eleven:

"It All Started As a Dream"

It all started as a dream and this poem tells you how,

Would you like to hear the story later? Or would you rather hear it now?

But since I a'ready started, I may as well continue,

For someone else may tell it wrong, and you would be confused. Kashew! [that was my random way of sneezing to making it rhyme:D]

It all started with Mum's surgery

Surgery number three

Or maybe it was number one, or maybe number two,

Or maybe number four or five,

I'm not sure, ar you?

Mum was feeling very bad

Not the mean kind, not sad,

But she was in enormous pain,

For operations had left her part slain.

Mum was feeling very low,

She needed something to give her cheer,

What could be better than a trip?

B'sides, it would keep the males from drinking beer. [whoah I was weird back then! In case you don't know, my dad and brothers never drink that dark beverage:)]

And so that you are not confused,

This trip, by Mum was fused,

It was not fused by Craig or Dad,

Neither Kendra, Clyde, nor Chad.

But then did Mum both think and plan,

And then discuss it with "her man"

In him she did doth confide

Leaving him and God to decide

Then she dreamed and hoped,

Hoped and scanned,

Then she told us what she had planned

Then WE dreamed and hoped,

Knowing hopes too high would be absurd,

Then Dad told us what he had heard,

He said he thought we could take the trip,

And if he had heard wrong, may he feel the Whip,

And if that happened, we wouldn't go,

No matter how many "buts" and "thoughs."

"Whoopee!" we cried.

But then we sighed,

The packing list will be long,

And we may by chance do something wrong,

"Never fear!" My mumma said,

"Never fear for I am near!"

So we packed, and then were sent

To Herbert, New York, away we went!

And then the next day

(the thirteenth of May)

We left first thing, for Indianay!

There, we picked up Kendra, the vile,

(Though "vile" is really not true),

And then we hung about for awhile,

And left at half past two.

From there we went to Illinois,

(Or Springfield, to be more exact)

And stayed at Baymont Inn and Suites,

(A hotel all out of wack).

Alas, I never finished the poem, though I had planned to proceed to describe the whole rest of our trip through Kansas, Colorado, Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, Arizona, Texas, etc. but obviously never completed my masterpiece. :-) Oh, here's another poem from my memory that I wrote before sixth grade (more likely in fourth grade), with a little help to the final touches (such as rhythm) from Craig, because we were sending the poem to some people as a thank you gift for helping us out when we were stranded in New York. Their names are the Bowens:

It happened on the hour one,

In the afternoon so clear,

When the Bowens took us in,

Fed us hot dogs and root beer.

They gave us lots of tasty food,

That I can't deny,

But why they were so kind to us,

I cannot tell you why.

They let the boys watch football,

That I HAVE to say,

But most importantly of all,

They were host and hostess all the way!

K, here's another. The first stanza was inspired by when I was lying in bed on a bright moonlit night and I constructed at least part of this poem in my head and scribbled it down by moonlight so I wouldn't forget it.

"I love. . . "

I love the moon as she shines in the night,

Her light is not yellow, gray, but white,

Her silvery rays gently glimmer and glisten,

Her beauty just shouts! (just be quiet and listen)

I love the sun as she gives gentle heat,

Her little soft sunbeams are oh, so sweet,

I love her most when she shines through the cold,

She seems so young, yet she is so old!

I love the wind as she skips through my hair,

At times she is forceful, yet at times she has care,

I love her also, when she sings in the trees,

And when in heat she refreshes me with a soft cool breeze.

But I love Jesus all the best,

For He created all the rest,

He dries my tears when I am sad,

And forgives me when I'm bad,

I'd like to see Him, here, today,

'Cause I love Jesus all the way!

Here's another I wrote during a March Feast for sixth grade:

Oh little stream, oh little brook,

All so soothing and so flowing,

What makes you clear and smooth as glass?

What makes you keep on going?

I like to sit and watch you,

Skipping o'er the stones,

And watch you splash and ripple,

Making musical tones.

I like to see you gliding,

And glis'ning in the sun;

And bubbling and gurgling,

Oh, that looks like such fun!

This is one that I have to laugh at its randomness. I wrote it when I was in Israel in sixth grade:

"The Violin's Woe"

The violin sang with all its might,

Sang, sang, sang into the night,

It shimmered and glimmered in the moonlight.

The violin cried, the violin sighed,

As it sang it also goodbyed,

The violin laughed, it gave a smile,

Treasuring time all the while.

As the violin would long so play,

People would listen and all would say:

"This violin's melody is pure and sweet,

It makes for us a beautiful treat!"

To this the violin never heeded,

Its Master's touch was all it needed,

For the violin loved its Master much,

And its soul sang out at his kindly touch.

The violin's soul would sing out it's bliss,

"Ah, this man I truly shall miss!"

For this was to be the last time he'd play it,

And then, who knows? Someone may betray it,

And I shall explain soon just why,

The violin knew this man would die,

And this, only the violin knew,

Why die?

Because the man was a Jew,

And this was World War Two.

Here's another random one that I conjured up last summer when to my startled surprise, I spotted a bright red leaf on the road in the middle of summer:

"A Red Leaf in Summer"

I was walking down the path one day,

One sunny, summer morning,

Before me on the path there lay,

A bright red leaf of warning.

Bloody red, edges black

And thoughtful veins of green,

It said, "Please stop! Return, go back!"

A stranger sight I've never seen.

I was about to turn away,

When then I heard a noise,

A bit ahead, right there it lay,

A jaguar, stiff, and poised.

Had I taken another step,

And ignored the little leaf's warning,

I would have been crowned in a funeral wreath,

My mother, nearby, in mourning.

So let this be a lesson to you,

If you see a strange sight, pay attention,

For though it may come in different forms,

Pay heed to a warningful mention.

So remember my story, I plead, I pray,

Try not to forget what my leaf had to say.

Okay, there are others I could put in if I could find or remember them or if I though they were worth it. I was supposed to cover different senses in my writing course last school year and not try to make it rhyme, which I don't like as much. So if you don't like it, I wouldn't be surprised, because I'm not that certain about it myself, and I'm not sure if it's perfected or anything like that (hey, none of these are really, anyway, so why am I going on like this?):

Ultimate frisbee

Dashing madly to be free of clinging opponents,

An opening--I snatch the frisbee out of the air

Confusing blaze of colorful players,

My name being pounded into my ears

I try a toss, but the breeze is against me

The frisbee topples toward the ground

But stops

A noble teammate rescues it.

I'm sticking to my defense

A sound, I turn my head

Wham! I taste blood on my lips

Blink back salty tears

And play on.

We're tied.

I dodge, alert, near the point line

Frisbee hovers in the air

I race with the wind at my back

I dive

Smell grass

Scrape my knee

Stand, clutching my prize

And drop it

The game is won.

I was required to write season poems also, here's one:
Summer
Quivering green leaves
Splash of jumping into a lake
Sweaty grip of the baseball bat
Cool watermelon
Pungent fresh cut grass
Lazy Summer.


Now another:
Green looks airy, like spring,
Green feels smooth, like a waxy leaf
Green smells dreamy like mint leaves,
Green sounds like the rustle of the wind in the leaves
Green tastes like sharp spearmint.


Peace is sitting snug indoors while a storm is raging.
Peace is getting a long hug from somebody dear to you.
Peace is feeling a hush during a Sabbath meeting.
Peace is knowing that everything's going to be all right.


Excitement is anticipation of an event weeks ahead of time.
Excitement is when a baby says your name for the first time.
Excitement is leaning forward to speed read through the best part in your book.
Excitement is completing something thrilling that you've never done before. (like jet skiiing!:)


I am the fire
I chuckle as I feed on wood,
Jumping in my fireplace
People blink at my smoky breath,
I wonder why nobody wants to touch me.

Phew! Hope I haven't exhausted you! I wouldn't blame you if you are. I think I would definitely be.

Catching up

I'm baaacck! Probably not for good, however. I'm finding myself rather busy in my first week of school and the computer doesn't have as many appeals as of old. I have had a very good past several weeks though, I must admit. I understand that my dear brother Craig has recorded most of our vacation adventures, but that of course does not tell everything, despite his exhaustively detailed accounts in all their excellence. Let's just say that in the past few weeks I have:

~gone to Indianapolis for the infamous ATI convention and

~wore lots of navy and white

~had to climb 10 floors via stairs more than once and discovered that it was great excercise

~met an ATI family by complete coincidence that are related through marriage to the husband of my second cousin and also attended Fairwood for the wedding

~went to plenty of meetings

~sang in a choir with a tough conductor that had a talented way of making fun of us to make us laugh and get the desired response

~gone to NJ & NY and

~went to two Broadway plays

~shared a spoon and straw with as much as five other people which is the type of thing I almost never do!

~rode the jet ski, drove it and went 60 mph

~swam in water that only afterwards I discovered it was jelly fish infested

~swam in the ocean in 40 ft. deep water

~went to the beach with my sis and mom and got a little tan

~went mini-golfing with my family (ALL of it!:)

~visited the baseball hall of fame which was awesome, and saw Schill's bloody socks which was pretty sweet

~drew pirates with Klara

~found two lovely skirts at Good Will, of all wonderful places

~started school

~And much much more

Quill on the loose

I was doing my habitual jogging on the ball field in the humid heat of midday when I felt something prick my foot. Curious and concerned, but afraid to lose time, I quickly crouched over my bare foot to discover a porcupine quill dangling delicately from my skin. My only reaction was to grunt, "Uh, another one," then lightly pluck it out (don't worry it hadn't dug deep into my flesh yet) and continue on. I held it as I ran, wanting to keep it as a souvenir but not wanting to hold it until I was done. As I rounded near the back-stop, an idea occurred to me, and I swerved slightly out of my way to drop it onto a white chair along the side lines. I vaguely noticed that it rolled off. Then I finished my rejuvinating rounds, and before long began to search for my prize token, proof of my hazardous situation as it had tried to make it's home in my epidermis. I got on my stomach and groped, fingered, and brushed, trying to comb every inch of grass and bracken, but to no avail. So now I think it only fair to warn everyone that there is a porcupine quill free to do its evil will on the ball field, and I just hope it won't terrorize it's next victim.

The Glories of Road Trips (if they don't drive you crazy first)

There's something about traveling that's in my family's blood. I don't know what it is, but somehow when my dad and mom came together, there was something that was so wonderfully mixed into the perfection of a traveller in them and their children. Or, more likely, my parents were so busy traveling to minister, us kids just got used to it and learned to enjoy it. Thus began our legacy of traveling.

For a young one, hours of driving is not always glamorous. There are many tedious hours where one must just sit and do nothing, if they have not the novelty to know what to do. Lucky for me, I had a creative family that had stores of games that we often played just for me, though more often than not it ended up being just my mom and me. The car game, the color game, twenty questions, alphabet, ghost, and cemetery were but a few of the numerous inventions to keep me occupied, many of them being cleverly designed to make me learn how to peer out the window with interest. This skill, once learned, would make it so that I could at times do nothing but stare out the window, half enthralled and half ignoring everything I saw.

In our good old-fashioned mini-van, there were two seats especially meant for me. One of them was what was known as "the junk seat." This was due to the fact that there were no windows where one could put their pillow on, and only one shoulder to use instead of two like there are in the middle of the back. I didn't mind this spot, however, because there was a bar across the passenger's seat that was just right for me to stretch my little legs and rest my feet upon. My other special seat was of course, the middle of the back, simply because I was the smallest and most conveniently squished. So in the middle of the back at four years of age I would reside in my booster seat, with Clyde almost always seated on my left. This was beneficial and a trial at the same time. Clyde and I would love to sit next to each other, because often we would bonk our heads together and laugh for the sheer pleasure of it. But sooner or later we were bound to get hurt or even argue, and suddenly my dad's eyes would loom up in the rear view mirror, giving us a look which we knew would be followed by a reprimand if we didn't stop. Our painful delight would often be quenched for reasons we could not fathom, but the father's will is law.

It is in the car as a family that some of the most amusing things can happen. Why, Clyde would never have told us that he was "tired of living in this haunt of jackals" if he weren't fed up with us in the first place, and my siblings would not have had the pleasure of laughing (laughing!) at Clyde and me for what we were fighting over (it's a very flustering feeling I assure you). Then of course Chad would have never declared, "Mountain men don't mind the heat," if we hadn't been in a hot vehicle, and I would never have replied that "mountain women don't mind air conditioning" if we weren't in a car with such facilities. We can have the greatest laughs ("there goes Olga!), the worst of fights (like Clyde hiding in his pillow case whenever he was angry), the most devoted of meetings, the most fascinating calculations (like trying to count up how many flush toilets there are at Fairwood), or the scariest of moments (as in peering down cliffs with no guard rails), all when you spend so many hours in one little space with your family.

Of course journeying isn't the only part of the journey. As everyone knows, arriving at your destination is usually the most exciting part. I don't need to inform you of every sight that we've beheld, and what famous places we've visited, because those are the sort of things you probably have already heard, but maybe the nights we had to spend at places along the way has not been an area you're enlightened in. Hey, you just spend a night at a hotel or motel and it's as easy as that, right? Wrong! For those who have traveled when you haven't always made reservations, you know how hard it can be to find just the right place for someone on a budget. Of course it has to be nonsmoking, they need to let you allow at least five people in the room, might we have a rollaway?, etc, etc, etc. We could go to many places before we found the right inn to lay our sleepy heads. Fortunately for my family, at a young age I could easily create a bed with two hotel chairs joined together to form a nest, and that meant they had to provide for one less spot for a person to sleep. However, sleeping isn't all done in hotels and motels (by the way, how many know the difference between the two?); it's done in campgrounds too. So we educated ourselves in the ways of a camper. We fell into the mold quite smoothly, and as it was a necessity it could be turned into a delight, if we so chose. Usually we had more than one tent when we did this, and of course there were times when your tent could become wet (Kendra transformed herself into the renowned Jemimah Puddleduck after such an experience, but of course the name was given to her by Craig), but those were the least of some of our worries. In Canada we found the cold, in Utah we found the heat, the sand, and we hoped not to find the scorpions. Chad never seemed to latch onto the whole camping thing, so on nights like these we found him sleeping in the van. There was a night though when we had our whole family in one tent. My mom and dad slept at one end, horizontally, my three brothers slept vertically in the middle, and Kendra and I lay horizontally at the end. This process didn't seem to work out for some, that cool night in the Rockies, even though we did attempt some very fine games of Pig. With these cramped quarters, Kendra would squeal every once in awhile that one of her brothers was kicking her, even though in fact it sounded more like it gave her a ticklish effect. Someone slept in the van every night of camping after that.

Of course there is much much more that could be told, with misunderstandings such as how someone forgot to close the roof top carrier which resulted in sending some of our luggage flying onto the interstate, or I could tell you of every break down I can remember having, or the times when certain persons would be moaning over someone else's seemingly precarious driving, or how many times we've driven straight through the night, or, or, or. . . . . . but that would certainly stretch out your valuable time, my dear reader, so I will just have to leave everything to your own wild imagination.

A most revolting experience

Oh my word! I just had one of the most revolting things happen to me. It's not that bad. . . it certainly can't be compared to Bria's fabulous story, but it was horrid enough for me. I was going to mail a letter to a friend, so I hopped on my bike wearing my swishy Israel skirt and heavy duty black boots and zoomed out of our lower driveway. Almost immediately I noticed a forlorn little newt salamander (a great favorite wild life creature of mine that I used to constantly play with and provoke) in the middle of the road. Struck numb with sympathy, I swerved to a stop and dug my kickstand into the dirt road to go help the poor amphibian in distress. I went over and fearlessly picked it up to deposit it in the safety on the roadside grass. Then I noticed something dreadful. The orange salamander had something protruding out of him--something I was practically touching--and I suddenly came to a conclusion beyond no doubt that I was beholding the newt's guts. With a cry of dismay I set him down hastily and wailed in utmost anguish at how disgusting it was. My reactions were more exaggerated than my literal feelings. There is something peculiarly funny about finding a live salamander who is proudly displaying his innards. With a final yelp of loathing, I leaped back onto my bike and continued up the road, passing at the top of the hill our neighbor, Dave, who had been peering down curiously with his nephew Luke to see what on earth I could be so appalled at as to express myself with such volume. I of course owed him the explanation that I had just picked up an animal with its intestines exploding from its side in their juiciness. Ahem! When I returned a few minutes later, I did manage to secure some pictures of the hapless creature.

Brothers

Brothers are an amazing thing. I'm especially thinking of the older kind, the kind that are tall and at least five years older than you, mainly considering them because I happen to be most familiar with that species. Why, you may wonder, and the answer is obvious: I happen to have three.

Yes, indeed, brothers are made so you can get along with others. Probably the only reason I've never really had a fight with any of my friends is because I've had so many with Clyde I'm nearly above them. The result is that I get along well with pretty much everyone, because now I know how to avoid a fight. The role of the sibling is very necessary indeed.

One benefit of brothers is how wonderful it is to feel proud of them. It may be that he's graduated top of his class, or writes an amazing musical piece, or makes a point in basketball that's the turning point of the game. But it's a healthy thing to feel proud of others, and brothers are a prime model to do it by.

Brothers are great in other ways too, even if they tease like crazy. Such as helping give you a more well-rounded movie taste for action and such. But they won't be too snobby if you like the girl things either; actually, Chad was the one that gave me Beauty and the Beast, Craig gave me Ever After, and Clyde owns Pride and Prejudice. Not bad, eh? However, they have their limits. Not to mention them being around to scream in horror whenever you put on the slightest form of make up. Probably why I never really liked the stuff too much.

There are other roles in the family circle that people may not think about. It is the Dad's job to school his older sons in the ways of physical education, is it not? Therefore it is the older son's duty to learn the younger son in the athletic ways. But what if this younger son is not a son, but a daughter? Surely it is no longer the older son's responsibility to worry about, is it? Wrong! I believe it is just as much the older brother's job to teach his little sister sports as it is to teach a little brother. If any older brothers out there are wondering why their younger sisters are so awful at every sport they attempt (or despise sports, merely because they can't play them) they must realize that is mostly their very own fault. In fact, although there are a few exceptions, some of the most athletic girls you see out there have either a big brother or an active father.

I must admit that I have some of the best examples of brotherly teachers. If not for my brothers, I probably would loathe sports. For if not for them I probably wouldn't be able to serve, bump, or spike a volleyball, hit, throw, or catch a ball, or even know how to shoot a basketball correctly. Each of these valuable skills they have dutifully taught me, with utmost (and I mean utmost!) patience and diligence, and I don't know what I would have done without them. Why, even last night, Clyde and I went down to the gym just so that he could try to teach me how to throw better. Then we addressed the matter of warball, and as kindly as a brother may, whammed some hard ones at me (the kind that burns like fire even when it nicks your arm) just so that I could practice catching them. Now that's what you call a sacrifice!

So now that I've given so much credit to them, maybe they won't complain as loudly that I'm on the computer too long. I guess that's just another job of the brother.

Breaking a bad habit the hard way

During the girls' week a few of us shared our embarrassing moments. I accidentally omitted one of mine merely because I completely forgot about it. So now I shall draw it forth from the shadows (actually I like to tell it frequently when I remember it:) and present it to you now in this new and different light. First I shall say that one of my favorite persons to tell this story to is one who has a particular bad habit that I used to share. I will not give his name but say that he is one of my brothers and a blogger. Wild horses couldn't drag it out of me to reveal his identity.

Once upon a time, when I was about eight, I was visiting a sibling or two in Indianapolis. While there I met an interesting person. Her name is Donna Conley, she was about 20 at the time, and she is well known for her sense of humor. She even tried to pull the wool over my eyes and make me repeat after her: "Owha tagoo si-am." You should try it sometime. Say it out loud: "Owha tagoo si-am." Now faster. Come on! Faster! Perhaps you fell for it or was hesitant like I was, but you may have already figured out that you're saying, "Oh what a goose I am." Brilliant, is it not?

That wasn't my embarrassing moment.

It came when I was at the dinner table. For those of you that don't know, ITC has a large dining room, polka dotted with many round tables adorned with white table cloths and such (if I remember correctly). I was sitting at one of these doing one of my beloved activities. I was blowing bubbles! No, I'm afraid I didn't have bubble soap with me, but if you haven't already guessed it, I was using my spittle. Sitting there, in my own ponderous little world, seeing how big I could make my bubbles while listening to other's conversations. It never occurred to me that other people could actually see me doing this. Donna Conley was sitting almost across from me, saying something to the person next to her, when I noticed that her eyes were fixed on me. Undaunted, I stared back to listen to her conversation, scarcely aware of the occasional popping sound that issued from the area of my mouth. It was too much for Donna. In near mid-sentence, she burst out quickly as if afraid she would start laughing before she was finished: "Why are you blowing bubbles with your spit?" I was dumbfounded. She had actually seen me doing it? I couldn't believe it! I was simply mortified. But I'll tell you, I don't think I ever blew bubbles in public again.

CAUTION: May contain gory details

I went to the eye doctor today. It was the long awaited appointment to get my contacts. Sure, sure, I know--I'm falling under another "fad thing," and it's true I'm really gullible to such things. But it's also credited that I've had numerous times with my glasses uh, making contact with a ball. It's really a curse glasses people possess. Pretty much anyone that owns a pair of glasses and wears them to sports has some kind of magnet in them that demands a ball to hit them. It doesn't matter what kind of pain it may cause to the owner, or to the glasses themselves for that matter (I won't tell you how many times I've had to bend my glasses back into shape. . . I've lost count). It just is that a ball feels obligated to hit someone in the head if they're wearing glasses. And more than once has this whim of the ball drawn blood from me. . . digging into my skin to reveal the juicy red contents beneath. That's why I went to the doctor's office.

So la de da, I go ambling into the office with my mom, only just a mite nervous. I went on into the familiar exam room with the long little tunnel and a rectangle of projected letters at the end. Dr. Wyman, an older, soft spoken, whiskered man possessing a fine pair of glasses (of course) pulled out the dreaded and longed for contacts. Then, with as much gentleness he could muster without being entirely brutal, he thrust each contact into my eye. I revolted at this insane poking, then shuddered as he bored bright lights into my brain. I like my eye doctor, but he does use extravagant methods of torture.

Next I went into a different room where a small lighted mirror stood waiting for me on the counter. Lisa, a middle aged woman with reddish hair and brown eyes then began to instruct me in the knowledgeable way of contacts. Then came the hard part: the process of removing my contacts. I had to use my middle left finger to firmly hold my eyelid up, use my middle right finger to pull my eye down, use my right index finger to drag the contact down off my iris, then use my thumb to brush against my eye and pinch the contact off. Now I realize that a few of my readers wear contacts--this is supposed to be easy, right? Wrong! It is by no means a simple thing, but at least if you have a good memory you can recall your own tormenting first tries and can relate to my unceasingly unfruitful attempts. I tried and tried again, to no avail.

Then a dreadful and all too familiar thing began to occur. I began to feel faint. Alas for those blessed with no health mysteries! For this is a problem I have had for several months--I can recall at least three definite other times (if not possibly four or five) where I began to pass out. You start feeling what some would call lightheaded, but it's more complicated than that. Sometimes it starts in your stomach, sometimes in your head, and it is indeed a feeling quite indescribable. But then you start feeling cold, cold as the blood drains from your head and you start feeling hot too in waves, then hearing becomes muffled. If you haven't yet done anything to prevent your swoon from going any further, your vision will start to gray, then cloud into blackness. I have not ever passed this stage, and hopefully I never will continue on into complete unconsciousness. The closest I ever came to fainting was actually in the lab at the hospital. Perhaps you've heard the story, but if you ever are dying for it I believe I have some gory details written down nearby that I could post if it's truly desired.

Anyway, as for my experience at the eye doctor's. Eventually I managed to transfer myself from my chair to the floor, where I propped my feet up on a chair. Dr. Wyman came in and carefully situated me to make sure I was comfortable. Sure, I was on the floor and my hair clip was cutting into my scalp, but other than that I was fine. Gradually I felt better, and situated myself once again in my chair where I chatted with Lisa for a little while and sipped orange juice that she offered from her own lunch box. After a brief conference with my mom, who had been gone during my incident earlier but was now returned, I made the decision that I would continue with my appointment. So with a sigh and a grit of determination I plopped down in my chair once again and set to with getting out the silly contact. With more work I soon dragged the Thing out of my eye, and awhile later I succeeded in getting out the other. Oh dear now I had to get them in again. To my surprise, I got it in on my second or third try. Soon the second one followed, more maneuvering and they came out, then back they went in again. With a great feeling of triumph I left the office over two hours after I entered it. I had persevered and vanquished my enemy. Even though I had to use countless numbers of tissues to do it.

Poor contacts. . . they just suffered such a rough abuse from the likes of me. Now I shall give them some words of affirmation to boost them up again. Well, first thing, I don't have to worry about my glasses getting crushed anymore. I was in the gym this afternoon and I winced as a ball grazed my cheek then realized I had hardly anything to worry about. Another plus is that I can wear regular sunglasses--not just clip-ons. Not to mention that I can see things out of the corner of my eye in a way that you can't with glasses, then also I can possibly wear my contacts when I go swimming (if I'm careful of course) and then I shall be able to see much better. Last of all, I won't always be having Clyde incessantly pushing my glasses up my nose which is one of his favorite pastimes because he knows it annoys me. You so lose, Clyde.

Little Black Sambo

Last night after Sabbath meeting we were discussing some of the things posted on Katie's blog about her mom and my mom. They are a pair when their jaws start flapping at eachother in continuous teasing (all loving of course:). I guess my mom used to call her Little Black Sambo some years back, which was rather amusing. I had never heard the term before, so I was inquiring in wonderment where it could have originated. My dad came up with an astonishing reply something like this, "You know, the story about the lions that ran in circles that then melted into butter and poured molasses on their pancakes." Their was a brief moment of stunned silence before my mother and I went off into peals of laughter. My dad grinned, but he was adamant that yes, there was some sort of fairy tale like that which had a Little Black Sambo in it, and just because I had never heard of it didn't mean it doesn't exist. My mom did discover the book with Little Black Sambo in it this morning. However, whether it has lions melting into butter will yet remain a mystery.

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Whoo-hoo I'm back.

Whoo-hoo I'm back. I've been gone to the Cousins from Monday to Wednesday having a high old time (both playing and working). I helped out a little on Vacation Bibleschool which was enjoyable, especially the water fight with the five-year-olds (four little girls and Jed:). I sometimes would have four of them squirting at me at once or have them in hot pursuit through the woods squealing, "Ooh, she's a good one!" And telling me to say my prayers and eat water. Very cute when it comes from a blue eyed, pig-tailed little girl.

I never enlightened you all about one of my family's first Forced Family Fun (or that's what it's called in the Paul Brown family:). Last Sunday for Father's Day we went down to the gym to play basketball for my dad. Everyone that was home played--even my mom! Yes, my mom can actually wield a basketball, something I'm not sure I'd ever seen her touch before this time. The teams were Daddy, Craig, and Mom against Clyde and me. Originally we were going to play to seven points, but we said they had to win by two so the game dragged on. My shooting was horrible, but my D was okay, considering I had to guard my dad who everyone knows is much bigger and stronger than me.:D I felt bad for Clyde that he didn't have someone better on his team though. I succeeded in getting a grand total of one point, and even that was surprising because as I shot my dad's hand soared up and my throw had a huge arch. . . right into the basket. In the end Clyde and I won 13-11 having played a good hard half hour of basketball with the family. And it was fun.

Various happy happenings

Last night we went to Chad's play: the one and only Music Man. He was playing a lead role (Marcellus to be precise--I pity those who don't know who that is) and naturally I was very excited. I invited Jane and Diane to come with my family since Brandon and Mary were gone and we thought they deserved a fun break. My happiness was complete when I discovered the Cousins (if you don't know who they are, they're the E. Sandford kids) there also, in all their dirty tan glory.:D

The play was pretty good, but I've seen the movie so many time I know the dialogue pretty well and if they talk in a way that's not a bit alike to the movie, it feels quite odd (sorry that was kind of boring but it's quite true). Chad did a really good job on his solo song, Shipoopee, (yeah right, talk about bizarre) and sang really high. The only problem was that the mic. didn't seem to pick him up very well during then so we couldn't hear him satisfactorily.

I felt really bad for the quartet in the play. I had heard that they had had a really hard time finding people to sing in that role with its tricky parts. So apparently they just got who they could. Oh dear. Some of them weren't too bad, but the er, soprano (what else am I to call him?) didn't always sing his part accurately and he looked rather uncomfortable. They didn't always sing quite on key also, but to give them credit, they were singing acapella.

Afterwards all of us gathered in a cluster near Chad, and the lady who acted Mrs. Shinn came around the corner. She gave us a rosy grin and said, "So this is the Marcellus fan club, huh?" and laughed boisterously. We thought it was pretty funny. And even as we left to go out the door she declared, "There goes the Marcellus fan club!" We laughed and continued out into the damp night.

We didn't get home until ten minutes of midnight. When we did, I found a postcard waiting for me. It said in bold letters at the top: "A CHANCE OF A LIFE TIME; YOU COULD BE NEXT!" It turned out that it was an offer to compete in the Miss Newhampshire Teen USA Pageant. Good grief, how did these people get my name and know I was the right age? Maybe they send it to every single girl and hope she's the right age. It is a bit strange however. Don't worry, I don't think I'm going to try out to be Miss Newhampshire. It's not really my thing.:-)

Ooh, that was weird. I just looked down and saw a little green bug crawling on my arm. I slapped him repeatedly in hopes to end his miserable little life but he refused to die! Craig generously got me a tissue at my request and I squeezed him until I felt the relinquishing crush. haha (sorry, I couldn't resist!)

Anyway--ahem! Today Jane, Diane, and I played our songs that we prepared last week and it went really well. By the way, sorry I didn't finish my story of our last Sunday's experience; Mr. Hansen did feel badly and I didn't want it to seem I was leaving that part out just to knock him.

After Sundayschool we swang our way right into the potluck. Which reminds me. . . have you heard of the church that was so religious about not believing in luck that they called them potblessings? haha Well this potluck was adorned with salad of almost every kind, as well as the usual scrumptious desserts.

Awhile after we had stuffed our bellies to the limit, we went on to the good old softball. The grass was wicked slippery, the bugs were just a bit annoying, but the playing was great. I didn't do anything too fabulous though, except hit the ball, run, and stop a grounder. Others had awesome plays though from sweet catches to eye-squinting triples. No home runs on this game.:( But we ended with plenty of good will and my team winning. I love that combination.:D

Leaping lice

Yesterday a beautiful day turned dark. The deep clouds from the underworld blocked the view of the sun and everything was tinted a gloomy gray. Very soon it started to rain. At least we thought it was rain at first. "It's hailing!" Clyde ejaculated, and he ran out to reel in his bike. I went out onto the porch to examine the falling material more closely, and yes, it was indeed hail! It was pelting down at a furious rate, as if some giants from heaven were bombarding us with their white bullet machine guns. After rescuing my bike from the torrent of pea-sized ice balls, I watched in fascination from the porch as the hail quickly accumulated on our walkway. It reminded me of a picture I had developed a few years ago when watching hail from the Hansen's front window and thinking it looked like leaping lice on the ground milling about in confusion. Ugh, what a picture. . . and I don't even know what lice looks like!

Some simple things of life

This morning I found myself singing "A Spoonful of Sugar" as I went about the house. Suddenly I realized with simultaneous horror and amusement that I was singing, "A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine stay down! The medicine stay dow-own, medicine STAY down!" For some reason that struck me as funny at the time. Ah, the oddities of life!

I had an interesting time messing with some great recording software on my dad's lap-top. I tried to record over while singing the different parts to "All the Earth Rejoice" but failed miserably. Then I tried the more placid "Dona Nobis Pachem" with a little more success. Wow I actually got to hear three of me singing at once.:-)

I also started on learning Morse Code. It was something that I thought would be a good thing to know as I got my ham radio licence, but I decided to wait until summer vacation before attempting that vast project. I had forgotten completely about it until yesterday, so I figured I better get busy. It's amazing how one has to memorize senseless beeps and screeches so that eventually those sounds actually take meaning. Very fascinating stuff, I think.

Glad to be proved wrong

I did a slightly embarassing thing last night. Clyde was on-line talking to Bria, and it reminded me that I had thought I had heard that Bria had cut her hair. Like really cut it--almost a boy's cut. So I asked Clyde if he'd heard that. He apparently hadn't, and he started uttering unthinkable curses to Bria and exclaimed with great incredulity, "YOU CUT YOUR HAIR!!!!" Bria's only response was, that no she hadn't. Anyway, to make a long story short, I looked it up in the e-mail that Cara had sent me about it and I found out that no, it wasn't Bria that cut her hair but someone else. I don't know how that happened--I wondered if I'd dreamed it. And I also was kind of mad at Bria for doing such a thing because she has like the prettiest hair of anyone I know. It's a good thing that I didn't tell the whole world the nightmare that I was believing.

"A little lass named Olga"

I own a troll. How many people own something like that? I am indeed very lucky. I had seen her when I was in Norway at various shops, and when we went to the Arctic Circle, I actually considered buying her. But she cost about 115 kroner (which equals roughly $18 dollars for you ignorant ones), and I didn't buy her. Then I saw her again at Geiranger, this time for 65 kroner (about $10), and I bit the hook.

Some would call her ugly, but I don't think so. I think she is actually quite cute. She has wild black hair that flies every which way, and bright eyes. She's crouched on two wooden skies, and a long nose and impish grin adorn her face. That is my troll.

Although I staunchly tried to name her Glinda, I have the distinct desire to call her Olga. Why would I want to call her by a name that I have never liked? The answer is quite simple: Dave Hansen. That's not simple? Well I shall explain.

Before we embarked upon our trip for Norway, Clyde asked Dave if there was anything that he wanted him to bring back for him. His only response was to bring him back "a little lass named Olga." He had no idea what kind of effect those words would have on our family. When Clyde told us the story, we thought it was all a great joke (especially since Olga isn't even a Norwegian name:), but then we began to look around us. Frequently we would see a native girl or a doll and wonder if that could be Olga. Could it be the one for Dave? We weren't really sure. In any case, we christened our faithful Toyota Caravelle "Blue Olga" just in case.

It was me that first came up with the theory that perhaps Olga could be a troll. I found one in the Trondheim mall and pointed her out to Clyde. Evil imaginings were provoked into action. The next day was our trip to the Arctic Circle, and there Clyde purchased Dave's bonnie lass: a wrinkled little lady, oblivious to her ugliness and admiring her mushrooms. The perfect match.

So that's my explanation. Who wouldn't feel compelled to name their troll Olga after a history such as this? I only hope Dave never reads this.

An indecisive choice

I am now going to explain my blog address. Perhaps you've been wondering where something like that came from (Clyde thinks I'm really weird because of it). Frankly, choosing a name was literal agony. For those who know me, decisiveness is not my constant quality--I can very much relate to someone like Melissa or Craig, who are famous for their indecision. Perhaps a dozen different names swam through my noggin, how empty it may be, and I could find very little that was satisfactory. Ideas varied from the odd "Pigpen" to the more eloquent "king'sdaughtervictorious." I was really suffering. Craig even tried to be helpful. He gave the suggestion dogsnot.blogspot.com. This quite tickled me, but tempted as I was, I didn't think I could quite stand going to a site named such for the next several months. Who wants their address named dogsnot anyway?

I was browsing in Encarta (our 2003 computer reference library that's abounding in knowledge) about quotes concerning the pen. I pondered on one quote by Sir Walter Scott, "I'll make thee famous by my pen, and glorious by my sword." I liked it, but having an address like "famousbymypen" sounds a bit too proud. Then I came to it. The quote by Miguel de Cervantes: "The pen is the tongue of the mind." Thus another idea was sprouted, and apparently that was the one that grew.

Forgotten

I now know what it's like to be forgotten. Today Diane and Jane Turner and I had a song ready for church. It was just a couple of hymns that we were going to play with our various instrumental abilities (meaning violins, flute, and piano). We'd practiced a bunch this past week, and we got together early before church and set up, practiced and everything. Mr. Hansen, who was going to have the service, was there and thanked us for doing this. Well what do you know he forgot all about us. He went through the entire service completely oblivious to the fact that we were almost on the edge of our seats wondering when he would call us up. And he never did. oops

Loosed from my chains

Okay. I'm actually doing it. I'm blogging--can you believe it? I first have a confession to make: I have not been fond of blogs. The reason is quite simple. Because of my family's internet protection thing I've not been able to access a single blog. Seriously, even as my friends have one by one gotten blogs I've been left alone in my own world of abandonment. Not quite. Though I did feel like the number of e-mails I received weren't quite as plentiful as they might have been had the person not been a possessor of a blog.
So there you have it. I have been bound in the chains of desertion and utter loneliness. Left alone in a dark cell, with a piece of cake that I am unable to attain because it lies just out of my grasp. That's what it has felt like to not have a blog, and so you can understand that is why I've not been particularly fond of them.
The fact remains, however, that I'm here. How so? My bonds have been loosed by none other than my dad, hero of heroes, who has somehow managed to change our internet protection just enough so that we can access and/or write blogs. With this, I've had a change of heart so that now I am a possessor of a blog, which I so recently secretly despised. Surprise surprise.:-)

My incredible occurences

So now I shall describe my life. To do so would be an utter impossibility. Interesting things aren't always popping my way all the time, I'm afraid. So until I come up with fascinating stories about my children, or wait till when my sister breaks her wrist, or rescue my mom's glasses from whirling down the depths of a toilet, or until my skirt gets caught in my bike, or I have an annoying dentist appointment, or I cry "You shall not pass!" to my cat, or I attend a CPR class, or I get angry at some anti-Bush madman, etc, etc, etc, I'll have to content myself with doodling along until something incredible happens to me. Hopefully you won't have to wait too long.

Yesterday was quite a day. It was extremely hot and sticky. I did my Friday cleaning with as much vigor as I could muster in the weather. I cleaned the kids' bathroom, cleaned my room, and vacuumed upstairs, downstairs, and THE stairs. Vacuuming is quite warm work. It can even be a work out, depending on how heavy the vacuum is. Who knows, maybe it'll be the next Olympic sport--it's recreational, and productive!

Anyway, about my day. When I was done, I hopped on my bike and went down to the ball field to go running. Ouch. I came back with nearly every inch of me bathed in perspiration. I was very much relieved when not long afterward my mom took me down to the lake for a dip. I'll tell ya, it was freezing! I was determined to get wet though, so I plunged bravely onward into the lakes cool depths. One dunk and I was definitely cooled down.:-) After a little while longer the lake actually began to feel quite nice.

That evening mom, Craig, and I left for my violin class in Peterborough. We got there, and the hall was very hot. Two huge fans bellowing out windstorms barely helped. There were the four other pupils of my teacher, all a good bit younger than me (perhaps two 7-year-olds, a 10 year-old, and a 11 year-old), and mostly in the Twinkle, Go tell Aunt Rhody stage. The rest of the people mostly included a few doting family members.

One annoying thing was that there was an older sister, about my age or a little older, that for the world of me reminded me of Katie Griffith. That's not the annoying thing. The annoying thing was that I felt like she kept staring at me. I can't stand being stared at by total strangers. It's one thing if they're little kids, but an older one really should know better. I did end up feeling kind of bad for her though because she was playing Go Tell Aunt Rhody with her sister on the piano and she messed up as she tried to start. Then she purposefully made up for it later by pounding out some amazing piece after the recital was over, I'm sure just to show that she could play.

I played my song with mom near the beginning, and I was glad to get it over with because it was the one I had to play from memory. Sure, the song was only from Suzuki book 2, but I was a bit worried about different counting and technique stuff that I was supposed to do. Later I played In Dreams with my teacher, Diana, and Craig (who was on the piano), then Ashokan Farewell, which is a beautiful, sad piece by Jay Ungar. Besides that I was pretty much either playing accompianment for students or just watching them play. Afterwards we stood around munching brownies or deliciously cool watermelon that different families had brought. I chatted some with a grandmother of one of the cute little girls (Ursula by name), and she poured oddly sincere flattery on me about my playing which made me feel warm and fuzzy.

With the class behind me, we drove on to stop for some of the Trinity graduation. Jess Mosher was graduatiing, as well as Dave H.'s postulate brother, and Mary Cramb (who few of you know, but she's a great Scotland fan and was graduating as valedictorian of her six person class).

With this all said and done, we went home to have a slightly belated Sabbath meeting. The evening was rounded out by rhubarb pie and Andy Griffith. Two very adequate complements I assure you.:-)