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.