The Pens

Well, Vanrensalier has posted and boasted about his beautiful pen. To see the thing for yourself, visit Saint Austin’s Pub. Though I am sure his intentions were not unkind, his post had the effect of dismantling Alexandra’s sense of well being and contentment. When I clicked on the fateful link for Goldspot a new page opened up, and with it a new world. I never knew this before, but fountain pens can cost a fortune! I had an inexpensive one years ago and enjoyed it, but now this new world of on-line buying and one-click shopping told me that I must again have that particular kind of writing instrument. I could not rest until I did. Vanrensalier must not be the only one with a pen.

As you know, on the Internet, link leads to link and before you know it, all innocence is lost as previously unknown things present themselves and disturb one’s state of mind; things such as $400 pens and nib repair. Did you know that nibs can be repaired? Neither did I. Well, since being pulled down this link trail I have learned not only that it’s all about the nib, but that steel nibs can sell for $50 and 14k gold nibs for $100. That’s more than I want to pay for the entire pen…at least at the moment. You see, I have compulsive tendencies, something I inherited from my father, I think, and if I yield to the call of the pen I shall yield with abandon and immerse myself in the subject. Soon I will not be able to content myself with pens, but will buy leather journals to go with them. Leather is what goes with fountain pens, right? This means that I will have to begin actually writing. As I mentioned in another post, I don’t write, I type, but I’ve been trying to change that which means I have not only the temptation to purchase a pen, but the justification as well.

I fully intend to buy a good fountain pen (Vanrensalier must not be the only one to enjoy such a pleasure), but until I do, to content myself I have purchased a package of Pilot Varsity disposable fountain pens. The set of three comes with blue, black, and purple ink. They are pictured below with my moleskin journal, the only journal to open flat at any page. It was a gift.

 

These pens write well and for $8 I had little explaining to do to Alexander. Simple enjoyments have proven to be the best. Not only can they be enjoyed repeatedly but they have the benefit of offering the biggest value for the cost. As it turns out, I am enjoying my small collection of fountain pens probably a much as I would a luxury pen. Alexandra’s sense of contentment and well being is no longer dismantled. Nor do I begrudge Vanrensalier his beautiful but discontinued pen. Really, it does not take much to bring pleasure, nor should it, for if one cannot enjoy simple things, one cannot truly enjoy anything. Though I still intend to procure a good quality pen, I am reminded that godliness with contentment is still great gain. With contentment, all things can satisfy, but without it, nothing will no matter what the price tag.

 

Thanksgiving and the Rules

As you will remember if you read, “The Remodeling Project,” my husband and I have taken on remodeling a sort of sport or long-term adventure.  As of this last Thanksgiving we were four years into the project with no completion date in sight. One cannot set dates in years for which no calendars have been printed anyway. Just two years into the project we hired the Home Depot folks to come out and redo our kitchen. Cabinets were rearranged to make a larger and better work space and drawers were installed that actually slid in and out of their slots unhindered with no struggle or frustration on my part. The only difficulty created by these changes was the loss of our dining area. After two years of having no dining room table, all civility seemed to have disintegrated in our home as each family member, meal after meal, took his or her dinner plate to whatever convenient place could be found in which to consume food. Because of this, and to my dismay, a couple weeks before Thanksgiving my husband announced that we would not be home to enjoy our usual traditions. We would not have turkey, we would not have stuffing, and we would not have pie. Such a thing had never happened to me before. The rules simply did not allow for such a thing. Not having a table at which to sit is a mere inconvenience, but not being home on Thanksgiving was troubling. We would instead, I was told, spend the holiday at an amusement park. I admit that at first my resistance to this idea was high, but through willed resignation to my fate I came to accept it without whining, complaining, or taking up arms. My initial horror gave way to the anticipation of fun, and, I thought, we would certainly make more memories this way. Maybe we could break my beloved rule of being home on Thanksgiving just this once.

 

Leaving early in the morning and assuming that something would be open on Thanksgiving (this is America after all), we planned a breakfast stop a mere forty minutes into our jaunt.  Arriving at McDonald’s, I got out of the car to visit the mini-mart next door while my husband and children got into line in the drive-thru. Exiting the store upon the completion of my errand I walked over to the drive-thru’s exit where cars departed one at a time after what seemed like a long wait per vehicle.  I imagined disgruntled employees inside shuffling their feet, in no hurry to satisfy hungry customers, and wishing they didn’t have to work on Thanksgiving.  After waiting some time for my family round the corner, I began to wonder what had happened to them when they finally came into sight. Passing the pick-up window my husband was in a fit of laughter as I joined him in the car. I could see that he had no food, and though math has never been my strong suit, I can still add two and two; and so, concluding that the restaurant must be closed, I inquired into is laughter. I havenever thought hunger to be funny, especially my own since it makes me grouchy, but he’s the one with the sense of humor so I accept his judgment on these matters and try to see thing his way. The events at the drive-thruthat tickled his funny bone so much we later thought to be a sad commentary on American society, but because we proved to be just as warped as the other people waiting in line, we enjoyed the comedy and continued to laugh about it throughout the day. As each car pulled up to the order-kiosk-thing, it parked there for an unusually long amount of time until its driver came to the realization that nobody was home, the lights weren’t even on, the restaurant was closed. Each car then drove away, rounded the corner and continued their search for breakfast elsewhere while the next car in line, with its unsuspecting driver, parked in front of the order-kiosk-thing.  This drill repeated, car after car, and nobody bothered to warn the next person in line that the restaurant was closed. It was as though each person, after getting skunked thought, “If I got mine, why shouldn’t Schwartz get his?” And so, like the others, we too drove away in a continued search for breakfast. Later in the morning, I am happy to say, we were able to find an open McDonald’s. America had not let us down.

 

Previously I had been told that the best day to visit an amusement park is Thanksgiving because hardly anybody is there. Being something of a traditionalist I was not interested in this information as I intended to never put it to the test to find if it was true or not. I now have enough experience to tell you that it is only half true. Relative to summertime, hardly anybody visits an amusement park on Thanksgiving; however, relative to Thanksgiving, hardly anybody is in the park on a Monday in January, or even another weekday in March. I’ve tried both those days and they are far better days to visit an amusement park than Thanksgiving if you are interested on walking onto rides all day long without annoying, patience-testing lines to interfere with your fun. The downside to spending Thanksgiving at an amusement park, however, is a divided family. Some of my family likes thrill rides, and the others don’t; so while my husband took my teenage son on all the big roller coasters I took the two younger kids on the older, less heart-pounding rides which was a lot of fun even though I like roller coasters even more than my husband does.  On our third ride aboard the Grinder Gearworks that spins people round and around plastering them to a wall at a 45-degree angle something interesting finally happened. America may not have failed me earlier in the day but America was about to fail a Japanese tourist who might later have wished he had gone to Disneyland instead. Three teenage foreigners speaking what I assumed to be Japanese were behind us in line as we waited for our turn to get nauseous. Most rides lock seated passengers into a compartment with a series of protections such as a seatbelt and harness that goes over the shoulders that keeps a person’s head from rattling around too much but really just gives one a headache. The Grinder Gearworks is different in that riders stand in a slot of a large round roofless room with a token safety strap hooked across their waist. The strap doesn’t even touch most people and it doesn’t need to because the force of the spinning is enough to keep the machine’s victims pinned to the wall. It may even push brains to the backs of skulls but I’m not sure of this because everything was so fuzzy when I stepped of the ride. As I mentioned, people are supposed to stand.  I didn’t realize this before, but standing is a rule the ride operators take seriously and if you don’t stand you get kicked, booted, or otherwise thrown off the ride. Another thing I didn’t realize is that not all foreigners speak better English than we do.  As the ride began to pick up speed, one of the Japanese kids sat down, probably thinking the ride would be more fun that way, and as he did so, a loud voice came over a speaker saying that if he did not stand up the ride would stop and he would have to get off. Oblivious to the instructions given, the youth continued to sit while the voice repeated the warning. The riders opposite him, being of better character than the people in the McDonald’s drive through, shouted to him to stand up and made arm signals that could be understood in any language. Staring at them with a perplexed expression the boy continued to sit, and slowly, the ride came to a stop. Apparently thinking that the ride was over, he and his friends proceeded to leave while looking around themselves with looks of bewilderment as the other passengers remained where they were. Once the offenders had exited, the ride continued. The incident was a small one that left me feeling bad for the bewildered boy who clearly had no idea what was happening around him or why he and his friends, of all the riders, had to get off.  He probably has no idea, even to this day, what happened back there.  It reminded me though that everything has rules, even things requiring no training or skill; and rules have to be obeyed if we are truly to enjoy anything.

 

My beloved rule, as explained earlier, was that we must always be home on Thanksgiving. I could imagine nothing else and wanted nothing else. I realize now, looking back, that there is a higher rule to a day set aside for thanks than staying home and working harder than any other day of the year save Christmas. The rule happens to be thankfulness. And so, after hours of play and spending $75 on a lunch that included hamburgers, fries, and soda , a record cost for Thanksgiving dinner, we sat down to a non-traditional feast in an amusement park. I never would have chosen it myself but the rules turned out to be different than I thought they were. Even though we were not at home enjoying turkey, stuffing, and pie, we were feasting and we were thankful. As I imagined, we did make some good memories that day, and though it wasn’t our usual warm and cozy Thanksgiving experience, it was truly enjoyable and one of the many treasures we’ve collected along life’s way. For this I am Thankful.

The Marshmallow Incident

Always thinking creatively, my children never fail to amuse themselves.   My two younger children are not only creative, but they have also taken an interest in cooking.  Their skills have developed far beyond pouring hot water into a Styrofoam cup and waiting for the noodles to get soft.  For breakfast they can not only make toast but fry an egg to go with it.  They can cook oatmeal as well as follow the directions on the Hamburger Helper box to make dinner when their mom is busy.  Unlike their mom, they don’t burn it either.  They know how to make popcorn on the stove and a variety of sandwiches.  For dessert they can even follow a recipe and make cookies.  Gingersnaps were easy enough but Spritz proved a little tricky until they abandoned the uncooperative cookie press. Things moved along well after that and we soon enjoyed a sweet treat.  Being creative and adventuresome, they have even experimented with a few of their own recipes.  

Their latest adventure in cooking moved beyond the kitchen, into the back yard, and involved digging a hole.  To those of you who have read, The Seven Foot Hole to China, this may not be surprising.  You might even be thinking that these kids are learning the art of deep-pitting, but that will have to wait until a find a pig.  Remembering that I forbade them from lighting their pyre in the back yard two summers ago, they took safety precautions this time and dug a two feet deep hole to make their fire in; and to make extra sure that their plan went well, they did not tell me what they were doing.  Having built their fire, they then came into the house for marshmallows and forks.  Unnoticed, they returned to the back yard and got back to work.  Like Mrs. Tabitha Twitchet who unwisely turned her kittens out into the garden before tea, I was unaware of my children’s activities until my oldest son came inside and informed me his siblings were roasting marshmallows.  Their father, because he is a man, would have encouraged this activity.  But I am not a man.  I am a mom and no mom since Eve has wanted her children playing with fire.  I learned also that not only did they start a fire, but they were also roasting marshmallows with plastic forks.  Naturally, my imagination flared up and I was sure they would poison themselves with melted-plastic-toxic-marshmallows as well as burn themselves and the house to ashes.  Risking becoming an enemy of my children, I put a stop to it (using my prayer voice of course).

When my husband came home I told him of our narrow escape and he was delighted.  ”It’s great,” he said, “that the kids are so creative.  I would rather them do things like that than play video games.”   The vote was now four against one and I had the feeling I had just moved into “check”.  I had to admit that he was right and maybe, just maybe, I had quenched a good thing.  Apart from the fire, this is the sort of thing we have encouraged. Next time I think I will send out real forks…and maybe a fire extinguisher.

Because I Said So.

From the other room I just overheard my husband explain to my son that cats don’t like to get stepped on.  Why do some things need to be explained?  This reminds me of conversations (tiffs, spats, arguments) I’ve recently had with our other son whose store of knowledge exceeds his parent’s by the same great volume that other fifteen-year-old’s knowledge exceeds their parents’.  You get the picture.  It seems that whatever the issue, my logic just just isn’t up to par.  Any parent of a teenager knows that most conversations go something like this: “Why do I need to get dressed if I’m not going anywhere?”  Never thinking of a good answer such questions I respond something like, “Because you have to get dressed everyday.  That’s just the way it is.”  To this he might reply, “That’s not a reason.”  I then might hear that I refuse to discuss such questions because my logic can not match his.  That is probably true, but I’ve come to accept (and he must also) that I don’t need logic because I have authority.  Authority is the parent’s trump card, used universally by those unthanked and worn-down folk who financially support and morally guide the teenagers in their midst.  When all else fails, we pull out our final card and say, “Because I said so.”  That answer will have to suffice until they have kids of their own and put it into use for themselves.

A Good Conversation

Forgetful that Sunday School was cancelled on account of the Thanksgiving holiday which takes too many people out of town, I arrived at church today forty-five minutes early.  At first I was disappointed but quickly I realized I had the opportunity of a conversation with the priest; and as there are few things I like so well as a good conversation, my disappointment quickly turned to delight. 

We spoke of the Episcopal church, not so much of its current disaster (check the news), but of its rich history that helped to draw each of us to her years ago.  That would be seven for me and 50 for him.  We spoke briefly of church Fathers, ancient hymns, and our downward slide that began some thirty years ago.  We spoke also of my evangelical background.  As a fundamentalist I wasn’t given feast days, fast days or liturgy; but I was given a solid respect for the Bible and the expectation that one had better know its contents better than all other things. 

Coming into a church so rooted in history as the Episcopal Church is, I enjoyed the awareness, that now I was not just an evangelical, I was an evangelical with a past.  As happens with many of us when we arrive at a new place, a different idea, or a better time I dismissed, rejected or forgot much of what went before.  It is too easy to forget that where and who we are today is only a reality because of our past.  Yesterday’s experiences shape who we are today just as yesterday’s choices impact today’s circumstances.  This morning’s pleasant conversation resulted not only in a greater appreciation of where I am now, but also in a remembrance and a renewed appreciation of where I was prior to this. 

It may be a cliche to say that God works in mysterious ways, but He does.  None of us knows the completed story God is writing for us.  We can only watch Him work in our lives directing our steps, making use of our failures when we ignore his direction, and restoring us when our lives have become an indisputable disaster.  While we should neither glorify nor resent our history, we must remember what God has done in and through our past to make us the people we are today and will be tomorrow. We must also give thanks because if our lives are indeed a work of grace, then whatever has happened, God will use it to bring about a good result to the glory of God.

The Box

We’ve been going through a box of pictures.  This is the box of pictures, as in the only box we’ve accumulated through the years.  It seems our photo albums (all two or three of them) have been put into storage, and so going through the box with the help of my daughter, I’ve been putting together another album.

The thing that struck me the most while looking at these pictures is how young my kids were not so very long ago.  They were really, really, little at one time.  They were also happy.  I was blessed to look at these old pictures and see my children’s happy faces smiling back at me.  “Those were the good old days,” I thought.  Am I really old enough to have “good old days?”  I guess I am.

I thought about ten years in the future and what about today I will remember then, and what, perhaps, will be recalled only through the aid of photographs.  Will I remember our pressing trials?  Probably only vaguely.  Will I remember the strain of paying surprise bills, or of my frustration at throwing out a burnt dinner that was abandoned in the oven while I visited some other world?  I doubt it.  I will probably remember, though, the special sound of the smoke alarm (I’ll tell you the popcorn story sometime).  What I will remember is not the difficulty of paying for Christmas, but that there was Christmas…and Thanksgiving, and Easter, and all those glorious time-markers we value so highly.  I will remember the frustration of having teenagers but, rather than looking back with annoyance, I will remember the things kids do with humor.  After all, many times I have promised myself, “I’ll laugh about this one day.” I will not remember most of what I possessed, but I will remember the people I knew. 

Life creates many memories, most of which are worth keeping. Unfortunately, as my mind weakens with age and new things crowd out the old, I will lose some of those treasures.  But then, that’s what pictures are for and I had better take more of them because when I am an eccentric old woman I want to have a reminder of my “good old days.”

The Flood

I’m not sure what brings it on, but occasionally I suffer from fits of nostalgia.  During these episodes my mind roams throughout my history in search of memories to latch onto. 

My most recent memory of choice is pulled from my childhood files.  Growing up, my family lived on a farm along the Kings River.  To those who live in the region surrounding the St. Lawrence, my river was a mere stream, or maybe even a small trickle of water winding its way through  the farmland of the San Joaquin Valley.  But to me, it was The River; the only river I knew.  I have many fond memories of playing with my brothers in, at, and around it; and of lonely, contented walks up the river to the weir through which the water came rushing on its way to some other place.

One year my brothers and I had the good fortune of experiencing a flood.  I can not recall why the river got so high that year, though I’m sure I was told at the time, but the water covered  the wide, hilly, sandy area which I could sometimes imagine was a desert.  After days of playing in the newly risen river we got the idea of going boating.  Now, my father probably had his canoe at this time, but a real sailing vessel would not do.  Instead, we found an old horse trough, big enough for two and a couple of oars.  Amazingly, it floated.  To an eleven and nine year old, sailing in a horse trough was funner than any toy we might have received at Christmas. Though I clearly remember the fun of sailing, I do not recall big events that were happening in my imagination.  Perhaps we were sailing around the world, or perhaps we were on a war ship, or even the Dawn Treader.  Whatever our horse trough might have been in our world, we were captivated.

Countless, carefree hours were spent in this activity.  As an adult, it doesn’t sound like anything special; but making wondrous times out of simple, makeshift toys is part of the magic of childhood.  Maybe it’s also part the lost magic of adulthood. Perhaps I should let my boys dig a lake in the back yard so I can have a second round of fun. 

The Mom Song

You’ve got to like this woman. 

A Post-Modern Moment

I had the strangest experience recently.  I have never had a moment like this before, fortunately, and I hope this is not the begininning of a downward slide into confusion.  This is laughable, but the strange thing that happened was a stretch.  Yes, a simple stretch of the arms.  Perhaps it happened because in my absent gazing at the flickering candle light I was too entranced to be aware of anything else; but raising my arms to stretch, I tried to clasp my hands, only to learn they couldn’t find each other!  My confusion was momentary, but I was greatly struck by the realization of not knowing where my own hands were and not being able to do what should come so effortlessly. 

After my fingers were safely grasping one another I realized I had just had a post-modern moment.  That sense of lost uncertainty must be what it feels like to believe there is no true right or wrong, no real meaning in life except for what one puts into it themself, nothing more important than nurturing one’s fragile ego. 

I usually refer to such ideas as having both feet planted firmly in mid-air, but I suppose flailing feet and lost hands result in the same consequence in the end.  Good old American rugged individualism seems to have evolved into a softer but more self-conscious individualism that has extended the boundaries of personal autonomy to encompass realms of ethics and morality to the effect that each person creates his or her own set of values which must not be reproached by others.  This is is often accompanied by a sort of free-form, ecclectic spirituality that both borrows from various traditions of choice and creatively invents ideas of some kind of god.  All this results not in a knowledge of God, or of right and wrong, or even of self; but rather, in a muddled confusion.

I do not think, however, that people want to be confused.  I think they want solid ground on which to stand.  However, finding solid ground is problematic when one’s self is the standard for measuring the world around them.  The real problem to recovering rich soil on which to place our feet, I believe, is the disdain for restraint.  For example, when people speak of rights, the topic is often something that was forbidden in prior days.  When is the last time people clamored for the right to obey authoriy?  But authority is the stuff dirt is made of.  There really is a God and he really has written laws of right and wrong into the universe.  He really did create us and therefore has authority over us.  We really do have to live his way because it is his world.  And as it turns out, seeking God-fulfillment is more rewarding than seeking self-fulfiillment.  When we live unto God we find our feet firmly planted on solid ground.  We also enjoy the added benefit of knowing where our hands are.

The Mad Rush of Time

Time is the one commodity we seem never to have enough of.  In fact, our lives are sometimes measured by our shortage of it.  How many of us when asked, “How are you doing?” respond with, “Busy!” 

In an age where information is sent around the globe in seconds, work is done mainly by machine, and people routinely travel at speeds undreamed of in other centuries, one would think that we would have an abundance of time for leisure, relationships, and rest.  On the contrary, we are arguably the most enslaved generation of freemen ever to walk the earth.  Our backs are bowed under the tyranny of expectations other generations had not the luxury of facing. 

We work harder and faster to gain more, the obtaining of which pushes us further into debt causing us to stretch even farther and suffer the anxiety caused by overextended finances.  We submit to the many social pressures that at one time would have been viewed as leisure for the wealthy but are now viewed by many as inescapable necessities.  I think of mainly of children’s sports.  Many families commit to sports all year round and devote two to three afternoons a week and every weekend to the pursuit of their child’s participation in this social requirement.  And to think that Caesar only required a pinch of incense….

Apart from the countless (and costly) events we parents are required to sign our kids up for, our lives are also hijacked by our own set of social necessities that require full allegiance in return for acceptance or respectability or a place in “Who’s Who of the Pond,” whatever the agreement was when we pledged our soul to the good cause. 

I just wonder what possesses is to over-extend ourselves so far that the only thing we can say in response to a polite “How are you,” is, “Busy.”  Is it possible to cast off the demands of others and reel in our lives just a little bit?  Perhaps if we could, our answer would transform from “Busy” to “Satisfied.”  Satisfaction, after all, is not offered to us by the mad rush of time, but by the slow enjoyment of things worthwhile, by a job well done, and by the investment of ourselves in relationships with others and with God.