Pebble in My Shoe

I’ve been wearing these most unusual shoes with springs in the heels, to help me recover from a heel spur. They look a tad like high-heeled athletic shoes and my hubby calls them my “Frankenstein shoes.”

Z-Coil athletic shoes

Z-Coil athletic shoes

I think they’re great, nonetheless. I have only one complaint: they pick up pebbles. The soles are grooved for traction and they seem to be a precise fit for the round pebbles in our driveway. I’ve carried so many little rocks into the house, before long we’re going to be compelled to order another truckload for outdoors.

When I walk across the floor, my pebbled sole makes a clicking sound. If I’m on a smooth surface, my foot slides. “Wait! I have a pebble in my shoe,” has become the word of the day—so much so, Daniel has suggested I write about it for Short Takes on Life.

What a cliché, I’m thinking. But maybe he has a new “take” on it, so I asked.

“Oh, it makes you limp; it’s hidden; it’s unwanted. You know.”

No, I did not know. Every life metaphor I could think of has been done and overdone. It’s like, “Walk a mile in my moccasins” or “A penny saved is a penny earned.” I don’t want to write about tired subjects! (Honestly, I don’t even want to think about them.)

Then I remembered a young man at the grocery store who didn’t know what oleo was, and my daughter who didn’t know her dad meant to encourage her when he said she was like the Ugly Duckling. There is a new generation coming on; perhaps they don’t know about the pebble in the shoe metaphor.

Edgar Allen Poe is falsely attributed as having written, “The past is a pebble in my shoe.” Whoever first said or wrote it was referring to living with a tiny annoyance in your life. These things from the past have to be dealt with or they can turn into grievous sores.

This little truism has been turned into poetry, song lyrics, book titles and more. It’s universal!

My pebbles are on the outside of my shoe. Does the metaphor still fit? Or should we revert to “a stitch in time saves nine” because I’m preventing an embarrassing and painful fall by promptly removing my pebbles?

I think my take on this incident is that we each one see life through our own filter. The resultant diversity is incredibly wonderful, as long as we stay aware of it. We cannot possibly ask another person to see things exactly as we do.

My husband sees my odd shoes as a hindrance; I see them as a help, although I do hope my need is temporary. Pebbles? Eh, a minor annoyance.

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THE RICH FAMILY IN CHURCH

Sharing something here I stumbled upon. I truly enjoyed the lesson and considered it a gem. Hope you do also: THE RICH FAMILY IN CHURCH.

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As Good as His Word

My husband and I recently were in the market for a cheap used car for our daughter. The key word here is “cheap,” and that made all the difference.

In the past, we’ve had great fun looking on the Internet for used cars. We’ve also had some success at finding great bargains, buying from individuals and selling our own good used cars, motorcycles and watercraft.

This was a different experience altogether. We were under a time constraint because she had no car. And we made ourselves a budget that included one year of insurance, plus the tag and inspection and doing any minor repairs or maintenance to get her rolling down the road. What were we thinking?

The marathon car hunt is over now and I realize we learned a lot about cars but even more about people. Used car salesmen have a bad reputation for good reason.

We tried to stay away from car dealers. Because they have overhead to pay, in addition to making a profit, their prices are inflated. We did talk to a few, though.

One of them tried so hard to sell us a bright orange Saturn, my husband got angry with him. “I told you I don’t know anything about Saturns, it’s not what we’re looking for and I don’t want to test drive it! What part of ‘NO’ do you not understand?”

The salesman gave him a business card and boldly told us, “Sorry I don’t have what you want. We get new trade-ins every day. Don’t be ashamed to give us a call.”

I felt sorry for the next one. Daniel was exasperated and suspicious before we got there. This poor guy started up a Mitsubishi we liked, the belt produced a deafening screech and he shut it off to look under the hood. When he tried to start the engine again, it wouldn’t turn over, though everything sounded normal. Resignedly, he said, “What else should I expect? Things have been going like this all day. Sorry, folks.”

As we drove away, I speculated, “Maybe it’s just out of gas,” and we laughed about it. Sure enough, he called the next morning to tell us that’s exactly what was wrong.

The metro areas are inundated with what they call “car flippers” who make a living buying and selling cars from their homes. Without the expense of a retail location, their prices are comparable to that of an individual selling his own car. Most of them are mechanics or body shop craftsmen. They have become consummate sales people, though, and will say almost anything to get you to go look at their cars.

After driving long distances to see “flawless” vehicles with oil leaks, smashed bumpers and flat tires, we became very stern interrogators of the sellers.

“How are the tires?” “Are there any warning lights on?” “Does it shift smoothly?” “Is the upholstery clean?” “Has it been wrecked?”

Over the phone, one guy told my husband, “I don’t think you want my car, sir. You sound awfully picky.” Another young man whose car had a brake light showing said he didn’t know it was what I meant by a warning light.

I wonder if these people also deceive the ones with whom they have personal relationships. Is their character corrupted by their trade? What a sad thought!

Let me tell you, if we ever find an honest car salesman, he or she will have a couple of loyal customers for life and we will shout their good reputation from the rooftops!

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A Cabinet Full of Words

Do you know there are adults who have such a limited vocabulary they can’t properly communicate? Like folks from a foreign land, they may understand a complex sentence but they cannot form one.

An acquaintance said her granddaughter “got mad” at her when she asked a question. I was there and that’s not what I saw, so I protested.

“I don’t think she was mad. She looked puzzled, like she didn’t understand at first. Maybe she was a little uncomfortable with what you asked her.”

My friend agreed wholeheartedly but then went on talking about the granddaughter “getting mad.”

This same lady often tells me someone lied to her when she means they accidentally gave her misinformation. She says a person is “smart” when “well-educated” or “clever” might better convey her meaning.

I happen to enjoy word-slinging. When I hear new expressions from the BBC newscaster, I can’t wait to look them up and try to incorporate them into my repertoire of words.

My late father-in-law used the word “copacetic” to mean “doing well.” I think it sounds nice and I now use it every chance I get. I also enjoy the sound of the word “sibilance.”

To me, Old English phrase-words like “nevertheless,” “howbeit” and “wherewithal” are fun. I enjoy “plethora” and “ubiquitous” to the point of overuse.

I recently visited some people in Louisiana and heard a new expression. We used a smart phone to locate a Denny’s restaurant and were headed there for brunch.

“Oh, they’ve been closed for a minute,” our friend said. “There’s another one nearby, though.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Well, I’m not sure. It’s a chain and I guess our city just wasn’t big enough for two of them.”

I chuckled. “Your expression—‘for a minute’—what do you mean when you say the restaurant has been closed for a minute? Is that a short while or a long time?”

“Oh.” She laughed with me. “It means a long time, Mizz Janet. Probably a year or two since Denny’s closed.”

So—having recently passed a one-year anniversary, I have been writing this blog for a minute!

I collect words like folks collect ceramic figurines or state spoons. I won’t be content until my cabinets are full of them!

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Alien on the Lawn

“Baby, come look! What is that on the lawn?” It wasn’t a plane or a UFO and it wasn’t Superman. It was a big brown bird, for sure, standing out in the middle of our spring grass.

Wild turkey hen on my grass

Wild turkey hen on my grass

We both thought it looked enough like a wild turkey, were we not in a city of three-quarter million, it might be a turkey. Surely it must be a big, ol’ vulture.

As we watched through the window, the bird walked closer. It was a wild turkey hen! It crossed the driveway and turned its eye toward us. I thought it was going to come right up the steps and ask for a drink.

“Where’s the camera? Take a picture! There are no batteries.” I shook the digital camera. “Where are the batteries?” I grabbed my cell phone and filmed a dramatically bad fifteen-second video of the moving brown speck against the green, whispering, “There’s a wild turkey on our lawn.”

My husband popped four batteries in the camera and brought it to me, since I was the one all agog, chasing the poor girl around the lawn, calling “Duck-DUCK!” in an inane attempt to reassure her.

(The sound wild turkeys make when they’re feeding peacefully—“Duck-DUCK”—only as if with a mouthful of water. I know the words but I can’t get the accent right.)

After I took my pictures and left the wild thing alone to nibble on the grass and get her bearings, I settled in to think about our interaction.

I was amazed; she was leery. I talked; she obviously misunderstood. I pursued; she kept her distance. I had a gazillion questions about how she landed in my lawn; she had questions she could not ask about how to survive in the city. I assumed my right to be here; she knew she was trespassing. I was bold; she was shy but incredibly brave.

This put me in mind of a conversation I once had at a Laundromat. A Mexican lady asked me something in Spanish.

No hablo Español.” I tried. “Hablo Englais?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Yo no speak Inglés.”

I knew “si” and she knew “yes.” “Machine” and “maquina” sounded similar. I figured out “lavar” meant wash when she rubbed her hands in a scrubbing motion and twisted her hips like an agitator. She had put her dinero in the maquina, it did not laver and I think she wanted to know how to get a refund. I pointed to a phone number on the wall.

Between the two of us, we had a pleasant argument about whether she should learn to speak English or I should learn Spanish. She had been in the country doce (twelve) years and ran an unofficial daycare in her home. I told her about the free ESL classes at the library.

Turkey walking up our driveway

Turkey walking up our driveway

I was curious and wanted to be helpful. We were both frustrated by our inability to communicate, as indicated by the occasional frown and, “No, no, no.” We both had questions.

The more I meet aliens on my lawn, the more I admire them. They are incredibly brave, intelligent and resourceful. I think most of them are just looking for an abundance of spring grass.

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Where There is Hope

When our family recently welcomed a new baby girl into the world, there was great hope and expectation this child will have a wonderful, happy, fulfilling life. Maybe she will even impact the world in a marvelous way. If there were not this hope, perhaps little Brooklyn would not even have been conceived.

When my grandson graduates from school this month, there is every hope he will go on to do great things, make a good living, invent, discover and find fulfillment.

When a couple makes their wedding vows, they have all expectation and hope they will be together until the end of life. If they thought there was any possibility of divorce or unhappiness in this union, why bother?

Mature adults are all jaded enough by life to realize not all dreams come true. If we’re kind, however, we’ll not mention the fact when life’s novices are bubbling over with enthusiasm about their latest project. If we’re optimists, we might even let ourselves catch the fever.

Hope is the basis of life. When a drowning man gives up hope, he gulps water. A person suffering critical illness or extreme mental duress will only live as long as she has hope of recovery.

During the Second World War, Anne Frank, hiding in an attic and fearing for her life, is Attitudesaid to have written in her diary, “Where there is hope, there is life.” This young girl, wise beyond her years, realized that hope was the only thing enabling her family to go on fighting the odds, day after day.

Often, when I scrawl my name on a greeting card, I’ll add the blessing, “Love, joy, peace and hope.” I mean it sincerely. Hope equals life, and if I wish you well, I wish for you hope.

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Tough Decision

Parsley decimated by a little green varmint

Parsley decimated by a little green varmint

No one in her right mind buys parsley plants. They are simply too easy to start from seed, right? Well, maybe not on a strip of land in north Texas, midst the USDA-designated “Grand Prairie,” where the soil is so alkaline as to resemble gray chalk. So I paid the price. It’s still cheaper than buying the cut parsley for $2.50 per recipe.

Like all my herbs, this one went into a clay pot full of beautiful store-bought loam. I watered and fertilized and Ms. Parsley promptly rewarded me with new, dark green leaves.

All sailed smoothly for a couple of weeks. Suddenly, the weather went all hot and dry, as spring in Texas is wont to do. I watered all the herbs but the parsley seemed particularly unhappy about it and began to turn yellow around the edges.

Investigating, I found two very large caterpillars making lunch of my investment. I knew their names immediately–Papilio polyxenes asterius (Stoll)–these were larvae with whom I had previously done business. The spiky green worms with black bands and yellow dots are the larvae stage of the black swallowtail butterfly.

The last time I planted parsley, the voracious consumers got the best of me and had completely defoliated the plants before I found them. I popped the chrysalises into a jar so I could see what emerged before deciding they were worthy of life.

Food or beauty?

Food or beauty?

How beautiful! Photos simply don’t capture the way sunlight makes the blue scales sparkle. I released the hatching butterflies, of course, and was glad I hadn’t squashed them out of existence in my irritation at losing my herbs.

This year the two worms are caught in the act and I have a decision to make. Do I want parsley or beauty?

Life is full of hard choices. Sometimes there isn’t a good way to go.

What do you think? Do I go buy another parsley plant before the garden center sells out? Or do I squash? Who lives–green plant or blue and black flutter-by varmint?

(Mature butterfly photograph from Wikipedia commons, by D. Gordon E. Robertson on this page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Black_Swallowtail,_male,_Ottawa.jpg)

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Yee-haw-ing

For a purveyor of words, nothing rings like publication. It’s a sort of affirmation that what we’re doing is pertinent enough for someone to read and maybe even give up hard-earned dollars for the privilege.

Yee-haw! I am excited to announce the existence of a book with my name in it. It’s a book of stories, a compilation of… Well, here’s the publisher’s blurb:

New anthology from G.IS.G Heavenly Publications:

SPIRITUAL AWAKENINGS

Stories of Praise and Redemption

Edited by Sara Saint John

The world is a hard place to live and no one gets out of it alive.

Between these pages, fiction stories and poems speak the truth of grief, pain, sin, and horror. Yet, despite that truth, the authors herein show us the blessing of hope. All we need do is let God take control.

Spiritual Awakenings was released in paperback May 10, 2013!

This will be available as an e-book on Amazon beginning June 3, 2013.

Spiritual Awakenings Book Cover Coming May 10, 2013!

Spiritual Awakenings Book Cover
Coming May 10, 2013!

My contribution to the anthology is a story called “Sister Jenny’s God.” It’s a fictionalized account of a true story my grandmother told of a woman miraculously healed of rabies, back when Oklahoma was still called Indian Territory.

Here’s a small taste:

Tom let out a low whistle. “Shucks, Miz Jenny, that’s bad luck! You alright?”

“Oh, I’m just fine.” Sister Jenny bent over her ample belly to put the hen in a cage. Then she wagged her wet finger at the burly teen. “You know there ain’t no such thing as luck, Tom. Your mama taught you better. ”

She dried her hands on her apron.  “Jesus watches over them that put their trust in him. The Lord be watchin’ over me. And just ‘cause he let the tempter come to lie, steal and destroy, that don’t mean I been having no bad luck.”

Tom grinned at her, then lowered his eyes and shook his head.

The screen door banged as Jenny clomped into the house. Tom waited in the dusty yard.

She came right back out, a bulging paper bag in each hand. She met Tom’s eyes as she offered him the parcels. “We all have trials and temptations, boy. Just some of us let the Lord help us with them.”

“If the Lord be helping, how come he lets bad things happen?” Tom’s eyes flashed dark. “How come he let my mama die? Left Ruby Lee without no one to raise her? Left Daddy so mean with hurt?”

Get your copy from Amazon HERE. Or eBook for Kindle reader HERE.

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Dance of the Hummingbirds

Black-chin

A male black-chinned hummer. When fully mature, he will sport iridescent blue or purple chin feathers!

They dance, flit, whiz and hover. The big one darts ferociously but the small one stands his ground at the feeder. These tiny birds make a person tired just watching them dance around their food. It seems as if they spend more time and energy picking fights than drinking nectar.

One might think if they weren’t so competitive, hummingbirds could survive on much less sugar. Perhaps if they didn’t scrap with one another, the little giants could live longer, raise more babies or more successfully fulfill the life purpose of hummingbirds.

I suppose they do right well, for all that. They seem to thrive from Central America to Canada and can make a hearty meal off a patch of clover. Dr. Leonard Perry at the University of Vermont says they have been known to live as long as twelve years.*

On this day in early April, north Texas is having a spell of weather, a setback hearkening to the winter we almost missed. It is chilly, drizzly and gray and the hummers are nowhere to be found. I miss their flashy show.

I will admit the dance is the primary reason I buy feeders, hang them, clean them and take the time to boil up sugary water all summer. Oh, I’m doing my part to help the birds but would I go to so much effort for the boring brown sparrows?

And if all that feisty dancing is what gets me to feed them, is it really wasted effort? Pretty smart little fellows, I think.

*

More hummer info at: http://westtexashummingbirds.com/information/species-accounts/black-chinned-hummingbird/

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Owies and Itchies

On an ordinary March afternoon in this land of sunshine just thirty-three degrees north of the equator, birds were singing special spring songs, and strong urges permeated the air.   The annual planting compulsion hit me and I started digging in the dirt. With my mind’s eye on a beautiful Jessamine at the garden center, I decided to build a new flower bed along the south side of the garage.

Last fall I bought a Bougainvillea vine, thinking it was an Oleander bush, and I’ve been babying it all winter, carrying it in on cold nights. It was blooming and I couldn’t wait to get it in the ground and out of my kitchen. I would put the yellow Jessamine and the pink Bougainvillea on opposite sides of the same wire arch. The Rosemary could come out of its crowded pot and sit in the middle. Doesn’t that sound lovely?

I dug a deep hole, backfilled it and tenderly tamped and mulched the vine while it scratched me viciously up to my elbows. (Funny that it didn’t have thorns when I bought it, disguising itself as an Oleander.) I planted the Rosemary and scooped a shovelful of grass to mark the home for the as-yet-to-be-obtained Jessamine.

As I watered the entire area to soften things up just a bit for the next day, I avoided the ants scurrying at one end of my new flower bed. Texas ants can be notably unpleasant!

The next morning, I repaired the holes a varmint had dug at the base of the two plants I’d set out. The beautiful Bougainvillea repaid me by adding two new scratches to my sore hands.

The third hole was much easier to dig, thanks to the overnight soak. It was dangerously close to the ant home, though. I knew they would have to be dealt with.

At the end of a long shovel handle, I felt confident enough to disturb the status quo. I scooped and the ants scurried. Hoping they’d simply go away, I flooded their home with the garden hose.

Three terrible Texas ants somehow found the top of my socks and put six stings on me before I could get to them. I wondered if they knew I was the one wreaking havoc on their home or if they simply stung whatever they came in contact with.

I made sure I didn’t have any more unwelcome crawlies on me but ant stings don’t hurt that much and I went about my business, cleaning up my tools and putting things away. An hour later, I had one more sting on my knee.

Ant stings itch and burn. Within hours, they blister. For days, they flare up, ooze and itch like mad. It wasn’t long before my ankles looked like I’d contracted a tropical disease.

Meantime, the Bougainvillea scratches scabbed over and my arms looked like I’d confronted a feral cat.

Between the owies and the itchies and a spell of cooler weather, the Jessamine waits yet at the garden center. The ants are happy in Texas.

Ant that stings; one of many!

Ant that stings; one of many!
Photo by April Nobile, on http://www.antweb.org

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