My mom was thirty-five years old when she had me. I was a surprise to our family, and the news of my mom’s pregnancy was apparently not especially welcome, as she and my dad did not have a very solid marriage.

When I was in my twenties I was blessed to have a short visit with the older woman who had been my parents’ next door neighbor when I was born. Her name was Ruby Greener, and she was also the first Sunday School teacher I ever had at the First Baptist Church of Covina. I vividly remember Mrs. Greener teaching a roomful of three and four year-olds how to sing “This Little Light of Mine” and how demonstrative she was when she whisked her cupped hand (bushel) away from her pointed index finger (her little light) and sang, “Hide it under a bushel? NO! I’m gonna let it shine!…”

Anyway, decades later an elderly Mrs. Greener told me that my mother had confided in her over the fence that separated their houses, and cried when she shared that she was pregnant. Mrs. Greener remembered my mother hanging laundry out to dry, and visiting with her on a sunny southern California winter day, and Mom weeping at the sorrows in her life. My brothers were fifteen and ten years old when I was born, and I think Mom thought she was done having children. Mrs. Greener told me that my mother looked at her desperately and cried, “If I only knew I was having a little girl I think I could bear this better!”

It made me sad to know that things were bad with my parents so early on. From my lofty perch now (the ripe old age of fifty-two) I can say without hesitation that I know what was at the bottom of my parents’ woes: selfishness. I am not trying to disparage them — they loved me and showed me over and over that they did. And I love and miss my mom and dad. But even though their troubles might have had other names to them (maybe workaholism, depression, anger, poor communication, mishandling of finances, pride, whatever) there had to be one bedrock problem contributing to all of it – selfishness. On both sides.

If ever there is tension in my own marriage I can trace it to selfishness in some way. If I love my husband unselfishly and he loves me unselfishly, things go well. When I start thinking it’s time for me to have my say or get my way, things deteriorate. I’m a very selfish person and being unselfish does not come easy for me, yet it makes me happier when I am. But I digress.

When I was little and asked my mom how I came to be, she smiled and said, “I prayed and asked God to give us a little girl.” I don’t doubt the truth of her answer. She may not have prayed for a third pregnancy, but I’m certain that once she realized a third child was coming, she did pray and ask God to give her a girl. And anyone who knew my mom would remember that she doted on me, dressed me fine, encouraged me, sacrificed for me and showed me in a zillion ways that she was glad I was her little girl.

I had Easter hats and ruffled socks and new patent leather shoes every year. I had ribbons in my hair (but no bangs, if she had anything to say about it, which she did) and ruffles on my blouses. I had pleated skirts and fur collars on my coats. My mother starched and ironed my dresses and put curlers in my hair for special occasions. I was tomboyish too, but my scrapbooks are filled with photos of me mostly all dressed up and smiling for the camera.

This photo was taken when I was nearly five years old, and it sat with two others in a trio of frames on my parents’ dresser in their bedroom. My mom took me to her hairdresser, Mabel, to have my hair done specifically for the photography session. The dress I wore was white and was topped with a lavender colored little cape with a fake carnation on it. The photographer tossed a ball at me and I caught it, and the twinkle in my eye from that shot made my mom choose that photo for one of the three that was in their room. Another photo was of me looking pensive, reading a Little Golden Book.

And this one is of me looking like Little Miss Priss.

My hair truly never looked like this again. I came home, threw off my dress and flowered cape, put on some shorts and a tee-shirt, and went off riding my two-wheeler with training wheels down our quiet neighborhood street. I had people to see, dogs to pet, books to read, and dirt to play in.

Now, every time I look at old photos (and I’m going through them slowly these days) I remember my mama, and how she prayed so earnestly that she would have a girl. And how once she saw that prayer was answered, she did everything in her power to make sure I was dressed and treated like one.

Did your mom ever take you to the beauty parlor or make you wear a purple cape?

A few years ago I drove with a group of friends to attend a Living Proof Live conference in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. It was such a wonderful weekend, and it was a privilege to be there with thousands of others who were gathered for essentially the same reason: to experience Jesus Christ. Some may have found Him in the worship, some came to hear His voice spoken over their circumstances in the Word, others may have come to see if He could really be who He claimed to be. That weekend in April the SAGs began memorizing scripture together, as we reminded ourselves that God is able to make all grace abound to us, so that in all things at all times, having all that we need, we would abound in every good work. (2 Corinthians 9:8)

One of the songs the worship team played deeply impacted each of the SAGs. I had heard it before, but never sung by Travis Cottrell and the LPL team, and never coupled with the hymn “The Solid Rock.” Each time “In Christ Alone” was sung that weekend, it was as if we all stood there riveted by the profound lyrics that encapsulate what it means to be a Christian…to be in Christ, to belong to Him, to rest in His love and power, to trust Him with this life and the next, to love Him. I realize that there are many people who only see of Christianity what imperfect Christians display. And I know I’m one of the Christians who has not adequately represented Christ to the world. My life may not have drawn many to Jesus.

But if you can take a few minutes to listen to this song and see the lyrics, you might sense what is so magnetic, so lovely, so amazing and magnificent about Him. I cannot get over the fact that somehow Jesus loves me and has taken me as His own. And He loves you too, and wants to be the Friend, the Father, the Comforter, the Deliverer, the One you have perhaps intensely needed in your life.

As we drove home from that weekend away, we listened to this song over and over in the car, letting its truth wash over us and into us. It became an anthem of sorts for The SAGs.

It never fails to make me stop whatever I’m doing and listen carefully to the words, letting them interrupt the idiot thoughts and frenetic activity of my little life; it usually makes me cry.

If the lyrics of this song are lies, then I’m receiving false comfort here on earth, and when I die, the worms will make dust of my body and that will be the end of me.

If what this song says is true, then every moment of every day means something, and when I die I will cease leaving here and cross over into living somewhere else.

I hope on that day that somehow my grandchildren will understand that I have not ceased to exist, but that I have just moved. And that I’ll be waiting for them, watching for them, cheering for them, to make their own individual and momentous decisions to be In Christ Alone.

“Hurt people hurt people, and blessed people bless people.”

Quoted by Amy Grant in an interview

Author unknown

“Dad, your eyebrows are growing down into your eyes. Let me help you with those. As a matter of fact, it’s such a nice evening…let’s go out on the back deck and I’ll give your hair a little trim too. Hmmmm, now how does this battery-powered trimmer work, exactly?”

“I’m getting it now…I think if I use my fingers to measure by, I can give you a nice, even haircut. Don’t fall asleep, Dad.”

“Wow, this thing really cuts close to the scalp in some places! Are you doing okay there Dad? Can you crack a smile to show me you’re still awake?”

“Okay, Dad, I think the trend for men’s sideburns has changed as of right now. I think the new look is going to be sideburns that are level with the tops of your ears. Just think Dad — you can lead the way for countless Minnesota men who want the newest look! Yes! I’m glad you’re happy about that, Dad.”

“Now maybe I can just even up the few little places that look a little choppy. Hold still, Dad. Ooops, maybe I should give you a tonsure. No sideburns and a haircut like a moth-eaten monk. You don’t mind, do you Dad? You’ve always been easy going and certainly never vain, and after all, hair grows back, right Dad?”

“Well, I think I may just take a little break here, Dad. I’ll sit down while you rest and we’ll consider what to do next. Maybe you should see Pete the barber and get that buzz cut that Mom always likes on you.”

“Mildred thinks you look terrific, Dad.”

If anyone reading this would like to make an appointment with Sara Barber, you can reach her at 1(800)MOTHCUT.

Have a great week,

Last night we were finally able to sleep with the bedroom windows open, because it was slightly cooler and there was a whisper of a breeze. Lately, these days have been hot and steamy, with not much cooling down after sunset, so when it’s like that we shut the five windows in our master bedroom space and turn on the window air conditioner. Then we sigh in relief as the Black Wraith of Hopelessness slinks out of the room while the artificially cooled air washes over us. Or at least I sigh in relief. I don’t think Michael knows about the Black Wraith of Hopelessness that occasionally hovers in the corner of our bedroom at night, behind the overstuffed black and cream plaid chair.

Sometime around three a.m. I awoke to an awful, sharp smell. Some of you might remember that over a year ago I lost my sense of smell (a condition called anosmia), then after several months a small portion of my olfactory capabilities were slowly restored. Thank you Lord! People ask now and then, “How is your nose doing?” and I usually tell them I think I have about 30% of my sense of smell back. In order to discern smells these days, something has to be right up against my nose or something has to smell horribly putrid. Last night I smelled a skunk, and it was as if he had taken aim at the window near my side of the bed. I considered getting up and closing all the windows and turning on the air conditioner, but instead pulled the sheet up over my nose and tried to go back to sleep. This morning the skunk odor is almost gone.

Last night Sharon and Chris and their three little ones stopped by to get some of their mail that is still coming to our house, even though in early June they moved into their own place 1.5 miles away. They have filed two change of address forms with the post office, but somehow a lot of their mail is slipping through the cracks and coming here. I always wondered where random things go when they “slip through the cracks” and apparently a goodly amount of it comes to our house. Due to yesterday’s heat, Chris and Sharon took the kids to one of the many swimming spots in our city, a fresh, deep pool that’s part of a small river that empties into Lake Superior. When my girls were little they swam there a lot in the summer.

Their new chocolate Lab puppy, Rosemary Ruth Rosenbaum (Rosie for short) took her first swim last evening, frantically pistoning her front paws and legs to stay afloat.

Sharon told me that when one of the kids recently asked for something, she replied, “Maybe later.” Then she heard Mr. McBoy whisper to one of his sisters, “When ladies say ‘maybe later’ it usually means no.” We laughed hard at that one. I’m so thankful for these days of having all of my grandchildren nearby.

Even though we just finished celebrating our 29th anniversary, Michael and I went out to lunch yesterday at The Olive Garden and spent the time discussing where we’ll go to celebrate our thirtieth anniversary next year. We want to decide on the place and the tour and the time of year, so we can put a deposit down and start slowly planning. Michael would like to see every country on the globe, especially China. I would like to see China too, but somehow I hadn’t envisioned pressing through throngs of people and wearing surgical masks to avoid air pollution while not being able to communicate with anyone, as possible memories of our anniversary trip. Thankfully Michael is flexible so we narrowed it down to either two weeks in Ireland and Scotland, or two weeks in Switzerland, Germany and Austria. As of this writing I think the latter has won out, and when we have time we’ll start looking at tour companies and tours. Do any of you have recommendations? I’d be so grateful to hear of any.

We love to get the soup and salad lunch at The Olive Garden. Michael gets the Zuppa Toscana soup with the spicy Italian sausage and the kale in it, and I like the Chicken Gnocchi with the bits of spinach and the grape-sized dumplings. After lunch we went grocery shopping and I found these.

Michael has a deep attachment to soup of any kind, and also dumplings, so I thought I’d search for a good gnocchi soup recipe and make it as soon as the weather cools down a little.

These days I’ve been craving summer things: freshly made salsa with tons of cilantro, my mother’s old six-ingredient gazpacho recipe, Swedish cucumbers with fresh dill, Spicy Grape Pasta Salad with triple the amount of ginger the recipe calls for, Ina Garten’s Panzanella, whole wheat pita sandwiches stuffed with salad and blue cheese and raw sunflower seeds, fresh blackberries and raspberries tossed together with a little yogurt, Miniature Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. That kind of summer fare. What do you like to eat in the summer?

I’ve also been seeing a mother deer and her twin fawns strolling in our neighborhood these days. They often walk in the same direction, single file, and I’m filled with delight when they show up while I’m working in my office. The mother walks at a fair pace and is cautious and watchful, but not what I’d call paranoid. I don’t care for paranoid deer, do you? I always say there’s nothing worse than a paranoid deer. Her two little children still have their white spots, and they follow along behind her one after the other, epitomizing the word gambol. They don’t quite trot or frisk – they gambol. I believe that’s the first time I’ve ever used that word. I grabbed my camera and went out on the front porch in my nightgown to get the best shot I could. You can click on the photo to enlarge it to see the little compulsive gambollers better.

Anyway, then after a few days of this little deer parade, the mother walked by again, but only one fawn followed her. This upset me very much and I went off to tell Michael about it and to see what he thought. It’s not hunting season in Minnesota (don’t even get me started about that) so what could have happened to the other twin? Michael wasn’t worried and said that the little deer could have simply been asleep somewhere and they would go back to him and all would be well. I wanted to believe him, but deep down inside I am dubious about the little twin just deciding he would stay home while the other two went out for a walk. I have other things on my mind these days, though, so can’t think about the deer today. I will think about the deer tomorrow. Maybe.

I am also paying a lot of attention to the calendar these days. In twenty-two days my beloved sister-in-law Christy and my darling niece Savannah (or are they my darling sister-in-law and my beloved niece?) are coming from Tennessee to visit us in Minnesota. I’m hoping they’ll like the third floor guest suite and that it won’t be terribly hot while they’re here. I’m trying to figure out what meals I’ll make, and just the right amount of sitting around time and driving to see a couple of spectacular sights time for their visit.

I have asked God to show me if it could possibly be in His will for me to go to England this fall to a retreat my friend Ember is leading at a beautiful place called Penhurst. She will speak on “Gospel simplicity — not just about shaking loose from the clutter that threatens to overwhelm our schedules and our homes, but about developing quietness in our hearts, finding spaciousness, clearing some of the baggage that fills up our souls and leaves less room for love and for real peace.” Doesn’t that sound amazing? It makes me yearn just to read that description again.

Ever in my mind is that this may be the last full year we spend in this house, as we are still planning to put it on the market next spring. We’re putting the final finishing touches on things and hoping that the right buyer will come along and love everything enough to make it theirs. One more Christmas here, one more Thanksgiving, one more winter…of course only God knows whether this house will even sell next year, but we prepare nonetheless.

The living room window area was never used as a window seat before we bought the house, and I’ve always thought the lovely filtered light streaming in called for a special place to curl up and read. This area is still in process, but this is what it looks like this sunny morning.

Here’s another photo taken a few days ago after some sweet grandbabies had been over. I took the photo from the stairs, looking through the posts in the banister.

One last living room project remains: a suitable fireplace mantel/surround. Through the door to the right is the office, and the window behind the window seat looks out on the front yard. The old waterfall hope chest belongs to Sara, something she inherited from her paternal grandmother when she died.

For inspiration, I always enjoy looking at the ideas at The Inspired Room – have you checked out Melissa’s site?

These are also days of summer Bible study. Eight cherished friends fill my den on Tuesday mornings as we discuss our week’s study of Beth Moore’s newest Breaking Free. To share about some of the things God is pressing on my heart through this study will require another post altogether, but for now I’ll just say that rarely is there a dry eye after watching the DVD, and I think we all feel the weight of blessing it is to study and pray together in freedom and great expectation.

Soon Michael and I will be driving to Rochester, MN for an orthopedic consultation at the Mayo Clinic. He tore his rotator cuff in February and since there are extenuating circumstances regarding a possible surgical shoulder repair, we decided to take advantage of the best medical care around. Kings and princes come to the Mayo for treatment….my handsome prince will too.

I spent seven hours last weekend climbing the paperwork Alps. What a good feeling to get so much done. I probably have three more hours to do this week, and then I’ll be able to see the summit.

These days the schnauzers bark at every movement outside our windows. There are black squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, deer, and woodpeckers enough in the yard to keep Edith and Mildred feeling useful. Bob Bennett sings on the house stereo system a song that brings peace and tears, “Jesus In Our Time.” Michael and his friend Carl are working on the Taj Mamichael in our back yard — an edifice they’re building that I wasn’t thrilled about. It will hold Michael’s four-wheeler, his snowmobile, the snow-blower, the lawn mower, and maybe even his boat. I am working on an article (for a small California newspaper) about my dad and his friendship with the late UCLA basketball coach John Wooden. Lately almost every day I make iced tea.

I am counting my blessings today and am depending on Jesus to make Himself known in new ways to me and my family.

That’s what’s going on these days….

A few weeks ago four-year old Vivienne spent the night at Grandpa and Grandma’s house. Oh, what a delightfully unusual child she is! She is feminine and sweet, imaginative and loving. We all comment that Vivie sometimes seems to live in another world of her own creation, because once in a while it takes a little beckoning to get her to come back to the here and now.

Anyway, in that candid way that children have and should not be faulted for, Vivie made an observation about me when she was over last. I was reaching high into a kitchen cabinet to get something, and she was across the room by the table and chairs, waiting for me. She tilted her head slightly in her Viviennesque way and said quietly and matter-of-factly: “Uhhh, Grandma…you have a big bottom.”

I smiled to myself and answered without missing a beat, “Yes, you’re right, Vivie. I do.”

Then after a few moments of deep thought she slowly said, “Uhhhh, I think that’s because Carolyn is your daughter.”

Carolyn is Vivie’s mama and my second child. And I had never before thought that it was Carolyn’s doing that I am shaped the way I am.

I am quite relieved to have been enlightened, though. Now when I look in the mirror and sigh, wondering when change in this part of my life will finally come, I comfort myself knowing it’s all Carolyn’s fault.

If I had my druthers…..

…I would spend a good many hours reading and studying, praying and writing, pondering and napping in a space like this…

…and the window beside the bed would open out over a view like this…

…and in the late afternoon Michael and I would sit down to this…

…and in the evening we would warm our toes by this…

…and for the first time in decades, when we first peered at the clock in the morning it would say
this…

….but that’s only if I had my druthers….

We have some ivy in our front yard that grows at the base of our chimney. It grows extremely fast. During one of my sleepless nights, instead of counting my respirations backward starting from the number seventy-three, I laid there and mentally calculated how fast this ivy grows. I know how fast it grows because I tear it down every fall, right to the ground. Then every spring it (here you can cue the theme music to Jaws) begins its relentless climb up the chimney once again, and in a little less than six months it grows over three stories high, which is roughly between one and two inches per day.

The ivy looks very quaint and is reminiscent of old, stately British manors, and most people comment on it favorably. But I have heard too many horror stories about what ivy can do if left unchecked. It can weasel its way through the mortar between bricks, if given enough years to work at it. It can grow underneath siding panels and get into the walls of one’s house. It can grow up a chimney and then when it finds the top, grow down into the chimney and come peeking out into your living room one morning while you’re sitting on your couch having coffee and reading the paper and say, “Good morning little darling! Here I am after all these years!” Except I have a feeling that if ivy could talk it wouldn’t be so cheerful. I think it would chuckle malevolently and hiss in a deep voice, “Well, what do you know, while you weren’t paying any attention, I’ve finally gained entry to your lovely little home, and now you’re going to live to regret it for the rest of your sad and tortured life……HAHAHAHAHAAAA!”

Anyway, here’s what the ivy on our chimney looks like as of this writing:

It’s almost halfway up. We still have all of July, August, September and October before I go outside one fine day and commence to bringing it to its knees. Or ankles. Or if I’m feeling powerful maybe I’ll bring this ivy to its toes. I’ll let you know in October.

Here’s another photo that sort of creeps me out a little bit. These photos enlarge if you click on them, so you’ll be able to clearly see how our quaint Mr. Ivy isn’t content to keep to the path and stay on the chimney. No. When he thinks (notice I’ve given him a male identity now – as I’m typing the threat has grown more pronounced in my mind and our ivy is no longer an it but a mister) I’m not looking, he starts growing toward the front porch, and slowly wends his way to the wooden porch ceiling:

Perhaps you can also see the remnants of Mr. Ivy’s attempts, years ago, to infiltrate the whole porch ceiling. This did not happen on my watch, but when the previous owners were living here. Look closely and you can see the little ivy suction cups left behind on the stone work and the ceiling. Mr. Ivy might have nothing to say about it when I decide each fall that he’s done with his creeping, but he certainly tries to leave enough of himself behind so that I don’t ever forget he’s been here.

Now, here’s a photo I took at the end of autumn, and you can see that the ivy grew all the way up to the top of the three+ story chimney, and then changed into beautiful breathtaking colors:

That’s why I don’t pull him out by the roots completely. Because kept in check, the ivy is lovely and delightful to look at, and adds charm to the house. But as soon as the last leaf falls and the Minnesota air turns chill enough to hint of coming snow flakes, these vines are coming down.

(I think a devotional could be done on this subject, likening ivy to the destructive habits and strongholds we allow in our lives. Sometimes we think those little dalliances are fairly innocuous and that we’ll just take care of them when they get a little out of hand. Sometimes sin even looks pretty and is pleasing to the eye. Where the analogy dies, however, is that with sin, we’re not supposed to just pull it down to the ground when it starts to take over our lives. We’re supposed to completely pull it out by the roots and be absolutely ruthless with it.)

Not only do I not want the ivy making its way under the siding, across the porch toward our front door, or crumbling the chimney mortar, but when I pull it down each year I tell myself I’m actively working to prevent our house from eventually looking like this:

Perhaps I should be so diligent in other areas of my life.

Twenty-nine years ago today I married a man I’d only met in person one time. 1981 was before the days of e-mail, so Michael and I carried on our courtship through many letters and phone calls over a three month period of time.

He asked me to marry him before we ever met — he told me we could make the plans and he would be fine with meeting right before the ceremony. I was pretty sure I wanted to say yes about marrying him, but I insisted we meet first, and I flew from Southern California to Northeastern Minnesota so we could see each other face to face.

During that short time I met his family, got a feel for how different life and culture was in Minnesota, gasped when I saw the beauty and vastness of Lake Superior, prayed for guidance, and felt like it was the right thing. I flew home, gave notice at my job at a large private investigating firm, gave thirty days’ notice at my apartment complex in The Big OC, broke the news to my sweet little girls (ages 4 and 2 1/2), and started packing our things.

Michael flew to California for our June 28th wedding so my family could meet him. Everyone approved. We were married in a small ceremony in Los Osos on the Central Coast, spent our wedding night in a motel on the beach in Cayucos, and departed the next morning for the long drive to what I would later come to wryly and affectionately call American Siberia.

He was thirty-two and I was twenty-three.

Any credit for almost three decades of marriage goes to Jesus and Michael. We loved and love each other deeply, but there is no way we could have made it without the love and power of the Lord, and without Michael’s steadfastness, faithfulness and patience with me. If you would like to read a short tribute and see a current photo of this brave man who rescued me from the certain disaster I would have made of my life without him, click right here. It’s worth the read.

So today I wish my husband a Happy 29th Anniversary. I shudder to think of what our lives would have been without you, Michael.

You’re still the one…

Last week I took my Maryland grandchildren, whom I will no longer be referring to as Maryland grandchildren because they’re now Minnesota grandchildren, just as all our other grandchildren are Minnesota grandchildren, on an outing.

First, I took them to the park. We live in a city that has an unbelievable 129 parks and/or playgrounds, and the one we visited isn’t the prettiest, woodsiest one, but it has been recently redone, so we went to check it out. All the playground equipment was shiny and new, and because this park’s new grand opening had been well-publicized, and also perhaps because this park is near the shore of Lake Superior, there were lots of people that day.

The thing I noticed right away was that there was no sand or dirt at this park. I’m a firm believer in living life as much as possible without letting sand or dirt interfere with your business, so I was impressed with the tiny bits of rubber tire pieces that were used all around the playground equipment.

It was spongy to walk on and would certainly provide much more cushion to a child who accidentally fell from a swing. The rain could wash the tire bits clean, local cats wouldn’t be as apt to make it their own…it got my vote for a good playground choice.

I thought I would be able to take Mr. McBoy, Mrs. Nisky and Little Gleegirl to the park, sit down with my Kindle and enjoy a few pages of Lisa See’s On Gold Mountain, while keeping my eye on how they were doing, but no. It was crowded enough that I felt like I’d suddenly turned into a grandmother owl as I tried to watch where each child was at all times.

I looked quickly to the left for the tall blond boy with the navy and red striped shirt – okay he’s on the monkey bars – where’s Little Gleegirl? – oh my gosh I don’t see her how did she get away so quickly? – oh thank God she’s over there coming out of that slide in the purple knit dress, now where’s Mrs. Nisky? – oh dear oh dear she’s climbing too high on that contraption with the steps and the rings and she seems a little scared – remember to look for the brown sundress with the pink flowers – “Watch your step Mrs. Nisky and hang on!” – and where is that purple dress now – oh maybe I shouldn’t have let her go over to that area by herself there are so many big kids over there – where is she I can’t see her oh dear Lord oh thank God there she is by the swings…

And so on. An owl, with my head revolving every which way at all times, keeping my eyes on those three grands in the midst of the noisy crowd of kids.

Here’s a photo of Little Gleegirl swinging (all photos can be enlarged by clicking on them):

And again on a different kind of swing:

And here’s soon-to-be-six Mrs. Nisky on a steel ring contraption you stand on and gasp and giggle while your grandma spins you around until you can hardly hang on anymore:

And this – an unusual, fairly high slide with no sides, so that going down requires that a tall adult reach up to hold your hand and run beside you while you’re whooshing down the curves:

After assisting in slide usage I realized I hadn’t seen Mr. McBoy in at least forty-six seconds and started to panic. I utilized my owl neck-and-head turning powers and thankfully saw him on a swing on the other side of the park:

I went over and pushed him for a while and by this time everyone was getting a little hot and thirsty. Our average summer temperature in this city is 74 degrees, but it was just over 80 on this day and a bit humid. So we trekked back to the parking lot where we had paid FIVE DOLLARS to park, and headed to Dunn Brothers, where they make wonderful smoothies.

We drove through and gave our order: four small strawberry smoothies, three with whipped cream on top, one without. Little Gleegirl wanted hers plain. They were so refreshing. We sipped on those while driving to a beautiful wooded cemetery in our city, the one where Michael and I will be buried, as a matter of fact. It has a couple of big ponds with many different kinds of ducks and geese, and one Great Blue Heron that I know of.

We had a package of hot dog buns, a package of hamburger buns, and one large loaf of bread with us. As soon as we drove to the back of the largest pond and parked under some trees, every feathered creature within a quarter mile radius stopped its leisurely swimming or waddling and looked up, peering at us intently. Then, as if on cue, they all ran as one to the car and surrounded us, quietly quacking and honking, and waiting for us to feed them. I decided not to get out since Little Gleegirl is three and probably wouldn’t want to learn yet how to fend off aggressive hissing geese. So instead we opened all our windows and from each of our four seats in the car we leisurely tore our stale and crumbly offerings into small pieces and gave the birds some lunch.

Sitting there in the shade with the breeze blowing through, we had the best time. All the kids immediately saw that there were greedy seagulls lurking and darting in front of the other birds (sky rats, Michael calls them), and they didn’t really want to feed them so much. They tried to aim their chunks of bread toward the many baby ducks and geese instead.

Here is Mr. McBoy watching as some Canada geese and their babies hang around, hoping for something to eat:

And the two girls watching the birds approach the car:

On my side, there were some very intense looking blue-eyed geese actually pecking the door, wanting me to feed them:

It would be hard to have a good, relaxed conversation with someone who looked at you like that when you were talking.

I preferred the little babies, who were actually close to moving out of their baby stage but who received the bulk of my bread, because they hadn’t learned to dash in for it themselves yet:

And here are some Canada goose goslings, clearly growing out of their little baby stage and closer to adulthood:

When I mentioned to the kids that these were goslings that were close to adulthood, eight year-old Mr. McBoy nodded and remarked knowledgeably: “Yes. They’re teenager geese.” And that’s exactly what they look like, don’t they?

We doled out the breadstuffs slowly so the enjoyment of the day would last longer, but after we were out of bread we headed home. The three children all leaned out of the car to say their goodbyes, and I got this shot of Mr. McBoy’s smile in the sideview mirror:

He looks like his daddy here, painted with his mama’s palette.

As we wound slowly around the roads in the cemetery, Mrs. Nisky asked from the back seat about the ancient looking headstones, “What do all of those say?” I told her they had the names of the people buried there, and the dates they were born and the dates they had died. I told her that someday Grandpa and Grandma would be buried here, and that our names would be put on stones above our graves too. After a few seconds in which she was obviously deep in thought, Mrs. Nisky asked, “And what date are you and Grandpa going to die on?”

I lightheartedly told her that only God knows when we will die, that He numbers our days and knows when the right time is for our lives here to end, and our lives in heaven to begin. And that hopefully it wouldn’t be for a long time. I thought to myself, I want to see teenager grandchildren, not just teenager geese.

That seemed to satisfy her and as we were driving out of the cemetery, three year-old Little Gleegirl piped up from her place in the backseat, “This has been a good day!”

I wholeheartedly agreed.

Take three wonderful grandchildren. Add swings, smoothies and geese. It’s really a delightful combination.