Hope may be the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and inspires you to do great things and moves you to soar as if you are but a spirit, but it is fear that keeps you from moving, that holds you in place, and reminds you that you are indeed human. I claim to be no expert on either of these, but perhaps some day I will have the wisdom and age to be able to understand at least one of these. Of late I have been racking up the experience hours in both of these departments.
Recently one of my friends was in a horrible car accident and miraculously survived. Unfortunately for a few hours I knew nothing and all anyone seemed to know was that she had gone to the hospital in an ambulance (University students knowledge of gossip is deplorably lacking). Consequently I spent many hours in prayer, pacing, being moody, and making a general nuisance of myself to anyone who would listen. Eventually I got enough of the story to find out she was alive and was recovering, but it took most of my resolve not to hop in Bennie and take off for Florida.
While I was in California we got a call from my two little brothers' college saying there was a gun man on campus and that all students should barricade themselves in whatever room they could. Naturally, a certain level of panic followed, which was only exacerbated by the fact that we could not get a hold of one of my brothers. Before I go any further I would like to point out that they immediately sent out a retraction phone call to everyone who had been called because it was sent in error. What had happened was that there was a threat against the school and everyone was supposed to keep their eyes open and report any suspicious activity. Just the same, none of us could get a hold of him. About an hour later he finally turned his phone back on and allayed our worst fears. He was in the chapel, praying, and like a good little Catholic boy he had turned his phone off. Part of me wishes more people could be like him but part of me wishes that he hadn't turned his phone off this particular day. He was quick to point out that there are worse places to die than praying in the chapel. I refuse to respond to his comment because that was one of the longest hours of my short life.
I'd like to say that almost losing these people (in my mind) has given me a whole new perspective on life, and that I now treasure everything so much more, but it hasn't, and that scares me worst of all. I still go on with my life dictated by fear. I'm afraid to do something for fear that I will do it wrong. I'm afraid to not try because maybe I'll do something right. I still recall those hours with anger and sadness and I fully admit that I'm still a little afraid. I'm afraid of what could've happened. I'm afraid of what might happen. I'm afraid of what will happen, that eventually everyone I love will have to say good-bye. And yet, I still hope. I spend much of my time hoping. I hope that if someone I love goes I will be able to accept it and appreciate it for God's divine will. I hope that if I am taken that I am ready to go and that I have lived as I should have. I hope that if my life or the life of someone I love is ever endangered and there is something I could do about it, I have the courage to do what is necessary and not beat myself up about it afterwards. I hope that I will do as God desires me to and that if I get to heaven I am not alone in there and that God forgives me for every single time I let fear hold me back.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
The Eldest
Those that have met my immediate family would say that we are close, and it is true, we are. My parents were blessed with five biological children and fostered five more but what few people know is that my parents had another baby that no one has ever met. As children in school we were frequently asked to draw family portraits. I always enjoyed this activity because everyone else might have a brother or sister, dog or cat, mom and dad, maybe even a step mom and dad, but I was always the only one in the classroom with an angel.
On April 27th, 1985 my parents were joined in holy matrimony. A few months later they became pregnant and on April 19th, 1986 they were blessed with their first born. She weighed six pounds some odd ounces and was two months early. When she was born my family went to the moon and back. My parents (whose courtship was long and tedious for all parties) finally had a child of their own and my maternal grandparents had their first grandchild. My paternal grandparents had other grandchildren but this was the first by their youngest son and they were very happy too. Sadly the precious gift that God had given them was not theirs to keep.
With a sorrowful face the doctor who helped bring her into this world sadly informed my parents that she was no long to be in it. An early term illness that my mother had acquired visiting relatives had damaged the baby's heart and the decree was that she would not live long enough to take her home. Pausing only long enough for the terrible news to sink in, my Father asked for her to be baptized. The on hand nurse had already looked at the charts and had seen that my parents were Catholic. Without pausing she did an emergency baptism then and there. She was named for my parents favorite saint, Jean Marie Vianney. My Father, unknowing what the nurse had done, did an emergency baptism as well. My great uncle, Father Barnabas, arrived shortly after that and baptised her as well. Now, I know that only the first baptism counts, but just in case one of them did not count, we are quite certain that at least one must have worked.
A few short hours later Jeanne Marie, not meant for this world, passed from my parents arms into God's. This concludes the tragically short, but very exciting life of my only big sister. I have to add what happened next or my Mother will kill me for leaving out the happy ending. The doctor who delivered Jeanne Marie told my parents that they would never give birth to a child who would live. Not a year later he went on to deliver a healthy baby boy, my brother Danny. A year and half later I was born with the same doctor. After that he retired and my Mother went on to have John-Paul, Robert, and Elizabeth. I have often wondered, and then wanted, to meet that doctor and ask how it feels to be to be so wrong?
My mother says that without sorrow one cannot experience true joy and that losing Jeanne Marie made her love all of us so much more. So every April 19th my Father tries to do something nice for all of us. As happy as he is with all of us, he still writes letters to my first sister. When my younger sister was ten, he read us a letter he had written to Jeanne Marie a month after we found out my Mother was pregnant with Elizabeth. He told her that he thinks of her often, especially in the Spring, and that even though he loves the rest of us, she will always be his first child, his first love. He wrote that he knows she is in heaven and watching down on us and looking out for all of us from up there. He asked her for another girl because he felt that his first child had been a little girl, so maybe his last should be as well. I wrote a song about it once (my Dad hated it) but somehow I know that she likes it.
You would think that my Mother would be sad too but she never shows it. Every year on April 19th she does, well, she does what she does every day of the year. She loves us unconditionally and tells us that she is proud of us. Sometimes, when we get sad, she tells us about the sister that we never had the privilege of meeting, but to hear her tell it, the story is an adventure and it always end with the joy of God's plan. She does not call it Jeanne Marie's birthday, but rather her feast day. She tells us that this is the day we remember that one of children has already made it to heaven and that we have a patron saint who is watching out for us. Some day I hope to meet my sister, but not for a very long time. Maybe someday, if I ever have children, I will understand how difficult it was for my parents, but for now I raise a glass to her twenty-fifth feast and instead choose to celebrate life.
On April 27th, 1985 my parents were joined in holy matrimony. A few months later they became pregnant and on April 19th, 1986 they were blessed with their first born. She weighed six pounds some odd ounces and was two months early. When she was born my family went to the moon and back. My parents (whose courtship was long and tedious for all parties) finally had a child of their own and my maternal grandparents had their first grandchild. My paternal grandparents had other grandchildren but this was the first by their youngest son and they were very happy too. Sadly the precious gift that God had given them was not theirs to keep.
With a sorrowful face the doctor who helped bring her into this world sadly informed my parents that she was no long to be in it. An early term illness that my mother had acquired visiting relatives had damaged the baby's heart and the decree was that she would not live long enough to take her home. Pausing only long enough for the terrible news to sink in, my Father asked for her to be baptized. The on hand nurse had already looked at the charts and had seen that my parents were Catholic. Without pausing she did an emergency baptism then and there. She was named for my parents favorite saint, Jean Marie Vianney. My Father, unknowing what the nurse had done, did an emergency baptism as well. My great uncle, Father Barnabas, arrived shortly after that and baptised her as well. Now, I know that only the first baptism counts, but just in case one of them did not count, we are quite certain that at least one must have worked.
A few short hours later Jeanne Marie, not meant for this world, passed from my parents arms into God's. This concludes the tragically short, but very exciting life of my only big sister. I have to add what happened next or my Mother will kill me for leaving out the happy ending. The doctor who delivered Jeanne Marie told my parents that they would never give birth to a child who would live. Not a year later he went on to deliver a healthy baby boy, my brother Danny. A year and half later I was born with the same doctor. After that he retired and my Mother went on to have John-Paul, Robert, and Elizabeth. I have often wondered, and then wanted, to meet that doctor and ask how it feels to be to be so wrong?
My mother says that without sorrow one cannot experience true joy and that losing Jeanne Marie made her love all of us so much more. So every April 19th my Father tries to do something nice for all of us. As happy as he is with all of us, he still writes letters to my first sister. When my younger sister was ten, he read us a letter he had written to Jeanne Marie a month after we found out my Mother was pregnant with Elizabeth. He told her that he thinks of her often, especially in the Spring, and that even though he loves the rest of us, she will always be his first child, his first love. He wrote that he knows she is in heaven and watching down on us and looking out for all of us from up there. He asked her for another girl because he felt that his first child had been a little girl, so maybe his last should be as well. I wrote a song about it once (my Dad hated it) but somehow I know that she likes it.
You would think that my Mother would be sad too but she never shows it. Every year on April 19th she does, well, she does what she does every day of the year. She loves us unconditionally and tells us that she is proud of us. Sometimes, when we get sad, she tells us about the sister that we never had the privilege of meeting, but to hear her tell it, the story is an adventure and it always end with the joy of God's plan. She does not call it Jeanne Marie's birthday, but rather her feast day. She tells us that this is the day we remember that one of children has already made it to heaven and that we have a patron saint who is watching out for us. Some day I hope to meet my sister, but not for a very long time. Maybe someday, if I ever have children, I will understand how difficult it was for my parents, but for now I raise a glass to her twenty-fifth feast and instead choose to celebrate life.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
My life as an adult
There are few things in my life as an adult that I can really say that I am proud of. Last night definately makes it in the top ten favorite things ever. Some of my friends (okay, the CWC) have created what we have called "Punk the World" sessions. What did we do? Dressed up like Nintendo characters and went go karting. Katrina was Toad, Lauren was Toadette, Cissy was Mario, Jacob was Luigi, Kevin was Donkey Kong, Sasha was Princess Peach, and I was Yoshi. Bathe in our awesomeness.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
The Gabbielady Attempts to Cook
Now most of you who know me know that happiness for me is when someone else does the cooking. I come from a long line of bad cooks on one side and a long line of amazing cooks who refuse to go into the kitchen on the other side. I am going to say that I am very talented but I still haven't figured out which side I take after. Due to the nature of my life now I am forced into the kitchen on a semi daily basis. This works well and dandy when the only thing I'm cooking are quesadillas and hard boiled eggs, but God insists upon me taking the role of comic relief. He does this by pushing me out of my comfort zone and into the kitchen.
This week I made Zucchini bread, banana bread, sweet mustard beef, and my favorite, pesto. I have managed to screw up all of them. Being an Anne, of course I messed them up beautifully in different ways, so at least I'm learning and not making the same mistake twice.
I jokingly tell people that nothing could be worse than the time that I killed Mrs. Fleischman's yeast. Mrs. Fleischman is the mother of one of my favorite college roommates and sometimes on long weekends we would go home with Abby because she was the only one of us who had family who lived in the state. On one such weekend Mrs. Fleischman invited me to enter the sacred of her kitchen to help her make bagels. I was in charge of adding the ingredients while she puttered around making dinner. Did you know that salt comes out in a rush if you are not careful? Well I didn't. Poor Mrs. Fleischman could not for the life of her figure out why her perfect bagels were not rising and instead were doing their best impression of a sat upon pancake. After some research and various repetitions of what I had added we discovered her mistake- namely, it was her fault for letting me help. The bagels/pancakes were my fault because I added too much salt which killed the yeast which made it so the dough would not rise which resulted in me being flung from the kitchen while she fixed the dough. Then she graciously allowed me to return and destroy her bagels further. Did you know that bagels are supposed to be round? And they're supposed to have holes in them? Somehow I knew this but I think it didn't work so well because none of my bagels were round or had holes in them. They looked more like scares with random pokey marks in the tops of them. Her bagels were perfect. In case I had not done enough damage she then had me put toppings on them- you know sesame seeds, poppy seeds, garlic, etc. Well guess who managed to poor an entire case of sesame seeds into the pan, almost hiding the bagels. For the record, this saintly woman did have a lapse of judgement again, and again, every time I came to visit. She would let me "help" her (or desecrate her kitchen) and then would dutifully fix my mistakes while I stood shamefacedly as far away from it as I could manage while remaining in Florida.
Anyways, like I said, nothing could be worse than that time, but believe me when I say that I've come close this week. When I made zucchini bread (with directions set out in front of me) I misread "tsp" for "tbs". Did you know that there is a significant difference between two teaspoons and two tablespoons? Especially when it's salt? Unfortunately no one caught this particular mistake until long after it was done cooking. Consequently my zucchini bread which is supposed to be sweet, tastes like I used salt water instead of regular water. My only thought is that most of it's been eaten (thankfully as it appears to get saltier with age) and that if you put enough jam on the bread you can't REALLY taste it.
Then I made banana bread. I cannot take full credit for this one as no one warned me that we do not have standard size bread pans. Consequently they take longer to cook. So I kept on adding ten minutes to the cook time, and then adding ten more and then ten more. I did this for at least forty minutes and then I thought for SURE it must be done by NOW. I was wrong. Now we have to toast the banana bread to make sure it's not half cooked in the center. As I said before, I am so very talented.
This morning while making the sweet mustard beef, my tongs slipped and I now have a rather large blood blister on my ring finger that make me feel squeamish. I am one of those people that as long as I don't see it, you can poke me, prod me, slice me and dice me. Describe it to your heart's content, while I'm eating, and I will not care, but God help you if I see it. Consequently this blood blister is running me through the ringer because it hurts, and me being the ADD person that I am I keep on thinking, why does my finger hurt? Oh yes, because there's this giant red thing on my hand, pulsating blood just under the surface. blech. Have I mentioned I am still suffering the effects from a migraine I acquired late last night? The rest of my recipe seems to be turning out reasonably well, other than the fact that it has a great deal of molasses in it (yuck) and I seem to have run out of it. Ah well, I'm hoping that this works.
As to the pesto I am making, well, it's not quite done, so I'm praying that maybe, just maybe, this one might turn out alright. Pesto is one of my favorite foods, along with anything with basil in it. Just the same I have managed to ruin basil before and killed several plants in the process. Some days I think my garden would be better off if I were not the one gardening it. Just the same, at least once a week I go out and sit with my basil and croon to it, "Good basil plants. You're so beautiful. Someday you will grow big and strong and if you're really lucky you'll become pesto." It was only after someone caught me at it that I realized that this might not be the best incentive to the basil to grow "big and strong."
Dear God, I know that this life you have given me is really just one big adventure and everything I have is a gift from You, but please, please let me not ruin the pesto. I don't know if the basil plants will ever forgive me for letting them down. Let me not desecrate another one of my favorite foods. Amen. Sincerely, The Gabbie Lady
This week I made Zucchini bread, banana bread, sweet mustard beef, and my favorite, pesto. I have managed to screw up all of them. Being an Anne, of course I messed them up beautifully in different ways, so at least I'm learning and not making the same mistake twice.
I jokingly tell people that nothing could be worse than the time that I killed Mrs. Fleischman's yeast. Mrs. Fleischman is the mother of one of my favorite college roommates and sometimes on long weekends we would go home with Abby because she was the only one of us who had family who lived in the state. On one such weekend Mrs. Fleischman invited me to enter the sacred of her kitchen to help her make bagels. I was in charge of adding the ingredients while she puttered around making dinner. Did you know that salt comes out in a rush if you are not careful? Well I didn't. Poor Mrs. Fleischman could not for the life of her figure out why her perfect bagels were not rising and instead were doing their best impression of a sat upon pancake. After some research and various repetitions of what I had added we discovered her mistake- namely, it was her fault for letting me help. The bagels/pancakes were my fault because I added too much salt which killed the yeast which made it so the dough would not rise which resulted in me being flung from the kitchen while she fixed the dough. Then she graciously allowed me to return and destroy her bagels further. Did you know that bagels are supposed to be round? And they're supposed to have holes in them? Somehow I knew this but I think it didn't work so well because none of my bagels were round or had holes in them. They looked more like scares with random pokey marks in the tops of them. Her bagels were perfect. In case I had not done enough damage she then had me put toppings on them- you know sesame seeds, poppy seeds, garlic, etc. Well guess who managed to poor an entire case of sesame seeds into the pan, almost hiding the bagels. For the record, this saintly woman did have a lapse of judgement again, and again, every time I came to visit. She would let me "help" her (or desecrate her kitchen) and then would dutifully fix my mistakes while I stood shamefacedly as far away from it as I could manage while remaining in Florida.
Anyways, like I said, nothing could be worse than that time, but believe me when I say that I've come close this week. When I made zucchini bread (with directions set out in front of me) I misread "tsp" for "tbs". Did you know that there is a significant difference between two teaspoons and two tablespoons? Especially when it's salt? Unfortunately no one caught this particular mistake until long after it was done cooking. Consequently my zucchini bread which is supposed to be sweet, tastes like I used salt water instead of regular water. My only thought is that most of it's been eaten (thankfully as it appears to get saltier with age) and that if you put enough jam on the bread you can't REALLY taste it.
Then I made banana bread. I cannot take full credit for this one as no one warned me that we do not have standard size bread pans. Consequently they take longer to cook. So I kept on adding ten minutes to the cook time, and then adding ten more and then ten more. I did this for at least forty minutes and then I thought for SURE it must be done by NOW. I was wrong. Now we have to toast the banana bread to make sure it's not half cooked in the center. As I said before, I am so very talented.
This morning while making the sweet mustard beef, my tongs slipped and I now have a rather large blood blister on my ring finger that make me feel squeamish. I am one of those people that as long as I don't see it, you can poke me, prod me, slice me and dice me. Describe it to your heart's content, while I'm eating, and I will not care, but God help you if I see it. Consequently this blood blister is running me through the ringer because it hurts, and me being the ADD person that I am I keep on thinking, why does my finger hurt? Oh yes, because there's this giant red thing on my hand, pulsating blood just under the surface. blech. Have I mentioned I am still suffering the effects from a migraine I acquired late last night? The rest of my recipe seems to be turning out reasonably well, other than the fact that it has a great deal of molasses in it (yuck) and I seem to have run out of it. Ah well, I'm hoping that this works.
As to the pesto I am making, well, it's not quite done, so I'm praying that maybe, just maybe, this one might turn out alright. Pesto is one of my favorite foods, along with anything with basil in it. Just the same I have managed to ruin basil before and killed several plants in the process. Some days I think my garden would be better off if I were not the one gardening it. Just the same, at least once a week I go out and sit with my basil and croon to it, "Good basil plants. You're so beautiful. Someday you will grow big and strong and if you're really lucky you'll become pesto." It was only after someone caught me at it that I realized that this might not be the best incentive to the basil to grow "big and strong."
Dear God, I know that this life you have given me is really just one big adventure and everything I have is a gift from You, but please, please let me not ruin the pesto. I don't know if the basil plants will ever forgive me for letting them down. Let me not desecrate another one of my favorite foods. Amen. Sincerely, The Gabbie Lady
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Sir John
When my Mother was pregnant with my second brother she went to my grandfather and said, "Sir, they say it's a boy. What shall I name him?" At least according to the version of the story that she tells he replied with a smile and said, "Name him John." Apparently a few of my aunts had the same idea. Consequently I grew up in a family either blessed or plagued with "Johns". I have a brother named John-Paul, cousins named Jonathan, Jonah, and Joseph, and they are all named after my Grandfather, John. True, most of them aren't perfect "Johns" but that's because my aunts and mother are all trying to cleverly name their sons after Pop without actually taking "the name" we hope to reserve for my Uncle Johnny to someday use if he should ever have a son. Either way, between all the boys named John and all the men named John and them all coming from Pop who can also be known as John, you might understand why many of us took to just calling him "Sir."
Now that I've explained the name allow me to speak on the topic of the man and perhaps I may explain why his daughters think so very highly of him. My Grandfather, fondly known as Pop, respectfully known as Sir, was born in New York (gratefully he does not speak with any accent) to Irish immigrants. As a young man he attended the California Institute for Technology, the only real challenge to MIT, and then was a paratrooper in the Army. He wrapped his motorcycle and himself around a tree and consequently has a great deal of metal in his leg. At the age of 21 he stopped smoking (which he claims is the best thing he ever did for himself) and promised never to drink hard liquor again- beer and wine do not count. He married his high school girlfriend and had four children. After she died he married my grandmother (who had four children at the time) and together they had two more children, equating to the amazing number of ten children. In his spare time he worked on the Apollo missions, building the rockets. At every wedding he makes the same toast, "May all your problems be little ones."
When his first grandchild was born he said he was too young to be "Grandpa" and declined the title. Instead he adopted the name of "Pop."
He has battled cancer three times (and won all of them) and had numerous diseases where he was told that he would not make it. Some of his less cautious female progeny question whether Oscar Wilde based The Picture of Dorian Gray upon him. All of his stories are entertaining but most of them I have to question the reliability of the source. HHe is an excelent cook and his taste is second to none. Among his favorite songs are such titles as The Battle Hymn of the Republic, Oh Danny Boy, and The War Requiem. When he walks into a room everyone turns and listens to him. His presence demands respect. He is one of the most demanding and generous men I have ever known and he always answers his wife with "Yes dear."
Since he retired he likes to cook, spoil his children and grandchildren, embarass his granddaughters, and globe trot.
I'm writing this largely because he just visited with my grandmother. Perhaps this description will explain why for the longest time I thought that my grandfather and John Wayne were one in the same. It made perfect sense- they're both first generation Irish men. They both can scare the living daylights out of you. They both have a sort of classic cowboy image. They both have really great one liners. Everyone is drawn to their presence. And most importantly in every shot they are always the hero. He has been informed by three generations of his descendants that he is not allowed to die , but being the stubborn man that he is, he refuses.
Pop says that of all his accomplishments (and he has a great many) he is most proud of his children and his grandchildren. He says that Nana prays for a just God because she deserves heaven. Pop says he prays for a merciful God because he knows what he's done wrong in this life. He says that in this life we are all stewards and that all the gifts we have come from God. At days end we will be asked what we did with our gifts. I've never asked him but he doesn't appear to be worried. Looking at the family that he created (32 grandchildren, 10 children, and nine children-in-law) I wouldn't be either.
Now that I've explained the name allow me to speak on the topic of the man and perhaps I may explain why his daughters think so very highly of him. My Grandfather, fondly known as Pop, respectfully known as Sir, was born in New York (gratefully he does not speak with any accent) to Irish immigrants. As a young man he attended the California Institute for Technology, the only real challenge to MIT, and then was a paratrooper in the Army. He wrapped his motorcycle and himself around a tree and consequently has a great deal of metal in his leg. At the age of 21 he stopped smoking (which he claims is the best thing he ever did for himself) and promised never to drink hard liquor again- beer and wine do not count. He married his high school girlfriend and had four children. After she died he married my grandmother (who had four children at the time) and together they had two more children, equating to the amazing number of ten children. In his spare time he worked on the Apollo missions, building the rockets. At every wedding he makes the same toast, "May all your problems be little ones."
When his first grandchild was born he said he was too young to be "Grandpa" and declined the title. Instead he adopted the name of "Pop."
He has battled cancer three times (and won all of them) and had numerous diseases where he was told that he would not make it. Some of his less cautious female progeny question whether Oscar Wilde based The Picture of Dorian Gray upon him. All of his stories are entertaining but most of them I have to question the reliability of the source. HHe is an excelent cook and his taste is second to none. Among his favorite songs are such titles as The Battle Hymn of the Republic, Oh Danny Boy, and The War Requiem. When he walks into a room everyone turns and listens to him. His presence demands respect. He is one of the most demanding and generous men I have ever known and he always answers his wife with "Yes dear."
Since he retired he likes to cook, spoil his children and grandchildren, embarass his granddaughters, and globe trot.
I'm writing this largely because he just visited with my grandmother. Perhaps this description will explain why for the longest time I thought that my grandfather and John Wayne were one in the same. It made perfect sense- they're both first generation Irish men. They both can scare the living daylights out of you. They both have a sort of classic cowboy image. They both have really great one liners. Everyone is drawn to their presence. And most importantly in every shot they are always the hero. He has been informed by three generations of his descendants that he is not allowed to die , but being the stubborn man that he is, he refuses.
Pop says that of all his accomplishments (and he has a great many) he is most proud of his children and his grandchildren. He says that Nana prays for a just God because she deserves heaven. Pop says he prays for a merciful God because he knows what he's done wrong in this life. He says that in this life we are all stewards and that all the gifts we have come from God. At days end we will be asked what we did with our gifts. I've never asked him but he doesn't appear to be worried. Looking at the family that he created (32 grandchildren, 10 children, and nine children-in-law) I wouldn't be either.
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Alright so tell me if this is funny?
Tonight at the dinner table we discovered the joy of the oh so clever "Knock-knock" joke. Fortunately, half the people at the table were entirely unversed in the better known ones and therefore decided to come up with their own. This added to the joy because, well... I'm not sure if they were actually funny. Some of my favorites went as follows, Karina- "Knock knock!" Mama- "Who's there?" Karina- "Cantelope." (I'd like to point out that when she said this I could not discern what the word was.) Mama- "Cantelope who?" (I was very dutifully impressed at her ability to understand the child at this point) Karina points across the table at a bowl. "Cantelope!" Mama- "Oh, cantelope... actually darling, that's watermelon." Karina got a very contemplative look on her face and said with a grin, "Watermelon?" Grisha- "Knock knock." Papa- "Who's there?" Grisha- "Animal" Papa- "Animal who?" Grisha- "Papa!" Jonathan- "Knock knock" Gabbie- "Who's there?" Jonathan- "Interupting wampa!" Gabbie- "Interuptingwampawho! HA!" Jonathan- *gigglesnickergiggle* From this I have deduced that Karina is learning new words (and forgetting some old ones) all the time, Grisha thinks Papa is an animal, and Gabbie never grew up.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Music and poetry- Everyday
Okay, once again I am asking for feedback on lyrics. I know this is probably getting old, but I need help cause it's driving me nuts. I saw Christ today In the tears of a young girl As she sat beside her love For the last time in this world I saw Christ today In the kindness of a child As he took his mother's hand And said it'd only be for a short while Now I've heard people say That God isn't really there And if He does exist That He does exist That He doesn't really care Well I don't believe them And I'll tell you the reason why I see Him everyday You will too if you try I saw Christ today in ayoung man's eyes As he looked at his trembling hands And saw the gun still inside I saw Christ today In a soldier's cut hands As he took his fallen brother And carried him from a dangerous land I saw Christ today In a giggling baby's smile As he brought his mother hope for a different kind of life And I know people say Thag God isn't really there And if it's true that He exists Then why doesn't He care Well I feel sorry for them And I'll tell you the reason why I see Him everyday You will too if you try I saw Christ today In the wrinkles of a face That hid a heart filled with love And the secret of redeeming grace I saw Christ today In the working hands of the youth As they stood for a cause Filled with love and truth I saw Christ today Lastly on a Cross For we are the hands of Christ He gave us life and not loss/He gave us life at a terrible cost And I know peopel say That God isn't there And if He does exist Then it's clear He doesn't care Well I don't believe them And I'll tell you the reason why God cares so much for us That He sent His Son to die
Monday, March 28, 2011
I saw an ARMADILLO!
Yes, that's right, I saw my first living, Texan armadillo this week. After seeing it, admiring it, and watching it waddle out of the road (a process that took several minutes in spite of the fact that it was in my glaringly obvious headlights), I now understand why I so frequently see them as roadkill. HOWEVER, this was not the point of my blog. Today I right that this was one of the unique experiences this week that I wouldn't mind reliving for the first time. On that note, please pray for me. I've suffered many abrupt changes in the past few days (not the least of which is a half inch cut in my forehead from where I miscalculated the wall in the dark) and I could really use heavenly support as I try to figure some more things out.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
That can't be a bluebonnet; it's purple
"Bluebonnets are purple." "Then why are they called bluebonnets if they are purple? It's a lie. Why not purplebonnets?" "Well,look at it this way- if you put purple and surround it by green, what color does it look?" "Purple." "Fine, but it's still a bluebonnet." "But it's purple?" Yes, this is a conversation I had yesterday. I am sad to report that I am the first, allegedly, uninformed voice. Yes, fellow Texans, this is just another example to show that I am not native, along with the lengthy list of examples which includes 'service roads', 'toll roads', "gwad-ah-loop" street, and the feud between Aggies and Longhorns. I don't get it. Do y'all just try to make it hard for yourselves or do you just like to make things complicated? Anyways, back to bluebonnets. For those of you who are uninformed (perhaps willfully and willingly so), the purple bluebonnets are the Texas state flower. When I left for California I had never seen one. When I came back (under a week later) they were quite literally, EVERYWHERE!!!! Not a day passes by that they don't appear somewhere else, and I have to admit that I like it. Spring has come in abundance to this land of seasons (and I'm sulking that it waited for me to leave to appear) and every few inches is covered in pink poppies, purple lillies, and "bluebonnets", along with various other flowers that I don't know... except for dandelion. We have a few of those too but they are stamped out (I dare to say) ferociously by the overzealous, sometimes jealous bluebonnets. In their wake I find myself questioning the sanity of Texans again. Maybe whoever named the bluebonnet was being alliterative because "violet" was already taken and "purple bonnet" just wasn't as catchy. Perhaps if they had it to do over (and the flower were named more accurately) it would be called the periwinkle. Wow, I just realized how very Californian I sound. Hmmmm... ah well, maybe I should rescind my previous statement and yield to the general populace and agree that the flower might possibly be blu- pfft, what am I saying. Y'all are wrong, and further more, your state flower is a lie! I'm just gonna assume whoever named the bluebonnet was colorblind and move on from there. Btw, it's a very pretty flower. I like it lots. I might have to plant some... in case there is ever there is a shortage of them in Texas.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Try not to laugh
That's right boys and girls, er- would I be stretching it to call y'all "ladies and gents"? Perhaps I should just stick to ladies and buggers? Anyways, I promised myself upon leaving Texas that I would take good notes of my trip and tell my adoring fans (when I get them) all about it. As it is, I guess I'm just stuck with you lot. Now back from my tangent- I am sad to report that I failed. Miserably. Again. But to be fair it wasn't *my* fault I had no internet access in CA. If you want to hear the continued adventures of my life (this time with location changes in the subtext) give me a call. After all, I'm off facebook (not including Sundays) for the rest of Lent. So, unless you WANT to wait penitentially for forty days (which I'm sure some of you WANT to wait, perhaps longer) give me a call and I'll tell you all about it. Otherwise, you get the summary.
Friday after work (eight bloody, freaking, grueling hours of it) I cleaned, packed, and pushed my car in ways it has never seen before. After removing the last stowaway (there were five), I managed to close the last door, with considerable effort (remember the pushing?) and was underway. Half way out of the driveway I remembered that I needed to get my traveling companion. Curse you, you blasted carpool lane! So I drove the twenty minutes (in the wrong direction) and picked up Brittany and together we began our magical journey to that magical land for that magical season of what some hazzard to call vacation.
Once enroute the ever so brilliant gabbielady realized she had barely eaten all day and was now suitably famished. Thus aside from the first twenty minutes, Brittany did most of the driving the first night. This left my twitching hands free to take precise notes of our adventures and travels. I would like to apologize in advance to Brittany, my traveling companion, of whom I make most of my notes about. I mean I could've told you about my imaginary friend... but something tells me you wouldn't find that nearly as believable. Italicized comments are those which were made after the fact. Bold happened at the time. Again, try not to laugh.
6.55 get to brittany's
7.10 leave brittany's
7.20 stop at heb for 10 mins to buy everything in the store in order to keep Gabbie from passing out. (please note: never again will Gabbie go shopping when hungry)
8.05 Brittany scares her GPS by going on an unknown road known as Mopac.
8.10 Brittany gives up on her GPS and turns it off in lew of the fact that at this point we knew where we were
9.00 in which I recall my fondness for gas station bathrooms Where's my snarkmark?
9.30 hit fredericksburg-not literally- recieved call from Mother she asked for my license plate number in case we were hit by a tsunami so they could identify our bodies
10.05 stopped car and looked at mapt o figure out where 290 went.
10.10 we discover stars- ha! Beat that galileo
10.33 in which Brittany is excited to see street lights. I laughed mercilessly
10.35 I watch stars- Brittany is told to watch the road
10.38 Brittany and I discuss speed limits to which she commented that without them "I probably wouldn't go more than 90." I responded "pfft- I would!" At which point we realized why there were speed limits.
10.15 We discover dead zones for music. ZOMG!!!! We listened to Once More With Feeling literally five times that night!!!
10.44 in which we spot deer- noted to be still alive
12.45 see large animal cross the road- large animal- cat like animal- hungry looking animal- probably a mountain lion or a bobcat or something!- eep
After this point I started driving more and consequently was unable to keep my notes. Le sigh, however I did continue to write down the funnier comments made upon the trip. Unfortunately, most of them (okay all of them) that I remembered were from the return trip. Oh well. I tried. This is not the say that my time in California was boring- i.e. "Hey Mama, look, a train!", "There's something wrong with this cat," "We should've packed Sasha", "Now Brittany, can you reach into my eye and get it out?" and "Cause this is so much fun I want to do this all the time!" Oh and of course, Disneyland from 9am to 1am. You do the math. And now for more Brittany quotes.
"The mountains are so pointy!"
"It's like the mountains never go away." (Please note, this quote is from the return trip)
On the road back my grandfather asked if our car was full yet and I replied that we had plenty of room- famous last words. He laughed and said, "Wait till we get there." I don't even know half of the things that ended up in there but of the half that I know- we carted two cases of wine, about seven yards of fabric, a full sized kite, a full set of dishes and silverware, and half of my Mother's refrigerator- you know in case we got hungry- and three bags of books and toys for small peoples.
Along the way Brittany and I named our various electronci devices- her ipod, my GPS, and her GPS. Ftr I packed mine by accident (and a good thing too) because mine is way more accurate. Hers is named Jason and mine is named Veronica- because mine shows the truth. Hers is a power ranger who looks really cool but isn't so helpful except for Captain Obvious moments.
I realize this post is very... disorganized to say the least but I'm tired, and I refuse to start the next one until this one is posted and the way things are going I will NEVER finish it otherwise so bear with me. One more bit of random information, I can find no better way to summarize my parental dynamic than to simply regurgitate one conversation with my parents in which my Mother was trying to convince him to get into my car... which I was going to drive. "Come on, Gerardo, it will be an adventure!" she said, tugging on his arm with a brilliant smile. "That's why I don't want to go" he replied sardonically.
So as to my title- if you managed to get through this without laughing, please let me know... I need to "unfriend" you for your lack of humor because even I think this trip was funny. Kidding, y'all need to find a laughing place. :)
Friday after work (eight bloody, freaking, grueling hours of it) I cleaned, packed, and pushed my car in ways it has never seen before. After removing the last stowaway (there were five), I managed to close the last door, with considerable effort (remember the pushing?) and was underway. Half way out of the driveway I remembered that I needed to get my traveling companion. Curse you, you blasted carpool lane! So I drove the twenty minutes (in the wrong direction) and picked up Brittany and together we began our magical journey to that magical land for that magical season of what some hazzard to call vacation.
Once enroute the ever so brilliant gabbielady realized she had barely eaten all day and was now suitably famished. Thus aside from the first twenty minutes, Brittany did most of the driving the first night. This left my twitching hands free to take precise notes of our adventures and travels. I would like to apologize in advance to Brittany, my traveling companion, of whom I make most of my notes about. I mean I could've told you about my imaginary friend... but something tells me you wouldn't find that nearly as believable. Italicized comments are those which were made after the fact. Bold happened at the time. Again, try not to laugh.
6.55 get to brittany's
7.10 leave brittany's
7.20 stop at heb for 10 mins to buy everything in the store in order to keep Gabbie from passing out. (please note: never again will Gabbie go shopping when hungry)
8.05 Brittany scares her GPS by going on an unknown road known as Mopac.
8.10 Brittany gives up on her GPS and turns it off in lew of the fact that at this point we knew where we were
9.00 in which I recall my fondness for gas station bathrooms Where's my snarkmark?
9.30 hit fredericksburg-not literally- recieved call from Mother she asked for my license plate number in case we were hit by a tsunami so they could identify our bodies
10.05 stopped car and looked at mapt o figure out where 290 went.
10.10 we discover stars- ha! Beat that galileo
10.33 in which Brittany is excited to see street lights. I laughed mercilessly
10.35 I watch stars- Brittany is told to watch the road
10.38 Brittany and I discuss speed limits to which she commented that without them "I probably wouldn't go more than 90." I responded "pfft- I would!" At which point we realized why there were speed limits.
10.15 We discover dead zones for music. ZOMG!!!! We listened to Once More With Feeling literally five times that night!!!
10.44 in which we spot deer- noted to be still alive
12.45 see large animal cross the road- large animal- cat like animal- hungry looking animal- probably a mountain lion or a bobcat or something!- eep
After this point I started driving more and consequently was unable to keep my notes. Le sigh, however I did continue to write down the funnier comments made upon the trip. Unfortunately, most of them (okay all of them) that I remembered were from the return trip. Oh well. I tried. This is not the say that my time in California was boring- i.e. "Hey Mama, look, a train!", "There's something wrong with this cat," "We should've packed Sasha", "Now Brittany, can you reach into my eye and get it out?" and "Cause this is so much fun I want to do this all the time!" Oh and of course, Disneyland from 9am to 1am. You do the math. And now for more Brittany quotes.
"The mountains are so pointy!"
"It's like the mountains never go away." (Please note, this quote is from the return trip)
On the road back my grandfather asked if our car was full yet and I replied that we had plenty of room- famous last words. He laughed and said, "Wait till we get there." I don't even know half of the things that ended up in there but of the half that I know- we carted two cases of wine, about seven yards of fabric, a full sized kite, a full set of dishes and silverware, and half of my Mother's refrigerator- you know in case we got hungry- and three bags of books and toys for small peoples.
Along the way Brittany and I named our various electronci devices- her ipod, my GPS, and her GPS. Ftr I packed mine by accident (and a good thing too) because mine is way more accurate. Hers is named Jason and mine is named Veronica- because mine shows the truth. Hers is a power ranger who looks really cool but isn't so helpful except for Captain Obvious moments.
I realize this post is very... disorganized to say the least but I'm tired, and I refuse to start the next one until this one is posted and the way things are going I will NEVER finish it otherwise so bear with me. One more bit of random information, I can find no better way to summarize my parental dynamic than to simply regurgitate one conversation with my parents in which my Mother was trying to convince him to get into my car... which I was going to drive. "Come on, Gerardo, it will be an adventure!" she said, tugging on his arm with a brilliant smile. "That's why I don't want to go" he replied sardonically.
So as to my title- if you managed to get through this without laughing, please let me know... I need to "unfriend" you for your lack of humor because even I think this trip was funny. Kidding, y'all need to find a laughing place. :)
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