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Thyme On My Hands

9 Jul

My Take

DiVoran Lites

My mother, grandmother and even Dad were all good cooks, but they didn’t use herbs. When I became a full-time homemaker, I decided to experiment and my family liked them. Now, I’m learning to grow my own.

Recently I harvested basil, rosemary, oregano, cilantro, chives and of course thyme. Thyme is a small miracle. It adds great flavor to food, it’s a survivor, an antioxidant, and an antiseptic. I love the aroma that lets me know it’s around. The other herbs fit all together in small packets for the freezer, but the thyme filled a colander all by itself.             

Hey, there’s an idea, maybe I have plenty of clock time too. What would happen if, instead of indiscriminately giving it away or throwing it away I ask God to guide me in its use? I’m sure if I put him in charge, the housework will get done, I’ll have minutes and hours to listen and I can develop healthier habits. Hobbies, weeding and mending can still happen. Maybe if I do what I feel is intuitively right for me, I will discover the things God created me to do. Maybe I’ll be more at peace with myself, and more effective in every way.

I spread handfuls of thyme over a cookie sheet and froze it, and then I made packages of  it  to throw into stews and vegetables. When I prayed about individual choices in clock time, I began to feel more settled, more satisfied, and eventually more peaceful. I believe I’ve become more effective in every way.

Check out this snippet from The Message Bible: …”if you’re content to simply be yourself, your life will count for plenty.” (Matthew 23:12)

Herbs: Thyme, oregano and rosemary

Herbs: Thyme, oregano and rosemary (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Note from Onisha: I think thyme is one of my favorite herbs too but I have a question, what constitutes a sprig of thyme?

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Alley Cat

2 Jul

My Take

DiVoran Lites

Bill and I joined a square-dance club some time ago. It was great fun! We also took round-dance classes. I designed and sewed my own dresses and they were beautiful. One was Cotton Voile that just floated over the three to five net petticoats I wore under it to make the tiered skirt stand out.

Round dancing is a cross between square dancing and ballroom dancing. You have a caller, but you have to know the steps and you usually dance in the arms of someone you love, or at least like a lot.

Our teachers were K. O. and Phyllis Williams. Sometimes K. O. would ask me to dance. I was honored, but the minute K. O. put his hand on my waist I’d suddenly develop a shortness of breath and two left feet. K. O. was the best. He did every step perfectly. He was tall and slim and held himself like a Spanish Grande. He could dance! It made me nervous.

But my Bill, well, he was tall and straight too. He was just my Bill. We were both learning. Oh, Id’ get in Bill’s arms and suddenly my feet were clouds. Dancing shoes and boots barely touched the polished wooden floor and when they did, we glided. The skirt of my dress flew out in a wreath of lightness. I leaned into Bill for support on the turns and he was there, strong, reliable, and sweet.

One of our favorite songs was, “Alley Cat,” they play it on Pandora now and even though we have forgotten the precise steps, we still put our arms around each other and dance in the kitchen, or at least sway.

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Lessons From a Tufted Titmouse

25 Jun

My Take

DiVoran Lites

 

This morning I heard a bird call that has become familiar over the past few days. It was a Tufted Titmouse alarm call. It sounds like a scrub jay call with a tweet on the end.

Our son, W. D.,  was here the other day and explained all this to us. He says it’s an alarm call that all the birds understand, and when they hear it, they gather around to see what kind of threat is imminent. In jungle movies, the air falls silent when danger lurks. In Florida when the Tufted Titmouse gets anxious, everybody gets anxious.

Going into the house, W. D. practiced the Tufted Titmouse call. Sheees, tweet, shees tweet. The cat heard him and, hunkered down to slink away fast. She ran into the dining room and peeked around the corner trying to figure out what was going on. W. D. and I decided it wasn’t just a bird alarm, but a universal animal alarm as well.

This morning I watched the tufted titmice through my binoculars. I didn’t really need binoculars but they bring the birds up close. I watched the two small birds doing touch and goes for a while; then the noisy one attached its feet to a branch and started shimmying his wings. He sheesh-tweeted frantically. The other flew down and put something in his beak and the light went on in my brain.

In this case, the alarm was coming from a baby Tufted Titmouse that thought he was going to starve to death between one seed and the next.

It reminds me of the world we live in where you can’t get away from the fear.

It also reminds me of a person I worked with once who had a talent for getting everyone all worked up over nothing.

But I don’t like being tense and upset, so I’ve decided that I’d seek the peace of God which passes understanding. Philippians 4:7

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The Bridge and I

18 Jun

In my last post, Loving My Small Town, I chatted about small town life. The new “big” thing her in our town is walking the bridge. People do it all day and even into the night-time. Our friend DiVoran’s family did it as a Father’s Day outing and is sharing her experience today

My Take

DiVoran Lites

One of the entertainments for our family Father’s Day celebration was to walk the bridge. Now I just heard about this new small-community attraction last spring and I had not yet experienced it. What’s the big deal about walking across the new bridge, I thought. Bill and I walked across the old one once. We passed the bridge tender who was doing his homework while waiting to open and close the bridge for a good-sized or tall-masted boat. No big deal.

I did not, however, want to be left out of a community phenom and I definitely did not want to miss a family outing, so I got my sun-hat and my walking shoes and we headed for the river in two cars. Bill didn’t get to go because of his barking dogs. (That’s an old saying for sore feet.)

Even though it was June and supposedly hot weather, a steady, cool wind blew puffy white clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. First, I walked with my daughter-in-law and we had a chance to talk for the first time in quite a while. We were the tail of a seven person two-by two queue with the seventh, our daughter’s husband, in the lead. Now arches rise high enough that any boat allowed on the river can go under, so we tackled the incline then practically danced down the other side.  On the way, back I walked with my son and W. D. was telling me something about the birds when suddenly I imagined a tribe of natives traveling to their next camp.

I saw the heavily laden travois, smelled the pemmican (does pemmican have an aroma?) and thought of papooses being transferred on their mother’s backs. I could hear the rattle and swish of a people on the move. Everyone in the tribe had a special job and unique gifting. There was the strider ahead, there was the philosopher/ negotiator\explainer who had an equal say in tribe politics and then there were the tall, strong brave and his sister the Indian princess. We had two matrons who worked harder than anyone ought to have to work to help keep everybody clean and fed, and then there was the old crone, which was of course a wanna-be– me. There on the bridge, I knew the ancient joy of belonging that comes mostly in families, no matter how large or how small, how functional or how dysfunctional. Often the people in these families aren’t related by blood, but still by right of love, cooperation, and understanding, they belong to each other.

So that’s what the bridge is all about. I thought. It’s about movement, connection, family, and an airy beauty that represents constant crossovers, with people who care, from one part of life to another.

“God places the solitary in families and gives the desolate a home in which to dwell.” Psalm 68:6

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Hair Observations

4 Jun

My Take

DiVoran Lites

Do you ever look at anyone’s hair except your own in the mirror? Maybe more women than men do. I imagine most trained hair dressers do. I was one of those once, a long time ago. I’ve seen a lot of hair since then. A sign on a hole-in-the-wall family beauty shop said, “Old-Fashioned Barbering and New Age Hair-Cuts. Being sort of critical I thought design would go better, but maybe this family shop is not quite there, yet. Because I’m a woman of a certain age, I think that’s fine.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m fascinated with the new styles, fascinated and sometimes repelled, but who cares what I think?

People wear hair a certain way for one of three reasons,

1. They want to be in style,

2. They want to make an identity statement, or

3.They found a classic look that suits them and they stick with it.

An example of the first is the aging rider who roars by on his motorcycle with a skinny braid hanging down from under his helmet. Although I’m sure I’d like him as a person I always have an itch to snip the braid off at the roots. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to have a gray braid like that down my back, I just don’t have the patience to let my hair grow long enough for a braid.

One example of a classic style that lasts forever is the page-boy, which has been around at least since the crusades when it was a boy style.

I’m glad finger waves, sausage curls, and blue hair are gone. Would you believe I actually learned how to do all that? Believe me a good finger wave is hard to do. What if hairdressers to the movie stars decide to bring those configurations back again?

I wonder what our hair will look like in Heaven. Maybe we won’t even have hair. Will hair matter? I suppose we’ll have to wait and see. I know one thing, God knows exactly how many hairs are on my head right now, and on yours too.(Luke 12:7)

English: Porcupine photographed by Mary Harrsch.

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Jazz Song

21 May

My Take

DiVoran Lites

Listening to jazz on Pandora I heard, “A good gal (or a good guy) nowadays is hard to find, you always get the other kind.” But did the jazz masters get it right? Well, maybe yes and maybe no.

For a wedding gift my best friend gave us a plaque with two Amish people facing each other with their hands behind their backs kissing chastely. The plaque said, “Kissin’ don’t last, cookin’ do.” I’ve thought about that a lot over the years. Thank heavens we two old codgers are still kissing, but there are some things in our relationship that may last longer and matter more in the end.

First, of course you have to have real, true love or a good potential for it. Then you both have to have a similar sense of humor. One night when Bill and I were two teens out for on date, we got to giggling and couldn’t stop. That was when I began to suspect he was the guy for me.

You need to be able to talk to each other for a long time about more subjects than cars and whether your bathing suit makes you look fat.

You need a common sense of values. The Bible says, “Be not unequally yoked.” What that means is that the more your backgrounds are alike the better chance your marriage will have. If you’re a Christian you’re far wiser to marry a Christian from the start. People don’t change nearly as often as we think they do.

Look for mutual courtesy, plain old please and thank you, with some genuine apologies thrown in when needed. I love you always goes down well, and in some ways is the greatest courtesy of all.

Now a few don’ts: Don’t marry anyone who is full of bitterness or self-pity. Complaining is your first clue. They may wrench your heart and they may have you convinced they can’t live without you. They make you think you’re the only one who can help. Nope, it doesn’t work that well. You’ll discover that if you don’t fall for it they’ll replace you in a trice. Try it if you don’t believe me.

We know to avoid active substance abusers. They might get well someday, but we’re more likely to become enablers than we are to see them heal.

It helps if two people have compatible views on earning, saving, paying, giving. Money is a big marriage buster, but you can get a lot of good out of it if you know how to handle it.

So that’s it. Perhaps a good mate is hard to find, but it’s not true that you  ALWAYS get the other kind.

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What’s Wrong with Potatoes Anyhow?

14 May

My Take

DiVoran LItes

I was just talking to my cats, Lily and Jasmine. I said, “keep on swimming, keep on swimming,” (Dorrie to Nemo)  but they are cat couch potatoes and didn’t know what I was talking about, couch potatoes don’t swim or even do much of anything else, that’s how they got their reputation as couch potatoes. I know, I know, cats don’t swim much either…some cats do and I’ve seen tigers…oh, never mind.

Anyhow, I have a couch I call, guess what? I call it my potato couch. I was showing it to a friend one day, and she gently reminded me that people are not made to lie about but to be up and at ‘em. She is so productive, creative, and organized. I envy her a little.

As for me, I have my couch rigged where I can lay full-out with my T. V. on a table at my feet (fairly big screen) and watch BBC dramas and Masterpiece Theater. Well, it’s cultural, isn’t it?

How did potatoes ever get the reputation for being useless, anyhow? What about French Fries, baked potatoes, shepherd’s pie? What about potatoes being filling and nutritious, especially if they are all you can afford, because they are cheap, or used to be. Bill says the term probably came from people who lie down to eat potato chips and watch T. V. I’m fond of potato chips and I’m just as fond of my potato couch and I love seeing my beautiful cats lying around like gorgeous sculptures ‘cause they go with all the furniture and they go with me, too.

Full-out on potato couch

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Touching Heaven

7 May

My Take

DiVoran Lites

We have a friend who calls himself a hedonist. I think that means pleasure seeker. I suppose I must be one too. It’s certainly a pleasure in the afternoon after my nap to brew a cup of coffee (with dark chocolate powder added), cut a California navel into triangular slices and take a book to the back porch to read.

Spring days are so fantastic. When I finished my refreshments, I put my book down to just sit and be for a while. Almost immediately, I became aware of what was going on around me. Everything I heard and saw seemed sharp and clear.

I heard:

hammering as if someone were putting on a new roof.

a rooster crowing

an airplane humming over,

our calico cat chattering at a green anole lizard on the screen

a cardinal too-too-tooted his spring song.

Then the AC came on and I couldn’t hear anything else. Civilization encroaching, thank the Lord for it!

As I looked around the yard, I saw:

yellow, orange and purple flowers, swaying against the fence

dried weeds on the other side that looked like fluffy ostrich feathers,

a brand new sunflower seeking the sun,

Close up I spied a:

pothos growing in a pot

cat in a basket

Chinese Tallow tree, with Florida ferns growing under it,

green garden wagon with balloon tires (one is flat),

stool made from an overturned porcelain pot with a red rubber stepping stone for a seat.

Closer yet:

I touched the binoculars,

picked up the napkin basket,

fingered the salt shaker,

smelled the orange peels on a small white plate,

moved the driftwood I use for a book prop,

and smoothed my hand over the slick cover of the large print book.

Does all that make me a hedonist? See how self-indulgent I am? I not only took the time to jot all that down, I enticed you to take the time to read it too, (I hope). If yes, thank you. Your company pleases me very much.

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Do All Girls Want To Be Princesses?

1 May

My Take

DiVoran Lites

A mother and her two daughters moved in next door with the grandmother who had been there for several years. I met the youngest child at the back fence one day. She was a tall two-and-a-half years old and wore nothing but a diaper. She had long, fine, dark hair. I discovered later that her skin is sensitive to some fabrics and that was why she was dressed, or undressed in the way she was.

We sort of communicated for a while and then she signaled for me to wait. When she returned she had been turned into a princess in pink tulle with a diamond tiara and a big ball.

A few months later Janie’s mother and I stood in her driveway talking. The Princess was there too, and this time she wore a blue net skirt. When I told her how pretty it was she and went got the rest of the costume and her mother helped her into gossamer wings and a feathery headband. With a small blue scepter, the outfit was complete.

“She loves her princess clothes,” said her mom. “She wears them out. I have to start taping them together. We bought this one for her to wear to Disney World to meet Ariel, Jasmine, and the rest of the princesses in fantasy land.

I know exactly how the little girl feels. I read, The Princess and the Pea when I was about eight and the minute the queen acknowledged the girl in the story was a real princess, I knew I was one, too. It was the pea, you see. It had to be the kind of pea they use for split pea soup because she could feel it way down under a bunch of mattresses. She was sensitive, and so am I and so is Janie.

There was one contender for my role. It was my beautiful little granddaughter, I let her be a princess, I had no choice and I didn’t want it to come to a vote. But as soon as she went away to college I took back the title. Do all girls want to be princesses? Judging by the number of outfits available, I’d say we do.

I got proof of that this morning on the way home from church when a  hot-pink, compact car came around the corner with big curled eyelashes over it’s headlights. The front plate said, “Da Princess.” I think whoever owns that car wins. What do you think? But anyhow, just for fun, here’s our neighborhood princesses.

Illustration in a collection of Anderson's Fai...

Illustration in a collection of Anderson's Fairy tales. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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King Charming- A Fairy Tale

24 Apr

My Take

DiVoran Lites

Cinderella had never worn high-heels before the night of the ball when she met Prince Charming. When she ran from him at the stroke of midnight she stumbled, almost fell, and left her beautiful glass slipper behind on the steps to the palace.

After he proposed Prince Charming asked Cinderella to stop wearing high-heels immediately. He said they were unreliable, unstable, unrealistic, and dangerous and he didn’t want his wife, the mother of future princes and princesses deforming her feet and breaking down her body by wearing them.

It was a Chinese cousin of his, with the help of little missionary, Gladys Alward (See movie, “The Inn of the Sixth Happiness”) who put a stop to the binding of feet only years before and the family had launched a crusade to keep all women, in every kingdom safe, comfortable, and as happy as possible.

“A woman is too valuable to be corseted, pierced, botoxed, cut on or plucked in the name of beauty,” decreed the Prince.

Prince Charming’s father eventually passed on and the Prince became King Charming. I hear of a secret society, in his honor, where women kick off their shoes in warm weather and wear fuzzy boots in cold, wear silk dresses, or jeans, and flowers in their hair, and are considered beautiful without any artifice at all. I told you it was a fairy-tale didn’t I?

First Samuel 16:7

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