Thanksgiving

It’s Thanksgiving. Not Easter. Yes, I’m grateful for over-stuffed turkeys and aromatic pies, time with my family, laughs shared with friends, and another blessed year. Yes, I’m rejoicing that I live a life of plenty, that God has blessed us with a bounteous abode, abundant land, and canine adorers. My stereotypical little life is a thing I have great thanks for. But that which my heart sings the loudest for, that for which I can find no words but I must express, is my gratitude for the spiritual blessing that begat all spiritual blessings. I thank God for Christ.

I praise God for his peace in my confusion, his joy when I’m discouraged, and his love when I want to be angry; I praise God for his death for my life.

Lately I have been studying the book of Esther. I’ve read it before, and it’s a good story. Esther becomes queen in time to save her people from annihilation. But the question has been hounding me: why is this story in the Bible?  And in the few nights I prayed for revelation and truly studied, the Holy Spirit whispered. I could suddenly see the fantastic way this story pictures in a human romance God’s heart and mind.

Esther was not perfect, as a lamb must be. But she was submissive to her cousin-turned-father, and showed honor to the husband she was not allowed to choose. She invited Haman to feast with her, and endured the realness of evil without Mordecai’s protective presence. Xerxes in turn renounced his closest counselor and trusted friend for the love of his endangered bride. The Jews were empowered and overcame their assailants on that fateful day ever after entitled Purim, a day of salvation.

The parallels astounded me. Each element seemed to point to Christ’s perfect offering, with a human spin. Esther released her life without dying. Xerxes granted life to the nation he first sold into destruction, all with eyes for one woman and ears for whomever spoke.

The record of this small segment in time is a breath-taking panorama of heavenly design. It emphasized God’s zealous protection of his chosen in the past. Even Zeresh realized that “’If Mordecai, before whom you have begun to fall, is of the Jewish people, you will not overcome him but will surely fall before him.’” Medes and Persians understood God’s reputation. Yet this epic, like a glass of water, also magnified Christ’s coming story. Ever so clearly, this type of Christ fit together piece by piece and pictured salvation.

Esther was afraid to offer herself, and prayed for three days. Christ wept and endured agony at the thought of his suffering. Xerxes killed his advisor rather than lose his wife. God turned away from Christ to win us.

It is for all this I feel gratitude this Thanksgiving. “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing…even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him…to the praise of his glorious grace with which he has blessed us in the Beloved.” Ephesians 1:3,4 and 6.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

Praise him all creatures here below.

Praise him above ye heavenly hosts.

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

 

Amen.

A Dangerous Journey

Dear friends:

Once upon a time, I posted the first chapter of a story I wrote.

This is the second chapter. Enjoy. Comment. Critique.



Normal is Write (part one)

            Maleya slammed the front door to vent and turned cheerfully down the sidewalk. The writers gathered weekly in a park only a short distance from where Maleya lived. Leaves both shaded and carpeted her walk. Emerald filtered light fell around her.

            "He-ey Leya! Whatcha got written?" Straight blond hair danced around the face of Maleya's friend.

            "He-ey Liss! What's your guess?"

            "Nope. You have to tell."

            "Fat luck." Maleya smiled up into the face of the taller writer.

            "Pout." Liss frowned at Maleya and bounced beside her on long legs.

            "Suck it up, cupcake." Maleya laughed at Liss's irked face.

            "You know I could take you any time. Then you'd have no choice. Cupcake." Liss bunched her fists.

            "Yeah, yeah. You think you're stronger than me."

            "Think?!" Liss was always easily riled. She attempted to control herself. "I can take you, Leya." Somehow the telling wasn't enough. Maleya found herself unceremoniously draped over Liss's lofty shoulder, watching the leafy cement receding.

            "I get your point, Liss."

            "Thought that might help." Liss dropped her friend on her feet and let her stumble a few steps.

            "You know something?" Maleya grasped the manuscript and pert-paper that had fallen. "Your story's gonna feel like that. Real soon."

            "Like what? I can't claim to know how that felt, honestly," Liss said savoring her victory.

            "Punched in the gut, dropped from a great height, and left in pain and awe to ponder."

            "Good to know you respect me," Liss swallowed the complement for it's worth.

            Maleya turned to an arch between two of the trees and let her feet plod as a hill ducked out from under her.  Sunlight had plopped itself in the broad lap of the lawn and Maleya's finger print on  her lens made the lenses of her glasses into shades. Fellow writers stood and sat everywhere – most talking, some writing, some glancing around snobbishly.

            At the bottom of the hill sat Hendlic Todd, the writer the whose expertise they had all been assigned to learn from. The hill sloped into a natural amphitheater around the man at the bottom. From the top there was a glorious view of forest covered hills and peaceful country villas fading into purpleness. Maleya sat at the bottom and closed her eyes. She felt – but did not see – Hendlic look up and narrow his eyes at her. It was a sweet moment.

            A sharp whistle stopped several writers short in their mixed conversations.

            "Shut up, Liss!" Hendlic's voice cut the whistle short and secured the attention of the proteges. Maleya looked up. Liss was standing behind Hendlic with her lips still pinched into an o. She let out another short blasting whistle and grinned. Hendlic backhanded her and glared at the writers. The author wasted no time.

            "Today's lesson is about beginnings," he said simply. He stood up and did not wait for Liss to take her seat, or writers to pull out their electric, note-taking pert-paper. Maleya turned up the volume on hers and watched a heading fade into view – "Today's lesson is on beginnings." Maleya scribbled out the first four words with her fingernail and capitalized the word beginnings. It would do for a title.

            "Do you know how people decide which story to read?" Hendlic dared anyone to answer incorrectly. The beautiful blue in his eyes had practiced this menacing glare for the extent of his career.

            "The first sentence," a newcomer bellowed from the top of the hill. Writers nodded and glanced apprehensively at their instructor.

            "Why?" Hendlic always had a question ready. There was a moment of silence.

            "Because the general public has a short attention span. They must become interested in the first sentence or two, or they will decide the story is not worth their while." Maleya answered without looking up from editing her notes.

            "Read me your first sentence."

            Maleya took a breath to start reading and paused suddenly. She had two stories prepared. One was normal. The other not. It was dangerous; the merging of areas of expertise always was. It would serve as a signal flare for Maleya. The future of her mixed writing and techy inventions depended on the reaction to her story. But it's about time, anyway. And the first sentence won't hurt me. Maleya tried to shrug away the knot in her mind and read her sentence aloud.

Run(-)On Praise

When I sat down at my desk, I just wanted to see how long I could make a sentence. Like a challenge. This is where it led me.

It’s not a normal day but I treat it like any other and lie there and watch the effects of the sunrise on my eyelids and listen to my family doing morning things; they’re nice morning things, like getting ready for Easter and feeding our dogs and going in to church early to help the kitchen crew get ready for the fundraiser breakfast which is between the ambitious-bird service and the head-screwed-on-straight service, which are identical, and I take up the wish I wished the night before that our family would screw their heads on straight but no, enough of us are ambitious that my vote doesn’t count, and “besides, the family is coming for lunch, and they’ll be here before we’d get home from the late service,” and so my vote really doesn’t count, and I decide that I probably never had a vote to cast anyway, so I put my wishing aside and go back to telling myself to get up and telling myself I’ll get up in just a few minutes, but I’m so comfortable right now, I can’t and so it will be ok if I get up in a minute – it is, but those minutes must have counted against me, because now we have to “really hurry” to get the dressing ready for the family who are coming and I don’t have much time to do any make-up or anything, but then I do it anyway, as fast as I can because if I’m going to be late to church, I at least want to look good, and it makes very little difference in minutes because I move quickly; and there is my brother telling us all we’ll be late, and then that we are late, and then that he can’t wait to live on his own because we’re always late and he never would be except for us, and he doesn’t ever seem to stop, so for the longest time on the way to our Easter morning service, it is so hard to think of the peace and the joy that are just waiting to be taken up and taken advantage of, and then we walk in and I didn’t see any heads turn, and then my heart turns and everything stops, because nothing matters except what we are singing about, and the glorious way God has loved us and chosen us and suffered for us, and purchased us, and given us to Christ, that – unless my heart were deaf – I cannot avoid falling on my heart’s knees and raising my hands and shouting that my God is alive and he loves me, and he is reigning so everything will be ok! and I just want to look at his face and know, and then I do know, and I want to keep looking in his face; and after church each moment seems holy and beautiful, as if I can do no wrong, and we all file slowly and talking into a huge herd pretending to be in line and talk our way through heaven-sent sausage and French toast and sanctifying syrup gluing your silverware to your fingers and your fingers to each other, and your hair to your forehead, and for breakfast the pastor has included grace in his benediction so the only words spoken are conversations about what they did last night and how that worked out, and how much she got done, and what was he working on again? and did it turn out and is it worth trying for myself? and then I call Happy Easter and suddenly the sun and the wind and the blue sky and the green grass are infinitely more beautiful than they were  when I walked from my house to my car before church and I know the afternoon ahead is going to be wonderful, even though something inside me knows it’s not and I can’t really pretend it will be much longer, so when we come home I am less happy, and I do not try to cheer up but I do wish I could be the same person all of the time and how much nicer I would be if that were the case, because if I just got stuck being the right person of the many who are inside of me, I know I could be perfect – but the perfect one is Christ Jesus, and he is not the only one living in me, because I am like every other human on this planet in one way, and that is that I’m human, and it means that even though Christ has the victory over sin, my sin still fights to often, so even though I side with Christ as much as I … can? I lose so often and then I know I’ve failed and I go on failing because failing has made me moody and I think that winning is impossible, even though I’m failing with the very people who gathered to celebrate that Christ won, so there is no more failure, and I become meditative and unhappy in my meditation, so I write it so that I can understand it, and when I write it I find that I can’t understand it so I give up and make an excuse for writing, and say that I was just trying writing to see how much I can cram into one sentence, and it turns out that a lot fits, even if not a lot should, and I wonder where my writing has taken me, and I find that I’m happy again; writing has taken me to a place where I feel the joy of creation and the satisfaction of having achieved something I’ve never done before – perhaps even that I’ve done it well for it being a first time around – and I decide to contemplate, but this time I’m contemplating cheerily and it takes me back to praise; praise for that glorious morning when Christ stopped the people’s contemplating his death and did something about it…basically reverse it so that they’d have something new to contemplate – the indescribable glory of the God who raised him, and unfathomable love which inspired the planning of this action before the planning of the people that necessitated this action, and the inescapable beauty that surrounds this entire day and it’s glorious celebration.

 (I tried reading this out loud. Now each short sentence feels like a needed revival. Gives me time to breathe.)

The rest of the gulp.

Chapter 1: Of Dangerous Bifocals  Part 2
   Hunger was the only force that could pull Maleya out of her area when she didn't want to. She pressed her thumbprint into the handle of the fridge before opening it. When she did, blue light shone on her favorite foods. Maleya pulled out feta cheese curds. She turned and leaned against the counter. To her right the counter ran in a U shape, curving around in front of her again six feet away. Across this counter from her, tan-ish hair bobbed and twisted, disappearing momentarily sometimes before coming back into view. Maleya smiled and threw a cheese curd at it. The tan-ishness ducked behind the counter and Barley tossed her a thumbs-up before nimbly retrieving the fallen cheese curd.

            "Leya."

            "Mmm."

            "You have writers 'spert stuff in a while."

            "Mm-hmm. S'why I'm eating." Another cheese curd. She savored the spices and the crumbling tangy cheese against the roof of her mouth.

            "Kay. Leya, think I'll ever be an expert?" It was a ridiculous question, which may have been why Barley loved asking it so often.

            "You're not practiced in the art of failing, so my suppositions are that yes, one day you too will be a spert." Half of a face appeared above the counter, cut abruptly off at the bridge of a nose. Tan hair and blue eyes stared at deep brown hair and green eyes.

            "Good." Barley's eyes thanked Maleya seriously. "In what?"

            "What do you love?"

            "Knowing."

            "Barley!"

            The eyes widened. "Why not? Other people have made up new expertesses before."

            "Areas of expertise, Barley."

            "Expertesses. It's a new word."

            "Um...Barley? Words are not invented." Maleya looked serious. Barley rolled his eyes and propped his chin on the counter.

            "D'they really? You're such a parrot, Maleya. You say everything you hear in your writer's class thingy because you're so scared to be different, a cross-over, to be a writer-techy, because people don't like that. So what? What can anyone do to you?"

            "Lot's of things."

            "Leya, seriously."

            "People could take away everything I've been working on. Everything. You don't know what that means."

            "Ok, ok. But whadda you really think about words. Aren't they invented? Do they always gotta come from the right people?"

            Barley, you know too much. You figure out so much more than anyone else would. It's because you always have to know! Maleya didn't voice her exasperation. It was better to just answer Barley's question. "Ok, fine. I don't think words grow. But I don't think they're invented either," she cast a superior glance at Barley, "they are discovered. They wait, hovering on the fringe of consciousness, dancing out of reach of our thoughts when we reach for them, and then slipping in when we need them and forget to look for them. It's perfection."

            "That's why you're a writer," Barley stated. They stared at each other for a few minutes.

            "I want a drink," Maleya intoned, pushing her off the counter. A cupboard opened and the tap started running.

            "That's why you're a techy." Barley stood up all the way and leaned against the counter, watching Maleya drink her water.

            "Barley, you have no idea."

            "But I will." Barley grinned and held a slender black wire, barely visible even in the brightness of the kitchen.

            "Is that a microphone?"

            "Mm-hmm. I've got a bunch. Dad brought 'em home," Barley championed grinning. Maleya sighed. Her father was the only real techy, and it was dangerous for him to be bringing supplies home to his family. It was hard to say exactly why, though. All areas of expertise just kept to themselves, without sharing what they had or what they knew with other areas, unless there was a finished product that would benefit everybody. Maleya's dad had always been bringing things home because his literal area was in the house, where he preferred to work on things. Naturally Maleya and Barley had grown up with more than their share of tech knowledge.

            Knowing some things about tech wasn't so much a problem, because everyone was allowed to have some tech. But not too much. The Hominy's had too much. Even that wasn't such a problem, except that they used it, instead of just knowing. Of course using the knowledge made them more proficient in it, and soon Maleya's dad had begun telling the children not to flaunt their tech knowledge. They obeyed. But Maleya still used it.

            And then had come her idea to use it in conjunction with writing. There she had crossed a line. Nobody knew about it yet, not even Barley, to whom Maleya told everything. It was too dangerous. It was mixing two areas of expertise. It would change the way things were. It would blur lines and confuse both techies and writers. It was a fascinating secret, and Maleya was confident that it was worth the time she spent on it, and worth the difficulty and the isolation of hiding it, but it was getting more difficult.

            "Leya."

            "What?!" Maleya scowled, confused by her thoughts.

            "You really should go. The writers' expert meeting is in a few minutes." Barley only used full words when he was serious.

            "I know." Maleya tried to ignore what she was thinking and went to her room – her area – to gather her manuscript and pert-paper for notes. Confounded technology.

             
{Hey - same rule here as before. Comment. And thank you kindly for reading, friend.}

*GULP*

Eyes closed, fingers crossed, I'm handing it over. 

Taggitenreadit. Pretty pretty please?

I'm posting the first part of a story I'm working on. Before you proceed, you must promise to comment. I don't care if it's only one word - I just want to know what you honestly think. Except still be nice. But comment regardless. I command thee. (I will be sneaky and check my page views and compare them to comments to make sure you all did. Don't think you'll get away with it. -_-  )

Chapter 1: Of Dangerous Bifocals
{Part two of chapter one to follow in a later post.}

Wind snapped through the grass with angry speed.

            "Nope," Maleya muttered darkly. She slid her fingers across the screen and tapped a different tab. Another tap and a keyboard appeared below codes dictating grass texture and strength. With one fingertip, she highlighted a section of code, deleted it, and typed something to replace it. She grabbed a pair of bulky, thick-lensed bifocals and slipped them on over her own tiny glasses. Tapping the screen again, she changed the control from touch to voice.

            "Wind snapped through the grass with angry speed."

            The bifocals – screens in reality – glowed for a moment, then grass appeared in them, waving and bending under a heavy wind. Maleya watched five seconds of footage before the motions began to repeat themselves.

            "Um...." she searched desperately for a word or a sentence that would keep the story going. “The two field mice were...were...unperturbed by um...the fury above them." Images flickered belatedly across the lenses. Two something-or-other’s blobbed together sheltered by the waving grass. Maleya grabbed the microphone and pulled it as far from the touch-screen as the limited cord would allow.

            "The mice scurried!" she exclaimed trying to keep her tones natural. Frustration was taking over. The blobs in the vision of the bifocals shrank and became detailed images of the tiny rodents specified. With deft fingers she took control of the screen again, delicately dragging an iconic marker back to the first word, which had appeared on a digital paper with handwriting coded to her own.

            "And...open book." This time she paused the pantomime before the mice came into the story. Sky: blue. Grass: improvised mixes of green and tan. Soil: barely visible through the thick growth. Slowly Maleya nodded. Tap. Story deleted. Maleya removed the bifocals and slipped them into a soft velvet bag.

            "Now..." Maleya dug a sloppy sheaf of notebook paper out of a drawer in her desk and began to read it aloud to the screen.

            Maleya was a writer. Well, really she was a renegade. But she was supposed to be a writer. Writing was what she did. It was what she knew. It was her passion. Everyone knew Maleya was a writer. Even Maleya did. But that didn't change her mind about anything. It just scared her.

            Barley wasn't an anything yet. He would be, soon enough. Everyone knew that. He'd be an expert in something. He'd be the talk of the town. He'd learn from the best and improve on their methods, until he was the best. But he was still trying to figure out which pert to ex.

            Well, currently he wasn't figuring anything about exes or perts. Barley was rather viciously concerned with knowing. He seemed to always know what was going on with everybody in the family. It was his business, somehow. He'd pop up whenever anybody had an idea, or a new plan, or a change of plan, or a challenge. He was always the first to know. How he knew when to pop up was a mystery. Most likely he had programmed his intuition to sense that sort of thing – that time when someone is bursting with an idea or nervous about an appointment and just aching to tell someone. It wasn't an annoying thing. Barley was the family calendar. It was his quirk. Everyone had one of those too, just like they had an area of expertise. Things just were that way.

            There was really nothing wrong with the way things were. Everyone was an expert at something and their expertise usually became obvious when they were 10 or 11. Everyone had a quirk, and it always lasted at least a year or too after you became an expert (only cropping up occasionally thereafter.) Everyone was beautiful in some way. If you didn't have soulful eyes, you were bound to have beautiful lips. If you didn't have those, well your complexion was probably perfect. More people than not had several of these handy features. Most people only had a limited amount of techy stuff. It was typical. But the Hominy family had a bunch of tech knowledge and equipment. That part wasn't supposed to be that way. Only Maleya really took it too far though. But no one knew, so even though it wasn't supposed to be that way, it was, and it didn't matter.

***

       

Title Here

Did it ever occur to you how many things there are to remember? (Did it ever occur to you how many of those things your mother has reminded you of? Jk.) It's a long list, no?

"Remember to pack your socks. You'll need them, and I'm not sharing." "You always say that, and you always do."

"Remember to drive safe!" "Why not 'Remember to use your road rage?' It's more memorable."

We even get pegged for remembering things for other people! "Remind me to remember that Susy has to remember her..." "Um, no."

I forgot my driver's license today, which is a long story. I didn't need it to drive, I needed to buy a deer tag. I ended up driving home, too.

"Remember that you have a dentist appointment." "I don't like the dentist."

"Remember to get some sleep!" We all know the one and only person whose name goes down in history for saying that. (Don't get me wrong. I love my mother. Just gotta poke some fun. :D )

"Remember your manners." "I do remember them. Do I have to use them too?"

 You are probably wondering why exactly I am posting this.

Several reasons: I am me, duh. It is late at night, the family is asleep, the fire is blazing, and there is something strangely alert in my upper story. It can be quite unfortunate, believe me. Because my sister had a hilarious brain fart that put me in mind of this post.

My sister got to her piano lesson today, sat down on the bench to play her scales and happened to glance at the theory book in her teacher's hands. "Oh!" my sister exclaimed, "I forgot my eyes!" ...uncomfortable silence..."Aaaand...where did you leave them?" the teacher replied. "Oh, no, I meant my I's. I didn't label the root chords the way I should have in my theory book..." *Lightbulb*

"Remember that Northern Indian (India in South Aisa) music style is called Hindustani."

"Remember that one guy we met? You know, the guy with the - " "Yeah! And when we were at the um...the um...that place we went to for the thinger. You know, where that guy was and - " "Uh-huh. And we ate that one kind of food there, that stuff that was like, really good? And there was this inside joke we were laughing about, you know, about that one thing we were doing there...well anyway, you remember the guy?" "Not a clue."

Which above hypothetical reminds me of a conversation I had about two weeks ago with a friend...

But I won't remind you of the details.

Good night!

Gratitude Challenge: Day 16

I knew it was going to happen.

Today was a challenge. I'm feeling a bit discouraged right now. *Sigh* Literally. And I can't think of any reason to be discouraged either. That's the worst part. Agreed? But I am still grateful for some of the things that happened today.

*I wrote an essay and turned it in - within an hour. That is always a good feeling.

*I got some time with Mom.

*My cleaning job went quickly.

*It wasn't cold outside.

*The puppies are beautiful and I haven't had to bottle feed them yet.

*Mom and I laughed hysterically about Hoover. Story: One gloomy midnight last winter, Older Brother and Younger Sister got up to bottle feed puppies. One puppy gulped so much milk that he was 3 OUNCES heaver after the feeding than before! The poor pup was so chubby and full we thought he just might burst, so we didn't dare put him back on the heating pad. We left him on the cement floor for a few minutes to help him in his agony. Mom and I were weighing pups tonight and one of them gained a whole 2.3 ounces, which reminded us of the story from last year. It felt good to laugh so hard again!

*I played a game of Blockus with my sisters and mother.

*I can play Away in a Manger on the hammer dulcimer.

*I only need to think of one more thing.

*Tonight is family night.

21 Day Gretitude Challenge

I'm guessing that I'm not quite the only one who has bad days. Probably not all of you know what that means, but perhaps at least a few?

Anyway, this post is for those of us who have bad days and don't like to be glum.

SURPRISE!!

You don't have to be. I discovered that yesterday. Here's the story.

It was more of a joggy nose and a pony throat than anything more serious, if you know what I mean. Not bad enough to keep me from getting up and doing school, but just bad enough to keep me from enjoying any of it. That's the worst kind, I think.

Anywho, I managed a nap in the morning and rest in the afternoon (fit my school in betimes) and by 5:30, I was elated in a stuffed-up sort of way because I was nearly done. Daddy dearest came bounding up the stairs to interrupt my piano practice in his usual way. I thought.

"Gianna!"

"Hi Dad." Sniff.

"Ryan is here with the hay, sweetheart," as he ran towards his bedroom to find work jeans.

"And the kids have soccer practice too!" I wailed. For the last two loads of hay, my mom and younger sister and brother - the primary equine lovers in our family - had been gone at various horse shows. I was a little tired of the habit.

I found my farm jeans, a less-than-clean T-shirt and a pair of gloves and followed Dad to the barn. Kiara and Mom left, profusely appologizing, and I wearily started throwing hay bales onto our wagon.

I was well on my way to constructing a miserable mood for myself by the time we were half done.

Then I started noticing things that I couldn't help but be grateful for.

*The way the autumn leaves dropped silently to the ground.

*The way the sunlight spilled over the farm like magic golden liquid.

*The way Dad randomly started to rub my shoulders between loads of hay.

*The way my dog watched my every move with soulful brown eyes.

*That none of the hay actually went in my shoe. That would have driven me crazy. Rawr.

*The way Dad let me do the easy part of the job.

*Riding on top of the hay like I used to do years ago, laughing to myself and trying to keep random hay bales from falling off the wagon.

* The way my horse looked at me underneath the wood of a partition.

*The way one of the horses ambled into the hay shed - the back of which opens into the pasture.

*That we finished and had time for a leisurely dinner before Ryan brought the second load of hay.

Do you begin to see my point? Even if you have the sniffles and you have to scratch up your arms carrying hay to feed the horses your sister rides (while she plays soccer), there is something beautiful to find, something sweet to be grateful for.

So I dare you, fellow bloggers, to take 21 days to be grateful with me. Each day, instead of or in addition to your normal posts, publish a list of ten things that blessed you. See if it doesn't cheer you up! I'm willing to bet that trying it will take some of the blue out of your day and put more wind in your sails.

Comment if you're going to do this please! I want to know who's with me!

...Thank you! :D

Good ol' County Fair

Celebrations mark the opening of Fair. A parade marches past. Flying candy, children running almost to the middle of the streets, Miss So-and-so and Miss Queen-of-something and Miss County giving their unrealistically refined waves and trying not to overheat their gowns, fire trucks annoying and startling more than they please, bands playing snatches of tunes that nobody has the time to recognize...And then at night, the fireworks! Magical light in enchanting colors and patterns dazzle the sky and reflect excitement in wide-open eyes. (If there were like Gandalf's, though!)

"The finest rockets ever seen, They burst in stars of blue and green, Or after thunder, Golden showers, Came falling like a rain of flowers." -J. R. R. Tolkien

Mom caught these!

You ought to be gasping with me. They were so exciting! I hadn't seen fireworks forever!!!

Is this not beautiful?!

The cheese curds were gargantuan. They were not bites, they were hand fulls. You spend the first minute gazing at them and trying to pick one to eat. You can't decide whether to save the big greasy one for last, or not. So you grab one and take a nibble; a grin lights up your eyes and displays stringy cheese to a crowd of persons who don't know you, but having mozzarella draped over your chin doesn't bother you today. Your eyes bug out when you remember that you have numerable nibbles left.



In the 4-H building, scents and colors dance wildly for your attention. Homemade clothing swells proudly on it's display. Pictures of events judged earlier stand boasting in their awarded ribbons. Creativity made manifest in numerous venues; scrapbooks pull colors together in charming collages, bilboards broadcast "quickfacts" and "My Story" in alternating bursts of before-and-after pictures and short sentences or paragraphs. Ropes sag around display tables, upheld by soldier-stiff metal rods.


Outside, sterotypical heat necessitates costly water balloon fights and dunk tanks. The ferris wheel turns in it's traditional circles, lifting fairgoers to glorious hights before sinking them into noisy reality again. The subdued roar of the rides accomanies the chattering roar of the people. Every so often, someone jumps up and waves his arms, having noticed a friend he must talk to. People amble past, ignoring and ignored - all minds are on rides, food and fun. The midway streams with scantily dressed girls clinging on their shaggy haired boyfriends and mothers who've eaten to many snacks pushing strollers and searching for another dollar, rescuing an almost-dropped chili-cheese-dog, and calling after the one who graduated from stroller-hood and thinks she can go anywhere.
 
It is the first time I have paid attention to the stables since last years fair. The first thing to catch my attention is a flashy new sign reading "Horse Barn." Two horses, from the whithers up, are outlined. I grimace: they are not well drawn horses. The lines are smooth, but they are horrible proportionately. Almost like caricatures of horses, but bad even for that. I know my artistic and horse-loving sister will have a fit when she sees them.



Inside, things are not so dis-familiar. Stall doors all hang at the same nearly straight angle, tattooed with staples that, 363 days ago, held ribbons, posters, signs, and pictures. At one end of the barn I remember the manure pile used to be. Likely to be there this year too, I reflect, since the other end of the barn is towards the fair and people will want to keep up appearences. But right now a pretentious and self-righteously clean folding table stands, holding an assignment list of the stalls and turning up it's corners at the rustic structure behind it.


By Thursday, there is no more table. Mocking manure is chunked and heaped where the table stood. Horses fill the stalls - making friends, declaring enemies, or generally ignoring the hubbub. Older horses stand relaxed with their heads in the quietest corner of the stall. They've aquainted themselves with the hay pile and the water bucket and they know they should rest while they can. Middle aged horses turn about their stall, still hopefull that they can make it comfortable. They are mostly to proud to acknowledge bystanders. The youngest fillies and colts are too busy discovering if they love or hate their neighbor to eat immediately. One filly takes an instant dislike to the mule behind her and expresses her feelings by applying her teeth to his rump. Minature horses - always two to a stall - ignore the world and eat in silent companionship.


Well dressed chidlren clinging to slender mothers shriek with excitement or gape in awe as real-live COWGIRLS(!) walk casually past carrying grain, pitchforks, and brushes with careless ease and nachalance. The youngest ones stare as farm boys in dirty shirts - sleeves long since torn off - enter stalls and talk softly to equine friends. Anxious mothers chide their children that saddles should already be on the horses which are still only being bathed. At the riding ring, the only relaxed ones are those unrelated watchers sitting on the single bleachers. An announcer commands the attention of those on the horses, announcing the games, calling out the names and numbers of the next riders. Riders command the attention of the parents, who run around holding reins of their childrens horses, cheering when their children ride, comforting when the children lose. Riding instructers pay attention to everyone, announcers, riders and young children running annoyingly and dangerously close to the horses.

Little Bro washes his horse, Knightly.

Little Bro rides Jewel, our Appolousa.

Art Maniac ('Lil Sis) rides the two-year-old horse that she has been training through the spring.

Little Bro shows Knightly in Halter Class.

Art Maniac shows her horse, Dance, in Open Class horse show and takes Grand!

 Little Bro does the barrel race.

Little Bro does the Trail "race". You have to open a gate and ride through without dismounting. He did well!

Waiting between games!

Waiting for results...who will place?

 Art Maniac and Midnight run the keyhole race.

Art Maniac (Horse maniac?) and Dance celebrate a victory.

And all the stalls undergo the necessary decorating.

Forget Me

Today I was bored. Key word is was. But I'll get back to that. This weekend has been full of friends and family and graduations and all that goes with them. We had a graduation in the family (not mine) so I have been busy cleaning and preparing for over a week. The actual weekend of graduation, I had several parties to attend, so I did plenty of hugging, hand-shaking, and punch-sampling. (That's sampling punch, but I needed it to fit my roll.) I won't relive the gory details (more for my sake than yours) because the basic point is that today, school is out, parties are over, guests are gone, and I had too much energy to stay in the house and watch the wind wreak havoc on our yard. I wanted to be a part of it. So me and Little Bro borrowed a theme from Megamind and my mother's baton and went dandelion hunting.

We used the "Forget-me Stick" to make dandelions our first victims of Sudden-and-Unexpected Amnesia Syndrome. It felt good to go out and goof off like a kid again. (Some of you are wondering if I ever stopped. Be quiet and don't blow my cover, ok? Ok.)

I had to run inside to get my camera...a camera....my sister's.

Rusty waited for me on the front porch!

Bro advances on the dandelions. You can't see the baton, he's twirling it around his wrist.

Bro's knee forgets him.

Bro forgets himself.

"Forget me, Dandelion!" Told you this would be juvenile.

Mid-swing on a dandelion! Ahhh. This was such fun.

Searching for new amnesia victims.

Bro finds a final victim. The fragment of cup on the right is mid-air! Mwahahahaha.

Timber Wolf Trail

There is a road near our home that I love. The road arcs higher than the fields on its flanks, and its appearance of being a high road is magnified by the enormous ditch on the South edge. The little highland road, as I like to think of it, is surrounded mostly by fields but in one place on the North side there is a charming bit of woods. On ideally common summer days, it's easy enough turn the amassing clouds into white-topped mountains that rise from a distance and display snow-clad slopes above the tree-tops.

Note in passing: The entrance to the road says "Minimum Maintenance Road: Travel At Your Own Risk" and the sign is shot out with bullet holes.

I don't know if it was that or some other reason, many moons ago, my neighbor told us that when she was young (a while back) and spunky (always and forever) her and another named that road Bear-tooth Pass. I grasped at the name and hung on to it. What could be more perfect? Thereafter I would tolerate no other road for my walks. Why should I? Until last summer.

To be perfectly honest, I walked there quite a bit last summer. It wasn't until August that I heard that another of our neighbors had trapped a bear out of those woods. *Gulp* But then it was too late - the bear was already long gone when I heard about it. So I shrugged and kept walking. Until yesterday.

Mom walked there yesterday. What she saw, she kept to herself until evening. A family friend came out and rode his horse down that same road. What he saw, he told none but Mom. I was blissfully ignorant of anything out of the ordinary, until my mom revealed to me what she'd seen: wolf prints.

"So don't walk there anymore, Gianna," was her only overall point. I gasped and grinned simultaneously (it's easier if you don't practice) "Really? Wolf prints! EPIC!!!" "What do you mean? I don't see anything exciting in that." "Mom! It's like, a wolf! That is EPIC!" Needless to say, she didn't see things through the youthfully stupid lenses I wear.

Just FYI, these are almost as large as a man's hand. Not your average doggy.

Maybe a bit menacing even. 

Character Sketches

I love the little things in life so accurately and clearly portray some one's character. It's an instant in time when everybody is doing something different - oblivious to the fact that I'm furtively sneaking glances at them, the object in their hands, and pausing occasionally to scribble notes. Mwahahahaha - if your name (or something representative of your name) appears in this post, keep a look-out behind you for a short fella with glasses (lime green rims,) a tall yellow hat and an epic beard. He's my insurance policy*.

My brother and two sisters sat on the couch one evening. For blogging purposes, their names are Nonchalant, Shutterbug, and Art Maniac.

Nonchalant was flipping through a magazine, discussing with another irrelevant the engine sizes of particular cars and small trucks, comparing estimated miles-per-gallon averages, and generally drooling over anything less than 17 years old and rust-free.

Shutterbug was intently perusing resale sites online in hopes of finding the cheapest perfect ipod on earth. If it was there, she was going to find it and she was going to drive a hard bargain. Her only presence in the room was denoted by the space she took. Consumer reports and "SAVE MONEY NOW!" advertisements manipulated her attention in turn.

Art Maniac was blissfully unaware of my photography as she studied products and pictures from a horse magazine. Horse and Rider? Quarter Horse Associated? Didn't matter. I don't even remember - all I know is that it had horses, which is all it took for her to sit mesmerized for as long as it would have taken me to memorize the thing.

See what I mean? It is as clear a picture of (that facet of) character as one could wish.

And another instance. Art Maniac, Shutterbug and myself were miles from home, talking, giggling, getting bored and otherwise enjoying our life-long sworn friend, Lari, when the idea came (it is not difficult to imagine how - we were goofing off) to give ourselves tattoos with the mascara that Lari was in possession of. Lari began to tattoo herself on her upper arm. In a minute or two of pondering and painting, a little black heart appeared, outlined and then filled in.

Shutterbug snatched at the idea and the mascara and in another minute or two, a face with a jolly smile and sarcastic tongue took life on the arm of my sister. I watched in amusement but without particular interest; the sleeveless dress I would be wearing for the next day's piano competition would advertise a tattoo rather  more distinctly than I really cared for.

But Art Maniac would not be outdone. She held out a well-muscled arm for decoration. "But I don't want a  ridiculous heart," she explained scornfully. A moment's conference and the design was decided upon. I was rather shocked; she was scheduled to compete in a piano competition on the morrow also, but she rebuked me for my fears, claiming that her sleeves would hide the "beautiful thing" and that it would help her endure the wearing of a dress. Shortly thereafter, she proudly displayed a barbed-wire tattoo before my bemused father and shocked mother. I believe she thought the reactions more than worth it.

You never knew watching people could be so amusing, did you? Another secret is to listen to the way somebody talks about a book they're enjoying. In my family it goes something like this:

Short Stuff (little brother): "Storyfingers! Guess what! Mom's reading me this book about the Pony Express and I'm going to be a rider for them!" "The Pony Express doesn't exist anymore, S. Stuff. See, it says in your book that..." "I know that, but I'm going to start my own. And if you want to ride, you have to come see me in my office." Some hours later (representative of days, perhaps?) I find mail, hand scrawled on torn note-book paper and dirty from a ride across the prairies and mountains of our backyard, safely resting on my bed.

Art Maniac: "Hey, get this. There's this book about a girl and her horse, and she rescued the horse from a ranch that was going out of business. And read this description - 'White with a perky medicine hat...'! Storyfingers, don't you know what that means?! It's like, the coolest marking a horse can have! And if you can get a well trained, papered horse with a medicine hat, you could sell it for, like, thousands! Storyfingers, isn't that, like, amazing?!" Receiving mostly a confused response, she returns to the book to retrieve more astounding facts about this miraculous dream horse.

Shutterbug: "Storyfingers, the book I'm reading is sooooo sad! It's about this girl, and her dad goes off to war, and her brother dies, and she's like, made fun of at school just because she's _____! I mean, can you believe it? That's just not fair! And her family isn't nice to her either. I mean, her dad was the only one who liked her, and he's gone. You know, the only way I can stop myself from crying is to keep reminding myself that it's just a book. It's not true, after all. But you should read it! It's soooo sad, I mean, just look at everything she goes through and none of it's her fault!"

Storyfingers: "Oh! I loved that book. I had to read it twice, I just had too. The author is such a good writer! Look at how she develops the lead character! It's so realistic and well written. It's so subtle and yet powerful how she changes the character throughout the course of the story! You should really read it." Or, "Yeah, I know it was about punctuation, but it was so humorous! Lynne Truss does is so skilled at laying out the guidelines for and the history of punctuation in a clear and interesting way! I don't see why anyone wouldn't want to read it. Her puns, dry humor and play on words are all so captivating." Or yet, "Not just his message, but his style really drew me in. I love the way he uses his adjectives. He writes to give every word it's full worth and potency. I love the way he balances simple, poignant sentences with a lengthy use of adjectives; it seems to create a much more vibrant picture."

Ahhhh. Just reading what I've written makes me want to go re-read some of those authors!

Now. Comment. Wait-wait-wait. Slow down. You didn't let me finish. Comment with style. Sketch a character you know well, and in so doing, sketch yourself in profile.

*Insurance policy: If you're looking for him, you'll never notice me. *Grin*

Book order

My eternal gratitude to those 3 (three?!) faithful friends who actually took the time to vote. I'm giving you a list of the books that the first sentences were from - you are now obligated to read the books you voted for. Notice that there is no 11th book. Ah. The sad truth is that my short story didn't pass the first sentence test. (Inna, I had hoped for better things...) Sigh.

1. The Fellowship of the Ring J. R. R. Tolkien

2. The Great Good Thing by Roderick Townley.

3. A Single Shard by Linda Sue park

4. Bat 6 by Virginia Euwer Wolff

5. Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynne Truss.

6. The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart

7. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens

8. Crazy Love by Francis Chan with Danae Yankoski

9. The Search for Delicious by Natalie Babbitt.

10. Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery

First Sentence Test.

This is an intense test. It takes lots of studying to pass it. It takes tons of practice. But it takes even more skill. It's a short test, but you'd probably sweat buckets waiting for results from the FST. It's called the First Sentence Test.

It works like this. Judges vote on whether or not they would read your book and the answer is entirely based on their opinion of the first sentence.

Don't worry though. Today you're a judge. I'm providing you with the first sentences from several different books. They'll be numbered, so all you have to do is read the sentence, find the corresponding poll (also numbered) and vote. You will need to select 11 answers to vote on each book. Take note of how you voted for each (or some) sentence(s) and leave a comment regarding why you voted that way, or what you think of the sentence. To avoid scientific variables and all that jazz, I'm not giving you the authors or the book titles.

1. "When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton."

2. "Sylvie had an amazing life, but she didn't get to live it very often."

3. "'Eh, Tree-ear! Have you hungered well today?' Crane-man called out as Tree-ear drew near the bridge."

4. "Now that it's over, we are telling."

5. "Either this will ring bells for you, or it won't."

6. "In a city called Stonetown, near a port called Stonetown Harbor, a boy named Reynie Muldoon was preparing to take an important test."

7. "My father's family name being Pirrip, and my christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip."

8. "What if I said, 'Stop praying'?"

9. "In his workroom at the top of the tower, Decree, the Prime Minister, was pacing up and down."

10. "Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived right where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed by alders and ladie's eardrops and traversed a little brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde's Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde's door without due regard for decency and decorum; itprobably  was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof."

11. "Deep in the soul of my family is a trait that lies hidden for most of the year but becomes manifest in mid-November."

"_______________"

Yep. I know. Crazy title, no? Very random. I rather like it, though. It's because I couldn't think of a proper name for this post. Everything I came up with was rather generic. I need ya'll's help. (Somebody google this for me, is "ya'll's" a word?) (Correct answer: Yes, it is now.)

Anywho.

We have a bridge near our house. I once thought it was an ordinary bridge. It has those metal fingers, like any bridge. It gets icy in the winter. It has road markings on it, even. But then, one day--

It shrunk.

I am serious.

It is now officially a narrow bridge.

Used to be, you could drive right across at 60 mph. Breeze right on through as if the little thing were an ordinary bridge, made for drivers who need to get somewhere in a hurry. (Does that not cover everybody?) The next day, Somebody (who shall remain unnamed) had kindly posted a sign that the bridge had shrunk, and that it was now only safe to drive 40 mph across the bridge. The sign didn't give all the details; what caused the bridge to shrink (feeling small due to an inferiority complex?) or why it didn't warn anybody (revengeful thinking for being trampled without so much as thanks?) The sign really only read "Narrow Bridge."

I was astounded. Really? A shrinking bridge? (Photographers, I'll sell time slots to go over and take pics?!)

I will keep all of you posted as to it's upcoming habits. If there is any growing being done, you'll all be aware of it as soon as I can access my computer.

Oh, and I've totally owned every other bridge story out there, so don't even try. Mwahahahahaha! Jk.