Hey, Kitten...
Thought I'd write a few words and see if you will read them to those two 'Lovin On Trees' sisters of yours....OK?
I was going to put it in your mom's comment in her blog but I read she has her camera back and the article may be gone before I get my words printed so....
Once upon a time when I was just a little older than you my mom had to move we three kids to Lewiston, Idaho to go to school. Our home was in Orogrande, Idaho and they didn't have enough kids living there yet to have a school. So we had to go out to Lewiston during school time.
My brother Bobby was just some older than Gretta and my sister Patty was just starting 1st grade. I was going into 6th grade.
Lewiston has lots of Native American people around there as the Indian Reservation wasn't very far away. It wasn't long before I had a lot of Indian friends to play with and some of them went to our school. They told me that Neysa was an Indian name. I thought they were kidding but they brought books to school to show the teachers and I that this was true. This made them special friends and I liked my name more and more all the time.
I learned a lot about Indians and they invited me to come play and spend time at the Reservation. They told the best stories. They had stories for everything they did.
One of my favorite stories was about 'Trees.' The Indians love trees and they taught me how to talk to trees and learn from them. The Chief told us to always pick out a special tree everywhere we lived. I did this and I still do this even though I'm as old as the Chief was then. He told us to hug our tree...to sit on the ground and lean up against the tree. He said to lay on the roots of the tree and look up into the sky and watch the clouds and that the tree would help us make pictures out of the clouds. The clouds would turn into shapes that looked like animals and things. Now this was lots of fun.
When we learned these things the Chief would tell us bigger things. He told us the trees would whisper to us. The winds would make the branches and leaves and needles move and they made sounds and for us to listen close to because God and the Angels were sending us messages through the whispers. I loved these stories more and more and I knew I had a friend forever and ever. My tree.
The story I like the best is the one about healing. The Chief told us that when we were sick or sad or happy to go to our tree and hug it a long time. When we would hug it for a long time we would feel it's energy coming out and into us healing and comforting us. Isn't that a fun thing to know? I found out that you can tell secrets to your tree and the tree will never tell. You can always trust your tree.
Now when you gals are lovin on your tree listen to what it's saying. You see, God is sending you a message through your tree to you. This is a true story. I hope you like it.
Gami....a Tree Hugger.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
March
Tis March...so says the calendar. The weather certainly doesn't feel like spring yet. Rain, Snow, Wind and it's dark outside. I can not seem to take the first step to accomplish any work today. I need Sunshine~~~!
Well...My Greats....how about another bird story?
Tis spring ... and it's trying hard to make it't entrance. March holds many good things within it's calendar days.
First the melting of a long winter of snow. The air starts to take on a different smell and feel. Hidden flowers start to awaken and stretch out through the cool dirt. Then comes the first day of Spring...and the birthdate of one of my three urchins. The swallows return to Capistrano and some of them fly on up to Spokane, Washington and over to their old homestead on Cleveland Ave.
We will never forget our first spring in our new home on Cleveland as Big Blue made an appearance to inform us he was looking for a rental for the summer. Big Blue was a huge Barn Swallow and he sang with great gusto. He surveyed the territory for a couple of days and Ron decided to build him a house.
At the time Ron was in wood shop at Havermile Jr. High so he built a nice house as an extra school project and nailed it onto the outside of the garage.
Now Big Blue knew this was just what he was looking for and soon appeared with a mate. She wasn't as big as he but was quite colorful. They had deep blue on their backs and wings and the white tummies . We were all facinated with the talent they had for flying. They flew faster and dove in and out of space more than any bird I had ever seen. They were like a stunt plane. I think Ryan ,dad/uncle, could name all the stunts they preformed in the air.
Mr and Mrs Big Blue moved in. What fun it was watching them build their nest. It didn't take long to see that they liked white things for the nest. They collected all kinds of white feathers. They didn't come to the ground much and they ate bugs from the air. They were in flight continually. What a sight it was.
They had their family, taught them to fly and around the end of July they were gone. We were all sad as we really missed them.
Next March, around the 21st, I was hanging out the wash when I heard him. Big Blue was back.
But the rental had changed. During the winter Ron built five houses and we put glass backs in them. We could slide the backs out so the old nests could be cleaned out and ready for the next spring. We had discovered that Swallows don't use a perch. They just take a dead shot straight into the hole. This way they were protected from the Sparrows and bigger nest stealers from getting in.
So, we were waiting for the arrival of Big Blue plus there were four more houses along the eves for others. Blue took his own place.
It wasn't long befor we had the smaller green, blue swallows in the rest of the houses.
It didn't take long to see that the sparrows were going to cause a lot of trouble. Sparrows like to steal nests and they bring in all kinds of junk and make messy nests. It was my job to clean out everything they brought in each day to let them know they were not wanted. Ron decided to build an apartment house for the sparrows and we moved it to another part of the yard and put a bird bath and feeder there. This way they left the swallows alone.
Now each day we could look through the backs of the swallow houses and see what they had built. So interesting. Their nests were so neat and round. Everything was tucked in and lots of white objects were mixed neatly together. Soon there were five small, white eggs in each nest. Big Blue would help his mate sit on the eggs while she flew out for a rest and what ever females do. It wasn't too long before we could hear all these little peeps coming out of the holes. Boy, what busy parents these birds are. I had saved up cotton all winter from bottles etc. and I would go out each morning and evening and throw puffs of cotten in the air. Swallows came from everywhere diving for the cotton they would catch them in mid air and swoop everywhere. It looked like a war zone of swallows. It wasn't long before neighbors were out watching all the fun and they started saving cotton also for the next season.
As they babies grew they hung out of the hole to be fed as both parents would feed them in flight. Then a baby would hang out so far that he would fall out. The parents knew when this would happen and one would fly underneath tha one would fly overhead and baby had it's first flying lesson. Then back to the nest it would go...this would happen, one at a time, until four knew how to fly alone and they would sit on the telephone line that ran into our house. There was always the tiny one left that couldn't get to the hole to be fed. The parents would leave it during the day, teach the others to catch their bugs, and they each parents would keep coming back to feed the tiny one until it was ready to learn to fly.
We soon learned that when they were all lined up together on the wire during the eve but never went back into the house that they would soon be gone.
One year Big Blue's family had been gone almost a day and a half. It was the last week in July so we knew it was time for them to fly away and we were sad. Well, we heard this noisey chatter and Blue's family was back and for some reason they were being put back in their house. Then all was quiet. That night we had one of the worst wind storms we had ever had in Spokane. It blew our awning off the front porch and caused a lot of damage.
The next morning the storm was over....the Blues left and we didn't have our family again that year. The parents knew the storm was due and their babies would never survive that storm. They brought them home for the night.
Isn't nature the most wonderful mystery of life~~~?
`
Well...My Greats....how about another bird story?
Tis spring ... and it's trying hard to make it't entrance. March holds many good things within it's calendar days.
First the melting of a long winter of snow. The air starts to take on a different smell and feel. Hidden flowers start to awaken and stretch out through the cool dirt. Then comes the first day of Spring...and the birthdate of one of my three urchins. The swallows return to Capistrano and some of them fly on up to Spokane, Washington and over to their old homestead on Cleveland Ave.
We will never forget our first spring in our new home on Cleveland as Big Blue made an appearance to inform us he was looking for a rental for the summer. Big Blue was a huge Barn Swallow and he sang with great gusto. He surveyed the territory for a couple of days and Ron decided to build him a house.
At the time Ron was in wood shop at Havermile Jr. High so he built a nice house as an extra school project and nailed it onto the outside of the garage.
Now Big Blue knew this was just what he was looking for and soon appeared with a mate. She wasn't as big as he but was quite colorful. They had deep blue on their backs and wings and the white tummies . We were all facinated with the talent they had for flying. They flew faster and dove in and out of space more than any bird I had ever seen. They were like a stunt plane. I think Ryan ,dad/uncle, could name all the stunts they preformed in the air.
Mr and Mrs Big Blue moved in. What fun it was watching them build their nest. It didn't take long to see that they liked white things for the nest. They collected all kinds of white feathers. They didn't come to the ground much and they ate bugs from the air. They were in flight continually. What a sight it was.
They had their family, taught them to fly and around the end of July they were gone. We were all sad as we really missed them.
Next March, around the 21st, I was hanging out the wash when I heard him. Big Blue was back.
But the rental had changed. During the winter Ron built five houses and we put glass backs in them. We could slide the backs out so the old nests could be cleaned out and ready for the next spring. We had discovered that Swallows don't use a perch. They just take a dead shot straight into the hole. This way they were protected from the Sparrows and bigger nest stealers from getting in.
So, we were waiting for the arrival of Big Blue plus there were four more houses along the eves for others. Blue took his own place.
It wasn't long befor we had the smaller green, blue swallows in the rest of the houses.
It didn't take long to see that the sparrows were going to cause a lot of trouble. Sparrows like to steal nests and they bring in all kinds of junk and make messy nests. It was my job to clean out everything they brought in each day to let them know they were not wanted. Ron decided to build an apartment house for the sparrows and we moved it to another part of the yard and put a bird bath and feeder there. This way they left the swallows alone.
Now each day we could look through the backs of the swallow houses and see what they had built. So interesting. Their nests were so neat and round. Everything was tucked in and lots of white objects were mixed neatly together. Soon there were five small, white eggs in each nest. Big Blue would help his mate sit on the eggs while she flew out for a rest and what ever females do. It wasn't too long before we could hear all these little peeps coming out of the holes. Boy, what busy parents these birds are. I had saved up cotton all winter from bottles etc. and I would go out each morning and evening and throw puffs of cotten in the air. Swallows came from everywhere diving for the cotton they would catch them in mid air and swoop everywhere. It looked like a war zone of swallows. It wasn't long before neighbors were out watching all the fun and they started saving cotton also for the next season.
As they babies grew they hung out of the hole to be fed as both parents would feed them in flight. Then a baby would hang out so far that he would fall out. The parents knew when this would happen and one would fly underneath tha one would fly overhead and baby had it's first flying lesson. Then back to the nest it would go...this would happen, one at a time, until four knew how to fly alone and they would sit on the telephone line that ran into our house. There was always the tiny one left that couldn't get to the hole to be fed. The parents would leave it during the day, teach the others to catch their bugs, and they each parents would keep coming back to feed the tiny one until it was ready to learn to fly.
We soon learned that when they were all lined up together on the wire during the eve but never went back into the house that they would soon be gone.
One year Big Blue's family had been gone almost a day and a half. It was the last week in July so we knew it was time for them to fly away and we were sad. Well, we heard this noisey chatter and Blue's family was back and for some reason they were being put back in their house. Then all was quiet. That night we had one of the worst wind storms we had ever had in Spokane. It blew our awning off the front porch and caused a lot of damage.
The next morning the storm was over....the Blues left and we didn't have our family again that year. The parents knew the storm was due and their babies would never survive that storm. They brought them home for the night.
Isn't nature the most wonderful mystery of life~~~?
`
Dirt Road
I imagine you've all read this before but thought it wouldn't hurt to remember Paul Harvey for a moment....
Dirt Roads
What's mainly wrong with society today is that too many dirt roads have been paved.
There's not a problem in America today, crime, drugs, education, divorce, delinquency, that wouldn't be remedied if we just had more dirt roads, because dirt roads give character.
People that live at the end of dirt roads learn early on that life is a bumpy ride.
That it can jar you right down to your teeth sometimes, but it's worth it if at the end, there's home, a loving spouse, happy kids and a dog.
We wouldn't have near the trouble with our educational system if our kids got their exercise walking a dirt road with other kids from whom they learn how to get along.
There was less crime in our streets before they were paved.
Criminals didn't walk two dusty miles to rob or rape, if they knew they'd be welcomed by five barking dogs and a double barrel shotgun.
And there were no drive-by shootings.
Our values were better when our roads were worse!
People did not worship their cars more than their kids, and motorists were more courteous. They didn't tailgate by riding the bumper or the guy in front would choke you with dust and bust your windshield with rocks.
Dirt roads taught patience.
Dirt roads were environmentally friendly. You didn't hop in your car for a quart of milk, you walked to the barn for your milk.
For your mail, you walked to the mailbox.
What if it rained and the dirt road got washed out? That was the best part! Then you stayed home and had some family time, roasted marshmallows and popped popcorn and pony rode on Daddy's shoulders and learned how to make prettier quilts than anybody.
At the end of dirt roads, you soon learned that bad words tasted like soap.
Most paved roads lead to trouble, but dirt roads more likely lead to a fishing creek or a swimming hole.
At the end of a dirt road, the only time we even locked our car was in August, because if we didn't, some neighbor would fill it with too much zucchini.
At the end of a dirt road, there was always extra springtime income from when city dudes would get stuck and you'd have to hitch up a team and pull them out.
Usually you got a dollar, always you got a new friend, at the end of a dirt road!
--Paul Harvey
Dirt Roads
What's mainly wrong with society today is that too many dirt roads have been paved.
There's not a problem in America today, crime, drugs, education, divorce, delinquency, that wouldn't be remedied if we just had more dirt roads, because dirt roads give character.
People that live at the end of dirt roads learn early on that life is a bumpy ride.
That it can jar you right down to your teeth sometimes, but it's worth it if at the end, there's home, a loving spouse, happy kids and a dog.
We wouldn't have near the trouble with our educational system if our kids got their exercise walking a dirt road with other kids from whom they learn how to get along.
There was less crime in our streets before they were paved.
Criminals didn't walk two dusty miles to rob or rape, if they knew they'd be welcomed by five barking dogs and a double barrel shotgun.
And there were no drive-by shootings.
Our values were better when our roads were worse!
People did not worship their cars more than their kids, and motorists were more courteous. They didn't tailgate by riding the bumper or the guy in front would choke you with dust and bust your windshield with rocks.
Dirt roads taught patience.
Dirt roads were environmentally friendly. You didn't hop in your car for a quart of milk, you walked to the barn for your milk.
For your mail, you walked to the mailbox.
What if it rained and the dirt road got washed out? That was the best part! Then you stayed home and had some family time, roasted marshmallows and popped popcorn and pony rode on Daddy's shoulders and learned how to make prettier quilts than anybody.
At the end of dirt roads, you soon learned that bad words tasted like soap.
Most paved roads lead to trouble, but dirt roads more likely lead to a fishing creek or a swimming hole.
At the end of a dirt road, the only time we even locked our car was in August, because if we didn't, some neighbor would fill it with too much zucchini.
At the end of a dirt road, there was always extra springtime income from when city dudes would get stuck and you'd have to hitch up a team and pull them out.
Usually you got a dollar, always you got a new friend, at the end of a dirt road!
--Paul Harvey
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Church Dog
Church Dog
Sunday mornings are a leisurely time in many households, but they certainly weren't in our Ogilvie, Minnesota home back in the late 1920s.
Church services began at nine-thirty in the morning. Mother was the organist, so she had to be there early. That meant all of us kids had to be washed and dressed with our hair neatly combed by the time Mother left the house.
As you'd expect, there was a lot of hurrying around to make sure everyone was ready on time. That was trouble enough, but one day, we had another problem on our hands: our dog, Brownie.
Every morning, Brownie was let out by the first person who got up. When we called him back in, he'd usually come running right away, but not on this particular Sunday.
We called and coaxed for as long as we could, but Brownie was simply nowhere to be found. Unable to locate our disappearing dog, we gave up in despair and headed off to church, leaving Brownie outdoors somewhere.
We arrived at church and got settled in, with Mother at the organ. After some hymns and prayers, the minister began his sermon. We kids tried to sit still, just as we had been told to do, and not fidget. But as the preacher began to warm to his subject, I thought I heard something unusual. No one else seemed to hear it though. But then it came again, louder. It sounded like something was scratching at the church door. We kids all exchanged silent glances and stifled our giggles. Then the scratching sound was followed by the plaintive sound of a lonely dog howling. All the grown-ups pretended not to hear anything, leaning forward in their pews so that they could hear every word of the minister's oration. But we kids knew that howl. Only one dog in the neighborhood made that sound.
The wailing continued and the minister paused for a moment, furrowing his brow in frustration. He didn't want to have to compete with a howling hound, so he signaled to the usher to open the door and shoo the dog away. But the usher was not quick enough for Brownie. As soon as he opened the door, in bounded our dog with a smug look on his face! He strolled up the aisle, cool as you please, as the congregation and minister looked on aghast. When Brownie got to where Mother sat at the organ, he just plopped down and sat quietly. A murmur went around the church and there were some smiles and nodding of heads. The minister, determined to ignore this unusual canine caper, resumed his sermon.
The following Sunday happened to be one of those rare Sundays when we didn't go to the morning service. However, no one had informed Brownie of the change in our schedule. After we attended the evening service, we heard the story. In the morning, Brownie had made a commotion at the church door until once again, he was let in. Again, he sauntered down the aisle until he reached the organist, who was about to begin playing. Brownie stood stock-still for a moment, staring at the female organist. Then when he had determined to his satisfaction that she was definitely not Mother, he returned to the church door and made it clear that he was not interested in attending this particular service.
There were many Sundays when Brownie repeated his demonstrations of religious piety and family loyalty. As you can imagine, this was quite embarrassing for Mother. There were some people who weren't all that happy to see a dog in church. And each time we got a new preacher, Mother had to explain our unusual dog to him. Since Brownie lived to be nineteen years old, quite a few preachers got used to having that little brown dog interrupt their Sunday services.
Shortly after Brownie passed away, our minister came to call. After consoling us over our loss, he said, "If there is a heaven for dogs, you can be assured Brownie will be scratching at the door, and when it is opened, he will be given a place right up front with the best of them."
Thought this was a cute story for all the little ones....enjoy~~~!
--
Sunday mornings are a leisurely time in many households, but they certainly weren't in our Ogilvie, Minnesota home back in the late 1920s.
Church services began at nine-thirty in the morning. Mother was the organist, so she had to be there early. That meant all of us kids had to be washed and dressed with our hair neatly combed by the time Mother left the house.
As you'd expect, there was a lot of hurrying around to make sure everyone was ready on time. That was trouble enough, but one day, we had another problem on our hands: our dog, Brownie.
Every morning, Brownie was let out by the first person who got up. When we called him back in, he'd usually come running right away, but not on this particular Sunday.
We called and coaxed for as long as we could, but Brownie was simply nowhere to be found. Unable to locate our disappearing dog, we gave up in despair and headed off to church, leaving Brownie outdoors somewhere.
We arrived at church and got settled in, with Mother at the organ. After some hymns and prayers, the minister began his sermon. We kids tried to sit still, just as we had been told to do, and not fidget. But as the preacher began to warm to his subject, I thought I heard something unusual. No one else seemed to hear it though. But then it came again, louder. It sounded like something was scratching at the church door. We kids all exchanged silent glances and stifled our giggles. Then the scratching sound was followed by the plaintive sound of a lonely dog howling. All the grown-ups pretended not to hear anything, leaning forward in their pews so that they could hear every word of the minister's oration. But we kids knew that howl. Only one dog in the neighborhood made that sound.
The wailing continued and the minister paused for a moment, furrowing his brow in frustration. He didn't want to have to compete with a howling hound, so he signaled to the usher to open the door and shoo the dog away. But the usher was not quick enough for Brownie. As soon as he opened the door, in bounded our dog with a smug look on his face! He strolled up the aisle, cool as you please, as the congregation and minister looked on aghast. When Brownie got to where Mother sat at the organ, he just plopped down and sat quietly. A murmur went around the church and there were some smiles and nodding of heads. The minister, determined to ignore this unusual canine caper, resumed his sermon.
The following Sunday happened to be one of those rare Sundays when we didn't go to the morning service. However, no one had informed Brownie of the change in our schedule. After we attended the evening service, we heard the story. In the morning, Brownie had made a commotion at the church door until once again, he was let in. Again, he sauntered down the aisle until he reached the organist, who was about to begin playing. Brownie stood stock-still for a moment, staring at the female organist. Then when he had determined to his satisfaction that she was definitely not Mother, he returned to the church door and made it clear that he was not interested in attending this particular service.
There were many Sundays when Brownie repeated his demonstrations of religious piety and family loyalty. As you can imagine, this was quite embarrassing for Mother. There were some people who weren't all that happy to see a dog in church. And each time we got a new preacher, Mother had to explain our unusual dog to him. Since Brownie lived to be nineteen years old, quite a few preachers got used to having that little brown dog interrupt their Sunday services.
Shortly after Brownie passed away, our minister came to call. After consoling us over our loss, he said, "If there is a heaven for dogs, you can be assured Brownie will be scratching at the door, and when it is opened, he will be given a place right up front with the best of them."
Thought this was a cute story for all the little ones....enjoy~~~!
--
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Age
Age
A glance in the mirror. Simple, yet altering somehow. I see that I am not the little girl I once was, yet I can still see me there. Bright, happy.
But wait, I pause to truly see the me I am today…lines and wrinkles mar the unspoiled face of childhood, showing the many paths I could have chosen.
I am not sixteen, I am not twenty one, and I am no longer fifty. Time has marched across my body and I can scarcely remember the land of childish memories.
As I continue to gaze in the reflection, I see the features of family older and wiser in the shape and contour of my face. These family members remain while others reside in my memory only.
One day, those gathered in my mind will be the stuff of legend with a bit of fable thrown in. Family stories will be passed along to those who never knew the flesh and blood reality. Given enough time, most will be forgotten.
This chance encounter with the me in the mirror brings about a midlife crisis of sorts. I find myself needing to make a choice. I can mimic the me I recall in faulty memory or I can attempt to honor the memory of those I have known being more like them. Yet, neither choice seems entirely agreeable. Perhaps there is another choice.
The good old days are often the best of memories, sifted often and embellished with time. The future holds much promise, dreams, adventure, danger, new generations who do not see eye to eye with the past, declining health, perhaps loss of job, loss of memory and loss of my spouse.
My life is neither at the beginning and it may not be at the end. God delights in the heart of a child, so I choose that heart. God delights in maturity, so I chose this path.
God gave Moses his greatest assignment at the age of 80, Abraham became a parent at 100, Paul and John wrote significant words later in life. Through aches and pains, flesh thorns and heartache, God used these men.
I will not cower at the thought of the coming years. I want to run eagerly to my Home and take His assignments gladly. I want to do so willingly.
Rather than looking back at the way things were, I want to look ahead to the way things could be. I want the heart of a child and the maturity of a wise person. I want to greet each day with a willingness to pursue the adventure called life. I won’t do it by acting like someone half my age. I will do it with the help of an ageless God who loves me and understands that I am but dust.
I will associate with younger people. I will need to know what they think and how they see their world. I will surround myself with older people. I will need the wisdom they can offer. I will not contribute to the widening of the generation gap.
The me in the mirror is not what I once was. The me in the mirror is not the final word on who I will become. The me in the mirror is simply a reflection of today. A day that the Lord has made for my enjoyment and, more importantly, His purpose.
I turn and walk away from the mirror with a smile on my face. I have things to do. I have things to learn. I must not waste so much precious time.
A glance in the mirror. Simple, yet altering somehow. I see that I am not the little girl I once was, yet I can still see me there. Bright, happy.
But wait, I pause to truly see the me I am today…lines and wrinkles mar the unspoiled face of childhood, showing the many paths I could have chosen.
I am not sixteen, I am not twenty one, and I am no longer fifty. Time has marched across my body and I can scarcely remember the land of childish memories.
As I continue to gaze in the reflection, I see the features of family older and wiser in the shape and contour of my face. These family members remain while others reside in my memory only.
One day, those gathered in my mind will be the stuff of legend with a bit of fable thrown in. Family stories will be passed along to those who never knew the flesh and blood reality. Given enough time, most will be forgotten.
This chance encounter with the me in the mirror brings about a midlife crisis of sorts. I find myself needing to make a choice. I can mimic the me I recall in faulty memory or I can attempt to honor the memory of those I have known being more like them. Yet, neither choice seems entirely agreeable. Perhaps there is another choice.
The good old days are often the best of memories, sifted often and embellished with time. The future holds much promise, dreams, adventure, danger, new generations who do not see eye to eye with the past, declining health, perhaps loss of job, loss of memory and loss of my spouse.
My life is neither at the beginning and it may not be at the end. God delights in the heart of a child, so I choose that heart. God delights in maturity, so I chose this path.
God gave Moses his greatest assignment at the age of 80, Abraham became a parent at 100, Paul and John wrote significant words later in life. Through aches and pains, flesh thorns and heartache, God used these men.
I will not cower at the thought of the coming years. I want to run eagerly to my Home and take His assignments gladly. I want to do so willingly.
Rather than looking back at the way things were, I want to look ahead to the way things could be. I want the heart of a child and the maturity of a wise person. I want to greet each day with a willingness to pursue the adventure called life. I won’t do it by acting like someone half my age. I will do it with the help of an ageless God who loves me and understands that I am but dust.
I will associate with younger people. I will need to know what they think and how they see their world. I will surround myself with older people. I will need the wisdom they can offer. I will not contribute to the widening of the generation gap.
The me in the mirror is not what I once was. The me in the mirror is not the final word on who I will become. The me in the mirror is simply a reflection of today. A day that the Lord has made for my enjoyment and, more importantly, His purpose.
I turn and walk away from the mirror with a smile on my face. I have things to do. I have things to learn. I must not waste so much precious time.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Inauguration 2009
Last night I asked me to wake me up in time to see the beginning of Inauguration 2009 from the beginning to the end. My eyes popped open at 5:59AM just in time to flip on the television and wrap up in a blanket. Six AM and all is well~~~!
I came, I saw, I heard, I cried through a day of history that I shall never forget. Over two million of we humanity did so. We shall all remember this unforgetable day. It will be a piece of history that will live on for centuries in the future.
This may well be the last time I'm priviledged to see the outgoing and incoming president event in United States of America.
I couldn't help but wonder what was going through the heart and mind of President Bush. Was he feeling relief that the burden was about over...Would he and Laura be glad to return to the ranch in Texas or would they miss the home they'd lived in these past eight years? Tomorrow morning would they be lost without the usual White House affairs to tend to? Would they perhaps sleep in, then get up, have a coffee and kick off their shoes, mix a stiff drink, lean back in their easy chairs and breathe a big sigh of relief that their job was now over? Were they thinking that now they could have a private life of their own again?
The new president and family....are they ready for the big job ahead? Are they ready for the extreme change in their lifestyle? Are they anxious to begin this new journey? Are they ready to pick up all the left over problems of America tomorrow morning?
I'm not ashamed to say the day was very emotional for me also.
I cried.
I had chills.
I stood beside my Harley "walker" and saluted out flag during The Star Spangled Banner.
I prayed the Lord's Prayer with all.
I'll leave you now with another thought I had while I sat in my ringside seat in front of the television...."I wonder how many people out of those thousands might have Crohn's Disease like myself. What was that journey like trying to find one of those 5000 porta-potties when in need???"
A few years ago my grandson Ryan and I had a conversation about different cultures, colors etc.
Ryan's thought was that it was important for each country and race to keep their own culture.
I thought the future might see all colors blended together sharing their culture and their skin tones would be a beautiful gold.
Who is right?
Who is wrong?
It doesn't matter.
One day there shall be Peace for the World.
I came, I saw, I heard, I cried through a day of history that I shall never forget. Over two million of we humanity did so. We shall all remember this unforgetable day. It will be a piece of history that will live on for centuries in the future.
This may well be the last time I'm priviledged to see the outgoing and incoming president event in United States of America.
I couldn't help but wonder what was going through the heart and mind of President Bush. Was he feeling relief that the burden was about over...Would he and Laura be glad to return to the ranch in Texas or would they miss the home they'd lived in these past eight years? Tomorrow morning would they be lost without the usual White House affairs to tend to? Would they perhaps sleep in, then get up, have a coffee and kick off their shoes, mix a stiff drink, lean back in their easy chairs and breathe a big sigh of relief that their job was now over? Were they thinking that now they could have a private life of their own again?
The new president and family....are they ready for the big job ahead? Are they ready for the extreme change in their lifestyle? Are they anxious to begin this new journey? Are they ready to pick up all the left over problems of America tomorrow morning?
I'm not ashamed to say the day was very emotional for me also.
I cried.
I had chills.
I stood beside my Harley "walker" and saluted out flag during The Star Spangled Banner.
I prayed the Lord's Prayer with all.
I'll leave you now with another thought I had while I sat in my ringside seat in front of the television...."I wonder how many people out of those thousands might have Crohn's Disease like myself. What was that journey like trying to find one of those 5000 porta-potties when in need???"
A few years ago my grandson Ryan and I had a conversation about different cultures, colors etc.
Ryan's thought was that it was important for each country and race to keep their own culture.
I thought the future might see all colors blended together sharing their culture and their skin tones would be a beautiful gold.
Who is right?
Who is wrong?
It doesn't matter.
One day there shall be Peace for the World.
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