Supper at the Black Lab, Jazz at Cezanne's

Emma and I went on a date last night.

We planned it a month ago as a surprise for Herb and Nathaniel. We would go to the Black Labrador Pub in Montrose, dine on fish and chips and fruit and cheese, then climb the stairs to Cezanne's to hear our new Russian friend, Eddie A., play a concert of his own compositions on his alto sax. http://eddie-music.com

We forgot to account for one thing. We forgot Father Stanich's penchant for having a High Mass on important feast days, and our date Friday was the Feast of the Sacred Heart. This meant that Herb and Nathaniel had to sing in the Schola and stay afterward to practice for another high Mass this morning for the Queenship of Mary.

Emma was devastated.

She had looked forward to the whole thing--dressing up, eating what she refers to as "Heidi food", seeing and hearing Eddie A. again. We met him a few months ago at a "girls' party" that a young lady from church had invited us to. She had hired a jazz band, and Eddie sang and played alto sax.

It was a perfect afternoon--chocolate-covered strawberries and wine in the house, clear blue skies and jazz on the patio.

After the rest of the band and most of the guests had left, we ended up singing folk songs with Eddie while our hostess and some of the other young ladies formed a train and danced through the house. What fun! Eddie endeared himself to me when we were singing "She'll be Comin' Round the Mountain". I prompted the verse that begins "We will kill the old red rooster,". Eddie, a Russian mind you, immediately put his hand to his ear in the telephone symbol, (thumb to the ear, three fingers folded to the palm, pinkie to the mouth) and sang lustily, "We will call the old red rooster when she comes."

After the singing and dancing, Emma and I spent about a half-hour visiting with Eddie and thoroughly enjoyed him. He showed us his green card and invited us to his Cezanne concert. We promised to come.

So despite my great fear of going to downtown Houston at night with my beautiful princess but without the protection of my true knight, I succumbed to Emma's entreaties, and we drove forth upon our adventure.

Thankfully, it was still light by the time we arrived in Montrose. Otherwise I think I would have turned around and gone home after the second wrong turn. For the record, I think that one-way streets are a really bad idea. Putting little commuter trains in the middle of busy roads is a really bad idea to the tenth power. But no one ever consults me on these things.

We found the Black Lab, and gratitude welled up in my heart when I saw it was next to the Montrose library. Maybe my feelings are completely misplaced, but I just didn't think anything bad could happen to us next to such a nice library.

We ordered zucchini crab cakes and a fruit, Stilson cheese, and water biscuit (round crackers) plate. We scarfed up the crab cakes, but stumbled over the cheese. We first tried it on the crackers. Emma described that combination as "shocking". Next we spread it on the green apples. "Tolerable" was my description. We kept nibbling at it, for adventure's sake, but I can't say that we ever enjoyed it. We finished off with a sumptuous Raspberry Trifle, which we eagerly scooped up with large spoons. I would fain have eaten it all, but Emma insisted that we take part of it home. She also insisted on taking the leftover crackers, fruit, and cheese.

So we left the Black Lab and ascended the stairs to the Cezanne Club toting two plastic containers of assorted leftovers.

You can take a girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl.

Entering Cezanne's, I saw that we were alone in a small lobby with two chairs and a table. Thinking quickly, I sat down and slipped our leftovers under the floor-length tablecloth. Our dignity restored, we entered the main clubroom, greeted Eddie, and sat down.

The Cezanne is described as "intimate". That is accurate. There was room for one row of tables and chairs between the band and the bar. Another line of tables and chairs flanked each end. It was a cozy, comfortable atmosphere. Most of the people there seemed to have been invited by Eddie. They were there for the music, not to party or find a date. One waitress was able to serve the whole room.

I ordered a glass of wine. Emma ordered a fruit punch, heavily flavored with pineapple juice. Lovely.

Soon Eddie began the concert. He was really nervous, which surprised me. Maybe it was because he and the band were only going to be playing his compositions, no jazz standards to ease the customers into their comfort zone.

Once he started playing, though, he relaxed. "You can't be nervous when you're playing as hard as he was playing," Emma said later. By the time he got to "The Road to Kazan" he was jamming, and I couldn't stop smiling--I so enjoyed watching his energetic performance. Plus, as I told Emma, I love his sweet, boyish expression.

At half a glass of wine, just when I was really happy that Emma had talked me into coming, I knew, suddenly, that I had not locked the car. Library ambience aside, I trembled with this dreadful revelation. It was 10:00 in Houston on a Friday night, and we were parked on a dimly-lit sidestreet, with our doorlocks standing perkily upright, inviting streetsmart passersby to take advantage of the silliness of an over-the-hill country bumpkin. And it was Herb's car. I didn't know what valuables he might have in there.

I decided that it was safest to leave Emma in the Cezanne, and I slipped out, hurrying down the stairs and through the parking lot, passing the friendly library, and turning onto the sidestreet while worrying ever and anon, "What will Herb say?".

There was the Honda with the clearly visible unlocked doors.

Seeing that no one was inside, I jumped in and locked the doors. I tried to remember what had been in the car when we parked. The only thing I noticed was that the sunglasses compartment was hanging open. I didn't think it had been open before, but I truly could not remember. I gave up trying. Making sure to lock the doors this time, I quickly returned to the Cezanne.

We stayed for another half-hour; the music was just as invigorating, but I never re-gained that joyful exuberance that I felt earlier. It was enough, though. We had sampled Stilson cheese, heard great live jazz, and remembered to get our leftovers from under the table on our way out.

Now we just needed to find our way home again.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

Bilbo Baggins song, The Lord of the Rings

Cay's Been There, Done That and with Better Pictures

I had to laugh when I visited Cajun Cottage and discovered Cay "virtually" giggling over the mental picture of me in a bee suit. She probably thought of that giant marshmallow guy from Ghostbusters. I don't blame her. I did.

Anyway, Cay's archive has a bee story that is really good. Click on the title to visit her at Cajun Cottage and read her sweet story.

Roots of the Current Food Crisis

Click on the title for a link to The Deliberate Agrarian. Herrick Kimball has an excellent post on how we got into the food crisis. . .and how to get out.

I Dream of Hidden Treasure

My Mom and Dad have a bee problem. The bees are flying under the house and crawling up the side of a pipe that serves as an air intake for their fireplace. It appears that they are inside the wall, behind the fireplace. It's hard to mow and weedeat in the yard on that side of the house because of the heavy bee traffic. Nathaniel and I have gone over to observe several times, and the home-focused bees actually bump into us. It's an odd sensation.

This is the second time that my parents have had this problem. The first time they called an exterminator. Since then they have become concerned about the ongoing threat to the honeybee populations, and they decided that they would like to have the bees removed this time instead of exterminated. I found out that a gentleman in our homeschool group is our county's bee expert, so I called him to inquire about his removal services.

He told me that he had an extra bee suit and that he could teach Nathaniel everything he needed to know to get our own hive going.

It is really too bad that you can't hug people over the phone.

He asked me whether the exterminator had removed the honey or just killed the bees. For some reason it had never occurred to me that there was a hidden cache of honey, liquid gold, inside the walls of my parents' home. This revelation kindled a little flame of pure greed in my soul: It would be nice to have that honey; I want that honey; I MUST have that honey.

At odd hours a little picture of the hidden honey treasure flashes into my brain, re-directing my thoughts into a sweet detour where I ponder such things as the nuances of flavor that these bees transport back to the hidden hive. Blackberry and Dandelion? How would that compare to Tupelo, Clover, or that favorite of the Greeks, Thyme?

Would I look fat(ter) in a bee suit?

How much mess will Emma make when she starts producing beeswax candles? That thought gives me true pause as I remember Emma reading me a story just two days ago from one of her Threads magazines about using wax to batik fabric. I sense danger on every side.

Oddly, Herb brought me back a new honey dispenser last week from his trip to San Antonio. The book I requested two weeks ago, Gregor Mendel's Experiments on Plant Hybrids: A Guided Study came in this week, and it said that Mendel not only experimented with peas, he also hybridized bees and had a beehouse built behind the monastery. He loved bees so much that he had a barren hilly area planted with flowers for them. He had a beehive painted on the ceiling of the monastery's Great Chapter Hall.

I think of the similarities between a monastery and a beehive. I see them as part of God's plan. I see the good, the true, and the beautiful.

I contrast this thought with the fact that bees are actually extinct in parts of China from pesticide use. All pollination is done by hand. The Communists believe man is God.

Save the bees!

The Magic Flute Casts a Spell on Me

For more than a month my Emmaline has been consumed by a Queen of the Night aria from The Magic Flute called "Der Holle Rache". She has listened to it constantly on her mp-3 player, played it on the piano, played it on the organ, sang it, researched it online.

In this research she not only discovered opera stars like Maria Callas, she discovered Florence Foster Jenkins, a lady who sang so badly that it made her famous enough to get invited to perform at Carnegie Hall. Emma's favorite bit of Jenkins trivia is the quote that was attributed to her after a taxi cab accident: Now I can "sing a higher F than ever before." The high F is what makes "Der Holle Rache."

In Emma's enthusiasm, I have had one of the little mp-3 player ear buds jammed unexpectedly into my ear as we were driving down the road. "Listen to this part, Mom!". The marrow of my bones has been displaced with the notes from "Der Holle Rache". I suspect that even the very walls of our house are vibrating with the music of "Der Holle Rache" and will soon come tumbling down, Jericho-style.

This all goes to establishing background for what I am about to tell you. Several weeks ago I dropped Emma off at the orthodontist's office, and I went to the garden center at Lowe's, all by myself. I was completely relaxed, or so I thought. As I was checking out, I was startled by the sound of--you guessed it--"Der Holle Rache". I gasped, then exclaimed, "OH!" to the cashier.

"Are you OK?" he asked, noticing the panic-stricken look on my face.

I could see that he thought I might go postal any second, so I hurried to explain that my daughter was at the orthodontist and that she played that aria all the time and that therefore it took me by surprise because my first thought was that she was here at Lowe's and not at the orthodontist after all and how was I to know that someone would come up behind me who had "Der Holle Rasche" as a ringtone on their cellphone? He nodded his head knowingly. I tried to smile reassuringly. I hoped that I wasn't blinking too fast. I scooped up my plants and hurried out the door--keeping a sharp lookout for the nice men with the little white straitjackets.

Cheryl Studer - Zauberflote -

This is Emma's favorite audio of Der Holle Rache.

The Queen of the Night - The great Luciana Serra

So far this is Emma's favorite visual performance of Der Holle Rache.

Spending Time, Saving Dimes

I've decided to go high-tech and use solar power for my laundry, except in dire emergencies. Now if I can just get switched over to biodiesel and adapt to keeping our thermostat at 80 degrees.

The Homestead Report

The road to growing your own food is fraught with peril. About a week and a half ago, our dogs got out and extinguished the vital spark that animated our teenaged flock of laying hens. I came home to find 15 Barred Rocks wilted on the grass in great puddles of downy gray feathers. I just went in the house, sat down, and cried. Nathaniel dealt with the dogs and the bodies of the murder victims.

My grief came from the depressing prospect of starting over again with day-old chicks but also from the loss of atmosphere. I'm amazed that a flock of laying hens is not the number one wedding gift. Nothing else gives that homey feeling quite so well.

Despite the loss of the hens, we continue. We got some meat rabbits--two does and a buck. I bought the book afterwards only to read that you should always start with two does and two bucks.

Nathaniel and his friend, Ryan, prepared two new raised beds for me.

Herb got some time off and decided that two more raised beds would not be enough.

He and Nathaniel would build a raised bed subdivision.

Emma took a turn, too.


We finally got the tomatoes staked up. Yes, it requires heavy equipment to transport the fence posts. . .

and to push them into the ground.

Tying the strings requires handwork, though.

Measuring Homeschool Socialization

My friend Cay at Cajun Cottage Under the Oaks http://caygibson.typepad.com/ has a link to a post by Dr. Laura Schlesinger on homeschool socialization. Dr. Laura reports on research that was done comparing homeschooled college freshmen at a Christian college to non-homeschooled college freshmen at the same college. The researchers look at anxiety levels, etc. Of course, the homeschoolers came out great--less anxiety, higher g.p.a.'s, etc.

While I am always glad of any positive "research" I wish it could convey more important information. As a culture, we are so hung up on measuring. I guess that's the triumph of the industrial North. And the measuring that is done is to answer questions that are not even the ones that need answering. For instance, I believe that researchers need to ask, "What method of education will most likely produce a moral society?". Partial results are in on that one. We know that government schools do not. As this was never their goal in the first place, it's understandable.

In my years of watching homeschoolers socialize, I have seen some characteristics over and over:

Homeschoolers play with different age groups; they do not categorize other children by what grade they are in;

Homeschoolers do not see adults as "the enemy"; they generally talk and visit with them eagerly;

Homeschoolers are more accepting of differences--be it a physical handicap or a manner of dress. I have never seen any bullying, never heard any labeling;

Homeschoolers are open to learning all the time; they do not see it as something that happens during certain hours, with a certified teacher, with textbooks;

I could go on.

I won't, though. Those that believe in public schools do so because they want to. Their minds won't be changed by any anecdotal evidence from me. But truth is always relevant, whether or not it changes anything.

Southerners: We Are Not Puritans

http://www.abbevilleinstitute.org/07SS/07Lectures/07JKwgs.html

This is a fascinating lecture by Dr. James Kibler on the Celtic influence on the South. He compares what Cromwell did to the Irish with what the North did to the South.

Near the end of the lecture, Kibler recommends this book: How Celtic Culture Invented Southern Literature by James P. Cantrell. Kibler is one of the Southern writers profiled in this book.

Shakespeare Summer Roadtrip Adventures

It's time to get serious about having fun with Shakespeare.

Yes, cowboys and cowgirls, I'm planning a roadtrip adventure across Texas. We will attend as many live Shakespeare performances as time and our beleaguered gas budget will allow.

Our first opportunity will be Austin Shakespeare Festival's Much Ado About Nothing next Friday at The Sheffield Hillside Theater (outdoors). http://austinshakespeare.org/drupal The performance is free, but parking is $3.00. Then there will be a professional staged reading of Henry IV June 20-21 at Ballet Austin's Austin Ventures Studio Theatre.

Texas Shakespeare Festival in Kilgore http://www.texasshakespeare.com/location.html will be doing Julius Caesar and Twelfth Night through multiple dates in July and into the first few days of August.

Shakespeare at Winedale, a program of University of Texas at Austin's English department, will stage Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice, and Antony and Cleopatra on multiple dates beginning Wed., July 16 and ending Sunday, Aug. 10. http://www.shakespeare-winedale.org/ Happily, Shakespeare at Winedale is located halfway between Austin and Houston. Also, of special note, on Sunday, July 27, their 2 p.m. performance of Romeo and Juliet will be signed for the deaf.

Houston Shakespeare Festival http://www.theatre.uh.edu/onstage_summer_festivals_hsf.asp will run Aug. 1-10 and will feature Julius Caesar and Cymbeline. These are free performances but you must get tickets in advance at Miller Outdoor Theatre.

Billions of Electronic-eating 'Crazy Rasberry Ants' Invade Texas

I guess these guys clean up what's left after the Formosan termites are done. You'd think that someone in Customs or Homeland Security could inspect the ships before they are allowed to tie up here. After all, American citizens are inspected thoroughly just to be able to board a domestic flight.

If At First You Don't Succeed, You Could Be a Finch

On our recent camping trip to Lake Livingston State Park, my peaceful vacation was interrupted by trouble with squatters.



According to my husband, the recessed area behind my front license plate is for the transmission cooler, but an industrious Finch couple had determined that it was a nursery and vigorously stuffed it with sticks and leaves. Feeling like an ogre, I unstuffed it, only to find them re-stuffing as soon as I sat down.

Perhaps they were attracted to the love bug decor.



After the second time that I had scooped it all out, I filled it with Wal-Mart bags. I admit that I felt a bit smug at this point, thinking, "You can fly, but I can outthink you."

Alas, pride cometh before a fall.

An hour later I noticed one of the Finches disappearing through another opening where the tow rings come out. To my chagrin, I found that they could access the transmission cooler "nest" from there and that they knew something about recycling. They had worked with the Wal-Mart bags to make even faster progress. Once again, I scooped everything out, hoping that this time the would-be parents would take the hint and find a suitable nesting spot, preferably one without wheels.

I hoped in vain.



This was really getting stressful. I worried about Mama Finch, wondering how long she could "hold" her eggs while waiting on a place to lay them. I had no clue, but apparently my fear that she might explode was totally unfounded.

Thankfully Herb stepped in at this point and plugged the tow ring entrance and the front of the transmission cooler. It was a good thing that I didn't have to go anywhere! Herb's fix seemed to finally do the trick, and I gladly forgot about the birds.

The next morning Herb called me to the road and pointed at a camper across the street. "Remember those Finches?" he asked. I nodded. "They're building a nest in the exhaust fan of that camper."

Pink Gingham

Pink Gingham, originally uploaded by potterzdotter.

Isn't this a perfect picnic dress? I found it while browsing Regency dresses at Baker Lane. http://www.bakerlane.com/ It looks cool and comfortable, yet modest and pretty. Pretty is so hard to find. That's why I am always in haught pursuit of the good, the true, and the beautiful!

A Little Love, A Little Beauty, And Some Ice Cream

Nathaniel selected and installed two plaited-trunk Hibiscus for either side of the beginning of Grandma's sidewalk. He took his reward in hugs and an ice cream bar, both of which Grandma keeps in stock for such occasions.

The Nuns' Box

This past Sunday morning I awoke with a fever and a sore throat. It was really bad timing with the SSPX Sisters' visit that day and our planned departure for camping with a group of friends at Lake Livingston State Park.

I made it through the slide show and the girls' conference and cookout by taking naps in the car, where it was hot enough to compensate for my chills. It was too far to go home in between the slideshow and conference. We left the church at 8:00 p.m.; I couldn't make it all the way to Lake Livingston, though. Emma and I ended up spending the night at home Sunday night, which is about halfway between church and the campground. I woke Monday feeling better, no fever, and we drove on to the park where Herb and Nathaniel had already set up camp.

It was not over, though. My fever started coming back in the afternoon, and I went to bed early, burrowing under piles of blankets. Then I dreamed.

I dreamed about nuns. They had an ornate box, richly enameled and bejeweled, that one of them held cupped in her hands. Without a word, she opened the box, showing me a richly decorated interior that suddenly became a room. I was mesmerized by the room's beauty and could not stop looking. There were layers of pattern and color so rich that I could not absorb them all. The nun deftly adjusted the box, and the room changed again, almost like a kaleidoscope. This went on and on. The box seemed to have infinite possibilities, all equally stunning, all equally admired by me. A sense of profound contentment wrapped around me like a favorite shawl.

I awoke. The nuns and their box were gone. I felt a desperate sadness. "But I want to see the next room!" I cried to myself. But all I saw was the cheap camper walls. The nuns and their box would not come back.

Sisters: They Came, They Saw, They Conquered Hearts

Three Sisters of the Society of St. Pius X, an order established for the purpose of supporting priests and their work, gave a slide presentation on their work after each Mass and a girls' conference in the afternoon. The sisters--two French, one German--explained at the slide show that their order does whatever is needed to support priests, be it tending to the laundry, cooking, housework, preparing children for the sacraments, teaching in the parish school, or visiting the poor, sick, elderly, or infirm. They met with parish girls at 4:00 p.m. in the parish hall to talk with them about the religious life. Beginning with questions from the catechism, Rev. Mother Superior Mere Marie Augustin helped the girls to think about the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. By the end of the conference, several hands shot up when Rev. Mother asked if any girls were interested in the religious life. According to the Sisters' brochure, "Any young woman, aged 18 to 30, guided by a right intention, and possessing a sound judgment and sufficient health to be able to do the different works of the community, may be accepted in the congregation." Afterward, everyone congregated on the steps outside for a group picture while a picnic was being prepared. Sisters from left to right: Sister Therese-Marie, Rev. Mother Superior Mere Marie Augustin, Sister Marie-Jeanne d'Ark. Traditional American fare, hamburgers, hot dogs with chili, and potato chips was served and enoyed under the crepe myrtles. The Sisters were particularly interested in learning about the parish life: the picnics, festivals, Laetare Sunday dinner theatre, etc. With energy renewed after the feast, the girls quickly divided up for a lively game of kickball. "What is kickball?" Mother Superior asked. The mothers took advantage of this relaxed setting to ask the sisters about the decision-making process they would use for choosing a parish for their new foundation, how long it would take, and what our parish could do to accommodate their needs better. Mother Superior said that the decision would be made by prayer; that it would be made in the next year or so, and that the best improvement we could make to the convent would be a walled garden. "It's noisy here," she said. The sisters asked about insects and snakes in Texas and were assured that there were none. No ants, no mosquitoes, no snakes. Too soon, the Sisters had to go into the church for Vespers, and the mothers and girls had to go home. The Sisters leave Dickinson today directly after the High Mass at 7:30 a.m.

Feast of Pentecost

Come Holy Ghost, Creator blest, and in our hearts take up thy rest. Come with thy grace and heav'nly aid to fill the hearts which thou hast made. To fill the hearts which thou hast made.

Notice that Mary, our Mother, is in the center. Happy Mother's Day!

On Fevers, St. Joseph's Aspirin, and Saints' Names

Way back at the dawn of history, there was a television commercial for St. Joseph's aspirin. The scenario was that a little boy knocked on a door and asked the mother who opened it, "Can Wendy come out to play?"

I don't know if she could. Probably she had a fever, and the mother was a bad one and had not given darling Wendy any St. Joseph's aspirin. If she had, then Wendy would have been outside playing already. Of course this is all pure conjecture on my part, as I was a baby at the time. The important thing is that the girl who played Wendy was cute, my mother said, and the name was different, so I got named after her. Being named after a girl on a St. Joseph's aspirin commercial is as close a connection as I can come up with for claiming "Wendy" as a saint's name. I'm not complaining. As the offspring of a cross between a Primitive Baptist and a Missionary Baptist, I count myself lucky. I could have been named Dorcas, something that would have made my public school career unbearable, dangerous even.

I read a long time ago that fever is the body's first defense against sickness, so I have always avoided giving my children fever reducers, be it St. Joseph's aspirin or Tylenol, unless their fevers were really high. I'm sure Walgreen's doesn't want us to know it, but most of the non-prescription stuff they sell is formulated to keep a body from doing what it needs to do to fight illness, if it even works at all.

I just read an article that goes into detail about this subject. You may want to read it. You'll have to copy and paste this link. I couldn't make it live: http://www.freemarketnews.com/WorldNews.asp?nid=1428

Rainy Days and Social Security Statements Always Get Me Down

Every five years or so I actually open my official Social Security Statement and read it.

I really appreciate the expert advice, like this whippersnapper: "Saving and investing wisely are important not only for you and your family, but for the entire country." Whoa! Tell it like it is, Big Bro!

It continues: "If you want to learn more about how and why to save, you should visit www.mymoney.gov, a federal government website dedicated to teaching all Americans the basics of financial management." What a comedian! I'm overcome with a paroxysm of gut-wrenching, foot-stomping laughter. I know he can't teach all Americans the basics of financial management because he DOES NOT KNOW the basics of financial management. He is trillions of dollars in debt and always ready to sign our names to another IOU. He's fat. He's jolly. And he's always ready to party. What a hoot!

To keep from cracking myself up entirely and to recover my dignity, I skip over to page 2.

The first part always starts the same, just like a fairy tale: Once upon a time, "you earned 14 credits of work. To get retirement benefits, you need 40 credits of work."

With that encouraging bit of information, I can't wait to move on to the next juicy tidbit, Disability. "To get benefits if you become disabled right now, you need 26 credits of work. Your records show you have at least 14 credits at this time." Gosh, this is looking grim. I don't think I'll have enough credits to graduate. I'll be marked as a Social Security dropout for life. Scanning quickly through the other categories, I see that I do not qualify for benefits any time, any place, not no way, not no how.

Thankfully Big Brother sends me these reports, otherwise I might get the Big Head and forget that I am an underachiever of official Social Security credits. Woe is me. SIGH.

One fine day, I'll open my report, and it will say something new. It will say: "You chose to stay home with your children. Not only that, but you even homeschooled them, saving the government thousands upon thousands of dollars. Big Brother is SOOOOOO proud of you! So proud in fact that Social Security is going to award you an honorary diploma worth 26 credits of work.

Suddenly, I hear the Everly Brothers singing, Dream, dream, dream, dream.

I go back to page 1 and read, "Social Security is a compact between generations." Well, what do you know about that? A compact. Between generations. I picture happy old people in white robes shaking hands with happy young people in overalls. Wow! And I had always thought it was a compulsory tax, collected at the point of a gun. Will wonders never cease!

Uh-oh. A dark cloud appears inside my silver lining as I read: "In 2017 we will begin paying more in benefits than we collect in taxes. Without changes, by 2041 the Social Security Trust Fund will be exhausted. . ."

Hey, I'm already exhausted, but I still do my duty. Anyway, the money has been set aside, right? Basic financial management--the workers pay in, you set it aside. Right?

I fold my report and put it away. I think positive. In five more years. . .oh, no. Images of McCain, Obama, and Polly Esther Clinton loom forbodingly in my imagination. Maybe I'll wait ten years before I look at my Social Security Statement again.

Trip to Animal Farm, Part 3

The car made a U-turn, and the bird-watchers came back to the pavilion to tell us that we were about to be rescued from our lonely sojourn.

Within ten minutes we heard voices. A group of about ten people met us at the pavilion. The leader, Mr. Cass Van Woerden, welcomed us and invited us all to follow him back to the learning center. We did.

Seating ourselves in the bamboo chairs or on the large window seat, we listened eagerly as Van Woerden, relaxed and happy, told the Animal Farm story.

The first tour stop was the bathroom hut: a two-toilet facility located between the pavilion and learning center. We didn't go in the bathroom. Instead, Van Woerden lifted the lid of septic tank and invited us to peer into it. I saw not one eager face at this instruction. Instead, the visitors sidled cautiously nearer until they could actually look in and see all the disgusting. . .



leaves, nothing but leaves. The system, explained Van Woerden, consisted of leaves and thousands of worms.There were three more underground reservoirs downhill from the primary tank where the water was filtered. A Montessori class comes on a regular basis to camp on the premises and even under their heavy usage, there has never been a problem with the system.

Next we visited the Van Woerden home. Van Woerden's wife Gita had prepared vegetable wraps, fresh from the garden, and deviled eggs for us.

The house features many sliding glass doors. The outside appears to be inside.. When we were in the learning center, one of the ladies asked about using wool batts for insulation because she had an excess of them. I glanced at Emma, and she gave me the secret eyebrow raise to let me know that she had recognized a fellow fiber nut. She made a beeline for this lady while we were in the house.

We left the house and began the tour of the gardens, all ten acres of them.

The Nuns are Coming! The Nuns are Coming!

Three SSPX Sisters arrive in our parish tomorrow for a visit. They are planning to expand and are "shopping" for a parish. O, Lord, let them choose us!

I helped clean the convent chapel yesterday and got to admire the work the other ladies had already done in the rest of the convent. We haven't had any nuns in a long time--I'm guessing five years--and the ones we had were all older nuns from different orders, refugees from the storm that swept across religious life after Vatican II. I never met any of them, but I still hear the stories about them. They were well loved.

The SSPX Sisters will give a slide presentation after each Mass on Sunday and a girls' conference in the afternoon. I can't wait to hear what they have to say. When I look around and see girls modeling themselves after Hannah Montana, the new Britney Spears, I think. . .

What the world needs now is nuns, sweet nuns.

Cardinal Castrillon Promoting Traditional Mass with DVD

Fr. Z on "What Does the Prayer Really Say?" is reporting that Pope Benedict, through Cardinal Castrillon, is working to make the traditional Mass a normal part of parish life, whether it is requested or not.

“All this liturgical richness, all this spiritual richness, and all the prayers so well-preserved during the centuries, all of this is offered by the Rome of today for all. As a gift for all, it is not a gift merely for the so-called traditionalists. No, it is a gift for the whole Catholic Church,” Cardinal Castrillon Hoyos said.

Here's the link to Fr. Z's post: http://wdtprs.com/blog/2008/05/pceds-card-castrillon-hoyos-celebrate-tlm-in-parishes-even-when-it-isnt-requested/

And They Called it Puppy Love

One morning in the recent past, I went out to feed our three labs and found only the two boys; Our 10-year-old female, Cocoa, had sneaked out under the fence.

I walked around to the side of the garage so that I could see to the back of the property, and lo and behold, I sighted Cocoa strolling side-by-side with another brown lab, a male. I have always criticized Disney for romanticizing their animated films, but I have to admit that this was a scene right out of Lady and the Tramp. I laughed it was so bizarre. Cocoa strolled right past me, gave me one look that said, "You understand, don't you?", and strolled right into her pen. We never saw Loverboy again. . .until yesterday.

I was assisting Nathaniel as he converted our old pig trailer into an eggmobile, when I heard an odd mewing sound. I investigated and found Cocoa licking Loverboy Jr.

"I'll go tell Emma," Nathaniel said. Emma is our official midwife from when we had a full complement of farm animals in Louisiana. Her only downfall is that she adores bottle feeding so she is not as supportive of the newborn's attempts to nurse as she could be. Once there is a hint of trouble, Emma starts calling for me to buy formula.

So anyway, Emma hurried out to the birthing shelter and began her ministrations to mother and puppy while Nathaniel and I continued our work on the trailer. After a couple of hours, in which Emma recalled with gruesome detail every stillborn birth that she had experienced, Cocoa birthed a little female. "She's very weak," Emma announced, and conjectured that the rest of the puppies might be born dead and maybe even green with rot. "She's taking too long," Emma said. "Remember what happened when. . .?"

"Stop it, Emma!" Nathaniel shouted across the yard. He can't stand to hear that kind of stuff. We didn't hear any more for a long time. I went to check and found Emma asleep in the hay with Cocoa and the two puppies.

This event sure brought back a lot of old memories. Here's an e-mail journal entry from February 1998:

We went shopping for Mel (our pig) this morning and got her a beautiful new blue feed bucket and 100 pounds of SuperHog. She had destroyed the plastic pan that we had used for her first meal in two shakes of her piggity tail. We will all have to start wearing some kind of plastic coveralls when we visit with her since she is so fond of snuffling us all over. I'm not sure I enjoy affection from a 200-pound hog, but the kids can't get enough. Emma told me Saturday night, "I love our pig best of all." Then she promptly burst into tears and wailed, "Why do we have to kill her and the chickens?" I had a very good explanation for that which I followed with a bribe: "After Mel goes to the butcher, we'll get a baby pig to raise. And you know what else you have to look forward to? I comforted. "Someday Genevieve (Emma's puppy and Cocoa's sister) will have puppies."

Emma drew in her breath sharply and her eyes refilled with tears. "And then we're going to eat them?" she sobbed.

Genevieve is reminding me more and more of E. B. White's dog Fred. She gulps life--leaping in the air one moment, grabbing a chicken by the tail the next. She has determined that the best way to get to know another animal is by scarfing up its poop. She got her first smackerel of pig poop this morning and declared it ambrosia. She relishes rabbit pellets, chomps chicken chit. Amid her revels she pauses and looks at Cocoa as if to say, "Come to the cabaret, old chum."

Genevieve died last year. How I miss her!

Like Queen Guinevere, We Go A-Maying

Now it befell upon a pleasant day in the spring-time, that Queen Guinevere went a-Maying with a goodly company of knights and ladies of her court.

After the May crowning at church, Emma and I drove a little over an hour west of Houston to New Ulm for a May Pole party deep in the country. We had been invited by Emma's new friend, Lisa H., whom we met, along with her charming husband and son, at Animal Farm the weekend before.

Unfortunately, we had been bereft of our menfolk all weekend. Nathaniel had left on Friday to spend the weekend golfing and bowling with friends. Herb had had to work on the Rebuild Together Houston project on Saturday and decided to go to lunch with his Schola buddy on Sunday. So we girls were managing the best we could without knights.

Upon arriving, Lisa greeted Emma and bestowed upon her a giant bag full of all kinds of different wool: Shetland, Romney, Brown Suffolk, Angora, Coopworth, Alpaca, Black Mountain Welsh,Gulf Coast Native, and even some cotton and silk. Now Emma refers to Lisa as "my friend and benefactress."

Next Lisa introduced us all around, and Emma discovered a kindred spirit in another homeschooled 15-year-old, Lucia, who also loves to spin and sew. They quickly dragged out their wheels and set up shop on the front porch.

Soon it was time to sample the picnic supper that was laid out in the little house. Restored, we ventured to the May Pole where music books were passed out to all who were not dancing. While the dancers weaved in and out of the colorful May Pole ribbons,

we sang rounds of lilting folk songs with the accompaniment of the hostess's son on guitar. We learned a lovely song that I have hummed happily all day:

Let the wealthy and great
Live in splendor and state
I envy them not
I declare it.

I grow my own rams,
My own ewes, my own lambs,
And I shear my own fleece,
And I wear it.

I have lawns.
I have bowers.
I have fruit.
I have flowers.
And the lark is my morning alarmer.

So you jolly boys now
Here's godspeed the plow
Long life and success to the farmer!


Later, we all took a walk through the woods, around the pond, and into the lush meadow.

The day was exceedingly pleasant with the sunlight all yellow, like to gold, and the breeze both soft and gentle. The small birds they sang with very great joy, and all about there bloomed so many flowers of divers sorts that the entire meadows were carpeted with their tender green. So it seemed to Queen Guinevere that it was very good to be abroad in the field and beneath the sky at such a season.


We ended at the zip line, where we spent an hour laughing as the riders whooshed through the air, over the water, and back onto the land. Lucia and Emma picked posies while they waited their turn.

Then Emma climbed the big ladder and zipped through the air.

Twilight was setting in when we finally gathered our belongings, bid our fond farewells, and drove away, sadly, to the east. We took courage though, when we remembered our noble knights, who would be awaiting our return.

We Crown Mary

with a wreath of flowers

and carry her proudly, singing hymns and praying the Rosary,
through the streets




and back again.

Fathers Turn Their Hearts to Their Daughters

I used the Catholic Bible, Douay-Rheims version, when I needed to quote the Bible.

The CHARIS homeschool home economics group closed the school year with a sparkle by hosting a Father-Daughter Banquet on the evening of May 2 at Moss Hill Pentecostal Church. More than fifty fathers and daughters filled the church hall to honor their relationship and feast on ham, green beans, pasta salad, tossed salad, rolls, potatoes, and a delectable variety of desserts.

Mr. Dwayne Sisk welcomed the attendees to the night's festivities. Remarking how blessed he was for the privilege of raising daughters and being able to homeschool them, he encouraged the fathers to turn their hearts to their daughters.

After the meal, Miss Rebecca Sisk, the young lady who organized the home economics group, recognized the mothers who had helped her present the lessons and gave them each a gift box of Ghiradelli chocolates. Over the course of the school year, the monthly lessons included jam making, bread baking, table settings, a Christmas tea, sewing, and cake decorating. The lesson on table settings was done in the context of setting the tables for and serving Thanksgiving dinner to the residents of the Dayton Retirement Center.

Mr. Sisk then introduced Paul Renfro, the pastor of Grace Family Baptist in Spring, TX. Renfro's talk began with an overview of the situation in which Christian families find themselves today. He explained the importance of the Christian family and how it has been targeted for destruction because it is the only thing preventing communism (in its many forms) from completely overtaking the country.

Pointing out how entertainment and the government schools are used as lethal weapons in the attack, he instructed the fathers to protect and guide their daughters--to preserve their innocence and build a close relationship with them. By building this kind of relationship, the father will elicit in each daughter a strong desire to please him and honor his decisions for her, Renfro said.

He talked about "dating" as a means of daughters finding husbands on their own and asked, "I don't think it's been too successful, do you?" Instead, he asserted that daughters need their fathers to guide them. Renfro challenged the fathers to plan their parenting with their future grandchildren and great grandchildren in mind.

"What is the purpose of a daughter?" he asked. "She is to be a helpmeet," he answered, going on to explain that fathers should prepare the daughters to spread the kingdom of God by teaching them to love children and encouraging them, once they are married, to have a large family. "Do you know what the second most popular name in England is now?" he asked. "It's Mohammed.

As in Proverbs 31, Renfro encouraged fathers to ensure their daughters learn everything necessary to manage a household well and suggested helping them start a small home business.

In concluding his talk, Renfro related the Genesis story of Rebecca. He invoked upon the daughters at the banquet the blessing that was given to Rebecca when she left her home to marry, "Thou art our sister, mayst thou increase to thousands of thousands, and may thy seed possess the gates of their enemies."

The evening closed with happy chatter as the fathers and daughters mixed and mingled and talked of upcoming camping trips, 4-H events, and summer vacation plans.

Father-Daughter Banquet a Dream Come True

I feel pretty, oh, so pretty!
I feel pretty and witty and gay,
And I pity any girl who isn't me today!

I feel charming, oh so charming.
It's alarming how charming I feel
And so pretty that I hardly can believe I'm real!



Emma's preparation for the home economics group's Father-Daughter banquet began at noon with a trip to the hair miracle worker, Stephanie Mason. Emma emerged later with an elegant braided chignon. At 5:30 she donned her dress, and Herb surprised her in the kitchen with a stunning wrist corsage made of five green-tinted roses, green tulle, sheer black ribbon, and small black bead accents. A light dusting of glitter hinted of the magical evening that was to come.


On the front lawn, Emma worked determinedly until she succeeded in pinning on Herb's boutinniere, a single green-tinted rosebud accented with the sheer black ribbon and small black beads.

Herb chose the ribbon himself, refusing to be swayed by the florist. The beads were the florist's idea, but he liked them.














Even going through the buffet line, the smile never left Emma's face.



After a lovely evening and a long ride home, Emma described the event as her "first date and prom" and was so excited that she could not go to sleep until after 1 a.m. This photograph shows her pretending to be dead tired.

On a Sea of Grass

Nathaniel reads of the gallant deeds of Horatio Hornblower in C. S. Forester's Hornblower During the Crisis.

From the NLS Minibibliography website:

"In 1927, C.S. Forester purchased three volumes of The Naval Chronicle from 1790 to 1820. For the Chronicle, officers of the Royal Navy wrote articles on strategy, seamanship, gunnery, and other professional topics of interest to their colleagues. The Chronicle for those years covered the wars with Napoleon. Reading these volumes and traveling by freighter from California to Central America allowed the germination of the character Horatio Hornblower as a member of the Royal Navy in the late eighteenth century." Read the complete article here: http://www.loc.gov/nls/bibliographies/minibibs/horatio.html

Ascension Thursday

Grant, we beseech Thee, almighty God, that we who believe Thine only-begotten Son, our Redeember, to have this day ascended into heaven, may ourselves dwell in spirit amid heavenly things. Through the same Lord.