Good for Your Soul: Jefferson Davis's Remarks on Robert E. Lee

 

On a whim tonight I decided to check Abbeville Institute's site for something historical to read. I hadn't visited in months, maybe not since last year. I discovered just the right thing to suit me: a speech by Jefferson Davis honoring Robert E. Lee. I didn't read the whole thing. The first two paragraphs were enough. I had a deep need to read about a truly good man. I had been reading Twitter. Enough said? 

This was a double scoop of edification, because Jefferson Davis's own goodness shone brilliantly in his remarks about his friend. Such gentlemen. Shall we have the likes of them again when the rule by the insane predator class is over? ( I started to just say "predator" but felt it was critical for accuracy to go back and add the modifier "insane".)

 I didn't read the whole thing because I have How to Resist Amazon and Why by Danny Caine on the chair beside me. I want to get started on it. And on the other chair I have a gorgeous edition of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows, which I started re-reading with supreme delight a couple of nights ago. 

Anyway, here are the two paragraphs I read about the admirable Robert E. Lee:

Robert E. Lee was my associate and friend in the military academy, and we were friends until the hour of his death. We were associates and friends when he was a soldier and I a congressman; and associates and friends when he led the armies of the Confederacy and I presided in its Cabinet. We passed through many sad scenes together, but I cannot remember that there was ever aught but perfect harmony between us. If ever there was difference of opinion it was dissipated by discussion, and harmony was the result. I repeat, we never disagreed, and I may add that I never in my life saw in him the slightest tendency to self-seeking. It was not his to make a record, it was not his to shift blame to other shoulders; but it was his with an eye fixed upon the welfare of his country, never faltering to follow the line of duty to the end. His was the heart that braved every difficulty; his was the mind that wrought victory out of defeat.

He has been charged with “want of dash”. I wish to say that I never knew Lee to falter to attempt anything ever man could dare. An attempt has also been made to throw a cloud upon his character because he left the army of the United States to join in the struggle for the liberty of his State. Without trenching at all upon politics, I deem it my duty to say one word in reference to this charge. Virginian born, descended from a family illustrious in Virginia’s annals, given by Virginia to the service of the United States, he represented her in the Military Academy at West Point. He was not educated by the Federal Government, but by Virginia; for she paid her full share for the support of that institution, and was entitled to demand in return the services of her sons. Entering the army of the United States, he represented Virginia there also, and nobly. On many a hard-fought field Lee was conspicuous, battling for his native State as much as for the Union. He came from Mexico crowned with honors, covered by brevets, and recognized, young as he was, as one of the ablest of his country’s soldiers. And to prove that he was estimated then as such, let me tell you that when Lee was a captain of engineers stationed in Baltimore the Cuban Junta in New York selected him to be their leader in the struggle for the independence of their native country. They were anxious to secure his services, and offered him every temptation that ambition could desire. He thought the matter over, and, I remember, came to Washington to consult me as to what he should do, and when I began to discuss the complications which might arise from his acceptance of the trust he gently rebuked me, saying that this was not the line upon which he wished my advice, the simple question was “Whether it was right or not”. He had been educated by the United States, and felt wrong to accept place in the army of a foreign power. Such was his extreme delicacy, such was the nice sense of honor of the gallant gentleman whose death we deplore. But when Virginia withdrew—the State to whom he owed his first and last allegiance-the same nice sense of honor led him to draw his sword and throw it in the scale for good or evil. Pardon me for this brief defence of my illustrious friend.

Please do read the whole thing here if you have a mind to: Jefferson Davis on Robert E. Lee 

My Lovely Conversation with a Stranger at the Dearing Drive-in

On my way back from getting my hair bobbed and crimped, I stopped at The Dearing Drive-in for a hamburger. I love that place! Their hamburgers are so tasty--the way I remember them when I was a kid in the 60s. It's in an old building that looks like it was originally built as a Tas-t-freez. 

Nothing about its humble origins has been updated, which makes it all the more alluring to me.

A lone picnic table under the front awning offers the only available seating, and all orders are taken at the walk-up window by right friendly folks. An air of mystery pervades the transaction while the ancient sliding screen is in place. 

But that may just be me seeing things through my Catholic lens.

After I placed my order I turned and saw that the gentleman who ordered before me had sat down on one end of the table, on the side closest to the road.  

I considered sitting down on the other bench, so that I would be facing the building with my back to him to wait for my order.

Chastising myself, I decided to engage him in conversation instead. 

I figured I couldn't complain about the disintegration of society if I didn't even make an attempt to talk with this fellow under such easy circumstances.

So I sat and greeted him, and soon we were chatting amicably while we waited for our orders. He explained to me all about the garbage company he drives a truck for. I had no idea there were so many types of dumpsters and garbage trucks. 

When I admitted this to him, he surprised me by saying that he didn't know it either until recently. "I've only been working for this company for five months," he admitted smiling. "I lost my job, But some people get angry when I talk about it."

I grinned and assured him that I would not get angry.

His face lit up. "I was a pipeliner. My wife and I traveled all over the country in our 5th wheel. But Biden put an end to that," he explained matter-of-factly. 

I detected no resentment in his voice or expression. In fact, he seemed almost jolly--happy to talk about driving the garbage truck, how busy he and the other drivers are, and how far afield they travel from their home base on their routes.

"Ah, I see." I told him smiling. "My husband works for the refinery here."

He returned my smile and mentioned one of the contractors at the refinery that is also one of the garbage company's customers.

"YES!" I thought. We can talk about hard things and not lose our composure. I wanted to hug him but restrained myself. (This new-found restraint is one of the gifts of my dotage.)

The clerk at the window hollered that the pork sandwich was ready, so my new friend retrieved it and sat down again. I commented that the sandwich didn't look big enough to maintain a man. He smiled and said that he usually didn't eat breakfast or lunch. "When I started doing that I lost 30 pounds," he exclaimed happily.

"Wow!" I thought to myself. "He's an intermittent faster, too. What a super cool fellow!"

The clerk announced that my double cheeseburger was ready, so I wished my new friend a good day and thanked him for the conversation, feeling enormously grateful for his company. 

I hope I see him again. I want to ask him to tell me some stories from the time when he and his wife were traveling around the country towing their 5th wheel.

Play Me

While walking down the sidewalk, enjoying a festival in an economically-depressed small town, I came upon the scene in the photo to the left.

I stood there mesmerized while the little girl plunked away at the tired keys.  She obviously had never had a piano lesson, but that did not dampen her enjoyment at all.  It probably heightened it.

I was struck with the idea--so simple--that We Can Do Little Things That Make a Big Difference.

There is the possibility that the opportunity to play this piano will lead to an interest in studying music.  This would undeniably be a great return on the investment of making the piano available to festival goers.  But even if no one was inspired to learn music, what a fabulous expression of goodwill!  I believe that such acts create good returns, even if they appear to be invisible.



Recently I noticed an old and scarred baby grand piano on display in my local community center.  It was roped off, but there was a small placard on it that explained that the instrument had been used to teach piano lessons to local children for 30 years.  I marveled at the remarkable impact this piano most likely has had on our town, probably with immeasurable ripple effects of goodness that have echoed throughout the country.  I am grateful to whomever had the insight to put it on display.  So often we are encouraged to publicly admire the big industrialist.  His impact can be measured in dollars, so he easily gains recognition.

I struggle to remember these lessons.  I have gotten caught up in all the national election hoopla.  Yes, the president of the United States is important.  But we cannot discount the importance of the little local things that we can do.  Locally, we can have a far bigger impact than nationally.  

I have been reminded since the election that even a smile matters.  With all the news about the animosity of different groups, I realized that I was beginning to expect people to be unfriendly to me.  I have been enormously relieved to have my expectations proved completely unfounded.  Representatives of the different groups have gone out of their way to greet me with warm smiles and welcoming eyes--to politely and cheerfully say, "Excuse me," as they pass by me in the grocery store.

I happily return the greeting and remind myself to take a break from the news, even the alternative news, and to make decisions on my own experience.

In the Cemetery

For  the last four years or so, Emma and I have gone to pray the rosary in the small Catholic cemetery nearest our house every day during November.  It belongs to a rural parish that was established early in the 20th century by people of Czech descent.  We can see the tiny brick church across the hay fields to the west of us as we walk and pray.

We have grown to cherish our time in the cemetery each year.  It is so peaceful there, and often a refreshing breeze washes over us as the setting sun glints golden on the surrounding fields.  Here we have the comfort of the community of the dead, many of whom died before Vatican II and so professed the same Faith as we do.  We love reading the Old Country names.  I am particularly fond of "Frantiska" and "Zofie".  

Along with the joy we experience in the cemetery, we feel keenly the sharp stab of exile.  We gaze with longing at the little church and wish that we could go to mass so close to our house.  To be able to go to daily mass and rosary--what bliss!  We have driven 2 hours roundtrip on Sundays for the last 12 years to be able to assist at the traditional mass.   In desperation several years ago we tried going to mass at the little brick church.  We hungered for Catholic community--to live our faith daily among those who shared it.  The experience was so shocking that we never returned.  That novus ordo mass sharply illuminated for me how formative the traditional mass is.  Ever since, whenever I remember our experience, the word "hootenanny" pops into my mind.  It's far more accurate than "lack of reverence."

I firmly believe the old dead at the cemetery would feel the same way we did if they were allowed to return to their little brick church.

Happily, on All Souls Day, we met an older couple at the cemetery who belong to the parish.  Emma asked them if they would like to join us in praying the rosary, and they agreed.  So most days this month they have met us there, and we have walked and prayed through the cemetery together.  It has been truly lovely to have their company.

From them we learned that there is a new Polish pastor and that he asked the parishioners if the old altar and altar rails were stored somewhere--a hopeful sign.  Sadly, these fixtures, along with many beloved statues, were shipped off to Mexico after the new mass was introduced in 1969.

Our rosary companions told us that one parishioner managed to save the large Sacred Heart of Jesus statue that used to stand at the front of the church on the epistle side.  He carried it home and has kept it ever since.  Now he is quite elderly, and rumor has it that he is wondering if it is safe to bring it back. But the "praise band" now occupies the spot where the Sacred Heart used to stand.  I thought about how that displacement was true on so many levels in the novus ordo.  The day we learned this story, we added to our rosary the intention that the Sacred Heart statue be returned to its rightful place and that the "choir" would return to the long-vacant choir loft.

Let us pray hard for the restoration of the Church.

Forget the Election and Celebrate Catholic Thanksgiving

From the movie "Babette's Feast"

Editor's Note: I got the idea and the historical background for this post from reading Dr. Marian Horvat's "The First Thanksgivings Were Catholic."

If you, like I, really detest the whole Puritan/Pilgrim party that is foisted on us every November, right when Catholics should be preparing for Advent and Christmas, your chance to fight back with a holiday that is truly meaningful is coming up: Saturday, April 30.  That's the day the second Thanksgiving was celebrated, in Texas, with Holy Mass and a great feast.  Even better, according to "The First Thanksgivings Were Catholic," after the Mass, the expedition leader, "Don Juan de Oñate, took formal possession of the new land, called New Mexico, in the name of the Heavenly Lord, God Almighty, and the earthly lord King Philip II."

Now that's more like it! 

May Catholic men rise up in the spirit of Don Juan de Oñate and renew the effort that Catholic missionaries began so valiantly long ago, establishing outposts of the True Faith in the midst of our  pagan land.  Why waste time worrying over which narcissist will be the next president of the United States?  It's just another distraction at this point.  Plus, should Catholics aspire to getting back to America's Masonic roots and its godless Constitution as "conservatives" propose?

No, we must build from a solid foundation; we must establish a Catholic order, replacing Lady Liberty with Our Lady of Guadalupe, and it is not going to happen with anyone who is "electable" in the present system.  

The first priority is establishing the Social Reign of Christ the King in our homes and in our communities.  That will provide the rich soil from which the seeds of good government may burst forth and flower.  Catholic mothers, with Rosary in hand, must form Catholic citizens.   And it can start with simple things like celebrating Catholic Thanksgiving on April 30 and again on September 8, the day on which we celebrate the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary in a month rich with Marian feasts, when the real first American Thanksgiving was celebrated in Florida by Spanish Catholics.

And by all means invite your non-Catholic friends.

I highly recommend watching Babette's Feast.  It seems the perfect artistic representation of the difference between celebrating Protestant Thanksgiving and Catholic Thanksgiving, and not only that, it is a truly beautiful movie that will uplift and inspire you and increase your sensus Catholicus.

Fiona Aids My Missionarying Efforts

When the painter showed up on Monday, he couldn't find the paint for Emma's bathroom.  So I went out to the garage with him to see if we could locate it there.

As we were sorting through the collection of paint cans, he talked to me in Spanish, and I talked to him in English.  In between we smiled at each other, as neither one of us knew what the other one was saying.

I decided to open the garage door nearest to the paint cans so we could have more light.  My friend, Alfredo, looked at me and said, "La vaca?"

I laughed.  I do know the Spanish word for cow.

Apparently he had heard the story from Fernando, the other painter, about Fiona getting in the garage to enjoy a luncheon inside a 25-lb dog food bag, and he was concerned.

"Yes,  I told him.  I'll close it as soon as we're done."

He replied with a sentence that included "la vaca," "ocho," "rancho," and "Monterrey," complete with hand motions that depicted milking a cow.

"You milk eight cows at your ranch in Monterrey?" I asked.  "He nodded enthusiastically, smiling hugely.

"Wow!  I said.  Thinking to myself, "that's a lot of milk" and remembering the Spanish word for cheese, I asked him, "Queso?"

This provoked a long and enthusiastic response with more smiling.  I have no idea what he said, other than it was a positive response to making cheese with all that milk.

We found the right paint.  I closed the garage door, and we went back in the house.  I decided to show him my butter molds.  He was very happy to see them.  I have three wooden ones and one set of silicone molds for roses and leaves.  He told me the Spanish words for rose and leaves--rosa, la hojas--and had me repeat them three times.  It was great fun!  I got some butter out of the refrigerator and told him, "butter."

He repeated it.

Then he went away smiling to his work.

Soon the tile man, Mario, arrived.  He is the one who picked up the Cristero picture a few weeks ago. I found out that he is from Honduras.  He speaks pretty fair English, so I asked him whether Alfredo is Catholic.  Mario asked him.

He translated.  "He is Catholic, but he is not very religious.  He doesn't like to go to Mass very much."

"Tell him I want him to come to my church.  We have the Mass of the Cristeros!  The same one they were willing to die for, not the new one that is feminized."

Mario complied, and Alfredo smiled at me.  I ran and got a chapel veil.  I put it on and showed Alfredo.  "We wear mantillas," I told him, because I thought that idea might help convey the reverence to be found in the old Latin Mass.

His expression changed to one of emotion.

"Si?" I asked him.

He nodded and said something to Mario.

"He says he will come," Mario told me.  I grabbed an index card from my desk and wrote down the address for St. Jude's and gave him my phone number.  I asked Mario to tell him that he could text me when he got to the church, and I would introduce him to a Spanish speaker.

Later I thought with remorse what a weak plan that is, but I am entrusting this deficiency to the care of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

The contractor, Alex, arrived about 4 that afternoon, and he and Mario and Alfredo worked until at least 6.  I knew they were tired and had a long drive ahead of them.  Emma had just baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies, so I offered them coffee and cookies.

They readily accepted, and I invited them to sit at the kitchen table.  I served them their coffee and cookies, and we had such a nice visit.  Afterward, as they were preparing to leave, they spotted our wooden tortilla maker on the counter.  This provoked a stir of excitement among the men.

Alex asked, "You make tortillas?" somewhat incredulously.

"Yes," I replied.

"Do you use corn or flour?" he asked.

"We used to use flour," Emma told him.  "But since I am allergic to corn and wheat gluten, now we use cassava flour."

This segued into a lengthy conversation about the book, My Heart Lies South: The Story of My Mexican Marriage, by Elizabeth Borton de Trevino.  (My favorite edition is the 1972 with epilogue.  The epilogue is well worth the hunt for this out of print edition.)  Mario said that he would like to read it.  I quickly wrote down the title and author for him.  The book is a fabulous accounting of Catholic family life and culture in 1930s Mexico.  I just ordered two more copies, that way I can give him one if he doesn't order it before I see him next.  And I've got four copies of the Cristero movie, For Greater Glory, Spanish edition, on the way from a third party seller on Amazon.  I am especially hopeful that the movie and the book will help Mario, as when I asked him, "Are you Catholic?" he told me that he goes "to the Christian church, Lakewood."

"Joel Osteen's church?" I asked him, disheartened, as this place is otherwise known by me as the headquarters of "Prosperity Gospel, Inc."

He nodded in the affirmative.

"The Catholic Church is the only one established by Jesus Christ," I told him.  Then I smiled at him and dropped it.  I figured less is more in this case.  I know that one bit of information was of utmost importance to my conversion.

So far my missionarying from home efforts seem to be going well.  It is truly enjoyable work and gives me much food for thought when I consider how it has expanded my understanding of the Catholic term, "domestic church."  I'm really grateful for this opportunity I have been given to share my faith in a way that melds so perfectly with my state in life.  Deo gratias! 

Thanks in advance for any prayers you can lend for these dear souls.

Our Lady of Guadalupe, pray for us!

St. Therese of the Child Jesus and Holy Face, pray for us!

An Exciting Evening with the Disturbing Mary Poppins

Crazy girlies!

I went with Emma and some of her friends to the musical version of Mary Poppins last night in Houston's Theatre Under the Stars. I had no particular interest in seeing the show, other than realizing that I desperately needed to get out for an evening, and going somewhere with Emma and her friends always rejuvenates me. They're amazingly sweet and, as you can see in the photos above and below, crazy funny.  It's a special treat to do things with them.

Aaron and Angela ham it up after the show.

Michelle had spent the night with us.  She and Emma really pitched in to help me so that I could go, taking care of all the grandparents' evening rituals for me while I directed a crew of furniture movers until 6:15.   Talk about cutting it close!  The show was to begin at 7:30 and was a 45-minute drive away.  And I had to change clothes first.  If it hadn't been for Emma and Michelle steadfastly encouraging me to go, I would have given up and collapsed on the couch.  It had been a really long day in a series of long days.

Thanks to Emma Jo Go-go's high-speed driving skills we zipped in and out of traffic, narrowly missing a stalled vehicle in the middle lane of Hwy. 90 and skirting major congestion with two fire trucks at the scene of a burning vehicle on I-10, where we briefly shot toward the closest exit but then ricocheted back to our former lane when it was apparent we could get by the disaster relatively quickly.

I'm convinced Emma's guardian angel rocks a jetpack.

Michelle was following us in her car, poor baby!

"Come on, Mich," Emma would whisper under her breath when she lost sight of her in one of our fantastic maneuvers.  We arrived at the theatre with the warning bell signaling ten minutes till showtime.  By then I felt like I had already had enough excitement for the evening and was ready to go back home.

The usher directed us to take one flight of stairs to get to our seats in the mezzanine.  I should have asked her to define "flight".  My leg muscles turned to silly putty by the time we reached our destination.

"You've got to be kidding me," I thought, as each new stairway appeared before me.

Finally we arrived at the mezzanine and found our seats.  We met Angela and Aaron there.  I dropped into my chair and anticipated an evening of light entertainment.  Unfortunately, I could never get into the show.  I was constantly trying to figure out why much of it made me uncomfortable.  I don't know if it was because I was so tired or what, but I couldn't come to a conclusion about it as a whole, other than something was not right about it, and there were a lot of things that really disturbed me.  One of the things was the occult-like symbols that were flashed in the background when Mary Poppins put some kind of spell on the children.  I think it was to get them to go to sleep.  I tried to focus on the symbols to see if I could recognize anything definitely of the occult, but I couldn't.  Casting a spell of any kind was serious enough to grab my attention, though.

I searched my memory trying to find if I had ever read anything about the author of the book or the original story itself, something that would help me understand my discomfort.  I realized I knew nothing other than the Disney movie, and I haven't seen it in years, certainly not since I have developed a Catholic worldview. I kept thinking, "Who is Mary Poppins?  Nothing is ever explained about her or her unusual relationship with Burt, the chimneysweep.

Then there was this song, "Anything Can Happen if You Let It."  I felt like it was conveying a twisted message, but I couldn't quite pin it down.  One line of it that really caught my attention was Mary Poppins' praising of free thinkers.  I couldn't understand the rest of the song, other than the refrain.  I looked up the lyrics this morning.  It promotes being open minded to the point of being able to "see the world more upside-downish," so that you can "turn it on its head then pirouette it."  Hmmmm.

After reading the lyrics, I decided to just google Mary Poppins and occult.  I found a post on the Women of Grace site that explains that the author of Mary Poppins, Pamela L. Travers, was into the occult and theosophy.

Although the Disney film (which Travers apparently hated) was clean, her books are quite dark and mixed with many occultic elements from magick to reincarnation, all of which came from her association with theosophy. 

Needless to say, things started making a lot more sense.  Clearly, the musical draws more from the book than the Disney movie, not that I'm making a case for Disney.  I'm definitely not.

One of the things that really bothered Emma was Mary Poppins' saying that she was "practically perfect." There was a song about this idea, and Emma and I talked about it on the way home.  In the Women of Grace post, there is a quote which addresses this issue: Mary Poppins as the Great Exception:  Helene Vachet of the Theosophical Society’s Quest Magazine clearly describes the theosophical meaning behind much of the symbolism and story of Mary Poppins.

“Mary Poppins, one could say, resembles a guardian angel, demon, or cosmic being who comes from time to time to visit Earth,” Vachet writes.

The sky and wind bringing Mary Poppins to Cherry Tree Lane refers to a “walker of the sky” described in theosophic writings as a siddhi, or spiritual power to which a yogi joins himself to “behold the things beyond the seas and stars” and to “hear the language of the devas”.

Travers’ Mary Poppins is referred to in the books as the “Great Exception,” which Vachet says means that “she has gone beyond the evolution of humanity and her life now stands in contrast to those who have not yet reached this stage.”

My goodness.  And at first I thought Mary Poppins was just a lot of fluff!

Now that you know all the background, you can really appreciate this picture from St. Cecilia Cathedral in Omaha, Nebraska, that I found in the March 14, 2016 online edition of Omaha.com. 

Are you starting to "see the world more upside-downish?"  Apparently this display of Mary Poppins is just to celebrate "culture."  It puts me in mind of a parody of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary into Heaven.  I'm sure it's just a coincidence, though.

Lessons from a Sewing Class

I spent three most happy days recently taking a beginner sewing class.  From a Pentecostal lady.  In a sewing shop where all the employees are Pentecostal.  And the owner is Pentecostal.

First, it was sweet to be surrounded by ladies who dressed attractively and with feminine style every day!  Love, love, love.  I wish women knew how much good they could do in this world by thinking first about God's glory and others' edification when they choose how they will dress.

Second, I joined in on edifying conversations about homemaking, marriage, tending the sick, preparing for holidays, etc.  And that was all we talked about.

Third, I observed how integrated their lives are:  their church, shop, and home activities, their friendships, all Pentecostal.  Many of the shop's clientele are Pentecostal as well.

Fourth, I thought how marvelous it would be to own a sewing shop with all Catholic ladies from my parish working there, and going to Mass together, being closed on holy days of obligation, and having classes on how to make decorative items for celebrating the liturgical year!  Haha!  You knew that was coming!

Of course I shared all this with Emma when I got home, and we both indulged in the delicious fantasy for a few moments, as only commuter Catholics can truly appreciate.

Back to reality, I made a pair of prissy pajama pants for my mama out of a print with butterflies and flowers.  I added some giant pink rick-rack to the hem.  So adorable.  Emma said they were the cutest pajama pants she had ever seen.  High praise, indeed.

For me, the thing I needed to learn the most was a little confidence.  I actually had basic sewing skills before the class, but had not sewed in 25 years, and had such a horrible record of running into obstacles and not finishing, that I wanted this class as kind of a re-boot.  I really, really enjoyed the actual sewing.  I felt so relaxed at the end of each class!  Well, there was one little stressful thing.  I was using one of the shop's new-fangled machines that does not use a foot pedal.  My instructor called it "push button" sewing.  I had to take my right hand off the fabric to push the button to stop the machine.  Me not like that.  At all.  On the plus side, the machine speed was constant.  My foot is not.  I am looking forward to getting out my rugged and basic 1980s Viking machine that is not smarter than I am.  It can't thread itself or back stitch unless I tell it to.

At the end of the class, I bought a pattern for making this nifty travel iron carrier/ironing pad.  The shop had one made up and on display, and I thought it was super adorable.  Of course no one except quilters totes travel irons anymore.  Well, maybe RVers?  Oh, well.  I am making it anyway because of the cuteness factor, and it doesn't require zipper or buttonholes skills.  Lol!

About Those Facebook Memes

When I first got on Facebook, my friends posted statuses about what they were doing or thinking.  Gradually, I've watched those personal statuses mostly disappear and be replaced by memes.  I am guilty of this as well.  Who wants to write when you can share a professional-looking graphic with a pithy saying already in place?  You can brighten someone's day or make them re-think a serious issue with just a click of the keyboard.  And there are wonderful Catholic ones too, making it so easy to share the faith.

My fear, though, is that the use of memes further diminishes our ability to form and express our own thoughts, just like with store-bought greeting cards.  Worse, I've realized that memes keep my thoughts within certain channels.  What would I be thinking if there were not these pre-formed snippets of ideas confronting me?  It's not that I think Facebook is some fabulous medium for exchanging meaningful ideas.  I just have noticed the changes and find them regrettable.

That's why I have put myself on a meme fast.  I am only posting things I write myself.  It's a little thing, but I saw a meme yesterday with a picture of Gandalf and a message about doing little things with love and kindness to change the world.

See, I told you I was worried about memes channeling my thoughts!

Those Green Bean Times

I cringed when I looked at the date of my last post.  Sept. 24th!  Oh, my goodness!

September seems soooo long ago.  I remember vaguely that time as one of making a grand attempt at getting a lot of canning done.  Oh, and I had started an online canning course, which I have also, like blogging, let totally fall by the wayside.

The canning did not go well.  I blame it on my stove--my stupid, modern stove with the smooth ceramic top, which absolutely refuses to respond in a timely manner to my instructions.  This obstinance caused wild pressure swings in the canner, which in turn caused the dreaded "siphoning", a process by which some of the contents of the jars is sucked out into the canner.  I persisted anyway and canned a quantity of chili and green beans.  By some miracle, most of them sealed despite the siphoning problem.    The ones that didn't I just refrigerated.

I have an especially fond memory of getting the green beans ready to process.  I had about 15 pounds to snap.  Emma and I divided them up into our 13-quart stainless steel bowls.  It was a gorgeous fall day--cool and crisp.  We threw the windows and doors open, and as we sat on the couch with our green bean bounty, we chatted and snapped and listened to the chimes and the gentle burbling of chickens at work near the back door.  The breeze washed over us like baptismal water, renewing us.  It was an extremely satisfying interlude, one of those rare instances where you feel like everything is rightly ordered, almost like a prayer.

I wonder about those green bean times and how you go about getting more of them and less of the pressure canner ones?  How do you live your life as a prayer?  And is it possible *for me* while being a "friend" on Facebook?  Or using an iPhone?  I've been thinking a lot about that lately.  While I have been away from my cozy little blog living room, I have been camped out alongside the rushing torrent that is Facebook Falls, watching the good, the true, and the beautiful wash by, along with some raw sewage.  Blogging is certainly not ideal, but for now, I am going to spend a lot less time on Facebook and more time here.  Especially with Advent beginning in just a few days, my soul yearns for more quiet: less "likes" and more one-on-one, heart-to-heart communication.  Real friendship in Christ.  I am not expecting that I will get that by blogging, but writing here is a more contemplative activity than posting on Facebook.  I think I may grow to be a better friend here.

A Kitchen Pharmacy? Tell Me More!

I was at Moving on to the Past, and had just finished reading about Kathy's fabulous new chicken coop, when I spotted something in her blogroll that grabbed my attention, a post by Andrea at Frugally Sustainable called Creating a Kitchen Pharmacy.  This is right where my thoughts have been this past week, so naturally, I clicked on over.  Here's a snippet of what she said:

During these uncertain times – times of change – there are many individuals and families in search of an altogether different approach to treating minor illnesses and ailments.

For some, this is the next step in their natural-living lifestyle, for others it’s all about self-sufficiency, and concern over the rising cost of healthcare dominates the thoughts of others.

No matter what your motivation, the question remains – how can we achieve our goal?

I believe the answer to be in three parts:

1. We can add medicinal herbs and plants to our garden landscape.
2. We can learn the benefits of the plants that grow freely in our local and regional area.
3. We can create a kitchen pharmacy. 

I would have to say that for me, both of her reasons for "an altogether different approach to treating minor illnesses and ailments" apply.  I can't wait for the next article in the series!

One of the reasons why the timing of "Creating a Kitchen Pharmacy" is so perfect is that I finally got a dehydrator last week, so I'll be able to dry medicinal herbs in addition to food items.  While I have been busy experimenting with drying celery, carrots, and tomatoes, Emma has been researching, picking, and dehydrating dandelions.  I was vaguely aware of all their health benefits, but while I was processing my tomatoes, she read me an article about them that was just astonishing.  The plant seemed designed to meet so many of the common human health problems.  We should probably all be drinking a couple of cups of dandelion tea every day.  Learning about all the goodness in a simple dandelion was especially sweet because I had been worrying about Fiona getting enough minerals.  She has had really loose stools since she calved, and I read that it could be a copper deficiency.  When Emma read that dandelions are a good source of copper, I was able to relax and go with the diagnosis that a veteran cow man had suggested to me: It's most likely all the lush green grass she is eating right now, since we don't feed any her any grain.  Cows will eat what they need if it is available, and I have watched Fiona make her rounds every day to eat certain things around our place.  In addition to grass, she eats mulberry trees, clover, dollar weeds, blackberry vines, and various other plants that grow wild around here that I don't know the name of yet.  That's another thing, I just found out about Merriweather's Wild Plants of Texas this week.  He teaches classes at the Houston Arboretum on edible wild plants.  I'm hoping to be able to take one soon. 

I'm grateful to all the bloggers out there who enrich my life every day, practically and spiritually.  May God bless you all.  I will be remembering you in little prayers today as I practice dehydrating pineapples.

Educating Ourselves About Personality Disorders

Catholics spend a lot of time thinking about their faults and trying to improve.   We study the four temperaments to understand the weaknesses of our personality types, and we read about the saints for inspiration.  Then we run into personality problems with other Catholics, and we are disillusioned.  We think, "How can this be? How can I be hurt most often by my brothers and sisters in the faith?"   Maybe it is because we interact with them more and/or we have higher expectations because they are Catholic.  I don't know.  The disillusionment can be taken to a whole new level if that Catholic is a priest, because we hold them to the highest standards of all, even though we know that they are "only human" and pray regularly for holy priests.  As hard as that is, it's even worse when it is a "good Catholic" family member who is hurting us.   Light's House is a great support site for anyone who suspects that their familial relationships are not normal.

Sometimes a person does something that makes us feel uncomfortable, but we are not sure why. It is helpful to have a vocabulary to help us express and clarify the discomfort.  This list of Top 100 Traits of Personality-Disordered Individuals can do just that.   It may help us recognize our own unhealthy behaviors and give us the impetus to change them.

Familiarizing ourselves with the Top 100 Traits can also help us recognize when the situation we are dealing with calls for different techniques to deal with it than what we have been using.  After all, we cannot change other people, only our reaction to them.  Sometimes the only solution is to go "low contact" or "no contact" with the individual, even if it is a family member.

Forgive and Forget

Christian forgiveness is awfully demanding.  There's really no wiggle room.  We are called to forgive, or our sins will not be forgiven us.

But what I really want to know is where does "Forgive and forget" fit in with this.  Is there any leeway there?  Can we forgive and not forget?  Is the "forget" part optional?

I always assumed they were mutually exclusive.  Now I'm leaning the other way.  I think forgetting must be an essential part of forgiveness.  At least for me, I can't keep remembering past wrongs/hurts without getting upset again which nullifies my original forgiveness.  Well, I can review them in a disinterested way, kind of like a medical examiner during an autopsy.  I think, though, that we are talking about forgetting the hurt when we talk about forgetting in association with forgiveness, not forgetting the actual situation that caused it.  That works for me, because a lot of times I learn the most from the situation after some time has passed.  I can dissect it and see what went wrong as long as I keep the emotional memory out of it.

I've figured out that forgetting is a choice.  If I see my thoughts starting to go there, back to the heartache, I stop them and say, "No," and divert them elsewhere.  For this grace I am truly grateful.

This is all only my personal experience, of course.  What about you?  Do you think it is possible to forgive and not forget?

Bad Cow Disease

Fiona and Friends

Emma's friend Kathy from Ohio visited us last week.  Of course she wanted to meet Fiona.  Everybody does.  That cow has her own fan club.  Anyway, I realized when I looked at the pictures I took of Fiona and the girls that having that wily bovine in a headlock is about the only time I can relax.  I am ready to install a 24-hour surveillance camera in her pasture.

Yes, her wanderlust continues.

Most recently, Emma discovered her missing just as my sister and brother-in-law had arrived for a visit from Birmingham, and just an hour or so shy of sunset.  We had no idea how long she had been gone.  I thought I had seen her the day before, but I wasn't sure. Emma had been sick, so she hadn't been out to the pasture.  Our only clue was a signature "pie" that looked pretty fresh.  My mom remembered seeing it there in the parking area that morning and wondered what it was.  She thought maybe it was a dead cat.  This must be a genetic defect, because that is always my first thought when I spot an unidentified inanimate object--why I don't know because we never find dead cats around here.  Dead possums, yes.   If Mom and I took one of those ink blot tests, I bet we would think each image was a dead cat.

Back to the discovery of Fiona's escape: It was "Hi" and "Bye" to our visitors.  Emma donned her boots and hurried across the 40-acre field to search an almost-dry pond, and I jumped in the car and drove to the pasture where Fiona had spent an afternoon with three beef cows the last time she made a run for it.  I did not find her, but I talked to the homeowner, and he remembered Fiona's last visit.  I left him a napkin with my name and phone number in case Fiona passed by.

I met Emma on the road back to our house and picked her up.  We decided to go to the house on the west side of ours where Fiona had run, literally, once before.  (At least that time we had her in sight the whole time.)  This was the house where she put her ornery head down like a bull and tried to butt the homeowner's dogs, all three of them, when they came out to defend their territory.  This time, Emma got out and talked to the lady of the house.  She had not seen Fiona.  We left another napkin.  I need to get "WANTED" calling cards made up with a picture of Fiona and my phone number.

We drove on, stopping wherever someone was outside, talking to them, and leaving a napkin.  We met some mighty nice folks we would never have met otherwise.  We traveled a semi-circle around the region north of our house.  The sun was setting as we turned back onto our road, Fiona-less.  About a half a mile from our house, Emma said, "I think I see her!"  She had spotted a cow in a back pasture.  I pulled into the driveway of  the property.  Luckily, two women were on the porch.  Emma got out and explained about Fiona.  One of the women approached the car and said, "I knew somebody would come after that cow!  She showed up here this morning, and I saw that halter, and I thought 'that's somebody's show cow or pet, and they're gonna be lookin' for her.'"  Her husband had taken one look at Fiona and said, "That cow's pregnant, so she ain't here lookin' for a bull."  Then he took her by the halter and put her in the pasture with their cow and horse, where from all reports, she behaved herself with her best company manners.

The man took Emma back there to where Fiona was socializing.  Emma got the lead rope on Fiona and started to walk with her when all of a sudden, Emma fell to the ground.  She regained her feet but had to tug Fiona away from her new friends.  When I asked Emma about it later, she said that she fell because Fiona stepped on her.  Thank goodness for boots.

We thanked Fiona's gracious hosts and departed, repeating the now familiar routine of me following Emma and Fiona in the car, but this time there was a new twist.  The sun had set.  So I drove with emergency flashers and high beams, which starkly illuminated Fiona's round belly. About halfway home, it finally began to do what a lot of Texans have been praying for.  It started to rain.  Perfect.

Emma flew with Kathy back to Ohio on Monday.  I'm stuck here with Fiona Houdini until her return next Wednesday.  Please pray for me.

Once More to the Ball

Just outside the ballroom entrance, prior to Emma trading her pink pumps for pink ballet shoes.



Emma attended her second Royal Scottish Country Dance Society Ball on the evening of October 2.  Hosted by the Houston chapter, it was the culmination of several weeks worth of practicing the program dances, which included a variety of skill levels.

Here's a sample:

SCENES FROM THE GRAND MARCH

Emma's expression shows the excitement she feels upon entering the ball room during the Grand March.

DANCING

I'm not sure which dance this is, but the first one on the program was "Haste to the Wedding", and Emma looks like she is doing just that in her white dress.



Emma's switch to ballet shoes instead of Ghillies proved a good one.  She did not fall one time.  I still laugh about what she told me last year when I said something about her falling at the ball: "I did not fall.  I collapsed gracefully to the ground."



Lots of kilt action here.

FRIENDSHIP



Emma with her teacher from last year, Moon Weiss



AFTER THE BALL PARTY

Are You a Catholic of Good Will?

Reading the negative blog posts about the pants/dresses debate yesterday reminded me of why I've been considering making my blog private. I feel pretty vulnerable with all my outlandish ideas broadcast into the blogosphere, where Catholics are waiting with clubs and machetes to murder the reputations of those with whom they disagree.

On the other hand, I have "met" some of the most wonderful Catholics through my blog--people who have brightened my day with their kind words and even opened the door to friendship. I keep going because of them, and I'm grateful to each and every one. They are people of good will, which is the only thing that really matters to me.

Picnic Pals

Emma and her friend Angela picnicked in a park Thursday and had so much fun that I couldn't stop laughing when I saw the pictures they took of themselves. For both of them to be in the picture, they each contributed their "outboard" hand to holding the camera.
The picture above is from a series of shots just after they finished eating. Upon enlarging it, Emma and I discovered that both girls had strawberry lodged in their teeth--one of the humorous hazards of picnic photography.


As with every occasion, Emma tried to dress appropriately. She thought red gingham would be perfect for a picnic costume. She has a red gingham jumper. She talked to Angela the day before and found out that she had a red gingham skirt. Done.

For Christmas I had given Emma a cooler with a built-in picnic "basket". She packed it with tuna fish sandwiches and two bowls of chopped apples seasoned with cinnamon, drenched in fresh raw cream, and topped with strawberries. She generally only drinks milk and water, so she packed a quart of each.







Then it was off to the car with picnic basket in tow for the drive down to Clear Lake to pick up Angela from work.

Here's a picture from the Picnic World website of all the supplies that come with Emma's cooler, The Avalanche model.

Components:
4 Plates, melamine 9"
4 Napkins, cotton 14" x 14"
4 Tumblers, acrylic
1 Tablecloth, cotton 45" x 45"
4 Ea. knives, forks & spoons (stainless steel)
1 Set of salt/pepper shakers
1 Corkscrew, waiter style (stainless steel)
1 Cutting board, wood 6" x 6"
1 Cheese knife, stainless steel w/wood handle
1 Ornate bottle stopper

Angela brought sandwiches and apple juice. I think they should have invited two more girls.

Next time they go, I'm going to make sure they both know how to do the Heimlich maneuver. I can't believe that Emma didn't choke on this strawberry--she was laughing so hard. Angela took a whole series of pictures to cover it, but I'll just include one more:



It appears that Angela was able to maintain her composure by looking heavenward and asking for Divine assistance.

In addition to eating and taking pictures of themselves, the girls enjoyed the scenery and the wildlife. Angela tried to get some geese to chase her so that Emma could take a picture of it, but apparently the geese would not cooperate.

It didn't get Angela down, though.

The girls had such a good time, they are already planning the next picnic. I must say that I am looking forward to it myself.

Happy Birthday to Me!

49 years ago today, partying with my big sis, Bevy. See how I'm clasping my hands in excitement? I'm just as delighted today.

50 is going to be fun. I'm having a birthday slumber party! We're going to eat Mexican, drink Mexican (Margaritas, not Tequila with the icky worm), watch chick flicks, paint our nails, and TALK, TALK, TALK.

And my beloved husband had planned to spend the day with me and take me out on a date but instead is now going to milk for me and go elsewhere so that I can enjoy my comp'ny.

Is he not incredibly wonderful?

YES, INDEED!

Do I deserve him?

Certainly not.

The Pilgrimage to Rome, the Seven Churches, and Italian Men

Via Rome Art Lover: The Seven Basilicas in a 1588 Guide to Rome:
Antoine Lafrery's map of the Seven Churches: (in red) 1) S. Pietro; 2) S. Giovanni in Laterano; 3) S. Maria Maggiore; 4) S. Croce in Gerusalemme; 5) S. Paolo fuori le Mura; 6) S. Lorenzo fuori le Mura; 7) S. Sebastiano and 8) S. Maria del Popolo. The numbers in blue indicate other churches and monuments: 9) Castel Sant'Angelo; 10) Isola Tiberina; 11) S. Pietro in Montorio; 12) Piramide di Caio Cestio and Monte Testaccio; 13) S. Paolo alle Tre Fontane; 14) SS. Nunziata; 15) Cecilia Metella and Circo di Caracalla"

". . .Filippo Neri, a Florentine preacher who had just been ordained, on the Thursday before Lent in 1552, invited the Romans to join him on a pilgrimage to the Seven Churches, instead of attending the Roman Carnival. The pilgrims stopped at the churches to listen to sermons and during the procession they chanted: Vanity of Vanities! All is Vanity!. The initiative met with great success and over the years it became a must for the pilgrims who came to Rome. In 1575 Antoine Lafréry printed a map of the City highlighting the location of the churches (all of which are designated as basilicas). The map was engraved by Etienne Duperac.

This time next week, Nathaniel and Emma will be in Rome with Fr. Stanich and a group of 17 or so "jam sessioners". One of the highlights of their trip will be making the traditional pilgrimage to the Seven Churches of Rome, an all-day walk.

Their tentative schedule is: Assisi June 29th, June 30th, July 1st, Sienna/Florence July 2nd, July 3rd, Rome July 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th (a trip to Subiaco will be on one those days).

Interestingly, I came across this pleasant description of Italy in Man of Steel and Velvet:

There are some men who are more attentive than others. The Italian men are known to be so, and the women love it. Women who have not seen this masculine attention so lavishly given are especially impressed when they visit Italy. The Associated Press carried a release from Rome under the title "Women Defend Wolves." It seems that Italian officials were going to take action against the sidewalk Romeos when the American Women's Club of Rome resisted the action. They said, in part:

"An American woman is accustomed to walking the street as if invisible. The fact that Italian men aged 17 to 80 will, without exception, turn their heads at her passing, is a thing of wonder and joy. It may take a bit of getting used to, but it is an adjustment women are happy to make. the Italian attitude is the important thing. If you're a woman, you're worthy of admiration. . . .It's so charmingly un-American."

Italian men also use elaborate language. "Never have I seen anyone more beautiful than you," or "You make the whole world like sunshine," they can say with ease, as though they were speaking about the time of day.