WE REMEMBER! HAPPY VETERANS DAY
With profound thanks to all those who served our nation and the cause of freedom throughout the generations. We salute you!
If you're looking to make a Veterans Day Resolution, how about visiting the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C.? It's an incomparable stop on any tour of Washington, D.C.
Here are some facts about it from an Internet item that's making the rounds today:
The guard takes 21 steps on one leg of his patrol, an allusion to the 21-gun salute, the highest honor in our land.
The guard also hesitates after his about-face for 21 seconds.
His gloves are moistened so he can keep a tight grip on the rifle.
Guards are changed every 30 minutes, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.
A guard must be between 5' 10" and 6' 2" with a 30" waist or less. He must commit two years to this duty, live in a barracks under the tomb, and cannot drink any alcohol, swear in public, or do any fighting for the rest of their lives, for that would disgrace the tomb.
Only 400 "alums" in the U.S. are now wearing the wreath pin signifying their duty.
The first six months of duty a guard cannot talk to anyone, nor watch TV.
All off duty time is spent studying the 175 notable people laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery. A guard must memorize who they are and where they are interred. Among the notables are: President Taft, boxer Joe E. Lewis and Medal of Honor winner and movie star Audie Murphy.
Every guard spends five hours a day getting his uniforms ready for guard duty.
In 2003 as Hurricane Isabelle was approaching, Congress took two days off to avoid the storm, but the Tomb of the Unknowns guards declined the offer. Soaked to the skin, marching in the pelting rain and high winds, they said that guarding the Tomb was not just an assignment, but the highest honor that can be afforded to a serviceperson.
The tomb has been patrolled continuously, 24/7, since 1930.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Thursday, November 10, 2005
CHURCH CORN
Speaking of fractured scriptures: when a friend’s father was a little boy growing up in Omaha, his mother asked him what he had learned in Sunday School that day.
"Jesus sneaks in Hummel Park," he replied happily.
She was puzzled by the reference to one of the city’s most popular picnic spots.
After checking with his teacher, the mystery was solved: the lesson that day taught that “Jesus seeks the humble heart.”
Speaking of fractured scriptures: when a friend’s father was a little boy growing up in Omaha, his mother asked him what he had learned in Sunday School that day.
"Jesus sneaks in Hummel Park," he replied happily.
She was puzzled by the reference to one of the city’s most popular picnic spots.
After checking with his teacher, the mystery was solved: the lesson that day taught that “Jesus seeks the humble heart.”
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
GALLOWS HUMOR IN HUSKERLAND
Lincoln, Nebraska (AP) - A seven-year-old boy was at the center of a courtroom drama yesterday when he challenged a court ruling over who should have custody of him. The boy has a history of being beaten by his parents.
After two recesses to check legal references and confer with child welfare officials, the judge granted temporary custody to the Nebraska Cornhusker football team, whom the boy firmly believes is not capable of beating anyone.
- - - - - - - - -
A Nebraska sports reporter did some in-depth statistical research at a local pub, and came up with these amazing stats:
Nebraska’s average rushing gain per attempt in the last three games: 16.8 inches
That equals:
-- 6 medium lemons (end to end).
-- 37 beer nuts (end to end).
-- 5 sheets of toilet paper.
-- 5 1/2 bottles of Yukon Jack (upright).
-- 7 1/2 tooth picks.
- - - - - - - - - -
At a wedding last Saturday, as lowly Kansas was demolishing the once-vaunted Huskers, one wedding guest couldn’t help text-messaging his son in a faraway state, surreptitiously, of course, so as to not hurt the feelings of the bride, groom and priest. He wrote:
“XXXX is married . . . service very nice . . . Huskers lost . . . played like bridesmaids. . . .”
Lincoln, Nebraska (AP) - A seven-year-old boy was at the center of a courtroom drama yesterday when he challenged a court ruling over who should have custody of him. The boy has a history of being beaten by his parents.
After two recesses to check legal references and confer with child welfare officials, the judge granted temporary custody to the Nebraska Cornhusker football team, whom the boy firmly believes is not capable of beating anyone.
- - - - - - - - -
A Nebraska sports reporter did some in-depth statistical research at a local pub, and came up with these amazing stats:
Nebraska’s average rushing gain per attempt in the last three games: 16.8 inches
That equals:
-- 6 medium lemons (end to end).
-- 37 beer nuts (end to end).
-- 5 sheets of toilet paper.
-- 5 1/2 bottles of Yukon Jack (upright).
-- 7 1/2 tooth picks.
- - - - - - - - - -
At a wedding last Saturday, as lowly Kansas was demolishing the once-vaunted Huskers, one wedding guest couldn’t help text-messaging his son in a faraway state, surreptitiously, of course, so as to not hurt the feelings of the bride, groom and priest. He wrote:
“XXXX is married . . . service very nice . . . Huskers lost . . . played like bridesmaids. . . .”
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
DRUMS UP
Everybody in our musical family can play at least one instrument. For the boys in our family, the louder, the better. My little brother Danny especially liked the drums and got an elaborate drumset one Christmas.
My dad’s friends thought it was fun to come over to our house and try it out. Midlife crisis, I guess. They thought it was great; of course, they didn’t have to live with the noise 24/7. Well, one friend in particular was annoying about it, until one night when up his driveway came a moving van . . . and in the back was Danny, seated at his drumset, playing it for all he was worth!
I think Dad’s attempt to adopt Danny out during his drum-playing phase came to naught. But I was reminded of the strong connection between little boys and drums yesterday while volunteering in the kindergarten classroom.
Buck, who is all boy, was making his “I” book with icicles, ink, an inchworm . . . and instruments. There was a drawing of a saxophone, clarinet, trumpet and such for him to color. I asked him what instrument he would like to play someday.
“I’m going to play CONCUSSION,” he replied.
You got that right, kid.
Everybody in our musical family can play at least one instrument. For the boys in our family, the louder, the better. My little brother Danny especially liked the drums and got an elaborate drumset one Christmas.
My dad’s friends thought it was fun to come over to our house and try it out. Midlife crisis, I guess. They thought it was great; of course, they didn’t have to live with the noise 24/7. Well, one friend in particular was annoying about it, until one night when up his driveway came a moving van . . . and in the back was Danny, seated at his drumset, playing it for all he was worth!
I think Dad’s attempt to adopt Danny out during his drum-playing phase came to naught. But I was reminded of the strong connection between little boys and drums yesterday while volunteering in the kindergarten classroom.
Buck, who is all boy, was making his “I” book with icicles, ink, an inchworm . . . and instruments. There was a drawing of a saxophone, clarinet, trumpet and such for him to color. I asked him what instrument he would like to play someday.
“I’m going to play CONCUSSION,” he replied.
You got that right, kid.
Monday, November 07, 2005
ETERNAL HUGGIES
We are very happy to have Maddy in Christian school, where she is memorizing Bible verses and free to talk about God and Jesus throughout the school day.
However, we’re not always sure she’s getting the lingo down pat.
The other day, she informed me, “Jesus diapered our sins.”
Well, in a way, she’s right . . . we CAN be stinkers.
We are very happy to have Maddy in Christian school, where she is memorizing Bible verses and free to talk about God and Jesus throughout the school day.
However, we’re not always sure she’s getting the lingo down pat.
The other day, she informed me, “Jesus diapered our sins.”
Well, in a way, she’s right . . . we CAN be stinkers.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
MISTAKEN IDENTITY
But the very hairs of your head are all numbered.
-- Matthew 10:30
It’s a good thing we have a perfect God who can keep all of us straight and know who’s who ‘til we get up to heaven. It’s not quite that way here on Earth.
Take what happened last week to my beloved. He’s a conscientious, law-abiding captain of industry. That’s why it was a surprise when one of his employees burst into his office and exclaimed, “There’s a cop downstairs looking for you, and it sounds serious!”
AA-OO-GAH! DIVE! DIVE!
It seems his red Durango SUV had been spotted bashing into a mailbox on 29th and Douglas Streets in downtown Omaha a little over an hour earlier. The business manager had jotted down the license-plate number and called 911. A policeman had tracked the car to my husband’s company. Now he wanted the facts. Just the facts.
“But . . . but . . .” my husband sputtered, “I wasn’t anywhere NEAR there today. I know I’m getting old, but I THINK I would have remembered running over a mailbox.”
The policeman asked, “Could someone have been using your vehicle?”
“No, I was in it all through the lunch hour, and parked it back here just about 20 minutes ago.”
The policeman squinted at him, no doubt thinking: “Suuuuuuure. We’ve got you dead to rights, you closet vandal. You’re goin’ DOWN!”
They looked at the Durango. There were a few chinks on the driver’s side door that the cop said would be consistent with the mailbox caper. “What?!?” my husband protested. “Those are consistent with the fact that this car has 80,000 miles on it!”
Sigh. Law enforcement can be tedious when dysfunctional suspects live in a world of denial. “OK, then, let’s go to the scene,” the policeman said, adding silently, no doubt, “you lying scumbag.”
The . . . SCENE? This cop was serious! My husband was perplexed. Was he going crazy? Was this some kind of practical joke?
Upon their arrival, a bunch of people came out to glare at the dirty, rotten scoundrel who had viciously attacked their poor, defenseless mailbox and snapped that $10 post in two.
They were lining up the crunched mailbox with the tiny chinks on the driver’s side door, and my husband’s out-of-body experience was at its peak, when the business manager came out and said:
“No, that’s not the guy. The driver was Hispanic-looking.”
WHAAAT?!?
Could a Hispanic-looking guy have stolen his car, rushed over and bashed this mailbox, and then returned the car, leaving without a trace?
And if so, WHY?!?
It was an orgy of head-scratching. Finally, the breakthrough came. The business manager had jotted down the license plate number on a scrap of paper. She read it off for the cop.
Eureka! Two of the digits had been accidentally reversed! The 911 operator must have recorded it wrong.
Dyslexia happens . . . but what a coincidence! What are the odds? That meant there must be ANOTHER red Durango SUV in town with a license-plate number nearly IDENTICAL to my husband’s.
Nevvvvver mind. My husband joked with the policeman that, if anything ever happened to HIS mailbox, he’d know who to call. Off the cop went on the fresh, new trail.
The afternoon was uneventful until the drive home. My beloved was stopped at a red light, ironically just a few blocks from “the scene.” Suddenly, he heard the sickening sound of brakes squealing. WHAM!
A truck rear-ended a car, which rear-ended him!
The damage would be slight, but he still sat there for an instant in shock. Then he smiled.
What if the policeman who came to THAT “scene” was the same guy?
And what if. . . .
He was almost afraid to turn around.
If it was a red Durango with a strikingly familiar license plate and a Hispanic-looking guy at the wheel. . . .
Theme song: “Twilight Zone.”
But whew! Different car. And new cop. This time, it was clear he was the innocent victim, not the perp.
It wasn’t any fun, either. But at least it wasn’t so embarrassing.
--------------------
PRAYER REQUESTS: Please check in regularly to my new prayer blog, www.LookingUpPrayerLine.blogspot.com Please send any prayer needs that you have, and updates and praise reports, too!
But the very hairs of your head are all numbered.
-- Matthew 10:30
It’s a good thing we have a perfect God who can keep all of us straight and know who’s who ‘til we get up to heaven. It’s not quite that way here on Earth.
Take what happened last week to my beloved. He’s a conscientious, law-abiding captain of industry. That’s why it was a surprise when one of his employees burst into his office and exclaimed, “There’s a cop downstairs looking for you, and it sounds serious!”
AA-OO-GAH! DIVE! DIVE!
It seems his red Durango SUV had been spotted bashing into a mailbox on 29th and Douglas Streets in downtown Omaha a little over an hour earlier. The business manager had jotted down the license-plate number and called 911. A policeman had tracked the car to my husband’s company. Now he wanted the facts. Just the facts.
“But . . . but . . .” my husband sputtered, “I wasn’t anywhere NEAR there today. I know I’m getting old, but I THINK I would have remembered running over a mailbox.”
The policeman asked, “Could someone have been using your vehicle?”
“No, I was in it all through the lunch hour, and parked it back here just about 20 minutes ago.”
The policeman squinted at him, no doubt thinking: “Suuuuuuure. We’ve got you dead to rights, you closet vandal. You’re goin’ DOWN!”
They looked at the Durango. There were a few chinks on the driver’s side door that the cop said would be consistent with the mailbox caper. “What?!?” my husband protested. “Those are consistent with the fact that this car has 80,000 miles on it!”
Sigh. Law enforcement can be tedious when dysfunctional suspects live in a world of denial. “OK, then, let’s go to the scene,” the policeman said, adding silently, no doubt, “you lying scumbag.”
The . . . SCENE? This cop was serious! My husband was perplexed. Was he going crazy? Was this some kind of practical joke?
Upon their arrival, a bunch of people came out to glare at the dirty, rotten scoundrel who had viciously attacked their poor, defenseless mailbox and snapped that $10 post in two.
They were lining up the crunched mailbox with the tiny chinks on the driver’s side door, and my husband’s out-of-body experience was at its peak, when the business manager came out and said:
“No, that’s not the guy. The driver was Hispanic-looking.”
WHAAAT?!?
Could a Hispanic-looking guy have stolen his car, rushed over and bashed this mailbox, and then returned the car, leaving without a trace?
And if so, WHY?!?
It was an orgy of head-scratching. Finally, the breakthrough came. The business manager had jotted down the license plate number on a scrap of paper. She read it off for the cop.
Eureka! Two of the digits had been accidentally reversed! The 911 operator must have recorded it wrong.
Dyslexia happens . . . but what a coincidence! What are the odds? That meant there must be ANOTHER red Durango SUV in town with a license-plate number nearly IDENTICAL to my husband’s.
Nevvvvver mind. My husband joked with the policeman that, if anything ever happened to HIS mailbox, he’d know who to call. Off the cop went on the fresh, new trail.
The afternoon was uneventful until the drive home. My beloved was stopped at a red light, ironically just a few blocks from “the scene.” Suddenly, he heard the sickening sound of brakes squealing. WHAM!
A truck rear-ended a car, which rear-ended him!
The damage would be slight, but he still sat there for an instant in shock. Then he smiled.
What if the policeman who came to THAT “scene” was the same guy?
And what if. . . .
He was almost afraid to turn around.
If it was a red Durango with a strikingly familiar license plate and a Hispanic-looking guy at the wheel. . . .
Theme song: “Twilight Zone.”
But whew! Different car. And new cop. This time, it was clear he was the innocent victim, not the perp.
It wasn’t any fun, either. But at least it wasn’t so embarrassing.
--------------------
PRAYER REQUESTS: Please check in regularly to my new prayer blog, www.LookingUpPrayerLine.blogspot.com Please send any prayer needs that you have, and updates and praise reports, too!
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Friday, November 04, 2005
BASKETBALL HAIR
I think it was the lady with Farrah Fawcett “wings.” You remember: sweeping clouds of bangs teased up and all around your face, like a lioness. It stuck out so far, it would clunk going through doorways. So, so early ‘70s.
I saw her the other day, and a chill ran up my spine. Was my hair that unfashionable? I’d been wearing my hair essentially the same all my life. It was just parted on the side, and hung down. That was about it.
So I sought the sage advice of the hairdo swami, and got a new ‘do.
Now it’s angled longer in front. And they chopped off some at the sides so that it has more “movement.” And I can pull up a few sections at the crown and tease them with a comb if I want more height.
Movement? Height? This isn’t a hairdo! This is a basketball team!
But since quite a few people have noticed, and complimented it, it’s not just basketball hair – it’s a slam-dunk!
I think it was the lady with Farrah Fawcett “wings.” You remember: sweeping clouds of bangs teased up and all around your face, like a lioness. It stuck out so far, it would clunk going through doorways. So, so early ‘70s.
I saw her the other day, and a chill ran up my spine. Was my hair that unfashionable? I’d been wearing my hair essentially the same all my life. It was just parted on the side, and hung down. That was about it.
So I sought the sage advice of the hairdo swami, and got a new ‘do.
Now it’s angled longer in front. And they chopped off some at the sides so that it has more “movement.” And I can pull up a few sections at the crown and tease them with a comb if I want more height.
Movement? Height? This isn’t a hairdo! This is a basketball team!
But since quite a few people have noticed, and complimented it, it’s not just basketball hair – it’s a slam-dunk!
Thursday, November 03, 2005
'MR. DEMILLE, I'M READY FOR MY CLOSE-UP"
I watched an old movie on TV last night, “Sunset Boulevard.” It stars William Holden and Gloria Swanson. You know, the down-on-his-luck Hollywood writer turns into a driveway seeking help for his sputtering car. He becomes a gigolo in a creepy household that’s a mausoleum for an old silent-movies star intent on making a comeback, and her creepy bald butler.
I’d forgotten how much personality and over-the-top stuff there was in this movie: the leopard-skin car seats . . . the bed shaped like a boat . . . the pipe organ that played by itself in the wind . . . the fan letters mailed in secret by the butler to keep her thinking she had fans . . . the dozens of pictures of herself, 30 years ago, that the lady of the house kept around everywhere.
In the last scene, everyone is saddened and shocked when she comes down the stairs, a murder suspect surrounded by cops and press. She pretends to be the temptress Salome and fawns into the news cameras in a hideous parody of glamour, imagining herself back in the silent movies on the set again, and drips narcissistically, “Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.”
It’s soooo sad when people don’t realize they’re weird and out of date.
Then I remembered that my 17-year-old daughter advised me recently that my hairdo was “dated” – basically the same style I’ve worn since my wedding day, pretty much -- and when I went to the upscale beauty salon and repeated the story, expecting a laugh, the hairdresser didn’t blink an eye, but started suggesting changes I could make. Indeed, should.
Gulp! But I love my new ‘do. So . . . “Mr. DeMille . . . NOW I’m ready for my close-up.”
I watched an old movie on TV last night, “Sunset Boulevard.” It stars William Holden and Gloria Swanson. You know, the down-on-his-luck Hollywood writer turns into a driveway seeking help for his sputtering car. He becomes a gigolo in a creepy household that’s a mausoleum for an old silent-movies star intent on making a comeback, and her creepy bald butler.
I’d forgotten how much personality and over-the-top stuff there was in this movie: the leopard-skin car seats . . . the bed shaped like a boat . . . the pipe organ that played by itself in the wind . . . the fan letters mailed in secret by the butler to keep her thinking she had fans . . . the dozens of pictures of herself, 30 years ago, that the lady of the house kept around everywhere.
In the last scene, everyone is saddened and shocked when she comes down the stairs, a murder suspect surrounded by cops and press. She pretends to be the temptress Salome and fawns into the news cameras in a hideous parody of glamour, imagining herself back in the silent movies on the set again, and drips narcissistically, “Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.”
It’s soooo sad when people don’t realize they’re weird and out of date.
Then I remembered that my 17-year-old daughter advised me recently that my hairdo was “dated” – basically the same style I’ve worn since my wedding day, pretty much -- and when I went to the upscale beauty salon and repeated the story, expecting a laugh, the hairdresser didn’t blink an eye, but started suggesting changes I could make. Indeed, should.
Gulp! But I love my new ‘do. So . . . “Mr. DeMille . . . NOW I’m ready for my close-up.”
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
ABBY'S BLACKIES
We have a teenage softball friend named Abby who was honored to be asked to do some baking for a family get-together. She had spent a lot more time on the softball diamond than in the kitchen, though, so she needed a little hand-holding.
Her assignment: bake brownies for 24 people.
Instructions: double the recipe.
OK. Fine. Abby prepared two 9” x 13” pans, opened two boxes of brownie mix, and doubled the eggs, oil and water. So far, so good.
But this logical young lady figured that doubling meant doubling. So . . . she also doubled the oven TEMPERATURE. Hmm. There was no 700 degrees on her oven dial, so she turned it to “Broil.”
She also doubled the amount of TIME for baking, to nearly an hour on the oven timer.
Heyyyy! They SAID “double.”
It didn’t take that long for the smoke alarm to go off and the pans of hardened charcoal to be rushed outside, setting off gales of laughter from her not-so-supportive family members. And new family lore was born, signaling lifelong mirthful reminders about “Abby’s Blackies.”
Alas! That’s what you get for dutifully following instructions!
We have a teenage softball friend named Abby who was honored to be asked to do some baking for a family get-together. She had spent a lot more time on the softball diamond than in the kitchen, though, so she needed a little hand-holding.
Her assignment: bake brownies for 24 people.
Instructions: double the recipe.
OK. Fine. Abby prepared two 9” x 13” pans, opened two boxes of brownie mix, and doubled the eggs, oil and water. So far, so good.
But this logical young lady figured that doubling meant doubling. So . . . she also doubled the oven TEMPERATURE. Hmm. There was no 700 degrees on her oven dial, so she turned it to “Broil.”
She also doubled the amount of TIME for baking, to nearly an hour on the oven timer.
Heyyyy! They SAID “double.”
It didn’t take that long for the smoke alarm to go off and the pans of hardened charcoal to be rushed outside, setting off gales of laughter from her not-so-supportive family members. And new family lore was born, signaling lifelong mirthful reminders about “Abby’s Blackies.”
Alas! That’s what you get for dutifully following instructions!
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
HALLOWEEN BESTS
Best pumpkin: “STATE CHAMPS” carved by our high school team’s All-State pitcher.
Best trick-or-treater conveyance: a lawn tractor and trailer arrived with all kinds of decorations and lights, and a bunch of beaming kids hopped off the back of this Halloween hayrack ride.
Best kid costume: a little boy was in a homemade winged dragon costume in a shimmering green fabric that a mom or grandma must have put 100 hours into making.
Best adult costume: a friend is a teacher, and the kids at her school weren’t allowed to dress up this year for some strange reason, but the teachers were; one of her co-workers came as “The Unhappy Camper,” with torn jeans, burnt marshmallows in her hair, and a snake wrapped around her leg . . . she didn’t need a Hershey bar in her trick-or-treat bag; she needed a margarita.
Best pumpkin: “STATE CHAMPS” carved by our high school team’s All-State pitcher.
Best trick-or-treater conveyance: a lawn tractor and trailer arrived with all kinds of decorations and lights, and a bunch of beaming kids hopped off the back of this Halloween hayrack ride.
Best kid costume: a little boy was in a homemade winged dragon costume in a shimmering green fabric that a mom or grandma must have put 100 hours into making.
Best adult costume: a friend is a teacher, and the kids at her school weren’t allowed to dress up this year for some strange reason, but the teachers were; one of her co-workers came as “The Unhappy Camper,” with torn jeans, burnt marshmallows in her hair, and a snake wrapped around her leg . . . she didn’t need a Hershey bar in her trick-or-treat bag; she needed a margarita.
Monday, October 31, 2005
THE UN-DOORSTOP
Footnote to Sunday’s story about the Pumpkinheads and the sleepy med student:
It was a Halloween night long, long ago. The ghosties and goblins were out in full force. One group in particular featured two tall dads and four little kids. It had gotten very cold and icy.
When they went up the steps of one small porch and rang the bell, the master of the castle opened the storm door outward, and the wind must have caught it.
It banged into one little ghost and knocked him all the way into the snow below.
Not a very nice trick . . . but it sure provides a funny treat in the telling, years and years later.
Footnote to Sunday’s story about the Pumpkinheads and the sleepy med student:
It was a Halloween night long, long ago. The ghosties and goblins were out in full force. One group in particular featured two tall dads and four little kids. It had gotten very cold and icy.
When they went up the steps of one small porch and rang the bell, the master of the castle opened the storm door outward, and the wind must have caught it.
It banged into one little ghost and knocked him all the way into the snow below.
Not a very nice trick . . . but it sure provides a funny treat in the telling, years and years later.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
PUMPKINHEADS
(H)e hath no form of comeliness;
and when we shall see him
there is no beauty that we should desire him.
He is despised and rejected of men. . . .
-- Isaiah 53:2b,3a
A bunch of us new college graduates had gathered at a local establishment which served festive beverages. We had pretty much taken over the place, which was all decked out for Halloween.
I must admit, I had overimbibed that night. No, not on festive beverages: on helium. I loved nothing better than to grab a balloon, suck its contents deeply into my lungs, and then, in a ridiculous Munchkin voice, say something rapidly, like:
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. . . .”
You get the idea. We were young, we were nerds, and we were up to no good.
Well, my beloved, his ex-college roommate and some other guys had grabbed the jack o’lanterns that had been carved for the occasion. It was long after midnight. They didn’t think the business establishment would mind if they took a few souvenirs.
I am relieved to report that they DID think to remove the candles. What they did next was inexplicable, unless you know guys: they cut a hole in the bottom of each jack o’lantern, and wore them out of the place.
Pumpkinheads, walking tall.
In perfect late-night logic, we then proceeded in a caravan of cars to the quiet home of another one of their ex-roommates. He had not joined us for the revelry, because, unlike us, he and his dear wife were serious persons, and in medical school. So they’d skipped the party.
Their relative maturity drew the ire of the Pumpkinheads.
While we embarrassed wives and girlfriends slumped in the cars, holding our heads in our hands, the Pumpkinheads staggered boldly up to the door, hung on the bell, knocked loudly, and shouted “Trick or Treat!” and other things that only sound funny when it’s 2 in the morning and you’re up to no good.
The popular movie of the day, which dates me, but it was a good movie, was “The Elephant Man.” My beloved staggered about on the porch, quoting the movie’s key line, “I am not an animal. I’m a human being!” while the other Pumpkinheads howled similar epithets.
A light snapped on at the back of the house. Then the porch lights. Then the door burst open. There was our med school friend in his T-shirt and jockey shorts. (Yes, I was peeking.)
We forgot he was a redhead, and gets mad easily.
Thinking they were rowdy vandals, terrorists or psych ward escapees, he PUNCHED the nearest Pumpkinhead, who flipped backwards over the iron porch railing onto his hands and knees on the lawn below, continuing to mutter, “I am not an animal. I’m a human being!”
His pumpkinhead split in two. At that instant, the med student realized who he had just punched – my beloved -- his close friend.
Did he come down off the porch, throw his arm around him, and apologize for the mighty blow which would have surely broken his nose, if not for the two-inch pumpkin shield in front of it?
Did he laugh appreciatively and remark that he should have known who Jack O’Lantern and his friends really were, enjoying the practical joke in the spirit of fun?
Noooooo.
I think he and his wife, also in med school, were tremendously annoyed because they had an enormous test the next day. So his heartfelt message to them was something like this:
“*&%*#$%&@!(%&^Y#(%^@O)FJ%&@^%!!!!”
Like, “You guys are out of your . . . gourds!”
That’s the thing about Halloween, and real life, too. You never know who it REALLY is behind that mask. And that’s bad, both ways.
Best to make sure people know who you are before you ring their doorbell at 2 a.m.
And best to hold your punches ‘til you find out for sure whether it’s a monster or a friend under there . . . before you turn their brains into . . . well . . . squash.
---------------------
PRAYER REQUESTS: Please check in regularly to my new prayer blog, www.LookingUpPrayerLine.blogspot.com Please send any prayer needs that you have, and updates and praise reports, too!
(H)e hath no form of comeliness;
and when we shall see him
there is no beauty that we should desire him.
He is despised and rejected of men. . . .
-- Isaiah 53:2b,3a
A bunch of us new college graduates had gathered at a local establishment which served festive beverages. We had pretty much taken over the place, which was all decked out for Halloween.
I must admit, I had overimbibed that night. No, not on festive beverages: on helium. I loved nothing better than to grab a balloon, suck its contents deeply into my lungs, and then, in a ridiculous Munchkin voice, say something rapidly, like:
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. . . .”
You get the idea. We were young, we were nerds, and we were up to no good.
Well, my beloved, his ex-college roommate and some other guys had grabbed the jack o’lanterns that had been carved for the occasion. It was long after midnight. They didn’t think the business establishment would mind if they took a few souvenirs.
I am relieved to report that they DID think to remove the candles. What they did next was inexplicable, unless you know guys: they cut a hole in the bottom of each jack o’lantern, and wore them out of the place.
Pumpkinheads, walking tall.
In perfect late-night logic, we then proceeded in a caravan of cars to the quiet home of another one of their ex-roommates. He had not joined us for the revelry, because, unlike us, he and his dear wife were serious persons, and in medical school. So they’d skipped the party.
Their relative maturity drew the ire of the Pumpkinheads.
While we embarrassed wives and girlfriends slumped in the cars, holding our heads in our hands, the Pumpkinheads staggered boldly up to the door, hung on the bell, knocked loudly, and shouted “Trick or Treat!” and other things that only sound funny when it’s 2 in the morning and you’re up to no good.
The popular movie of the day, which dates me, but it was a good movie, was “The Elephant Man.” My beloved staggered about on the porch, quoting the movie’s key line, “I am not an animal. I’m a human being!” while the other Pumpkinheads howled similar epithets.
A light snapped on at the back of the house. Then the porch lights. Then the door burst open. There was our med school friend in his T-shirt and jockey shorts. (Yes, I was peeking.)
We forgot he was a redhead, and gets mad easily.
Thinking they were rowdy vandals, terrorists or psych ward escapees, he PUNCHED the nearest Pumpkinhead, who flipped backwards over the iron porch railing onto his hands and knees on the lawn below, continuing to mutter, “I am not an animal. I’m a human being!”
His pumpkinhead split in two. At that instant, the med student realized who he had just punched – my beloved -- his close friend.
Did he come down off the porch, throw his arm around him, and apologize for the mighty blow which would have surely broken his nose, if not for the two-inch pumpkin shield in front of it?
Did he laugh appreciatively and remark that he should have known who Jack O’Lantern and his friends really were, enjoying the practical joke in the spirit of fun?
Noooooo.
I think he and his wife, also in med school, were tremendously annoyed because they had an enormous test the next day. So his heartfelt message to them was something like this:
“*&%*#$%&@!(%&^Y#(%^@O)FJ%&@^%!!!!”
Like, “You guys are out of your . . . gourds!”
That’s the thing about Halloween, and real life, too. You never know who it REALLY is behind that mask. And that’s bad, both ways.
Best to make sure people know who you are before you ring their doorbell at 2 a.m.
And best to hold your punches ‘til you find out for sure whether it’s a monster or a friend under there . . . before you turn their brains into . . . well . . . squash.
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PRAYER REQUESTS: Please check in regularly to my new prayer blog, www.LookingUpPrayerLine.blogspot.com Please send any prayer needs that you have, and updates and praise reports, too!
Thursday, October 27, 2005
DRIVER'S LICENSE PRIVACY
This is upsetting but I thought I should pass it along. It seems that they’ve posted everybody’s driver's license on the Internet. I just searched for mine and there it was . . . picture and all!!
Thanks, Homeland Security! Where are our rights? I definitely removed mine. I suggest you do the same.Go to the web site and check it out. Just enter your name, city and state to see if yours is on file. After your license comes on the screen, click the box marked "Please Remove.” This will remove it from publicviewing, but not from law enforcement.http://www.license.shorturl.com/
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PRAYER REQUESTS: I’ve dedicated a new blog just for prayer requests, updates, and praise reports that come my way. See www.LookingUpPrayerLine.blogspot.com Please keep sending your prayer needs and I’ll post them at least once a day on the site.
This is upsetting but I thought I should pass it along. It seems that they’ve posted everybody’s driver's license on the Internet. I just searched for mine and there it was . . . picture and all!!
Thanks, Homeland Security! Where are our rights? I definitely removed mine. I suggest you do the same.Go to the web site and check it out. Just enter your name, city and state to see if yours is on file. After your license comes on the screen, click the box marked "Please Remove.” This will remove it from publicviewing, but not from law enforcement.http://www.license.shorturl.com/
------------------------------------------------
PRAYER REQUESTS: I’ve dedicated a new blog just for prayer requests, updates, and praise reports that come my way. See www.LookingUpPrayerLine.blogspot.com Please keep sending your prayer needs and I’ll post them at least once a day on the site.
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DAILYSUSAN will resume on Sunday, Oct. 30.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Our 5-year-old slumped back on our heavy iron kitchen barstool while savoring her pb&j, and got her right arm stuck between the slats. She panicked, and pulled left, then right, and found herself even more stuck, so she wailed for me.
By the time I got there, Maddy had changed positions so the angle was off kilter, and my attempts to free her by pulling on her arm or pushing it from behind yielded yelps of fear and pain.
That’s when the practical mind of the 5-year-old surfaced. Through her tears, Maddy cried, “I’ll just have to walk around all day with this on my back.”
We couldn’t have that! It weighs as much as she does!
Luckily, a pull upward freed the arm . . . and her fears of spending the rest of her life as a hunchback were laid to rest.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
LITTLE SPONGES, LITTLE MIRRORS
I’m not the only mom who has heard her own occasional verbal slips echo back from the innocent lips of a little one. Oh, those pitchers and their big ears. A friend wrote:
“When Scott was just 2, I was strapping him into his child-seat in the back seat of my car. My mom was waiting patiently outside the car, ready to open the passenger door as soon as I had Scott strapped in safely. Scott and I were going to lunch with Grandma, and we were all pumped.
“I could not get the seatbelt into the lock, because I could not see it around the carseat. So, I was reaching, groping blindly, and struggling, and making frustrated grunting sounds as I struggled right in front of -- and over -- quiet, patient Scott.
“Mom said from outside, ‘What's the matter?’ And I muttered as I groped over the carseat, ‘I just can't seem to get the seatbelt fastened, Mom.’
“At that, Scott slapped his hand down firmly on the padded seat arm in front of him, and said with great feeling:
“’DIMMIT!’
“I practically hit my head on the inside ceiling -- then I backed out gingerly, looked at my mom, and she said, ‘Where did he get THAT?’
“Then we both turned away from Scott and laughed as quietly as possible.”
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PRAYER REQUESTS: I’ve dedicated a new blog just for prayer requests, updates on answered prayer, and praise reports that come my way. Read them on www.LookingUpPrayerLine.blogspot.com, and one day soon they’ll be available directly from the www.DailySusan.com website. Please keep sending your prayer needs to me and I’ll post them at least once a day on the site.
I’m not the only mom who has heard her own occasional verbal slips echo back from the innocent lips of a little one. Oh, those pitchers and their big ears. A friend wrote:
“When Scott was just 2, I was strapping him into his child-seat in the back seat of my car. My mom was waiting patiently outside the car, ready to open the passenger door as soon as I had Scott strapped in safely. Scott and I were going to lunch with Grandma, and we were all pumped.
“I could not get the seatbelt into the lock, because I could not see it around the carseat. So, I was reaching, groping blindly, and struggling, and making frustrated grunting sounds as I struggled right in front of -- and over -- quiet, patient Scott.
“Mom said from outside, ‘What's the matter?’ And I muttered as I groped over the carseat, ‘I just can't seem to get the seatbelt fastened, Mom.’
“At that, Scott slapped his hand down firmly on the padded seat arm in front of him, and said with great feeling:
“’DIMMIT!’
“I practically hit my head on the inside ceiling -- then I backed out gingerly, looked at my mom, and she said, ‘Where did he get THAT?’
“Then we both turned away from Scott and laughed as quietly as possible.”
------------------------------------------------
PRAYER REQUESTS: I’ve dedicated a new blog just for prayer requests, updates on answered prayer, and praise reports that come my way. Read them on www.LookingUpPrayerLine.blogspot.com, and one day soon they’ll be available directly from the www.DailySusan.com website. Please keep sending your prayer needs to me and I’ll post them at least once a day on the site.
Monday, October 24, 2005
SOUND IT OUT, BUT NOT THAT FAR OUT
Becoming a reader is Job One for kindergartner Maddy. So when I read stories to her every night, I try to get her to read some of the words and sound out the ones that are unfamiliar.
Now, I know little kids know more words than they can read. But things went quite a bit too far last night when she sounded out the word “she” and I asked her what OTHER word was within that same word.
Of course, I was shooting for “he.” But she looked at the word, knew I always harp on sounding words out, thought the word I had in mind must have the “sh” sound in it, and sounded out:
“Sh . . . sh . . . SHI***?!?!?!”
Ohhhh, that DARN day care, where they pick up words like that. . . .
Sh . . . sh . . . SURE they do.
------------------------------------------------
PRAYER REQUESTS: I’ve dedicated a new blog just for prayer requests, updates, and praise reports that come my way. They’re on the Looking Up Prayer Line blog over at the right on my website, www.DailySusan.com Please keep sending your prayer needs and I’ll post them at least once a day on the site.
Becoming a reader is Job One for kindergartner Maddy. So when I read stories to her every night, I try to get her to read some of the words and sound out the ones that are unfamiliar.
Now, I know little kids know more words than they can read. But things went quite a bit too far last night when she sounded out the word “she” and I asked her what OTHER word was within that same word.
Of course, I was shooting for “he.” But she looked at the word, knew I always harp on sounding words out, thought the word I had in mind must have the “sh” sound in it, and sounded out:
“Sh . . . sh . . . SHI***?!?!?!”
Ohhhh, that DARN day care, where they pick up words like that. . . .
Sh . . . sh . . . SURE they do.
------------------------------------------------
PRAYER REQUESTS: I’ve dedicated a new blog just for prayer requests, updates, and praise reports that come my way. They’re on the Looking Up Prayer Line blog over at the right on my website, www.DailySusan.com Please keep sending your prayer needs and I’ll post them at least once a day on the site.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
MAKING CONCESSIONS
And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily,
as to the Lord, and not unto men. . . .
-- Colossians 3:23
There I was, down on my hands and knees on a cold, rainy Saturday afternoon, scrubbing a really grungy concrete floor with disinfectant so strong it curled my nostril hair.
Me? A college graduate who once wore elbow gloves as a debutante?
Well, it might have been a lowly job – but it had the highest purpose.
After a long softball season, I was shutting down the concession stand in our city park. The tiny building, run by parents to make money to support sports teams, became my home away from home this fall -- spider webs, concrete block walls, bare overhead lightbulb and all.
I had been outfumbled by the other softball moms into running it. They were younger, nimbler, and met behind my back to elect me by acclamation . . . the finks.
I hated the assignment. Volunteering, to me, is white-collar, no-brainer tasks. Fun! Easy! Clean!
This job, though, was hard work. Ewww!!!
So I found myself pushing a heavy, overloaded dolly of supplies through a warehouse store, mushing like Nanook in the Iditarod.
I washed and lined shelves, stocked and priced items, fumbled around with keys to four locks, supervised volunteers, counted cash, balanced books, iced countless coolers, and learned how to load heavy “udders” of cheese into the nachos machine, run two persnickety microwaves, and several ancient crockpots.
My coffee tasted bad. My trick wrist ached. I failed to master the circa 1957 can opener.
It grossed me out to change the flypaper hanging from the ceiling. Worse, I had to fix Frito Pies – blobs of canned chili and cheddar cheese dumped into a sack of Fritos – right underneath those flypaper strips. Ewwwww!!!
I got black knees from kneeling on the filthy floor, and broke three nails and our cooler handle.
Why do I whine about all this?
Because I thought I would hate the job.
But I loved it!
Isn’t that always the way it is? Taking on a tough job that nobody else wants to do can be the best thing for you.
These are the jobs that serve people’s needs . . . and give you a good, strong dose of reality for just how cushy your life really is.
I mean, some people work that hard all their lives. I only had to make it through softball season.
It was a lot of fun, too, with lots of camaraderie. We were playing a pretty good team one night, and one of their fans ordered a chocolate sundae. We exchanged good wishes for the game, but as I was spraying on the Redi-Whip, I said, “This here’s WHUPPING cream!!!!!” She cracked up.
Everybody pitched in, and that was inspiring. Dear friends helped staff the stand, “just because.” Dads made sloppy joes, wings and super-secret chili. One donated a ton of free hot dogs, and another got us day-old buns to go with.
We made almost $1,300 for the softball team, and that was the best of all.
Or maybe it was what happened when I was scrubbing that filthy floor at season’s end on that rainy afternoon. Buckets of black water had gone down the drain. Dead bugs and petrified gum spots had been dealt with. My joints ached. But I ran outside to throw something away . . .
. . . and was treated to a gorgeous, full-size rainbow in the purple sky above blazing red and orange trees.
I almost dropped to my knees in awe, which would’ve been fine, since they were already black from scrubbing.
I knew what this was: heavenly payola for doing a thankless job.
It was God’s way of making concessions – a little treat to remind me that He’s with me in my glory moments on the mountaintops of life, but also while I’m making Frito pies under loaded flypaper and scrubbing a dirty floor.
Which, by the way, looks fabulous. Hmm. Wonder if they’ll ask me to run the stand again next year?
AAAIIIEEE!!! I’ll have to tell ‘em – I may be your servant, but I’m NACHO slave!
----------------------
PRAYER REQUESTS: Please check my website, www.DailySusan.com, and see my new blog, Looking Up Prayer Line, over at the right. I will post prayer requests on there from now on, at least once a day. Please send any prayer needs that you have, and updates and praise reports, too!
And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily,
as to the Lord, and not unto men. . . .
-- Colossians 3:23
There I was, down on my hands and knees on a cold, rainy Saturday afternoon, scrubbing a really grungy concrete floor with disinfectant so strong it curled my nostril hair.
Me? A college graduate who once wore elbow gloves as a debutante?
Well, it might have been a lowly job – but it had the highest purpose.
After a long softball season, I was shutting down the concession stand in our city park. The tiny building, run by parents to make money to support sports teams, became my home away from home this fall -- spider webs, concrete block walls, bare overhead lightbulb and all.
I had been outfumbled by the other softball moms into running it. They were younger, nimbler, and met behind my back to elect me by acclamation . . . the finks.
I hated the assignment. Volunteering, to me, is white-collar, no-brainer tasks. Fun! Easy! Clean!
This job, though, was hard work. Ewww!!!
So I found myself pushing a heavy, overloaded dolly of supplies through a warehouse store, mushing like Nanook in the Iditarod.
I washed and lined shelves, stocked and priced items, fumbled around with keys to four locks, supervised volunteers, counted cash, balanced books, iced countless coolers, and learned how to load heavy “udders” of cheese into the nachos machine, run two persnickety microwaves, and several ancient crockpots.
My coffee tasted bad. My trick wrist ached. I failed to master the circa 1957 can opener.
It grossed me out to change the flypaper hanging from the ceiling. Worse, I had to fix Frito Pies – blobs of canned chili and cheddar cheese dumped into a sack of Fritos – right underneath those flypaper strips. Ewwwww!!!
I got black knees from kneeling on the filthy floor, and broke three nails and our cooler handle.
Why do I whine about all this?
Because I thought I would hate the job.
But I loved it!
Isn’t that always the way it is? Taking on a tough job that nobody else wants to do can be the best thing for you.
These are the jobs that serve people’s needs . . . and give you a good, strong dose of reality for just how cushy your life really is.
I mean, some people work that hard all their lives. I only had to make it through softball season.
It was a lot of fun, too, with lots of camaraderie. We were playing a pretty good team one night, and one of their fans ordered a chocolate sundae. We exchanged good wishes for the game, but as I was spraying on the Redi-Whip, I said, “This here’s WHUPPING cream!!!!!” She cracked up.
Everybody pitched in, and that was inspiring. Dear friends helped staff the stand, “just because.” Dads made sloppy joes, wings and super-secret chili. One donated a ton of free hot dogs, and another got us day-old buns to go with.
We made almost $1,300 for the softball team, and that was the best of all.
Or maybe it was what happened when I was scrubbing that filthy floor at season’s end on that rainy afternoon. Buckets of black water had gone down the drain. Dead bugs and petrified gum spots had been dealt with. My joints ached. But I ran outside to throw something away . . .
. . . and was treated to a gorgeous, full-size rainbow in the purple sky above blazing red and orange trees.
I almost dropped to my knees in awe, which would’ve been fine, since they were already black from scrubbing.
I knew what this was: heavenly payola for doing a thankless job.
It was God’s way of making concessions – a little treat to remind me that He’s with me in my glory moments on the mountaintops of life, but also while I’m making Frito pies under loaded flypaper and scrubbing a dirty floor.
Which, by the way, looks fabulous. Hmm. Wonder if they’ll ask me to run the stand again next year?
AAAIIIEEE!!! I’ll have to tell ‘em – I may be your servant, but I’m NACHO slave!
----------------------
PRAYER REQUESTS: Please check my website, www.DailySusan.com, and see my new blog, Looking Up Prayer Line, over at the right. I will post prayer requests on there from now on, at least once a day. Please send any prayer needs that you have, and updates and praise reports, too!
Saturday, October 22, 2005
REALITIES OF SCIENCE EDUCATION
OK, so I thought I was providing an educational treat by driving across the autumnal prairie to Aurora, Neb., to take Maddy and her kindergarten friend to the Edgerton Explorit Science Center.
It’s a tribute to Aurora native and famous scientist Harold E. “Doc” Edgerton. He was an electrical engineer and photographer who invented the strobe light, high-speed photography, and underwater lighting using sonar technology in collaboration with Jacques Cousteau, among many other accomplishments. Edgerton was a legendary professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, but he never forgot his Nebraska roots.
The girls moved among the more than 30 exhibits for two hours, fascinated and chattering. There were activities with light, sound, motion, magnets, hydraulics and much, much more. The highlight was popping a balloon in front of a computer-driven strobe that yielded a photo on paper of the instant the balloon burst before their surprised faces.
After all that, we got back in the car for the two-hour drive home. I expected to hear conversation about all the scientific learning that had gone on.
Instead, they took out their souvenirs – rainbow play-dough.
“LET’S MAKE PUTTSIES!!!” they shouted. You know, warming up the plastic clay and pushing it together to imitate rude body sounds.
So much for science . . . humor trumps it.
------------------------------------------------
Prayer request: Rest and time to savor tender memories for my good friends Bobbie and Kathy, who lost their husband and father, respectively, this past week, after a long battle with Alzheimer’s. Dick was a wonderful man. Oh, Lord, use this trial to draw his loved ones ever closer to You. (Titus 3:4-6)
OK, so I thought I was providing an educational treat by driving across the autumnal prairie to Aurora, Neb., to take Maddy and her kindergarten friend to the Edgerton Explorit Science Center.
It’s a tribute to Aurora native and famous scientist Harold E. “Doc” Edgerton. He was an electrical engineer and photographer who invented the strobe light, high-speed photography, and underwater lighting using sonar technology in collaboration with Jacques Cousteau, among many other accomplishments. Edgerton was a legendary professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, but he never forgot his Nebraska roots.
The girls moved among the more than 30 exhibits for two hours, fascinated and chattering. There were activities with light, sound, motion, magnets, hydraulics and much, much more. The highlight was popping a balloon in front of a computer-driven strobe that yielded a photo on paper of the instant the balloon burst before their surprised faces.
After all that, we got back in the car for the two-hour drive home. I expected to hear conversation about all the scientific learning that had gone on.
Instead, they took out their souvenirs – rainbow play-dough.
“LET’S MAKE PUTTSIES!!!” they shouted. You know, warming up the plastic clay and pushing it together to imitate rude body sounds.
So much for science . . . humor trumps it.
------------------------------------------------
Prayer request: Rest and time to savor tender memories for my good friends Bobbie and Kathy, who lost their husband and father, respectively, this past week, after a long battle with Alzheimer’s. Dick was a wonderful man. Oh, Lord, use this trial to draw his loved ones ever closer to You. (Titus 3:4-6)
Friday, October 21, 2005
MONA, IN BETWEEN BLINKS
(Today's DailySusan is an animation of the Mona Lisa making funny faces)
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Prayer request: We are grateful that the Iraqi people had a chance to vote to become a democracy, Father. Growing into a more just and equitable society is bound to be good for those citizens in everything from their economy to their health. It is also likely to open up their culture to allow teaching about You, for the first time. We know it is Your will and Your plan to break the censorship and inspire the free flow of ideas in that country. We look forward to the day when the Iraqis can know the source of our peace, Jehovah-Shalom. (Judges 6:24)
(Today's DailySusan is an animation of the Mona Lisa making funny faces)
------------------------------------------------
Prayer request: We are grateful that the Iraqi people had a chance to vote to become a democracy, Father. Growing into a more just and equitable society is bound to be good for those citizens in everything from their economy to their health. It is also likely to open up their culture to allow teaching about You, for the first time. We know it is Your will and Your plan to break the censorship and inspire the free flow of ideas in that country. We look forward to the day when the Iraqis can know the source of our peace, Jehovah-Shalom. (Judges 6:24)
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