The World’s Best Cooker

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Brady Buxton, Children's notes

Some of my family have been visiting us here in Crestline, including Brady who is ten years old. Today I was polishing a lamp table on which rests a book in which house guests sometimes write notes.

I flipped through it and, on the last page, found this.

“Dear Granny. You are the best cooker in the world. That pork was so good and the corn. From Brady Buxton

A thing may appear simple and inconsequential to one person, but is called priceless by another. This page addressed to me sets among the latter category.

The Luminance of A Durable Friendship

Even though one of their characteristics is a certain ebb and flow, it is important to maintain them lest they be lost, for once completely unraveled, the knitting back into form may be difficult. Constraints of time and various responsibilities will push against their keeping.

From the relationship laughter will result. So will tears.

Jerry and I have been at this one–this friendship–for about 65 years. At least segments of our friendship with the Stevensons and the Hodges have been that long-lasting, for Jerry and Johnny Hodges met when they were still in high school. Our friendships are sterling, and on Friday they drove up from San Diego and spent the night with us.

Snippets:

Johnny lost his phone, so strong man Jerry tipped over the chair where Johnny had been sitting, and there underneath was the phone.

Nita wasn’t able to come as she had gone to northern California to visit with her sisters. To punish her we almost planned a dinner engagement at her house…but being the sweet friends we are, LaVelta and I had mercy on her and didn’t mark anything on our calendars.

I’m above tattling on anyone, (by name) but the two diabetics in the group refused the sugar-free ice cream and strawberries I had prepared, and licked up instead wide wedges of lemon meringue pie.

………………………….   Three Precious Cronies   ………………………………..

Lavelta leaned toward me across the table where we lingered after breakfast on Saturday morning and said,

People like to be appreciated, don’t they?

………………………….Beautiful friends, the Stevensons……………………….

We talked into the night of our families, our churches, vitamins, and antibiotics. One of the diabetics injected the other with insulin. I grinned. We ate, and drank iced tea and pots of coffee and spoke of Boston and general conferences over the decades, and one rolled his eyes heavenward as he recounted the long waits on the other. Financial reports, board meetings, and the Mary Kay in St. Louis. Jerry and Berl argued about exactly where they were when Jerry prophesied about a certain sort of private matter. We talked about holy living and doctrine and motor homes, and about missing Brother Gray. Lavelta showed me pictures on her phone, and from a table I picked up a picture of Nathaniel and showed her how handsome he is, and I bragged about his goodness. Lavelta spoke with pride of the three Manzano children and how involved in the work of God they are. We talked of progress and of dangerous regression. We asked rhetorical questions and pontificated at length on answers.

We spoke of strokes and of dishes and of souvenirs from our trip to the Philippines, and Berl played with magnets we had bought once on a trip to Silverton, Colorado. We spoke lovingly of Sam and Lil White and I reminded them that Sister Francis had recently celebrated her 100th birthday.

I recalled that from both these men who visited in our home I had heard profound preaching. . . . and I added in Jerry, and excuse me . . . you may want to tune out for a minute, but I knew I was sitting in the presence of three holy exceptional men.

Johnny slept late, and as Stevensons and Jerry and I lingered over breakfast, Berl picked up my Bible which lay close and prepared to read Ephesians 4:32. “This is my life goal now,” he said. “This is how I want to be.” “And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.

I lined them up on the deck for one last picture. We had prayed inside, our hands joined.

Fathers and Sons

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father praying for sons, Laying on of hands

A father who has a son who says, “Let me pray for you Dad,” is blessed beyond description. If he has three who do so, it is as though rubies have been heaped about him, and he is a rare man, indeed.

A father who has a son who then says, “Pray for Shawnna and me, Dad” and then the two kneel before him, has been granted life in an elevated plane.

Jerry’s Unbelievably Tough Verizon Samsung

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Blackberry, Samsung, telephones, Verizon, water-logged phone

I sprayed laundry spotter on the trousers, threw them into the washer, and ran it full of cold water. The next morning, I spun that water off, and at the end of that cycle removed Jerry’s trousers. There in the bottom of the washer was his phone, Verizon Samsung old school flip top. It had soaked all night in water, and now I had just spun it dry.

From what I hear, Jerry is unusual in that he does not leave anything in the pockets of his clothes that need to be laundered. I never check his pockets. Mine? Those I always check, for I’m bad about leaving things in them. But he failed this one time, and now I had no doubt ruined his phone.

“Well, we’ll take the battery out,” Jerry said when I showed him the dripping phone, “and place the battery and the phone over the furnace vent.” We did that, then I recalled reading of placing water-besotted items in a bag of rice, so I dragged out a sack of rice and immersed the phone into its depths.

The next day, Jerry reassembled the phone, switched it on, and voila! the word VERIZON spread its beautiful self across the little screen. For a few days, water drops appeared under the glass, but finally they disappeared, and from the time that little Verizon baby has been turned back on, until this very moment, it works perfectly! Kudos to Verizon, to Samsung, and to all things old and tough.

Somewhere in a drawer in this house is a smart phone–a Blackberry. Jerry had quite an experience with it which I post about here. The original post of Jerry and the Blackberry has received more than 80,000 hits. You’ll probably want to take a look.   I also have written about changes in telephone services since I was a child here and in this one titled Number Please. You might get a kick out of them.

Jerry’s Birthday

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birthday celebration 81st, family birthday

Because he has been so sick–housebound for four weeks, except for our trips to the doctor–we knew the celebration of Jerry’s birth today would be a simple one. We hadn’t heard that any of the children would be able to be here . . when on Monday as I returned from the post office, Jerry handed me his phone. Steve was on the line, and within the hour he and Dearrah would be coming to visit, and would spend the night!

As I scurried about the kitchen and had decided to cook a ham that was in my refrigerator, Steve called again. “Don’t worry about food. We’re bringing steaks.” Within a couple of hours he and Dearrah had arrived as had also Rebecca and Nathaniel, as had also 6 of the thickest steaks I ever saw, cards, and a huge cake. We had a feast. Steve and Nathaniel cleared off the back deck grill where it had recently been covered with snow, Steve prepped the steaks, then grilled them, Rebecca peeled potatoes, Dearrah set the table, I made a salad and soon we sat down to feast.

Rebecca taped her gift onto the lamp where Jerry sat so he could be encouraged.

Jerry was so touched by the surprise celebration he was crying. It was a wonderful visit. Rebecca and Nate stayed until around 9:00 in the evening, and Steve and Dearrah didn’t go home until 2:00 this afternoon. While Christmas and Thanksgiving family gatherings are wonderful, we cook and clean and feel such pressure, not always do we get to just enjoy each others presence. There is something precious about quiet hours of talking and remembering with no rushing about, no pressure: Priceless, unforgettable moments. Those are the kinds of hours we spent today. Simple food, toast, a bowl of cereal, a bite of cold steak, a sliver of cake. Nothing pressed us, except our love and affection for each other.

And then Steve prayed for his dad. Dearrah and I joined, and then they were gone.

Pieces of Wonder

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belief in God, image of daffodils, image of pine cones

Part of the amazement is of me–my body, mind, memory, emotions. That I came fully formed from the simple love of my mother and father, and that now I too am a mother–of four magnificent beings who have beautiful bodies, minds, and spirits truly amazes me.

Outside my windows tonight the wind blows, and though even on sunny days I cannot see the wind, I know it is there, for it lifts tree branches and puts them down again as easily as I flag a silky scarf through the air, and it tears around the corners of our tall house and howls. I hear the wind. It’s raining too, soft rain. They had said there was only a 20 percent chance of rain, but we are of the 20 of the hundred tonight, the lucky ones. I imagined I heard rain against a bedroom window a while ago, so I peered out and saw that the driveway was wet and that the bushes that are illuminated by the yard light were shiny and drippy. “It’s raining, Jerry,” I said. It has been clear though. Just a few nights ago, the moon was so bright through our high uncurtained windows, I believe I could have read a book page at midnight. This early morning as we drank coffee I looked through the ascending branches of a wide oak tree just beyond our front deck, and there in the branch tops I saw the moon. It was not fat as before, but a fragment of itself.

It takes faith to believe in God and I have that faith. If I did not, logic would nevertheless pull me into the believer’s corner, for it is much more sane to believe that a Creator is responsible for the glory and wonder of the earth and for the beauty of our bodies and minds, than to think all this came from nothing and from no one.

Near our front entrance stairs is a large stone planter which in summer is a riot of flowers–annuals which I change out each year. In the late fall, I pulled out the remaining dried-up fragments and planted bulbs in there. I don’t remember what kind of bulbs I planted, for within a short span, Jerry and I planted 200 bulbs. But in a loose-leaf binder in the potting shed, I have a list of everything we planted, so I will find out what is to grow there. The potting shed is really not a shed at all, but is actually a basement room with an exterior wall of glass and door. I call it a potting shed because it has pots in it, rakes, planting mix, the wheelbarrow, shovels, and such. But, back to the stone planter. We’ve had record-breaking cold here in the San Bernardino Mountains this winter, but mixed up with days of very warm weather . . . so we have flowers blooming, even though it is projected that in a couple of days we can expect a storm to dump several inches of snow on us.

. . . the stone planter. Around Thanksgiving I piled on top of the dirt in the planter a mound of huge pine cones, and during the days of Christmas, I tied one of them up with a wide red bow. A few days ago when I noticed a sweep of blooming yellow daffodils, I got to thinking about the bulbs in the planter. I moved aside the heavy cones, and there poking up from the earth were determined, green shoots.

If there is anything that reinforces my belief in God, it is a flower bulb. They’re brown, wrinkled up, and papery when you dig a hole in the fall and stick them into the ground. Down inside those little morsels, though, is magic. Surprise. Determination. Plan. They know to push up when it’s time, They know to be a yellow daffodil or a pink tulip, or a lily, and though I’ll have to check my notebook to know, they already know who they are, and what they are to do. God made them that way.

It takes faith to believe in God. I have that faith and lots of evidence. Pieces of wonder.

Interview with Chila Woychik

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Chila Woychik interview, small press publishers

Hey, here we are. I’m excited that Chila Woychik has agreed to spend an hour or so here on my site with all of us who are hunkered around our screens across the United States and maybe even into other parts of the world. We’re an eager, inquisitive bunch–we writers and publishers–and that shifting in the air outside my windows here in Crestline, CA. just may be anticipation and enthusiasm filtering in from you. A few words on the format/procedure. I will ask Chila Woychik for beginning comments, and she will respond. After her initial words, please join in with any questions you have. I have a long list of questions and I’m sure you do also. It would be great to hear from all of you–at least to know you’re there, and to know where you live. I’m certain we’ll all be polite and respectful of everyone’s opinions, even when they may differ from our own.

Chila M. Bradshaw-Woychik is the owner of what has been referred to as an “exceptional midwest small press.” Port Yonder Press publishes both mainstream and religious books in a number of genres. Though small and young, PYP has already been the recipient of several literary awards, among them the Spur Awards, Moonbeam Children’s Book Awards, Westerners international Fred Olds Poetry Award, Grace Award, and Selah Book of the Year Award.

Chila has written many articles and short stories, has been widely published, and has released at least one book. ON BEING A RAT resides on my Kindle and is beautifully written–a touch sassy, a touch brilliant. She refers to those particular writings as lyric essays and vignettes. I bring you one line from the introduction: “I’d lay my pen on the tiny porch outside my door and let the sun renew it with words.” Exquisite writing.

Welcome Chila. Before I turn you loose, though, I have one question: Did you bring Dudley? If not, why not?

I suspect there may be several with us today who are not familiar with you and your work. Please tell us as much–or as little–as you wish about yourself. A smattering of background, how you happen to be a publisher, a little about your heart–your vision.

Announcement: Blog Interview with Chila M. Woychik

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blog interview, Chila Woychik interview, Port Yonder Press, small presses

You’re here. This is the right place for the interactive interview with Chila M. Bradshaw-Woychik of Port Yonder Press. Monday, February 18th–that’s today! She  is the owner of what has been referred to as an “exceptional midwest small press.” Port Yonder Press publishes both mainstream and religious books in a number of genres.

The time is 8:00 pm central, which of course is 6:00 here on the west coast. We’ll be talking for an hour or so–open “mic”–and I’m hoping you’ll all join in. Know established writers or beginning writers or “wanna-be writers”? Let them know of this event, please

Please pass the word: Coming up in a few hours here at www.writenow.wordpress.com. Have your questions ready.

4:30 PST  Monday  The blog interview will start precisely at 6:00–not in this post, but in the one following. Thank you for standing by–eager to jump in.

Death of Rev. T. L. Osborn

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Death of T. L. Osborn, T. L. Osborn books, writings of T. L. Osborn

Interesting, that as we grow older bits of our life are pinched off and exist no more. When I was a student at Apostolic College in Tulsa, I worked in the afternoon for the Rev. T. L. Osborn Ministries. A few hours ago, he went to meet the Lord.

The year was 1956, and I was chosen from the office staff to do some work in the Osborn living quarters which were upstairs over the office area.  I recall the excitement of being with them and talking about their experiences. Rev. Osborn traveled extensively and held large missionary campaigns around the world. Within their living area were numerous artifacts they had collected and had tastefully displayed.

I wish their family comfort.

_______________

Writings of T. L. Osborn discussed here.

Our Love Story

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Gerald Buxton, love in Tulsa, My love story, Swan Lake

Sometime back either on facebook or on one of my blogs, someone asked me to tell our love story–Jerry’s and mine–and a few days ago she reminded me of that for I had promised to do so. This is the perfect time: Valentine’s Day 2013.

I had graduated from high school and just turned 17 when I packed up my things at home in Springfield, MO. and was driven to Apostolic College, a bible school in Tulsa, OK. I had always attended small to moderate-sized churches, so when I arrived at that great school that was a ministry of a dynamic, unusual church pastored by Brother C. P. Williams, and in addition lived on campus in the girl’s dorm, it was so wonderful I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

The stars were aligned, romance for me was in the making, for Jerry was already a student there. He had enrolled the year prior after already graduating with a BA degree with Northwestern State College in Natchitoches, LA. The first time I recall seeing him was in the basement of the church where we had prayer meetings before services started. Someone had received the Holy Ghost and he was dancing as he stood atop two opened folding chairs. He was already a leader among the student body, spoke in some of the services and led in worship. I was a peon from Mo. Somewhat later, someone said to him, “I know someone who has her eyes on you.”

He dismissed the news.”Aw, she’s just a kid.” I must have been a pretty effective kid, though, for soon it was obvious the attraction was mutual. Strict rules were in effect concerning dating, one of which was that a new student could not have a date during the first semester there. We were with each other in the dining room, snack bars, chapel services, other church and school activities, until after the first semester when I could have a date. All dates, though, were chaperoned, and everyone was eager to pick certain chaperones–those who weren’t too strict or too “eagle-eyed.”

I don’t often have extra-sensory, unique things happen to me, but once during this time, I walked into a room where Jerry was–don’t recall exactly the room–and a kind of knowing came over me, and I knew I would marry him. Strange. I didn’t tell anyone–didn’t even tell Jerry until years later that had happened to me. We didn’t have many actual dates, for Jerry left before the end of the school year to go evangelizing. We communicated extensively by letter.

…and then came the day at Swan Lake when he had come back to Tulsa. We were in the back seat of a car, chaperones were in the front, and he asked me to marry him. I said yes. I don’t remember saying it, but Jerry says I answered, “You knew the answer before you ever asked.”

We were married in a preacher’s home a few weeks later: June 27th, 1956. We had a two-day honeymoon traveling by car to our first revival in Russellville, Ky.

In the summer of 2011, just after we had celebrated our 55th anniversary, we revisited Swan Lake in Tulsa. Click on either of these pictures to see many more pictures.

A few days ago as we drove over to Lake Arrowhead, we stopped to admire the scenery and I snapped this picture of my beloved. Lucky, aren’t I.

(Did I tell you that once in the snack bar, he kissed me! A terrible thing!)

Update: 2/14 12:18 pm Jerry just read this and reminded me he did not kiss me in the snack bar. It was in the ping pong room!

—————-

What about you? Today is Valentine’s Day. Let’s hear your story.