An Easter Bonnet?

Jeanine called on Wednesday before Easter to remind me of the meeting on Thursday. “Don’t forget the contest. The hat contest. Easter bonnet.”

My creative side is limited. Quite limited, especially as regards crafts, sewing things, and such as that. I do write frequently, and am a rather serious amateur photographer. That’s about it as far as creativity is concerned, so when I had heard previously about the hat issue, I paid it little mind.

When I hung up the phone after talking to Jeanine, my vision was caught by a wide, filmy band of ribbon that was fluttered across the back of our living room couch. I had moved the ribbon there from another place with the thought of either disposing of it, or of taking it upstairs and tucking it away with gift-wrapping items that are in a cupboard in our game-room. I cannot say what possessed me at that moment to recall a wide-brimmed straw hat that resided on a high shelf in my bedroom closet–but something did, and with a certain gleam in my eye (I suspect, although I certainly couldn’t see such a gleam) I grabbed up a plastic climbing stool, placed in before my opened closet, reached high and grasped the said straw hat.

I created. A mad-hatter now, I wrapped the ribboned gleam of color about the crown of the headpiece, and with my off-white cord threaded through a wide-eyed needle, I attempted to adjoin the two pieces. The effort was less than stellar as the spaces between the straw formation of the hat were so large that the majority of my stitches snagged nothing but air. Pins. Safety pins. I pulled several of them from the plastic container I found in my seldom-used sewing kit, and voila! Success!

An hour or so before we left for the meeting, as I donned my hat for one last perfection check (by and large to assure that no safety pins were visible), I inquired of my hubby. “Want me to make you a hat, Jerry?”

He eyed me. “I don’t think so, Shirley.”

I think I glimpsed a smirk across his otherwise sweet face.

Out of the fifty persons or so who attended the meeting, when they called for the Easter Bonnet contestants to go forward, the elect group consisted of eight people, I believe. I joined that bevy of the brave and talented who walked to the front and straggled into a semi-circle of hatted people. Three prizes were awarded. First name called–not mine. Second name called–not mine. Third name called: Shirley! The emcee handed me an envelope on which was written: Most Creative. Inside was a ten-dollar bill.

So there you go. My first attempt as a milliner, and I won cash money. What say you? Should I proceed with this occupation? Have I, in the millinery field, at these late years become a sort of Grandma Moses?

of the holy

For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse. Romans 1:20

His Name . . .the note in my ear . . .the taste on my tongue . . .of the Holy.

Beauty from Slag

I’ve had this beautiful piece of glass for many years; so many years that I don’t have a memory of buying it. Many of you will recognize it as being a specimen of slag glass.

Production of slag glass originated in late-19th-century England, where glass manufacturers are thought to have added slag from iron-smelting works to molten glass in order to create a range of effects—from tortoiseshell to marbling. Among other uses, slag glass was a popular material for lampshades. This purple and white is one of the more common colors and swirled design.

Slag. Depending on where you’re from, it may be an insult, a term meaning trash. Slag is typically an iron calcium silicate type material, which is liquid in the furnaces and is poured or siphoned off the top of the molten metal. When it cools it forms a solid glassy looking substance and when added to molten glass creates such beautiful pieces as this one of mine.

When I came to Jesus, I was little more than bits and pieces of humanity–as are we all. My mom and dad told me about giving my life to Him and it seemed right to me, and I knew I wanted to do that. So this scrawny straggle-haired child knelt at an altar in a store-front church and surrendered up, and Jesus took me. He accepted my pitiful offering, scooped up the slag of my life, and added His spirit to what I had handed him. I was transformed. That’s why I can look at my life–now exceeding eighty years–and say, “Thank you sweet Jesus. Thank you for vision, for abundance, for a beautiful life.”

The Artist and the Stone

A chunk of stone struck by an artist may appear damaged and degraded. With swift chisel he wields insult, marring the line, forcing a shadow, laying a plane. From side to side he moves, his knowing eye eternally judging. Finally the piece is finished, glowing in lustrous beauty. The artist stands aside, the masses pass before it and weep. Wrenched from the quarry heap has emerged a masterpiece; a statement, a message, a sermon.

from A Thousand Pieces by S. J. Buxton

Of Roses and Potting Sheds. Of Death?

The glass had aged, its frame of flaking paint angled in deviation from straight, for who would anticipate ordinary here–a cavern of musk and chemical, of fertilizer and rakes, of rust and twisted wire. Bulbs and seed, trowels and mud shoes and kneeling cushions. The glass, though marred of dirt and of defect, set truthfully its calling, and gave way to the buds, to the roses. Here they are. See them now.

I had placed them there. I knew their story.

They were fresh when given, dewy, tied with ribbon. Of tucked card, they were of occasion, for a delivery person had come and handed them to me.  Winston barked, and I shushed him.

One day they were finished, and I took away the vase and poured out the water, for no longer could they take nourishment. I recall that I laid them for awhile atop a book shelf, stretched out, a funeral of sorts.

Strong south winds rush across the room where lay the roses, and then began stray dried-up petals to be scattered about, and one day I took them up, retied their ribbon and carried them down the stairs off the back deck to the “potting shed” below. With little thought to exhibit, I stuffed them onto a shelf, a vague thought of using them again sometime . . . for something.

A couple of days ago as I was watering the now dying peonies, I glanced through that window and saw those ancient, dried flowers. I had not arranged them so, or at least consciously I had not. I lifted my hose and sprayed away the dust from the sagging window through which they showed. I stared at them. . .

In a few days I will be 80.

 

Day 9 of 16 with the Grands *Disneyland!*

It was around 8:00 on Tuesday morning when hubby drove Ella and me down to connect with Rebecca and the boys. The Disneyland day had arrived; their gates opened at 10:00 and we didn’t want to miss one minute. It surprises me a bit, but Disneyland allows food to be taken onto their grounds, so we each had frozen bottles of water, and sandwiches, trail mix, granola bars and such were in the backpacks that were the order of the day.

The women.

The men.

The day was as perfect as any could be. Warm weather, but not too hot. Slightly humid.

The mouse ears. Love them and the little girl who wore them all day.

At the entrance Rebecca and I told the boys they could split off from us if they wanted, and as we spoke we decided on a place to meet later in the afternoon for a meal together. However, it worked out that in the early part of the day we were in the same places, in particular we entered the Haunted House together. Ella was terrified. Nathaniel was so sweet with her all day long. He hugged her up when she was so frightened, and often they walked hand in hand. Ella dearly loves her big cousin, Nathaniel.

I can ride these tea cups, whirl as fast as they go, and never feel a touch of dizziness. We had met up with a family from Rebecca’s church. London shared a cup with us.

Once when Cole and Brady were with us women and we talked of getting some food, the boys entered a food place where we were sitting outside. Somehow they thought they had to spend their own money for this meal and when I followed them in a few minutes later, Cole said, “I don’t think I want to eat here, Granny.” One slice of pizza was $8.00! We wandered around a bit, found a hamburger joint and ordered our food there; Cole’s hamburger and fries was $12.00!

“What do you want to drink?” I quizzed all of them. The drinks were nearly $4.00 each.

“We’ll get water out of the fountain and put in our bottles,” Cole said. I know I have mentioned it before but these grandchildren of mine are really exceptional; thoughtful and not greedy at all.

It’s a bit strange, I suppose, but Pirates of the Caribbean has always been my favorite attraction at Disneyland. Ella loved it too, and we wound up going there twice. I think all together we covered most of the rides. I did not like Space Mountain. Too dark and loud. All the kids loved it.

We closed the place down, and even the boys were  complaining with leg and foot pain before we got to the parking lot around 10:00. I chose to wear these not too beautiful tennis shoes, and at the day’s conclusion had only a little pain over one of my toes.

“Granny, those rainbow laces,” Cole had giggled when he saw my shoes early that morning.

It was a glorious day!

 

Day 8 of 16 with the Grands *The Dump, Pears, and Zinnias*

On Monday the phone rang. I answered.

“Granny, this is Nathaniel. What if I come up at 5:30 and bring Paisley to spend the night? And if its okay, the boys could go with me to play basketball at the church this evening. They can sleep over at our place, and we’ll meet up with you and Ella at our house in the morning.”

In that way the final plans were laid for the Disneyland trip. Rebecca and Nathaniel were joining the Buxton grands and me, as Jerry had decided the trip was a bit too strenuous for him. He would “baby-sit” Paisley and Winston.

First, though, the basement clean-out job must be finished, for the trip to the dump/thrift store had earlier been postponed in favor of something else. Ken lent his trailer, Cole and  Brady helped their Pappy connect it to our Jeep, then loaded it, and tied it down with a tarp. They were off, and in less than two hours were back.

Sad. There go my green chairs with the beautiful carved legs. 😦

I haven’t engaged in a lot of creative photography since the youngsters have been here, and I’m disappointed that at Disneyland I will not have my camera with me. I have decided not to take it, but to use my phone instead. We’ll be taking bottles of water, lunches and snacks, and my camera and favorite lens are quite heavy.

But in the back yard, the pears are nearing harvest time and are stunningly beautiful.

. . .as are the zinnias, which are nearing the end of their days.

The boys and I sat down at the dining room table as I gave them money to spend at Disneyland and to tell them how proud I am of their behavior, their work-ethic, and their fine manners. They loaded up their backpacks, I fed them dinner, and by 6:00 Nate had come and they were gone down the hill. Disneyland tomorrow!

Serendipity

In the mix of the liveliness of my visiting grandchildren I grasp solitary, private moments. In the distance they played. Beside the lake I walked. Caught among high weeds, a feather of fine lines, splendid in its golden light, became a one-man art show.

Five Greats (Day 12 Summer Road Trip 2012)

Today we visited the Children’s Museum in downtown San Diego. What a glorious experience. Throughout the day I was able to capture a nice candid shot of each of the five great-grandchildren.

Sage Buxton 9 (Daughter of Chris and Christina)

Thane Buxton 8 (Son of Joel and Aisha Buxton)

Ethan Buxton 6 (I think) Son of Joel and Aisha

Drake Buxton 5 (Son of Chris and Christina)

Seth Buxton 5 (Son of Joel and Aisha Buxton)

They had a time, as did I. Among other things, they built structures, produced chalk drawings, climbed walls, blew bubbles, toured tunnels, painted a car, and a stack of tires.

This 2-year-old we met also painted. She was a riot, always wanting people to see her work. (If I were despondent, I believe I would consider going to a children’s museum–even if I didn’t have any of my own youngins’ to take. I’d sit and watch and smile, and perhaps my despondency would be lifted.)

At lunch after we left the museum, Ethan looked at his Poppy and asked, “Is it lying to tease?”

“No, not if you’re just teasing,” Poppy Steve answered. Thus began a discussion of lying with the youngsters snickering and tattling on each other. After a bit, Drake looked straight at me, very somber.

“Granny, I lie sometimes.” He stared at me, and I promise I could not help myself. I burst into laughter, looked at Steve, and he was rolling. You tell me, now.Take a look at Drake’s little face. It is just not possible that beautiful sweet boy ever lied. Grannies just know things like that.

Phoenix-Prescott Valley-Phoenix (Day 4 Summer Roadtrip 2012)

A busy Sunday began with us leaving Phoenix a few minutes after 8:00. We set our GPS to direct us to Prescott Valley where Jerry would preach the morning message in a church pastored by Rev. Richard Evans. We arrived too early, so after sighting the church, we went a few blocks away to Wendy’s where we ordered coffee.

“Look, Jerry,” I had sputtered on the way to the coffee stop. “Look at that neat building. I want to take pictures.” So Jerry drove back to this children’s dental complex, and while he sipped coffee I snapped pictures. Cutest place. Smartest dentist.

Pastor Evans, his wife, and other members of the church welcomed us as we entered the church, and soon a table was set up for my books. It was an amazing morning; per capita, I believe I sold more books there in Prescott Valley than I have sold any other place. As he introduced Jerry to preach after I had made my book presentation, Brother Evans announced that he wanted to buy 100 copies of my newest book, BACKSLIDING, the bitter bite of beelzebub. I sold so many books after the service that I ran out of one of the titles and must do a mailing today. I tremendously appreciate such support for my work. (Another subject which I will address in a different post is my extreme reluctance to push my own books. Yet I know that unless I do so, I will not sell them. 😦  …..)

Jerry stands with pastor and Mrs. Evans and with their son Ryan who is a law student at USC and who was home for a visit. With these neat people we enjoyed a delicious meal and great conversation at a Texas Roadhouse. . . then it was time to drive back to Phoenix.

The dedication of Gabby by her parents was scheduled for Sunday night at Phoenix Revival Center pastored by Brother Delmon Sansom. Brother Sansom spoke an eloquent dedication message titled, A Tale of Two Homes. It was powerful. Jessica wanted her pappy to be involved, too, and of course he was excited to do so.

Gabby is a definite mama’s girl and she did not want to be given to Jesus! She yelped, wanting to be given instead to Jessica. “Never mind her crying,” Jerry said to the audience, and he prayed right over her bawling.

After the dedication, Jerry preached to the precious people who make up the congregation of this fine church. After sweet conversation with Brother and Sister Sansom and their great people, we said good-bye, motored home, and plunked ourselves into bed. Tired, but happy!