Not very grand thoughts on gratitude

Made a shopping list for Thanksgiving yesterday. We're sharing the feast prep with my sister- and brother-in-law, and we each have invited some strays to join us -  friends of our in-laws and a couple of young sailors from the school on the base.  It will be a smaller group than our dinners the past couple of years, but it will be nice to have some family members at the table, along with some strangers.

I've wasted a lot of time recently thinking about how much better life was six months or a year ago.  Now is the season when you are supposed to shed all those gripes and miseries and think about how great every thing is.  Instead, I had a few bouts of envy over the weekend - one while talking to a friend about her job and future plans while we rode in her nice car. I was glad I hadn't volunteered to drive us in our little claptrap. Another moment occurred at a dinner party Saturday night held at a really nice house, about which the owner was complaining. Glad she hasn't seen our tiny place. Very materialistic, vain jealousy. But then there was that other attack of the green monster when I was looking at Facebook photos of happy friends and another when I was reading that well written article, and another when ...

All this jealousy and self-pity is a weakness of faith in the year dedicated to faith that ended yesterday. Perhaps this was the year meant to test faith. We tried to have a celebratory Christ the King dinner last night, but the older boys were exhausted from a weekend retreat with the confirmation students, the younger kids were worn out from a day with the cousins, and my husband and I were just worn out, so the dinner table conversation seemed a little forced - "Be happy, gosh darnit!"

We all went to bed grumpy, dreading the thought of getting up early again in the morning.

But morning came, and once the thought of coffee lured me from the warmth of bed, I forgot about being grumpy, what with the rush to make lunches, get dressed, find books and shoes, jump in the car and speed to school. In the chaos we forgot the gripes of the day before and looked forward to the Thanksgiving play the next day, tried to cram in a couple more minutes of studying for a science test, planned the afternoon pick up schedule. Although the morning was a bit manic, it was a sort of buzzy, hopeful mania, compared to the gloom that clouded last night's meal.

This is why sometimes I think it is good to stay busy.  And I'm kind of excited about the busyness of the holidays, even though we don't have anything big planned.

On the other hand, I really, really love the moment I can sit down in front of the computer and write something down because I don't have anything else on my schedule for the next couple of hours.  Too bad I don't really have any insights or news to share.  I thought about commenting on the NY Library's list of 100 best children's books (love those book lists) or on weightlifting pregnant ladies (whatever works for you, lady), or the burden of NFP, or some other topic floating around the internet, but I don't have anything new or heartfelt to add to those conversations.

I also thought about writing about how yesterday after Mass we dropped off Thanksgiving boxes from the church to a family in need.  The address was in an apartment complex that smelled liked artificial cherry air freshener. The carpets were stained. A young lady with three little kids watching TV answered the door. For some reason, I was expecting an older person to answer, an expectation perhaps left over from the days when we delivered Meals on Wheels. We didn't exchange many words in the awkwardness of the moment and a language barrier.  But I left feeling much more repentant about my jealousy of the day before than I felt during the Confiteor at Mass.  Why should I complain about our cramped living quarters when we are eating grilled tri-tip steak and a salad with fresh local strawberries, almonds, and goat cheese for dinner instead of canned ravioli or ramen noodles?

But it is no heroic feat to feel grateful when confronted with poverty.  It would be better for my soul if I could feel grateful - or at least satisfied - when confronted with plenty, whether that plenty is material, or spiritual, or intellectual, or familial. Despite having glimpsed briefly and self-consciously into the home of someone who has so much less than us, none of us really showed any gratitude during our delicious, nearly gourmet dinner last night.  It wasn't until that moment when we were finally all in bed and the house was quiet that I really felt any thankfulness, but it was that kind of self-berating awareness that happens at nighttime - why can't I be more content with what we have and where I am? - rather than true gratitude.

But daylight brings clarity.  In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I'm grateful for quiet moments for thoughtfulness and contrition. I'm equally grateful for busy times that keep us from mulling over slights and disappointments.  And perhaps I most grateful for forgiveness and the opportunity to start over again and again and again. No new revelations here, just one foot in front of the other.  Good thing the holidays and liturgical feasts are cyclical to knock us over the head and remind us of this year after year.

An encomium of sorts

Remember I said something last post about it being a rough year? Add another woe:

My husband woke me up Monday morning because our dog was acting weird. He couldn't stand up.  He had thrown up the night before, so I figured he ate something bad and was weak from being sick all night. Sure enough, I found two piles of vomited leaves in the yard.  He wasn't tempted by his food or water, but I wasn't very concerned. Took the kids to school, came home to a still lethargic dog, so I decided to call the vet, grumbling to myself about having to spend money to have his stomach pumped, or worse, to have some piece of trash surgically removed.

The vet was able to see him within an hour, so I headed over with my oldest son. Fortunately, the high school had the day off school, so he could lift the dog in and out of the car. The vet wasn't happy with the dog's vitals, and came in with a write-up of the cost of x-rays, blood tests and iv options. We started with the x-rays, which didn't reveal any trash in the dog's gut, but did show either a twisted stomach or a tumor. After a dose of painkiller and iv fluids, we were sent to the surgical vet's office for more imaging and potential surgery.

This place is like the elite private hospital for pets. It has on staff endocrinologists, urologists, surgeons, reproductive health specialists, oncologists, etc. Very posh. I feared for my checkbook, but I was also worried about our dog, and more about our kids being worried about our dog if I didn't do something to take care of him. After a long wait, we were finally invited in for a consult with the vet. She right away launched in to options: another diagnostic x-ray and ultrasound scan and some blood tests. If the condition were twisted stomach, it could be turned surgically, and we could look for a recovery in about 3 weeks and another year or two of life. If it were a tumor, she could do surgery but life expectancy would only be 3-6 months.

Then her facial expression changed. "But I need to be honest with you," she said. The diagnostic imaging would be about $800, and either surgery would be about $4000, plus iv's, painkillers, and follow-up care. My stomach plummeted. "And he's in rough condition right now," she continued. "His vitals are very weak, and there's no guarantee the surgery would be successful."

Our dog was born on December 23, 2002. The older kids remember seeing him born on a cold, wintry night in my parents' garage. For a dog, he's had a long, full life. I had talked myself into being willing to spend a thousand or more for a surgery for the dog, but $4000 was out of the question. I was thankful that the vet was frank about what we were looking at.  My fifteen-year-old son right away started sniffling, knowing what we were going to have to do.

I called my husband, and then went to pick the other kids up at school to take them back to the vet's to say good-bye. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth in the car after I told them where we were going. They thought they were headed to the dentist's after school.  I have to commend the vet hospital staff for their tactful treatment of our carload of tearful kids trooping in. We were given space in the little courtyard where a vet tech wheeled the dog out on a gurney. He was awake, but woeful looking. Perhaps having the kids say goodbye was harder than not. More tears, and then my husband took them home, while I stayed for his final shot and to take his body home to bury.  The vet told me she had taken a peek with the ultrasound and found out that it was a tumor on his liver that was bleeding. It crossed my mind that she told me this for consolation, but she probably didn't want to put down a dog she might have been able to save either.

My husband dug a heart-shaped grave on the side of the house, and we had a little burial ceremony after dark. The older kids want to dig up Bosco's bones when we move from California and take them back to my parents' farm to bury him where he was born and where he was always so happy. A bit morbid, but we'll probably do it.

I've always sort of prided myself about being realistic about pets. I love animals - we've had our share of rodents, fish and birds - but I try not to anthropomorphize them. But it was hard to say no to surgery for the dog, especially thinking that maybe something could have been done.  The kids didn't bring up the difference between euthanizing a pet and a person, and I'm pretty sure my older kids recognize the difference, but my nine-year-old was adamant in saying, "I don't care what anybody says, I think animals do have souls that go to Heaven." And in a way I kind of agreed with him, as I said, "Perhaps they do have an animal soul. God created them; he just didn't create them His image, like us." Animals do have unique personalities, even the rodents.  My husband started to head on a discussion about how animals were created for our use, but it wasn't the time for a debate about the theology of animals and whether or not pets are useful.

While I was sitting in the waiting room at the vet's, I had observed the variety of pet owners: a guy in an electric wheelchair waiting for a guide animal. A middle aged lady with designer sunglasses and purse whose golden retriever was in for chemotherapy. An older woman with a fancy black poodle dressed up in a diamond collar and a leopard print halter that needed stomach surgery.  She was talking to the dog as if to a baby, just in the way you might stereotype a wealthy older woman and her fancy-schmanzy pet.  But as the wait went on, I felt genuinely sorry for her.  She didn't seem to have much else in life to keep her busy, since she told the vet tech who apologized for the wait that she didn't mind; she liked the extra time with her sweet baby and she'd wait all day.  Perhaps some people might debate the merit of spending thousands on pets when there are starving people in the world, but there are also people starving for affection.

Our dog was not a working animal, but he was useful for cleaning up messes on the floor, for providing an excuse to exercise, for teaching our kids about responsibility and caring for others, for offering a warm, sloppy welcome when coming home, for the appearance of being a guard dog, even if he had no antipathy toward any stranger, for all those reasons in physio-kinesiology studies of well-being that companion animals provide.  It has seemed quiet around here the past few days, and when a yogurt or milk has spilled, I almost call for him.  I'm in no hurry to get another dog with a baby on the way - the puppy question was raised last night, 3 days postmortem - but I won't say never.

Bosco, a friend to boys, with his litter mates. My oldest talked his grandpa into letting us have the only yellow puppy, because he wouldn't have been a good hunter. And he wasn't; he never did really like to fetch. 

But he all his life liked socks ...

and walks ... 

and muddy ditches ... 

and sniffing at other dogs (his half-sisters here) . . . 

He was a pretty handsome lab.

Sad to say goodbye.

Pregnancy Journal 2 and Veteran's Day Weekend: The emotional roller coaster

Last Friday, the OB office called to tell me that I hadn't passed my second trimester screening and I need to come in for more testing. Apparently my blood tests showed a 1/22 chance of Downs Syndrome, while normal is 1/150. I'm not too worried because the ultrasound the week before was very normal. The doctor was pleased to see the baby waving fingers because apparently babies with Downs can't unclench their fists.  I've declined this particular blood test in the past because of its high false positive rate. And as the doctor mentioned, this blood test takes into account maternal and gestational age, so the results are likely skewed by taking my 40 years into consideration. And since my calculation of a due date doesn't match the ultrasound, there could be a discrepancy there, too.

So just when I had decided that I didn't need to go see the perinatalogist every 4 weeks because I didn't want any more testing done, I'm back in that gray area.  There's another blood test that gives better results, Materni T21, so I guess now I'll agree to take it, even though I declined it last week.  It won't change the outcome of the pregnancy, but I suppose it would be good to be mentally prepared for future challenges.

On the other hand, I hate buying into the medical community's marketing.  While researching this test, I can across a number of grateful users, like this: http://theswaddledsprout.com/2013/07/07/my-experience-with-maternit21/, but also some heartbreaking stories, like the ones on this website:  http://www.aheartbreakingchoice.com/T21/Pondering.aspx. These are the stories that fuel millions of dollars of medical research. I don't like to think that my doctor is ordering this test because of financial incentives, since he asked if I wanted it before he saw any indicators other than age, but I'm agreeing to take it because a 1/22 chance is pretty high. This article provides an interesting comparison of private practice and HMOs:  http://www.drmccall.com/eyd/eyd20.html.  When I was seen by the military provider (an HMO), I was rarely offered any tests beyond the most basic. For four of my pregnancies, I didn't even get offered an ultrasound.  Now with this private practice, I've been offered test after test and had 3 ultrasounds and I'm just 20 weeks. Do I say enough is enough? Or is it kind of interesting to be the object of a science fair test?

Meanwhile, the baby is moving often. I still feel pretty good - was able to run five miles the other morning (had to stop to go to the bathroom twice) and had a wonderful swim in the pool last week. I really like to swim once I get over the initial freeze in the water. Fortunately, a friend invited me to meet her, so I couldn't back out because of a chilly morning. Even though I have lived in a southern climate for the past decade or so, I still can't get over swimming in November.  It is only in the 60s in the mornings, so it's far from hot, but the pool is heated and once underwater and moving, the temperature is fine. And swimming is much more graceful than running with a pregnant belly.

A note on running while pregnant: I did a little research the other day to see what the current wisdom is on exercising while pregnant, and it is about the same as it was 17 years ago during my first pregnancy: as long as you were exercising before being pregnant, continue doing so as long as you listen to your aches and pains.  Came across this: http://www.runnersworld.com/womens-running/should-women-run-marathons-while-pregnant.  I find it hard to believe that the lady in question will be able to run at 24 weeks the way she can at 12. At 12 weeks, she probably feels pretty normal. After gaining a few more pounds, she may reassess on her own how she feels about running 20+ miles. I think Coach Jenny has given good advice here about "team training."

In many ways, my physical fitness level is similar to my first pregnancy, adjusted a bit for the passing of years. I had just run a marathon, my core was strong, and I ran almost through the whole pregnancy. During my subsequent pregnancies, I turned to walking and swimming much sooner because my belly expanded earlier, and I had tendon or ligament pain in the groin area. Rather than wear a belly band, I just took it easy. I'm sure keeping active made my labors easier.

And look: to all those pregnant runners who fear they may not be able to run as well again: I got back in shape after having 6 kids. And since my body had time for resting, I've probably preserved my joints and bones for future runs.

So now I'm grateful to still be running at 20 weeks.  Each week I get a little slower and run a little less, but I intend to keep going as long as my joints and ligaments and overall health allow.

Despite feeling physically well, despite the positive ultrasound, I still catch myself falling into a dark space at night.  Case in point: last Saturday morning we stopped by a friend's house on base.  Their kids were jumping with the neighbors on the trampoline. Another couple of friends were over enjoying a football game.  Someone else stopped by to say hi while walking the dog. On base living is like living in Mayberry. We were so happy living on base in Guam. Why did I say no thanks to all of this? On the drive home, I had to fight the demon of jealousy.  And then at night I let my thoughts return to the daydreams of life past or the life I wanted to have in the future, and disappointment set in.  Another demon. Prayer is difficult. Maybe pregnancy hormones contribute to these mood swings. In the morning I try to read something from Magnificat or my little Merton book about losing that love of self that clings to my needs, my wants, and I am inspired to live for others, but at night, it's hard to turn those selfish, what-about-me thoughts off, so I pray that when the baby comes, she'll be so lovable that all those disappointments will disappear. I know she will. What baby isn't? A baby with Trisomy 21?

This year definitely won't go down in history as one of my favorites.  We had to leave our beautiful island, where we loved our neighbors and our house and and the community around us.  We had an easy schedule with the kids, in between buses and nothing being more than 30 minutes away and not having a lot of choices.  I had job that I loved. We had made great friends and had lots of good family time on hikes and at the beach and under the water and running 5Ks and triathlons.  Now we spend hours in the car, the kids' schedules are all over the place, I feel sort of lost in limbo in between not having a job during the day, being unable to find one, and anticipating being unable to work in a few months if I did find one.  The house and yard are disappointing, and while we like our church and have started to make some friends, we've yet to meet that family with whom we feel an automatic kinship, the family who has kids whom our kids like and whom we like.

We've been blessed in the past to have those kinds of friends, the kind you call in the middle of the night to watch your kids when you're in labor.  We do have my husband's brother and his family here, and spending time with them has been wonderful, but they only have 2 little girls, so sometimes our family activities don't jive.  And they don't share our faith, so there is a level where we don't connect.  And that is at the deepest level.  There is a place where we can't understand each other, and so a door is shut on that closer intimacy of friendship.

Sometimes I think I need to focus on what is good and lovely.  Other times I wonder whether it isn't necessary that I mourn those lost opportunities and memories.  They are worth remembering and appreciating. But we can only move forward in time, and I don't want my children infected by my own failings. So we carry on.

We ended last weekend with a successful small dinner party, despite my anxieties about our small house. Everyone seemed to have a good time, my husband's gumbo and my pies turned out perfectly - sweet potato pie is my new favorite thing, good for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  I'm reminded again that I feel more comfortable being entertained at homes that feel lived in and loved, rather than ones that look like magazine covers where I worry that my kids will break something or that I can't return the hospitality because this person will discover my lack of decorating taste. Reverse hospitality: my house is so underwhelming, it makes you feel better about yours. That's why we used to call our old Civic the charity car: It made other people feel better about their vehicles, in addition to only having value as a donation.

And for Veterans' Day, we honored my husband by doing things he likes: playing at the beach in the morning (I even squeezed into a wetsuit and got in the waves, looking like a potbellied penguin. No photos.) and hiking to the old M.A.S.H. set in the afternoon, followed by a lasagna dinner and roasting marshmallows around the new firepit. Family togetherness at its finest: a great cure for the blues.

Veterans' Day Flags along the boardwalk

A kelp crab

Starting off the hike to the MASH set

Live Oak down.

Southern California = Korea

I probably could have walked up and petted these deer - that's how concerned they seemed about our presence.
We also saw what we thought were a flock of parrots and they probably were: http://www.havasiwf.org/the-concrete-jungle-uncovering-the-mystery-of-wild-parrots-in-southern-california/.

Flannery O'Connor review on NPR's On Point

Caught the tale end of this interview by Tom Ashbrook
with Paul Elie and William Sessions on our local NPR station this morning.  Good stuff, although I have mixed emotions about reading someone else's prayer journal that wasn't meant to be published.  Apparently, the original is only 22 pages - the published version is 112, with notes, introduction, facsimiles of her pages and the transcription. Brief. Found bundled in some other papers in 2002 by Mr. Sessions.  Written during her year at the University of Iowa when she was in her early 20's.

http://onpoint.wbur.org/2013/11/12/flannery-oconnor-prayer-journal

Other good reviews:  http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/books/2013/11/flannery_o_connor_and_catholicism_a_prayer_journal_reviewed.single.html

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2013/11/the-passion-of-flannery-oconnor/309532/

Reading both entertaining and educational

Not too long ago, I finished reading Jean Webster's Daddy Long-Legs, a novel from 1912 that might be seeing a resurgence in readership after being featured in one of the Mother-Daughter Book Club books, which is why I picked it up. It's a series of letters from an orphan to her benefactor, a trustee of the orphan asylum where she grew up (maybe a prototype of Daddy Warbucks?). He pays to send her to a girls' college with the only stipulation being that she write him monthly letters.  It is a bit sappy in that early twentieth century way, but the heroine Jerusha (who nicknames herself Judy) develops a sense of independence and diligence that shows her rough upbringing has made her resilient and persevering.  Her background is in stark contrast to her wealthy roommate's.  While she envies the beauty of her rich roommate's wardrobe, she comments more than once on this friend's apathy and notes that because this girl has always had her wants and needs met, she has no real understanding of what it means to be happy. Judy comes to appreciate her early hardknock life that makes her so grateful for the gifts she has received and the beautiful things she learns about and sees.

This book offers another take on the benefit of hardships and setbacks, a hundred years ago. Again, not much changes about human nature. Thinking back to a previous post, we can tinker with school methods and parenting styles, but a kid's temperament is innate. Some kids will do better at school, some at home. Some may falter for a few years before returning to the faith. A few missteps in youth are inevitable, perhaps. But happiness lies in recognizing, with gratitude, the things of beauty around you and their transience, things that may be fleeting or taken away. Like innocence and babyhood.  But even mourning and loss can become a beautiful, happy thing because something new is on the way.

So that paragraph is a little Pollyannaish in the same way as Daddy Long-Legs, but my current state of feeling caught in limbo needs cheerleader reminders of the benefits of suffering. Not that my suffering compares to that of poor orphans - mine is a "poor me" syndrome. I feel like I can't start anything like a job or training for something because in a few months life will change dramatically.  I keep having these moments where I see other women succeeding at their jobs, and I think, I could have done something like that. I have an ambitious/competitive streak that has been frustrated by circumstances and choices.  I know the choices I've made have been made for good reasons, but I haven't yet been able to silence the voice of vanity.  Plus, I don't like our house, but at least in two years we'll be moving again. I'm feel perpetually caught in a state of stasis waiting for insight. Maybe I should take up a letter writing campaign like Judy.

The other book I read last week was an attempt to avoid stagnating too much. Robert Scholes The Crafty Reader was a collection of essays on reading as a craft - a practice that can be learned and improved through, well, practice.  We all should become better readers, meaning more insightful, more thoughtful, he argues. But I didn't finish the book with a very clear sense of what the craft of reading is or why it is important (even though I could name some reasons myself - to develop empathy, imagination, critical thinking, cultural literacy, a sense of the limits and expanses of human nature, including its fall and redemption, etc. Did I link to this article "Reading Literary Fiction Improves Empathy" at the Guardian before? ). Scholes doesn't like the New Critics, so most of the book is a critique of their criticism, which, he argues, presents reading as an art that requires a sort of genius in order to excel. I might disagree with that view, although I haven't read deeply in the New Critics since grad school, when perhaps I was more sympathetic to a high concept of art. I appreciate the New Critics insistence on reading the text closely to discover meaning. Of course, knowledge of the cultural and historical context of a work is important to grasp meaning, as is knowledge of an author's oeuvre, but when all you have access to are the words on a page, reading closely is your only means to uncover meaning.

I do appreciate Scholes emphasis on debunking students' fear of poetry. He points out that most students believe poetry (and most literary fiction) has a secret meaning that they have to discover. They don't like poetry because they don't like hunting for symbols and tone.  Against the New Critics preference for formal, unsentimental, artistic poetry, Scholes advocates for teaching narrative poetry and poetry with emotional intensity.

I can see the value of this, especially with young students or students like those in my community college class who had little or no previous experience with reading poetry. While cool and restrained poetry may make good art, emotional and exuberant poetry is sometimes more enjoyable to read until a greater familiarity with poetic form and language is gained. I am happy to report that my elementary students have been busy memorizing poems for their school's "Dialogues and Monologues" event coming up. Three of the four chose narrative verse. My eighth grader is doing the "To Be or Not to Be" soliloquy because he likes to talk in a British accent and pose in a Shakespearean manner.

Scholes also criticizes the reliance on poetic terms that fit the needs of standardized tests, but produce a mechanical and artificial reading of poetry. He wants poetry to be brought close to the lives of students, for students to see that way that poetic language describes the ordinary events of their lives (why I loved Richard Wilbur's "Love Calls Us to the Things of This World"), so that they enjoy it and want to read it.  Here I quibble with him again.  Without knowing what a metaphor or symbol is, without appreciating the pleasure of alliteration and assonance, or the disturbance of dissonance, students don't appreciate the full power of poetic language. I agree that poetry shouldn't be taught as a vocabulary course so that teachers can easily grade exams, but I do think students, especially in the upper grades, need to know the language of the discipline, just as biology students need to know about micro- and macrobiomes and algebra students need to understand polynomials. So I both agree and disagree with Scholes' critique.

Here are the main aspects of the craft of reading poetry that Scholes delineates:
-Read first for prose sense, noting punctuation and word meaning and patterns (particularly for poetry)
-Situate the text - what situation is described, who's the speaker, who is addressed?
- What historical context can you glean about the author's life and world?
- What event or condition is represented?
- Is the work meant to persuade?
-What emotion is generated?
- What is your response or evaluation?

The other interesting chapter in his book compared Norman Rockwell and Salvador Dali - the surreal and the hyperreal being related ways of interpreting signs and symbols. Scholes praises Rockwell for highlighting discrepancies between the real thing and the image he created, focusing on Rockwell's self portrait. While Rockwell was often dismissed as simply being an illustrator, or for making art for the common man, not high art, he is increasingly gaining more critical praise.

I make these notes for any future use. Maybe one day I'll teach the craft/art of reading again. I wish Scholes had gone a little further in advancing his idea of how to be a crafty ready and why, rather than giving examples of poems that the New Critics didn't like, but that he deems worthy of attention. I appreciate his encouragement of letting students study the poetry they like first - narrative and emotionally charged verse.

Meanwhile I'm on to something else: currently enjoying what would appear to be an emotionally restrained book to today's readers, but might have been emotionally intense in its day: Anthony Trollope's Can You Forgive Her, despite it being the WORST formatted ebook ever.  The heroine is an independently minded young lady who can't decide if she wants to marry a husband who will be solid and dependable, but her master, or a rather rash, adventurous young man whom she could assist with her money in gaining and keeping a seat in Parliament. Will she be ambitious or practical? Will she choose the mate who will take care of all her needs but treat her as a kind of adult child or the man who might break her heart but who values her mind? Perhaps I'm reading a modern sensibility into this, because in last night's chapter the good, solid guy showed a new side in his desire to win the heart of his betrothed. He treated her quite nobly. Maybe he'll end up being more compassionate than it first appears.

Vermiculture

One new thing I have taken up since moving here is vermiculture - worm farming.  This is a very new hobby, and I'm not sure it will be a success.  If it weren't for my sister-in-law and the power of peer pressure, I never would have embarked on this venture, but now that it's begun, I'm hoping for positive results.

I've always wanted a compost bin, and although this is on the small side, the worms are supposed to speed the chemical breakdown of the food waste into dirt much faster than plain composting.  Our dirt here is like clay dust. Grey and dry. No rain since we've been here. That's four months without rain. My son reminds me that we had a sprinkle, but it was about 10 drops. I don't know how anything stays green.  The ground is compacted and doesn't seem to have any nutrients, although the rosemary and lavender are growing well in the front yard. Even the succulents seem to be wilting.

And so: WORMS.

Since we don't have guinea pigs and rabbits to eat our scraps anymore, I'm glad to have a productive place to put my food waste. Do you think worms mind the mold? This is one of those questions I can't seem to find the answer to on the internet. I stir the dirt up every couple of days.

These guys are almost as cute as guinea pigs, don't you think?  I think they are growing.

In a few months I'll see if I can mix some dirt in the raised beds that now just have a few anemic looking geraniums in them and see if I can grow vegetables.

Can I convince the kids these are pets? At least as much fun as a guinea pig or parakeet? Look you can hold and pet them. And you don't have to clean their cage!

Behold. We did have enough moisture in the sky a few days ago to produce a rainbow, albeit a rather pale one compared to our vivid, nearly daily rainbows in Guam. Perhaps it is God's promise to SEND rain this time.  I'd like to close with some thoughtful metaphor about how God is in the dirty things of the world like sinners and worms, but I don't have time to be thoughtful about it.  I need to go feed my worms.

A festive weekend

It was a weekend of feasting beginning with Halloween.  The kids didn't haul in the amount of candy they have gathered in the past, but all of it was good candy. No Laffy Taffy or Sugar Daddies.

The kids begged me for days to carve pumpkins, which we got for free at a party on the base. No trips to the pumpkin patch for photo shoots or even picking a goodly shaped squash from the supermarket bin. I kept finding excuses. So finally on Halloween afternoon I handed them the knives and said, "Go carve your pumpkins."  No one needed stitches, and the final result was successful. Just forgot to get candles.

A mad scientist

The scary candy hander outer.
 He wore the pi symbol on his orange shirt to school - pumpkin pi, get it?

For one event, he was a pirate, the next a Navy guy,
the third he was a zombie referee.

 The kids also put their own costumes together from the dress up collection, and were able to find multiple outfits for the base party, the school parade, and actual trick-or-treating. I just had no desire to be crafty or creative this year. And I felt a vague sense of foreboding that I have another 10-12 years of this with the new baby.  I didn't even do much to help the second grader with her Saint Clare costume for All Saints' Day. I didn't even think about it until two days before. I feel a little guilty that I didn't at least make a brown cassock for her instead of having her wear the black priest cassock I made years ago. Ah well, I'm not sure very many people realized she wasn't in Franciscan colors.

The blond tresses really need to be shaved.
 Francis would not approve.

Here is a saint in the making:

Not a Halloween alien - it's Baby! I love these 3D ultrasounds.
Trying to fatten those arms by eating lots of chocolate.

That's a girl in the ultrasound, photo taken on Halloween, according to the technician. Let the name game begin! Something from Friday's litany of saints? Perpetua or Felicity? Agnes? One of my boys is Benedict, so he suggested Scholastica.

The middle name is already decided: Jane, which is the middle name of myself, my mom, and my great- grandmother, while both of my grandmothers shared the middle name Jean. I've felt guilty about not using it earlier. Scholastica Jane has a ring to it - would it guarantee good grades?

These people are much more crafty than me. They handed out popcorn, cider, and hot dogs.

For All Souls Day, my sister-in-law invited us over for what I hope will be a yearly tradition.  In honor of our deceased grandparents, we made food that we remember them by. The hardest part was deciding what to make: dried pork chops and canned green beans? Shrimp mold? Both grandmothers made Jello "salads." But since this meal was at brunch time, for one grandmother, I made sour cream coffee cake, and for the other I made pink stuff, a Jello and Cool Whip concoction. I should have made 7 Layer Salad, but the kids wanted the Jello dessert. Then I made cottage cheese and canned peaches for one grandfather and angel food cake for the other. That grandfather traditionally made ice cream for everyone's birthday, but I remember him liking angel food cake for his own. This may be a fictitious memory because I liked angel food cake, and his birthday was a couple weeks after mine.  For my husband's side, we made bacon balls, meat loaf, and a lemon pudding meringue that turned out clumpy because my son who mixed it up misread the pudding recipe. His brother provided macaroni salad, chocolate milk and donuts, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and his wife made a peach pizza and German potato salad. She had a little altar set up with marigolds and photos, and a chocolate offering. I also made pan de muerte just because I like it, in honor of all our other deceased relatives and friends. Quite a menu.

We indulged and reminisced and enjoyed the November sunshine.