Gut and re-do

I’m really so thankful our house didn’t burn down.

When we were buying this place back in the early 90’s, it passed inspection, whatever that means.  I think it had to do with certain standards or “codes” to which components of the structure must adhere, like the construction, the plumbing…the electricity.  The data sheet from the realtor indicated the age of the house to be “50+”.  It’s the “plus” that should have had me asking a few more questions.

You know what is said about hindsight.

One of the shortcomings of professional standards is that they evolve, improve (theoretically anyway), many times without telling any of the rest of us.  Translation: now that our house is close to 80+ years, it probably would NOT have passed inspection.  I didn’t know that. 

“Jag älskar dig!”

Which means, “I love you!” in the beautiful language I’m trying so hard to learn—Swedish.  This will be one of the native tongues for my second grandchild, as her wonderful Pappa is Swedish, and they are soon to be living there. 

As a point of connection, (and, as a grandmother, when you live as far away as I do, you actively seek points of connection), I’m investing some time in this little project.  She’ll know English also, but she’ll have fun giggling at her “mormor”, (the Swedish name for maternal grandmother), as I stumble through and unintentionally desecrate an otherwise delightful sounding language.

Still “puzzling”

Bob and I are still on this jigsaw puzzle binge.  Our middle daughter, now living in New York, loves these crazy things, so for her birthday this year we are sending her a jigsaw puzzle each month, only with a bit of a twist.  Once she completes the picture, she is to turn the puzzle over and there will be a message “from someone who loves her”.  Which means Bob and I have to put the puzzles together first, roll them up carefully, and send them out to friends and family who write/draw on the blank sides, roll them up again and send them back to me in the same tube.

Postage paid, of course.

The wheel keeps turning, but am I going anywhere? (Prayer journal #3, cont…)

I’m a bit fascinated by the concept of Prayer Wheels.  Put somewhat simplistically, a Prayer Wheel is cylindrical collection of Buddhist mantras wrapped around a central core that turns (usually clockwise) so that every time it makes a full revolution, the virtue (“merit”) of those scripted prayers are incurred by the one who turns it.  It’s generally recommended that the practitioner use a form of meditation at the same time, but I’ve read that, even in a distracted state of mind, merit is still obtained.  The more it is turned, the more benefit is received.  This from Lamayeshe.com:

Grandparenting 101.

You know the typical story of the excited grandparent that buys their 5-month-old grandchild a full-size baseball glove?

Yeah, that’s us.  We are now decidedly in that category.

Bob recently had a delightful conversation with our eldest granddaughter, soon to turn the ripe old age of four.  Her mom is just so amazingly great about taking her to museums and using so many available resources for their Precious One’s brain development!  And, since Grandpa teaches biology at our local college, naturally a little course on “cells” has been on the educational menu of late.

Precious One has decided that microscopes are all the rage right now.  So, in an effort to take advantage of this current (and momentary) interest, I thought it prudent to send her a toy representation.  Of course, the one I picked out was W-A-Y too juvenile…according to the Professor. 

In which Dawn learns to pray…(cont.)

You walk out to go to work and the front tire is flat.  Or you’re welcoming the new pastor to your deliciously prepared Thanksgiving dinner only to remember (while on the doorstep) that he’s vegetarian.

Okay, those are actually easy ones.  How about your son calls from college and his girlfriend is now pregnant with your grandchild?  (And the girl is contemplating get rid of both of them?)

Introducing the Panic Button, and we all have one.  Or for some of us, several.  Big ones clipped onto our keychains that we carry around every day, with glow-in-the-dark coatings and red LED-lit letters that invitingly read PUSH ME NOW. 

In Other Words…

This is not a pretty site if you happen to be claustrophobic:

However, if you could only see the rest of picture…

I don’t have to have spiritual tunnel vision; I can safely trust in God’s ultra-wide angle lens.  In other words…

Trust in the Lord with all your heart;
    do not depend on your own understanding.
Seek his will in all you do,
    and he will show you which path to take.

Proverbs 3:5,6  Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

 

What’s in YOUR toolbox?

My dad had a shop in the basement, a couple of rooms of the basement in fact. It was pretty awe-inspiring.  His big engineer’s drafting table, from which hung the triangle and T-square, dominated one room, the one in which he built in all the new cabinets himself.  I think that was before he designed and built the beautiful screened-in back porch. 

The actual shop was in an adjacent room.  This housed a myriad of baby food jars filled with screws and washers and all types and sizes of things.  His lathe was in there, and the circle saw, and undoubtedly a host of other things I would have no idea how to use.  (What’s a router??)

The sacred Garbage Man

If a picture paints a thousand words, then this one is a whole tome in itself~~

W. Eugene Smith WORLD WAR II. // The Pacific Campaign. June 1944

This photo from World War 2 is iconic and, in my mind, is one of the most important comments on war in general.  The picture, by W. Eugene Smith, is of an American Marine finding a desperate infant still astonishingly breathing among the dead in Saipan. They passed the baby from soldier to soldier until the child arrived at the top of the hill.  I wish I could find out whatever happened to the child, but have not been able to do so as yet.  Perhaps the child’s history is now lost to us.

Shovel…check. Ibuprofen…check.

I put in this new garden two years ago, by hand, meaning without much help except for the big farm and home truck that dropped everything off next to the driveway.  And let me tell ya, those railroad ties are heavy!  (I think Bob helped me with one of them, but he had previously hurt his back, so I sent him back indoors.)

It’s been beautiful and fruitful:

Things are growing in the new garden!

But now, a few seasons later, the dirt seems to have settled and is getting a bit low.  I’m always asking Bob for dirt for my birthday, or Mothers’ Day, but his romantic heart can’t bear showering dirt on his wife when other wives are asking for jewelry or flowers.