changes

when we first moved in, we thought we were going to have a green based decor.  after a while it changed to blue sort of by chance.  then, well then we bought the dining room chairs.  red.  lots of red.  so moved the blue runner from the little buffet and put the red and green one on; moved the norfolk island pine and put up sis's flowers in her red vase.  

the chairs are very comfortable.  we had tested many, many chairs and this one was a winner.  besides we liked all the brass tacks around the bottom.  looks sort of western.  now i don't recognize the room.  the old chairs were starting to fall apart.  

fitting in

It is Sabbath morning—six o’clock.  I am up because of an aching leg, hungry stomach, and a complaining head.  It is not what you think, too much to drink.  The cause is old age plain and simple.  But it did give me an excuse to watch my new sprinkler system in action for the first time.  Quite impressive—all the ground was well watered as were the Adirondack chairs. 

Most Sabbath mornings have been spent catching a few more winks before showering and going to church.  At first going was because the parents were going, then because mom was going, then because the college took roll, then because my job required it.  Finally after an off and on again relationship, it was back to being pretty regular but this time because I wanted to be there. 

For most of my adult life Sabbath school has been more interesting that church, though there have been one or two very good speakers.   The one series I remember and liked was based on John.  But the pastor did finish the book as the congregation complained.  Guess it was too much like study; however, I love the book of John.   Sometimes the music was more inspirational than the sermon; sometimes the congregational singing was the blessing for the day.  Late in life I was introduce to a liturgical service and found it to be a great fit.  I suppose that many in my church may shy away from it because it is not Protestant enough for them.  I like the congregational involvement and the parallel thoughts from different parts of the scripture.  The homilies are usually short and well thought out.  And best of all, the church has a grand pipe organ.  

Now I am in a small community where I drive ten miles of county roads to church.  It is a very small but involved congregation consisting of people from small communities and ranches.  Blue jeans are not banned as they were in my previous church.  Sometimes we get a little silly about our perceived right and wrong.    No organ, sigh, no liturgical service.  Sermons vary from a read though by a parishioner, a played DVD prepared by the conference, a real pastor’s homily (quality greatly varied), or church at another church—as it was today.   

My sis is consistent in telling me that folks in this area are honest, hard working people.  From what I can tell, they are not any different than the rest of the country.  There are affairs, divorces, illegitimate children, traffic violations, misuse of funds, political intrigue, and late return of library books.   The noticeable difference for me is educational level here as compared with my former residence.  Ten percent of the population has a bachelor’s degree or higher whereas I came from a community where 67 percent of the population had a bachelor’s degree or higher.  Do not misunderstand; they still affairs, divorces, illegitimate children, traffic violations, and the misuse of funds, political intrigue, and the late return of library books.  But, the difference was not that one community was honest and hard working and the other was not.

Why am I here?  Because my sister is here and we cannot really afford to live separately on just our social security.  She is here because her family seems to be more permanently in one area than my family.  I choose to be here.  The cost of living is definitely less expensive than many parts of the country and I love the scenery and the clarity of the air. 

There are some islands of social brightness that feed my mind and body and there is always travel, books, and the internet.  I am able to read thought provoking commentaries of the Sabbath School lessons along with other matters of spiritual interest by using the internet.  I can keep up on the news and in touch with my friends and former students.  There is an mp3 player for music (although not the same as live) and shopping—well, the internet is getting more and more use, but I still like to actually touch, see, and try on items.  That necessitates driving some distance.

We didn’t go to church this morning because our church was closed and the area meeting was too far for us.  Today only it was to far, because we wanted to go to the library in the afternoon and hear an author from a neighbor state talk about his latest book.  He is not just a local phenomenon, but is a best seller in the US and in France, and has literary awards from both countries.

So here I stand, jammy clad, on the back deck, watching the sprinklers do their magic.  It is quiet, the air bright, and the coffee hot.  I am at peace.  

a melancholy life

It is probably impossible not to lead a melancholy life when all the medications taken warn of drowsiness.  I suppose it might be possible to be silly and tired….not in my case though.  I started life as a serious child with nothing in the middle to lighten the burden.  Epitaphs such as “Still water runs deep” piled up with each stage of my life. 

By the time I was in college all the fun had been pushed into the corners.  I’m not saying that it was the fault of those around me.  They seemed to be having a pretty good time.  For example, my sister had dates.   Lots of dates.  She even had two dates in one evening and tried to pass off unwanted dates to me.  In fact, she had so much fun in high school she missed being valedictorian even though she is way smarter than I.   Even now when we are in our sixties, she has dates.  

I blame my melancholy on my Swedish ancestors.  Just way too much uncolor in their life:  potatoes, white sauce, snow, lutefisk, snow, turnips, and more fish.  How can that be a party?  After being stuck in a cabin for the greater part of the year because of cold and snow, you pretty much have used up any mystery about the other parties sharing your space.  I think I need a little vodka.  Well, maybe a cup of strong coffee and a good book would do.  I can see how the people in Babette’s Feast fell victim to unimaginable lives.  The French blood I do possess is so watered down that if takes a Long Island Tea to wake it up.  I had a cousin who could sit in the weak light of the morning with her mother – each with a cup of coffee- until it was clearly paste breakfast without saying a word to each other.  How melancholy is that?  

My grandmother thought I would never learn to talk because my mother and father were not talkers.  I think you have to talk if you want to break free of the blues.  ‘

It is easy to mistake melancholy for seriousness.  I do not think that they are congruent, but they certainly cross paths.  My penchant for serious things exhibited itself as soon as I could read.  I was a very serious reader, inhaling books, all kinds of books.  My favorite activity was going to the library.  The smell of books was intoxicating.  I sometimes choose a book by the smell of the pages.   I cannot remember if that really worked for picking interesting books, but I can remember the smell of books.  Weirdly, I wound up working my way through college working in a bookbindery.   Unfortunately, the smell of book glue sort of ruined the smelling book thing.  At least for awhile.  Older books had a much different smell  (more inviting, alive)  than the new books.

Mistakenly, I though all people who went to college were interested in learning, in books, and were smart.  Then I thought it was just because I was at a church college that it wasn’t true, and that if I was at a ‘real’ college, everyone would be interested in learning, and in reading, and would be smart.  Ha!   I am such a slow learner.  It took awhile for the truth to sink in. A degree only means you figured out how to pass the classes.

There were not very many students who had spent time watching Greek plays on Sunday afternoon (of their own choice) while the rest of the family was doing something else (I know not what-I was really into those plays).

So here I am at sixty, still seriously afflicted with melancholy, so much so that watching Norbet with my relative was totally painful.