Journal: ♫ ♪ When His Glory Paints the Sky ♪ ♫

Last Monday, Victoria sent pictures of Carolyn and Violet, ready for school and dressed in pink poodle skirts she’d just made for them, with little white blouses.

“Oh, how cute,” I said.  “When I was their age, I wanted a poodle skirt soooo badly.”

“Did you make me one?” asked Victoria.  “I remember having one.”

“I think I did,” I answered.  “I made Hannah one with the poodle skirt pattern, but appliquéd a plaid teddy bear on it that matched her top.  It was for the 4^th of July picnic when you were a baby, so she was 16.  Seems like I remember curling and sewing on the ‘leash’ on your skirt.  But I’m not totally sure if I made it or not.”

When I was scanning all those old pictures three or four years ago, I was surprised, page after page in those old albums, at all the things I’d sewn and forgotten about.  I regularly sewed over 100 clothing items a year, for a good 30 years.  There were quite a few household items and gifts thrown in, for good measure.  That made for lotsa Stuff ’n Things!

Here’s the skirt and top I made for Hannah, in the summer of 1997.  Look at that expression on Baby Victoria’s face in the picture below – an almost fakey little half-grin.  😏  We have pictures of both Carolyn and Violet at approximately the same age, making that same silly face.

Making quilts is like playtime, after all those clothes, curtains, and things.  It makes my tail bushy when a distant cousin asks almost every other day, “When are you going to quit making quilts?”

Since she apparently likes repetition, I give her the same answer, every time:  “Never, I hope!”

And then she sweetly replies something on this order:  “That’s really nice, that you enjoy and are able to do something that everyone will have to treasure for years to come,” which in turn makes me feel guilty that my hackles rose.

I try hard to never make any retorts from which I cannot recover.  You never know when someone might be beginning a journey of forgetfulness.  You never know when you might follow suit!

It was Larry’s sister Rhonda’s birthday that day, and also our daughter-in-law (Joseph’s wife) Jocelyn’s birthday, too.  I sent them each an animated ecard, and we gave Jocelyn a set of handmade Amish soaps.

Rhonda texted back, “Thank you!  I’m 39 again. 😊”

“Yes!” I responded.  “Me, too.  Love, Jack Benny”

Rhonda added, “I told my granddaughter that, too.  She came back with, ‘39?  I would have guessed 30 at the most!’  I think I’ll keep her.”

“That’s better than what one of my grandsons said to me,” I said.  “He said, ‘Let’s see... you’re 85 now, right?’ (And yet, I keep him, too.)”

Victoria sent a picture to several of us of her Yuki kitty sitting on a stepstool at their refrigerator.  I sent back the caption I thought she needed:  “Will somebody PLEEEZZE press the button for ice?!!”

Yuki likes to play with ice cubes.

Hester then sent a picture of their Bumble kitty – the kitten Kurt found at one of their jobs a while back, which Victoria fed with a bottle of kitten formula multiple times each day and night until it was big enough to eat and drink from a bowl.

Hester wrote, “Wolfy (their big, fluffy cat) loves ice, too!  He won’t drink tap water, either. 😂”

Tuesday, I worked on one of the French Braids that make up some of the borders on the Soaring Eagle quilt.  I only got in four hours of quilting that day.

That evening, there was visitation at our church for a friend, Gaylan Gehring, who had passed away.  Larry worked for Gehring Ready-Mix cement company when he was a teenager and for a while after we were married.

Gaylan’s younger sister is one of my best friends.  Here’s a poem I tucked into her card:

 

In Thy Presence

 

Preserve me, O God, for I trust in Thee;

Look down from heaven and hear my plea.

Let me walk uprightly, speaking truth in my heart;

From Thy counsel, Lord, may I never depart.

 

I’ve set Thee before me, and my heart is glad;

I will sing a new song, for I cannot be sad!

I shall not be moved; Thou art by my right hand;

In the path of life will I come to that Land.

 

Only in Thee shall I find my delight;

For wherever Thou art, there will be no night!

With a goodly heritage I have been blest;

In a garment of praise I shall be dressed!

 

I’ll abide in Thy tabernacle, dwell in Thy mountain;

For my robes have been washed in the pure, flowing fountain;

Then the things of earth shall never annoy—

For in Thy presence is fulness of joy!

 

 

Psalms 13, 14, 15, & 16; Isaiah 61:3; & Revelation 7:14

 

by Sarah Lynn Jackson

 

Later, I was quilting away when Teddy called to tell me that the Northern Lights were making an appearance, and he and Amy both sent pictures.  Soon Victoria sent some photos, too, and then Joseph did, and my nephew Kelvin, too.  Kelvin wrote, “I remember Grandma calling us outside to see them in June of the early 1980s.”

Here’s one of Victoria’s pictures, and below is one from Teddy.

Larry got a few pictures, too, but he keeps forgetting to send them to me.

I’ll never forget seeing the Aurora Borealis when I was about ten, traveling with my parents somewhere near Grand Prairie, getting close to the Northwest Territories.  It looked like curtains of all colors rippling down in front of us and up and over our heads toward the south.  We stopped beside the road and got out to watch for a good half hour – and not one single vehicle drove by, the whole time.

Later Tuesday night, somebody on the Northern Lights Facebook group posted this picture from somewhere near Blaine, Tennessee, where Todd and Dorcas live.  I sent it to Dorcas the next day.  (I try to remember the time difference, and not text her too late.)  She said Todd had gotten a few good shots with his iPhone.

Before and after visitation at the church and the appearance of the Aurora Borealis, I worked on the French Braids on the Soaring Eagle quilt.

Wednesday afternoon, we attended our friend’s funeral.  The service, as always, was a comfort.  Gaylan was a kind man, faithful and true.  He suffered with physical problems for several years, so we are glad to know that he is ‘safe home’, as the dear old hymn says:  “O the joy upon the shore, To tell our voyage perils o’er!”

After the service, we drove in procession to the cemetery.  There seem to be a few local idgets who would do well to brush up on proper etiquette when encountering a funeral procession.  At two of the intersections where there were no police officers directing traffic, other drivers blared on their horns as the procession passed through red lights or stop lights.  Didn’t they ever read a driver’s manual?!

There was a short graveside service, and then we returned to the church for a luncheon.  We sat across the table from Teddy and Amy, and I told them about seeing the Aurora Borealis when I was young and in Canada with my parents.  I always told of hearing loud snaps and crackles like electrical sparks, and was stumped years later when I read articles that said there was no sound in Aurora Borealis, as the aurora is much too high in the atmosphere for any sound to come to our ears.

“So what was it?” I asked.  “Were we hearing lightning and thunder on the other side of the mountain range??  I doubt it.”

This photo was taken in Shelby, Montana.

Not long after we got home, Amy sent me an article, saying, “You weren’t dreaming it.  😊”

The article says this:  People report hearing the Northern Lights because the aurora’s energy can create sounds through two main mechanisms:  electrical discharges from atmospheric charges near the ground and the brain interpreting the visual stimulus.  The visual aurora is caused by charged particles from the sun interacting with the Earth’s atmosphere high above, where the air is too thin for sound to travel to us.  However, the electromagnetic changes associated with the aurora can create an electrical charge near the ground that discharges as a sound. 

I looked it up, and learned more:

 

The Connection to Ground-Level Sounds:

 

·                  Brush discharge:  Auroral activity can build up a static electric charge in the atmosphere near the ground.  On cold, still nights, this can cause the charge to discharge as crackling or popping sounds from objects like trees and bushes, which are much closer to you than the aurora itself.

·                  Electromagnetic induction:  As the aurora moves and its electromagnetic field changes, it can induce an electric current and charge in nearby objects, even on the observer's clothes or eyeglasses.  This can lead to a static-like sound being created locally.

·                  Acoustic phenomena:  Some research has detected very low-frequency radio waves from auroras that can be converted into audible sound by everyday materials acting as antennae. 

 

I wrote back to Amy, “Well, I’m glad to know that!  From the time it happened, I always told that story and said we heard it crackling and popping like everything – we all heard it!  And then, some years back when I was reading about it on the Internet, it said there was absolutely no way to hear the aurora.  The article was written by aurora scientists, and I thought they surely ought to know what they were talking about.  But Daddy, Mama, and I all heard those loud staticky, crackling noises.  And yes, just like your article says, the sounds did seem to be quite low to the ground.  So did those streams and ripples of light, though!  Imagine what they would’ve looked like on today’s cameras.”

The Northern Lights were bright Wednesday night, too.  I sent this picture to an older cousin of Larry’s who is in a nursing home in Canby, Minnesota.  This was taken near Monroe, Minnesota, just a bit southeast of Canby.

Meanwhile, I got back to my quilting studio, and managed to do 4 ½ hours of quilting that evening.  One French Braid was now done.

Some online quilting friends were talking about making applesauce, which always bring back memories for me.

When I was little, we’d go visit my grandmother, who lived about 600 miles away.  She’d make fresh bread, homemade butter, and applesauce with just the scantest flecks of cinnamon.  Then she’d fill a heavy stoneware bowl with warm applesauce, give me a slice of steaming hot bread with soft, melting butter on it, and I’d go out her back door, down a stone porch, and follow a winding flagstone pathway through tall firs and magnolia trees to an old wrought iron bench tucked between fragrant lilac bushes and lilies-of-the-valley.  I tiptoed so as not to step on all the little lavender and yellow violas blooming alongside the flagstones.  I’d sit there on that bench and dip my bread in the applesauce and listen to the multitudes of birds:  goldfinches, mockingbirds, cardinals, eastern bluebirds, Carolina wrens, chickadees, and dozens more.

I thought Grandma’s yard was an enormous, woodsy area that went on forever.  Grandma died when I was twelve, and I didn’t see that house again until I was in my twenties, when I showed it to Larry and some of the children.

Imagine my astonishment to discover that Grandma’s back yard had shrunk.  That yard was quite small, really; perhaps it was just the bushes and firs that gave it such a feeling of largeness, with the seclusion it offered.  Things seem different, to a child!

Still, no adult view of time and place can take away those wonderful memories of fresh bread, applesauce, and homemade butter in Grandma’s wonderful back yard.

Once upon a time when I was a fresh-hatched newlywed, I decided to make applesauce.  I worked long and hard over what seemed like bushels upon bushels of apples (I never was known for moderation).  I didn’t have an apple peeler, either.  I peeled all those apples with a knife.

Finally, the job was nearing completion.  But... I couldn’t understand why the sauce was such a strange texture, all grainy and odd.  The flavor was excellent... but... it just wasn’t quite right.  I put a pint into the blender and ran it on high for a bit, to see if that would help.  It helped, but it still wasn’t right.  My one and only cookbook, Betty Crocker, had no recipe for applesauce.  Why would I need a recipe, anyway??  Making applesauce should be pretty straightforward, shouldn’t it?

I called my mother.  “This applesauce isn’t right!”  I described it.  “The texture is like I made it in a sand pail without rinsing out the sand first!”

“How long did you cook it?” asked Mama.

<pause>

Uh, cook it?

“Cook it?” I squeaked, doubtless sounding like a clueless, fresh-hatched, 18-year-old newlywed.

And then my sweet mother, who never, ever laughed at her children, ...... laughed.  And she couldn’t quit laughing.

“It’s not that funny!” I protested just as she was collecting herself, which set her off all over again.

She told me what to do.  So I put my many giant bowls (how did my friends know they should give me half a dozen giant bowls for my wedding, anyway?) of grainy, uncooked applesauce into a couple of humongous pots (and how did they know they should give me a couple of humongous pots?), and cooked and simmered the applesauce until it was exactly right.  Mmmmm, mmmm, was that ever scrumptious stuff.  Larry had homemade applesauce (and homemade bread, which was one of my favorite things to make) for his lunch for quite a long while thereafter.  I shared several quarts of it, too – that’s what’s fun about cooking/baking/canning/freezing:  the sharing.  (Oh, and yesirree, I gave some to my mother and father, I did.)

Thursday, I gathered up some Sparkling Mandarin Celsius, a tall thermal mug of Pumpkin Spice cold brew, and a cup of Pumpkin Spice hot coffee, and headed upstairs to my quilting room, determined to get a little more done than I had the last couple of days.

I managed six hours before my back protested too loudly to ignore.  I feel like I’m moving at a snail’s pace!  Gotta get this done soon enough before Christmas to have time to collect and then wrap or bag gifts.

There was a large grass fire south of Mullen, some 215 miles to our west, that day.  About a dozen fire departments joined forces Thursday afternoon to battle.

By the next morning, a plane was checking for hot spots, and the fire had been contained.  A spray-plane pilot estimated the burn area to be between 1,200 and 1,800 acres, though others on the ground thought it was much larger.  This marks the second significant grass fire in that area this month.  Both appear to have been sparked by a vehicle.  The first fire burned more than 500 acres.

Late that afternoon, FedEx delivered a Walmart order in a big box – ‘somewheres else’, as Caleb used to say.  The house pictured on the FedEx tracking page was not mine, nor did I recognize it.  Judging by Columbus’ Facebook pages, FedEx does this regularly.

Our supper that evening was chicken, baked potatoes, carrots, and onions, grape/cranberry juice, and Moose Tracks ice cream.

I waited a few hours, and when no large box was forthcoming, contacted Walmart.  They immediately issued a refund, putting it into my Walmart wallet.  I promptly reordered.

Later that night, somebody brought the wayward box to us.  I suppose it was the homeowner where the box was left; it was not FedEx.

So Friday morning, I let Walmart know what had happened and said I would pay for it; but they thanked me for being a loyal customer for several decades, and for being honest, and told me to keep it.  They have it on record when I wound up with a much nicer (and higher-priced) folding table for my sewing room than I had ordered, and I called and told them I would pay the difference.

It was actually the table I really wanted, but it was pricey, so I ordered a cheaper, smaller one.  They told me to just keep the table, and enjoy it, and I was not to pay a penny more.

Late that morning, it was 67° on the way up to 77°, bright and sunny.  I filled the bird feeders, watered an indoor plant, and headed upstairs to continue quilting, starting work on the central panel.

It was granddaughter Elsie’s 9^th birthday that day.  She’s Teddy and Amy’s youngest.  That afternoon, I took her a birthday present.  We gave her a kit for making braided, beaded bracelets, and a set of sparkly markers.

That evening, I made meatloaf like my mother used to make it, with crackers and eggs, and opened a can of sliced beets to go with it.  It made me remember the time I took Loren a meal with these things, and he smiled down at his plate and bowl and said, “This is just what Mama used to make!”  I hadn’t realized that she often had beets to go with meatloaf, but that probably explains why I like it together.  Larry brought home some cookies from one of the truck stops where they make them fresh, so that was dessert, along with ice cream.

It was very nice on Saturday, 67°, bright and sunny.  I had Cream of Rice with lots of butter and some brown sugar for breakfast.  Just ¼ cup of Cream of Rice and 1 cup of water make such a big bowlful, I don’t even want a snack between breakfast and supper.

I cleaned the kitchen, then went up to my sewing room.

Our cousin in the nursing home sometimes tells of getting left in the dining room for an hour or more, while other more needy residents draw the attention of the nurses.  She is at risk for falling, so she cannot walk on her own, and she cannot propel her wheelchair, as she has a hand and arm that do not work well.

“If you could just give a big, loud whistle!” I said. 😂😆

I learned to whistle when I was 12.  Not the melodious kind of whistling; I already knew how to do that.  I’m talking about the kind that’s loud enough to blow you off your chair.  I learned to do it without using fingers, only my tongue, late one night as I was lying in bed.  My parents were asleep.

I had noticed that by curling my tongue and blowing, I could make a sort of hollow, almost-whistling sound, and I thought, You know, if I could get my tongue curled exactly right, and blow hard enough...

I curled my tongue just right, took a giant breath big enough to expand my lungs a good three inches all around — and let loose with all my might and main.

WHEEEETWHEW!

Mama and Daddy woke up. 

The entire west side of Columbus woke up.

I heard two pairs of bare feet hitting the floor, PLOP-PLOP, PLOP-PLOP, and then they who always knocked on my door before entering entered side by side without benefit of knocking first or of even announcing themselves.  I mean, they barreled into that room.

Daddy:  “What was THAT?!!!!!”

Me, meekly:  “I was learning to whistle.”

Daddy, taking a deep breath:  “You learned.”

Mama, sitting down limply on the bed:  “My goodness.”  Then, “I thought...”  She swallowed.  “I thought you were being kidnapped.”

The following year, we went to Colorado, traveling in a new International Travelall, with which we were pulling a 31-foot Airstream camper.  The International was geared too high, and it barely made it up to the new Eisenhower tunnel, just completed in March of 1973.  The silence was deafening as we crept along, 15 miles per hour, then 10, then even slower.  But we finally made it.  

The other side of the mountain is even steeper, so Daddy didn’t want to continue, for fear we wouldn’t be able to get back up the mountain again.  But how to turn around?  That was the question.  There was a tunnel under the highway on the west side of the Eisenhower, one that the construction crew had used.  Daddy pulled onto the shoulder of the Interstate, and we walked down the ramp and then under the highway to see if we could make it through the construction tunnel with our camper without getting into a bad situation.  Daddy was always a cautious trailerer … unlike my husband, who most generally tries things before looking, and just hopes for the best.  The eternal optimist (or calamitist, take your pick).

So there we were, walking through the tunnel, a big, long, under-the-road tunnel, Daddy, my big dog Sparkle, and I.  Our hair had not yet smoothed itself down completely after that scary will-we-make-it-or-will-we-not drive up to the Eisenhower.  Remember that.

Now tell me, what do you like to do in tunnels?

You like to honk, of course.  Because it echoes so satisfactorily, you know.

I didn’t have a horn.

But I did have a whistle.

So... I whistled.

Daddy ran in place some several feet off the ground for a time, until gravity regained its grip on him.  

Even as he came back earthward, he was yelling, “S-ss-ss-arah Lynn-nn-nn-!!!”

Even I had been a wee bit amazed at the loudness (and the echoiness) of that whistle.  

So, in my best humble tone, I said, said I, “Huh?”

Good thing Daddy had a sense of humor.

I seldom order quilting books, though I enjoy them, old and new, historic, or full of patterns.  I hardly ever buy quilting patterns, either, since I usually design what I want in EQ8.  But EQ8’s rendition of a Bargello quilt is pathetic.  I could design one in the EasyDraw function, I’m sure; but to say it would be ‘easy’ would certainly be stretching things.  Furthermore, I’ve never made one before, and don’t care to try to wing it on the first attempt.

Therefore, I bought a book!  It just arrived a couple of days ago.  I even got all carried away and ordered some fancy beaded pins with letters of the alphabet on them, to keep the Bargello strips in order.  I have no idea when I’ll start on this, since a whole lot of other quilts and projects must come first; but at least I’ll be ready when the time comes.

Hannah told me the following story that evening: 

She was making all the fixin’s for hamburgers.  After a bit, she called to Bobby, “Would you like to come put your burger together the way you’d like?”

Quick as a wink, Joanna informed him, “Mama doesn’t want to be your Hamburger Helper.”  hee hee

“She’s so fast, we wonder how she comes up with things like that,” Hannah remarked.

I can just imagine her deadpan face as she said it.  😆

That day I worked on the narrower French Braids at the sides of the quilt, and did more quilting on the sky of the Soaring Eagle panel.

I also hemmed a jeans skirt for Elsie.  I only broke one needle, yay!  😬🙄

Wow, I only put in 24 ½ hours of quilting on the Soaring Eagle quilt.  I did get interrupted by visitation and a funeral and a birthday; but still!  I’d better do a whole lot better this week.

For several days now, the readout on the dash of the Mercedes has been telling us to check the coolant.  Larry did so yesterday – and discovered that the problem was caused by the mechanic at Mercedes-Benz in Omaha not getting the cap back on properly.  He topped it up, and the notification went away.  If only everything was so easily remedied.

We picked up a grocery order at Walmart last night.  I’d ordered a sugared plum and peach pie, but that was out of stock, and they substituted a cherry pie for it.  It was ready-made and not as good as the Marie Callender frozen pies I sometimes get.  I had ordered some Haagen Dazs mango ice cream, but that, too, was out of stock.  They substituted Haagen Dazs pineapple coconut ice cream.  Those ice creams come in small pint cartons, and they’re sort of pricey.

I was really looking forward to the sugared plum and peach pie with mango ice cream!  Instead, we had a slice of the cherry pie, warmed in the microwave, with some Extra-Creamy Cool Whip.  Not the best... but not the worst, either.

Too many Sunday nights after church when I retire to my recliner, my second toe cramps, first on one foot, and then on the other.  A week ago as I was climbing into bed after a bout of toe-cramping that went on for a couple of hours, the arch of one foot cramped.  Yikes, that wasn’t nice.  This never (or hardly ever) happens any other day.  I go barefoot (or wear socks) every other day; so it’s just gotta be the dress shoes causing it.

I decided I needed some new church shoes, and accordingly went on an eBay hunt.

Here, how are these?  I wonder what everyone would think if I came blundering into church with these on. 😂 

And I don’t suppose these would help the toe-cramping problem much?  

I obviously have excellent taste, because every time I spot a pair that I like, I discover they’re anywhere from $85 to $500.

And then I found them:  two lots with six pairs of shoes in each lot, brand new, size 7, $60 per lot, with an option to make an offer.  I offered $45 for each lot – and within three or four hours, both offers had been accepted, and a shipping label had been made.  $90 for 12 pairs of brand-new shoes – and free shipping.  That’s only $7.50 a pair.

It’s always a little risky to order shoes online, though this seller does allow returns.  These shoes have been stored haphazardly, so they say, and might have some blemishes.  They may not fit exactly right.  But... $7.50 a pair!

The brands are Thom McAn, Basic Edition, Cobbie Cuddlers, Joe Boxer, Attention, Jacyln Smith, Athletech, and others.  They should be here in two or three days.

If any don’t fit, I’ll just find someone to pawn them off on.  😏

This afternoon I took Leroy a birthday present; he’s 14.  He’s Teddy and Amy’s sixth child.  We gave him a soft blue and black hoodie and a pocketknife.  I returned Elsie’s skirt, too.

It’s an overcast day this morning, just 43° on the way up to 49°.  When I put the bird feeders out earlier, all I heard were some robins out in the trees.  The little songbirds haven’t been at the feeders for weeks.  A couple of blue jays had a few black-oil sunflower seeds and a bit of suet, but they didn’t stay long.  I guess the birds are all out in the recently-harvested fields gorging on grain and insects.  They’ll be back, after the first hard freeze.

It’s National Take a Hike Day.  Just march around saying, “Take a hike!” to anybody you run into, and then when they act offended, you can be all innocent:  “What?!!  It’s National Take a Hike Day, didn’t you know?!”

,,,>^..^<,,,          Sarah Lynn          ,,,>^..^<,,,