Journal: Deer, Opossum, Starling, and Quail

Last Tuesday, I got word that all AQS (American Quilting Society) shows have been canceled for 2021.  Waa waa waa 

Now I have to decide:  shall I give the quilts I have made to Jeremy and Lydia, and to Caleb and Maria, or shall I save them for 2022?

Some quilters save all their quilts until after they die, at which point the heirs discover which quilt has been bequeathed to them.  Maybe they’re bad quilts, with bad quilting, and the quilter doesn’t want to see the turned-up noses when she doles them out?  I like to watch people when they open gifts from me!

I think Jeremy and Lydia’s and Caleb and Maria’s Christmas 2020 gifts have just been taken care of.  I should get that last big quilt – the Atlantic Beach Path quilt for Caleb and Maria – appraised before I give it to them, though, so they can keep the papers with their insurance.

The game cam has been busily sending notifications of pictures it has taken; the deer are in gear!

And then I got this picture: 

I immediately saved it and sent it to Larry with the subject line, “Poachers!”

(Yeah, that’s Larry behind our nephew Charles, who is also Larry’s boss, and who owns the property where the camera is located.  He’s letting Larry hunt there.)

Tuesday afternoon, I took Loren some food, along with a big album from late 1993 that I had recently finished scanning.  This, because Monday when I went there, he showed me some old pictures of our family when he, Lura Kay, and G.W. were little, years before my time.  I thought he seemed a bit lonesome, and thought he’d enjoy looking through the photos, particularly since at the front of the album are pictures from our wedding, including some of Loren and his late wife Janice.  That’s Loren’s youngest son John Mark on the right; he passed away five years ago on his 54^th birthday from acute alcoholism.  Sad story.  He was just nine months younger than me, and was my good little friend when we were young.

Three or four months ago, I had Loren’s mail transferred to our address so I wouldn’t miss any of his bills.  He was having a hard time keeping up with them; Janice used to take care of them; then he managed after she passed away; and then Norma took care of it after they married in 2018.  Now he was having a harder time than ever.  Plus, he was doing it all by check, and more often than not, he then personally delivered the check to the actual brick-and-mortar place – the electric company, the phone company, and so forth. 

I asked if he’d like me to take care of it for him, and he gladly accepted my offer and was relieved.  I regularly let him know the exact amount in his checking account, which is a big help to him.  His writing is shaky, and before he had the cataracts removed, he couldn’t see very well, and he’d miss a numeral in his check register, and wind up with it showing many dollars less than he thought he had.  Now he doesn’t have to do that, because I can look up the balance online.  And since I’m paying things electronically, there are hardly any outstanding checks.  He still writes checks to Wal-Mart and other stores in town, but most of them withdraw the money from his account instantly and electronically, so when I tell him the amount in his account, it’s usually precise right down to the penny.  He’s happy about that.

But... having the mail switched here meant we would also get the hundreds and thousands and gazillions of junk magazines and flyers.  This included pamphlets, small (and large) books, and big (and little) glossy ads for vitamins and minerals, as he and Janice purchased their vitamins from various magazines for many years — but also ads for every Fountain of Youth known (or unknown) to man.  In order to convince people they need that stuff, some of those flyers are pretty graphic.  There are ‘remedies’ for everything, you know.  I don’t appreciate this, so I’ve been using their The-Postage-Is-On-Us! envelopes to request removal from their mailing lists.  Using those envelopes for something other than an order gets their attention right quick-like, because it costs them something.

Last Tuesday, I called several of the companies who had sent no postage-free envelopes but had 800/888 numbers to ask that they drop us from their list.  Two of the magazines – with different names and different phone numbers – got me the very same lady at customer service.  Huh?  They must have a common answering service?

Speaking of the Fountain of Youth and suchlike, a friend suggested I try Voltaren, which is now an over-the-counter arthritis pain relief topical gel.  I looked at the ingredients and the side effects, and decided I didn’t like them.  I can cope with pain.  I don’t want to cope with all of this:

 

This medication may raise your blood pressure. Check your blood pressure regularly and tell your doctor if the results are high.

Tell your doctor right away if you have any serious side effects, including: signs of kidney problems (such as change in the amount of urine), symptoms of heart failure (such as swelling ankles/feet, unusual tiredness, unusual/sudden weight gain).

This drug may rarely cause serious (possibly fatal) liver disease. Get medical help right away if you have any symptoms of liver damage, including: persistent nausea/vomiting, loss of appetite, stomach/abdominal pain, yellowing eyes/skin.

 

Those are only the ‘serious’ side effects.  There was a long list of less serious possibilities, too.

Instead, I bought ArboTrex DMSO Aloe Vera Cream in Lavender Scent (Pure Therapeutic Grade Essential Oil):  70% DMSO/30% Aloe Vera in a Cream Base of 99.9% Pure DMSO.  I haven’t decided yet if it helps; I may have to combine Capzasin with it to get any heat, which is what feels the best.  However, it smells good!  That’s reeeally importend (one of Victoria’s Favorite Phrases of the Week, when she was about 3).

DMSO has side effects, too... but the amount that I use in comparison to the amount it takes to cause said effects is miniscule.  In all my research on the matter of topical analgesics, it’s usually the case that if one doesn’t go hog wild on the stuff, most of it is safe.  In any case, the topical creams and liquids are almost invariably safer than oral meds of most any kind.  

The best things to do are to stay active and keep the weight down, and eat healthy foods.  So that’s what I do.

I continued scanning pictures.  This photo of Lydia, 4; Hester, 6, and Caleb, almost 2, was taken in our 41-foot fifth-wheel camper on August 4, 1995, at Sugar Loafin’ Campground, Leadville, Colorado.

I keep worrying over whether the Atlantic Beach Path is going to be too big for Caleb and Maria’s bed.  They had a tall, king-sized bed – and then, of all the noive, those kids went and got a shorter bed, because Maria needed something a little easier to get into.  Last Sunday, October 11, was the anniversary of their Baby Liam’s birth and death; he was born much too early.  And Baby Eva was five weeks old that day. 

“She’s such a comfort,” Maria told me. 

I well understand that sentiment.

Tuesday was their 7^th wedding anniversary, and also Caleb’s 27^th birthday.

We gave Caleb some fur-lined black leather gloves by Bentevi, and for their anniversary we gave them some food items such as dried apricots, tea, Dr. Pepper-flavored BBQ sauce, and a slotted wooden spoon.  We gave similar items to Teddy and Amy; it was their 18^th anniversary that same day.

Of our nine children, six have anniversaries in October, and three family members, including me, have birthdays in October.  My mother and late sister-in-law Janice did, too.

Some of my quilting friends and I were recently discussing Home Economics, and our various and varied experiences in that class.  It seems some didn’t have such a happy time there.  Some related how their teachers were not one bit happy to learn that they had been sewing for quite a number of years before arriving in their classes.

Good grief.  You’d think a teacher would be pleased to have a student whose hand she didn’t have to hold every step of the way.

I, too, had been sewing before I got into 7^th-grade Home Ec.  However, I loved my teachers; they were so helpful and cheery.  There was one Home Ec teacher, though, whom I was glad was not my teacher.  She preferred snarling at her students and belittling them, rather than showing them nicely how to do things.  Ugh.  Why do people like that ever become teachers?!

One time I was working away on a project... but something wasn’t going quite right.  I went to inquire of my teacher.  She explained the problem, and told me which stitches to remove in order to fix it.  I was shy, but I liked that teacher.  So I gave an exaggerated sigh and said, “It’s true:  ‘Whatsoever ye shall sew, that shall ye also rip.’”

My teacher burst out laughing.  She was an elderly woman, teaching past the age of retirement, and some of her previous students had told us she was crabby.  My class did not find her so.  She kept good order in the class, and she taught us to be particular with our sewing.  Those things are probably what those other kids didn’t like, but we in my class appreciated it.

That’s the class where I first met a girl named Jo, with whom I soon became good friends – and now she is the owner of our local quilt shop, Sew What.

Loren’s supper on Wednesday was spaghetti and meatballs, strawberry/banana yogurt, V8 cocktail juice, and applesauce.  He had finished looking through the photo album I’d left the previous day, and enjoyed it.  I’ll take him another soon.

Home again, I returned to my little office.  As I stood at my rolltop desk scanning photos, there was suddenly a WHAP-scrabble-flap-scrabble on the four little square windows at the top of the door leading into the addition.  I turned quickly, just in time to see flailing wings.

I went into the addition – and there was a poor little panicked female starling, frantically dashing herself against the windows in an effort to get out. 

As quickly as I could, I went and opened the patio door, then retreated back towards my office, where I stood silently and watched to see if she’d go out.

She calmed down, and landed on a propane tank Larry uses with one of his big heaters.  She sat there for five minutes... ten minutes (at least, it seemed that long; maybe it wasn’t).  She looked at the open door when the wind blew, when Eurasian collared doves flew past with their characteristic loud whirring, and when blue jays screamed.  But she sat on.

Then she tried an experimental ‘cheep-cheep’ or two in that characteristic metallic tone and hopped onto another handle. 

I grew hopeful.

But when she finally flew, she went back to the big half-circle window, and beat herself against the glass for a minute or two before doing the same at the window in the smaller dormer in the northwest corner of the room.

And then, finally, she took straight aim at the open patio door and when whisking out.

Whew.

Check out all the sounds a starling can make:  Starlings Songs & Calls 

I came back into my little office and shot a spider off the high ceiling with a rubber band, just to celebrate.  It weren’t fer nuttin’ that my brother once nicknamed me ‘Dead-Eye Pete’, when I was about 12!  (Only that was largely on account of prowess with guns and slingshots, rather than rubber bands.)

When Keith was little, he kept getting rubber bands and band-aids mixed up.  He solved the problem by calling either item a ‘rubber band-aid’.

Here are Keith, 5, and Teddy, 2, in 1985.

Wednesday afternoon, there was a prairie fire a few miles to our west.  The fire began on the north side of the road, and then strong northern winds spread the fire to the standing cornfield on the south side.  Things would’ve gotten out of control fast, had the farmers not used their disking equipment to quickly put in a firebreak. 

Not long after we moved out here, a prairie fire got out of control.  It was a little too close for comfort.

We had beautiful weather the earlier part of last week.  The trees were brilliant in their vibrant autumn colors.  Thursday afternoon when I took Loren some food, I brought along my camera, figuring it might very well be my last chance for fall photos, because the weathermen were warning of a hard freeze, with possible snow showers over the weekend. 

Loren’s supper that day was a chicken egg roll... French bread fresh out of the oven... sweet potatoes... peas... peaches... lemon/lime/cranberry juice... and prunes.

After gathering up his laundry, I went to Hy-Vee to pick up the groceries I had ordered.

Cats like to be in the middle of everything!  When I got home, both Tiger and Teensy came rushing to ‘help’ me put away the groceries.  They checked to see what was in each bag – “Here’s some frozen stuff; you better put it away first!” – and then they looked to see if there was room in the freezer when I opened the door.  “There’s room on the third shelf!”  They made sure I didn’t leave anything in the bags – and Teensy, as he is oft wont to do, got his head stuck in a handle.  “A little help here!”  He calmly stands there while I extract cat from bag.  If I laugh, he says, “MRRRooowwwWWW!”  (Cattese for ‘I couldn’t help it!’)  (No, I do not leave plastic bags anyplace where he might get himself caught in it.)

Every time I turn to pick up another bag, they cut in front of me.  “Cats first!”

Good thing I love them!  heh

The little Calico Kitty we had years ago twice brought down the one and only real Christmas tree we ever had.  Once it happened right while one of the girls was playing the organ next to the tree, and the thing came down on and all around her.  The funny part was that, after her initial amazement, she finished playing the song before slithering off the bench and escaping by crawling out under the bench. 

This photo was from August of 1995, on Rte. 24 south from Leadville, Colorado.

Below are Caleb, almost 2, and Larry at Black Canyon of the Gunnison.

A friend, upon seeing photos of the Ford crewcab and fifth-wheel camper, wrote, “All nine of you fitted in the truck and the camper?  You must have been squashed in like sardines.”

“Actually,” I told her, “There were ten of us!  Some of the older children took turns riding in the fifth-wheel camper as we drove (it was legal back then, in the states where we were driving; not sure if it still is).  And we had walkie-talkies, so they could talk to us.  There were lots of windows, so they didn’t miss out on any scenery.  As for the camper itself, it was 41 feet long, and couches and table/bench areas made into beds.  We had plenty of room, and there was more than enough closet and drawer space.  We really liked that camper.”

Two-and-a-half years later, Victoria came along, and shortly thereafter Larry built a six-door pickup.  ‘My’ vehicle was a Suburban, and we installed a Jeep seat behind the third seat, so there was plenty of room for everyone.

Below are Caleb, Lydia, Hester, and Teddy at Black Canyon of the Gunnison.

We were taking the scenic route, on our way to Larry’s Grandma Jackson and Aunt Lynn, who lived on the outskirts of Raton, New Mexico.

Caleb loved Callie, Aunt Lynn’s calico cat.  He could often be heard calling her, “Here, keedle keedle keedle!”

And the keedle always came.

Soon Loren’s clothes were in the washer and I was heading back upstairs to scan more pictures. 

Sometimes I fix enough supper when I make Loren’s food that I only have to warm it up later, for us.  But most of the time I’d rather have fresh-cooked food than rewarmed food.  That night, though, we would have leftover spaghetti (it’s one of those foods that tastes just as good on Day Two, I think), potato salad, and raspberries with yogurt smoothie poured over them.

While the spaghetti warmed up in the microwave, I mistakenly thought I had time to call yet another of those ‘We-Can-Make-You-Live-Forever’ magazines and request an end to their mailings.

Having been a ‘Jackson’ now for over 41 years, I’d sorta forgotten what used to happen when I’d tell my maiden name, ‘Swiney’, to people.

There are those who think they know how to pronounce your name better than you do.  If you knew how many times I told someone my name – ‘Sarah Lynn Swunny’, spelled it out – S.w.i.n.e.y. – only to have the person say, “Ohhhh!  Yes.  Sweeeeny.” 

Every once in a while, shy as I was, I’d nod agreeably and mutter, “...because I don’t know how to pronounce my own name.” 

If they were nice, they’d say, “Oh, sorry.  Say it again, please?” 

But most were pretty sure they knew better.

In these pictures, taken on Shady Lake Road, the road cuts right through the middle of a farmplace.   The house and a couple of barns are on the north, and several more barns and outbuildings, along with pastures and fields for their cattle and the corn they grow, are on the south.  I've found this farm intriguing since I was a little girl.

More pictures here:  Autumn Scenery

As Larry was driving his boom truck that afternoon, he rounded a curve out in the country by Rising City – and there was a pelican standing right out in the middle of the road!  Then, instead of flying, or crossing to the side of the road, the silly thing decided to run down the middle of the road.  (No, he didn’t hit it.)

The Oui French yogurt by Yoplait that I bought from Hy-Vee is in little glass jars!  I didn’t know that, when I ordered it.  One cannot click on individual items on the Hy-Vee Aisles Online page and learn additional details, either, which is aggravating. 

We really liked the yogurt.  It’s not too sweet, and not sour like Greek yogurt, which I don’t particularly like.  I’ll save the little jars for the grandchildren.

Here’s a fishy story from long ago (it’s even a story inside a story), which I found in an old journal the other day:

I stopped to get a new scavenger fish at Wal-Mart, as the other one had succumbed to gravity.  Or ich, short for ichthyophthirius.  Or dropsy, also known as pinecone disease, because the fish’s fins stick out and make him look like a pinecone.  Those things are supposed to be so hardy they could survive in a bowl of oatmeal!  (Scavengers, that is; not pinecones.)

In truth, one did once survive in a bowl of oatmeal.  Sorta.  And for only a short time.

Once upon a time, long ago when Keith was very young, but old enough to know better (that’s about age three or four), we had a fish tank.  And we had guppies.  Fancy, fan-tailed guppies.  Lots of fancy, fan-tailed guppies.  And a scavenger.  A big scavenger.

One morning, Keith decided to feed the fish.  Now, he knew perfectly well that he was not allowed to feed the fish; but, as his mother was busy taking care of the new baby, and not in the near vicinity, Keith decided to feed the fish.

And no small helping did he give them, either.  A full-course Thanksgiving dinner, ’twas.  The fact is, he gave them the entire contents of a nearly-new container of fish flakes, and I had gotten the large economy size, because it was cheaper that way, in the long run.

Only it wasn’t, not this time, it wasn’t.

When I came strolling out into the living room a little later, thinking that perhaps I should feed the fish, imagine my amazement when I discovered I couldn’t even see the poor fish.  The pump was barely churning the water, and the bubbles came up slowly, popping with a spluttt, rather on the order of Yellowstone’s mud pots.

I rushed to the tank and clicked on the hood light.  In the mucky, cloudy innards of that deplorable little pond, I caught vague glimpses of guppies plowing with difficulty through the thick fodder, looking more like raisins in oatmeal than real, live fish.

“What happened??!!!!!!” I howled, whirling around to rush for a big bowl.

As I sprinted past Keith, I noticed that his eyes were quite large, and he had that tell-tale look of guilt on his face.

“I, um…I, er…I, uh…fed them.”

“Aaauuuggghhh, you probably killed them!” I yowled, making his eyes grow bigger still.

I hastily filled the bowl with water, checked the temperature, carried it to the fish tank, grabbed the fish net, and commenced to getting the guppies out of their goopy gumbo.  Once in the bowl of fresh water, they perked right up and went to swimming around like troopers.  Or like guppies.  Fish.  Something.  Anyway, they swam.

Then, with a gallon pitcher in each hand, I started dipping oatmeal – er, water(?) – out of the tank and pouring it down the drain, keeping an eye out for overlooked fish.  When I had emptied the tank enough that I could lift it, I carried it to the sink and poured the remaining water(?) through a big colander.  After thoroughly rinsing the rocks and washing out the tank, I started the process all over again, in reverse.

As I rushed back and forth past Keith, who had been standing wide-eyed in the living room the whole time, I kept up a steady tirade about Not Doing Things Your Mother Told You Not To; Being Nice To Fish, meaning Not Overfeeding Them; and Never Pulling Such A Stunt Again.  Being in a big hurry, not only to save the fish, but also to get the job done before the baby woke back up, which babies are ever wont to do right in the middle of Things That Can’t Be Stopped Right In The Middle Thereof, I left a rather damp trail in my wake as I scurried to and fro.  And Keith, being quite close to my route, and seemingly stunned into paralyzation, got splashed a few times as I dashed by.  Ah, well; it was merely the accent to my harangue.

Finally the tank was full again, and I carefully put the fish back into their clean quarters.  They swam gleefully about, glad to be guppies again, and not raisins.

And never again did they experience Thanksgiving, beaucoup trop de nourriture.

Here are Dorcas, Hannah, Keith, and Teddy at the Denver amusement park in August of 1985.

The other night, there was a crashing noise in the garage.  Both cats were in the house snoozing away; it wasn’t them.  I went to investigate.

It seems an opossum had tipped over an almost-empty trashcan.  The small bag at the bottom of the can must’ve smelled like supper.

The can was resting at a 45° angle against the bottom of the porch.  I ka-thumped on a wooden porch step, and the opossum, after giving me a long look (‘I know good and well you’re not as scary as you try to pretend’), waddled off.  I went back inside. 

It wasn’t three minutes before there was another bang, a few thumps, and a whole lot of scratch-scrabbling about.

Again I went to see what was happening.

This time, the ’possum had gotten into the partially-tipped trashcan, and then couldn’t get back out, as the side was too steep and slippery.  I grabbed a broom and with it lifted the bottom of the can enough that the opossum could walk out.

He decided not to.

I ka-WHACKED on the bottom of the can with the broom, and the ’possum clambered right out, posthaste.

Here’s another little story from an old journal dated June 7, 1998:

Larry was holding Victoria (she would have been 15 months) on his lap, giving her bites of his food.  She choked on something.

“Oooops,” said Larry, lifting both her arms above her head.

I’ve never been able to tell that that technique ever really helps a baby when they’re choking; I think mostly it just distracts them, and they quit coughing in order to better see what’s going to happen to them next.

Victoria soon recovered, and Larry put her down.  She trotted off, but was soon back again, patting on Larry’s leg and looking up into his face.  He looked down at her, whereupon she declared, “Choke!” and then proceeded to do a few fake coughs and then hastily stick both arms straight up, hands lopped limply over at the wrist, making a funny face and quite tickling her father’s funny bone.

And then there was the time, about seven months after we moved out here to the country, and I wrote this in my journal of November 17, 2003:

It is cloudy and foggy; we haven’t been able to see to Highway 22 all morning.   I’ve always liked fog; it makes everything seem cozy and mysterious, remote and exotic.

Victoria, 6 ½, is intrigued by it just as I always was. 

“Is fog a cloud on the ground?” she asked me as we stood peering out the window.

“Yes,” I answered.

“What’s it made out of?”

“Limburger cheese,” I replied.

She was quiet for a moment.

“How many clouds are on the ground?”

“3,639,052,” I told her.

She gave me a sidewise look.

Then, “What’s in the clouds?” 

“Puppies and orangutans,” I responded.

Her mouth quirked.  She straightened it back up, then queried, “Is fog heavy?”

“Yes.  Just put it in a five-gallon bucket and weigh it, and you’ll see.”

She was ready with another question:  “What’s on top of the fog?” 

I was ready with the answer:  “Meringue.”

A second or two of silence, and then she called out, “Daddy, could you answer these questions?  Because Mama’s being goofy!”

haha

Friday afternoon I delivered food and laundry to Loren and collected some of his empty water jugs.  Supper consisted of deli-sliced smoked chicken on a croissant with Miracle Whip, Romano tomato slices, and lettuce; a mixture of roasted potatoes, broccoli, carrots, and snap peas; cottage cheese; peaches; and lemonade, made from 100% lemon juice.

Home again, I returned to scanning, scanning, scanning.  The volume that day was from August of 2004, when we went to the Tetons and Yellowstone National Park.  Here’s a photo taken somewhere directly east of the Parks, probably in Bridger-Teton National Forest.

Saturday, Loren’s supper was a baked chicken thigh, a vegetable mixture of potatoes, cauliflower, carrots, and broccoli, potato salad, sliced strawberries and bananas, and lemonade.

Sometimes I feel like I give him the same old thing all the time; but when I look back at my list, I see it’s not too repetitious, maybe.  Ah, well; his food likes are sort of narrow; so I guess we’re doing all right.

It was so pretty out that day, with layers of dark clouds in the east, blue sky showing through, and the sun shining brightly on the yellow, orange, red, maroon, and green trees, and the golden fields, most of which are already harvested. 

Larry took Jacob hunting with him that morning, and got a buck with his compound bow.  He’s having a processor cut up the meat for $125.  Money well spent, since it takes Larry quite a while to skin it and cut it up. 

Teddy helped Loren winterize his camper a few days ago.  So maybe it’ll stay put for a while!  Also, his vacuum didn’t need a belt after all; something had just gotten stuck in it.  Teddy fixed it.

Sunday morning, I got up as usual at a quarter ’til seven.   The first order of business is always to give Teensy his food – canned Fancy Feast – with his medicine for hyperthyroidism crushed in it.  I give Tiger a small spoonful, too, so he won’t think I love Teensy more than him.

The cat food is in a cupboard in the laundry room.  As I walked in, before I turned the light on, I glanced out the patio doors.  The sky was still dark – but the deck was white as ---- yep, it was white as snow.

Those ‘few flakes’ the weathermen had mentioned had turned into lots of flakes.  Almost three inches of them, in fact.

By the time I got my hair washed, it was bright enough outside to take a few pictures.

The kids all recall with great fondness the blizzard we had one Halloween, with drifts up to five feet high.  And of course, we went out Trick-or-Treating.  In the pickup.  With the hubs all locked in. 

They got lots of stuff from friends and relatives, because, since no one else was out, said friends and relatives were dumping all the cookies and cupcakes and candy into our kids’ bags.  (I put it in the cupboard when we got home and doled it out gently in the days thereafter, much to their collective dismay.)

I love snow, but too much of it sure puts a crimp in the menfolks’ jobs.  My husband, two sons, two sons-in-law, and a grandson are in construction.  Construction in this part of the country slows down considerably when it snows!

This snow soon melted, though, and by the time we got out of the morning church service, it was fairly nice out.

After taking Loren some dinner, we drove to Schuyler to put E85 in the Jeep. 

The cold weather drove two or three flies into the house.  I swatted two, and heard another buzz past.  I stood ready to smack down fly number three, flyswatter in hand.

The fly landed on the flyswatter.  I wiggled it, and he flew off.

He landed on the back of my hand.  I waved it.  He flew.

And then ... he landed in my coffee!  In it.  Stupid kamikaze fly!  He must’ve been a Shinto.  It was yummy Jamaican Blue Mountain roast, too!  😝

Last night after church, I was holding Baby Eva.  She was wiggling around, about to wake up; but I covered her little arms with her blanket, and she snuggled up and went back to sleep ------ until Maria walked up and started talking to me.  There were a lot of people talking, and Maria has a soft voice; but Baby Eva recognized her Mama’s voice instantly, and started squirming, stretching, and squinting her eyes open. 

Maria laughed, “It made her realize she has a small empty spot somewhere in her tummy!”

A friend of mine is hatching and raising some bobwhite quail, mostly to entertain her small granddaughters.

I once wanted to bring home a baby duckling from school, but couldn’t because life was unpredictable in the parsonage, and we often departed on unexpected trips hither and yon, and parishioners and nonparishioners alike arrived daily at all hours of day or night, and I suppose a duck quackety-quack-quacking in the middle of heart-wrenching conversations might have been a bit off-putting.

I’m typing away... and my stomach growled.  I look at the clock – it’s 2:06 p.m.!  I think I should eat breakfast, don’t you?  Plumb forgot!  Hmmmm... I shall have a toasted apple cinnamon bagel with loads of butter, and quince jelly on it (after the butter melts in).

Mmmmmmm...

Our mail-in ballots arrived Friday or Saturday.  Today I took the completed ballots – Larry’s, mine, and Loren’s – to the courthouse and stuck them in the drop box.

Loren was glad he wouldn’t have to go to the polls.  He’ll probably forget by then, and wind up voting twice (or trying to) if I don’t remind him.  Remind me to remind him!

The dark-eyed juncos have come back!  They’ll stay until late spring.  There are juncos and cardinals in the lilac bush just outside my window.  Sometimes the cardinals seem to be singing along with my piano playing.

My very most favorite song of all time – and, oh, look!  I just realized (probably knew and forgot) that the tune was written by none other than James McGranahan, one of my favorite songwriters – is A Glorious Morrow.  Here it is:

Another of my favorite song writers was Philip P. Bliss.  He died, along with his wife, at age 38 in a terrible train accident, when a bridge collapsed.  Mr. Bliss escaped, only to go back into the flaming wreckage to try to rescue his wife.  They both perished, leaving their two little boys, George, 4, and Philip Paul, 1, orphans. 

I read that story as a child, feeling so sad about it.  I have always believed and trusted that all is in God’s perfect plan, yet I wondered why God would take a godly young couple such as they were, when they were spending their lives so profitably in the service of the Lord.

And then I found the story of James McGranahan, and understood at least one of the reasons. 

James was the son of George Mc­Gra­na­han and Jane Blair, and hus­band of Ad­die Vick­ery.

This ar­ti­cle by Gla­dys Doo­nan, To Reap for the Mas­ter, ap­peared in Chal­lenge, De­cem­ber 28, 1986.  Used by per­mis­sion of Reg­u­lar Bap­tist Press, Schaum­burg, Il­li­nois.

 

 

To Reap for the Master

 

Even the fes­tiv­i­ties of the Christ­mas seas­on that De­cem­ber of 1876 couldn’t drive them from his mind — those notes his friend Phil­ip had writ­ten to him just a few days be­fore the hol­i­day.  He read them ov­er and ov­er again and al­most de­cid­ed to yield to the urg­ing of their mes­sage — al­most, but not quite.  His dreams of per­son­al am­bi­tion were still too pre­cious.  How could he give them up?

James Mc­Gra­na­han was a tal­ent­ed and cu­ltured Am­er­i­can mu­si­cian who lived from 1840 to 1907.  He was gift­ed with a rare ten­or voice and stu­died for years with em­i­nent teach­ers who urged him to train for a ca­reer in op­e­ra.  Of course, this ad­vice op­ened up to his imag­in­a­tion daz­zling pros­pects of fame and for­tune.  And he was as­sured time and time again it was all with­in his grasp.

James Mc­Gra­na­han was a Chris­tian, and he had a Chris­tian friend, Phil­ip P. Bliss, who was con­cerned about him.  His friend was al­so a cap­a­ble mu­si­cian who had gone through ma­ny of the same ex­per­i­enc­es in his young­er days as a sing­er.  How­ev­er, he had been sen­si­tive to the claims of the Lord on his life and had yield­ed his tal­ents to God for full-time Chris­tian ser­vice.

Though on­ly two years old­er than Mc­Gra­na­han, Phil­ip Bliss at 38 had a good doz­en years of Chris­tian work be­hind him.  He was then serv­ing as a gos­pel so­lo­ist with the great evan­gel­ist Ma­jor D. W. Whit­tle.  How he thrilled to the re­sponse of the great crowds who ga­thered for their cam­paigns and to the work­ing of the Ho­ly Spir­it through his mu­sic!  He longed for his friend James to know that thrill as well.

Philip Bliss and his wife were pre­par­ing for a trip home to Penn­syl­vania for Christ­mas. There was much to be done, but in the midst of all the bus­tle and hur­ry, Bliss felt strange­ly com­pelled to take time out to write Mc­Gra­na­han a let­ter.  He kept think­ing of his 36-year-old friend, who was still stu­dy­ing mu­sic, still pre­par­ing for — what?  Would it be op­e­ra or would it be the Lord’s work?

Philip Bliss prayed as he wrote that he would know the right words to put down.  He knew the Lord was deal­ing with James and was ea­ger for his friend to make the right de­ci­sion.

Finally the let­ter was done.  Bliss, need­ing en­cour­age­ment and ap­prov­al for what he had said, read it to Major Whit­tle.  In the let­ter he com­pared Mc­Gra­na­han’s long course of mu­sic­al train­ing to a man whet­ting his scythe for the har­vest.  The letter’s cli­max came as he strong­ly urged, “Stop whet­ting the scythe and strike in­to the grain to reap for the Mas­ter!”

The let­ter was sent on its way and quick­ly reached its des­ti­na­tion.  Those words touched James Mc­Gra­na­han as no oth­ers had be­fore.  He could think of no­thing else.  Strike in­to the grain to reap for the Mas­ter... to reap for the Mas­ter... to reap for the Mas­ter!  Day and night those words were be­fore him.

One week lat­er, De­cem­ber 29, 1876, the man who had penned the words was dead.  The train return­ing the Bliss­es from Penn­syl­van­ia to Chi­ca­go where Phil­ip was sched­uled to sing at Moody Ta­ber­na­cle broke through a rail­road bridge at Ash­ta­bula, Ohio.  It plunged in­to a 60-foot chasm and caught fire.  Among the 100 who per­ished in the dis­as­ter were the 38-year-old gos­pel singer and his wife.

When James Mc­Gra­na­han re­ceived news of the tra­ge­dy he rushed im­me­di­ate­ly to the scene of the ac­ci­dent.  And it was there, for the first time, that he met Ma­jor Whit­tle.

The evan­gel­ist lat­er re­cord­ed his thoughts on the oc­ca­sion:  “Here be­fore me stands the man that Mr. Bliss has chos­en to be his suc­cess­or.”

The two men made the re­turn trip to Chi­ca­go to­geth­er, and as they rode they talked.  Be­fore they reached the ci­ty James Mc­Gra­na­han de­cid­ed to yield his life, his tal­ents, his all to the ser­vice of his Sav­ior.  He would strike in­to the grain to reap for the Mas­ter.

The op­er­a­tic world lost a star that day, but the Chris­tian world gained one of its sweet­est gos­pel sing­ers.  James Mc­Gra­na­han was great­ly used in ev­an­gel­is­tic cam­paigns through­out Am­er­i­ca, in Great Bri­tain, and in Ire­land.

 

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If music can be so heart-touchingly beautiful down here on earth, imagine what it will be in heaven!

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