Wandering Feet

Illinois, you're letting me down...

2011-12-19T13:36:00.000-06:00

Right, let's get one thing straight. I agreed to move here for a variety of reasons, but WAY up on the list was the promise of snow.

Not South Australian snow (AKA 'Imaginary Snow').

Not lame Tennessee snow that falls like dandruff and melts in minutes.

No, I'm talking about REAL snow like we got so much of last winter. Snow that sits around for days and gets the kids out of school (and consequently gets me a sleep-in).

So now it's December 19 and THERE IS NO SNOW!!!

So I'm putting you on notice, state of Illinois, I want snow... or I'm taking my bat and my ball and I'm GOING HOME*.

*any threat to leave the country is entirely tongue-in-cheek and should not be taken seriously

My 'Accidentally Tasty Chicken' Recipe

2011-12-06T21:30:00.004-06:00

This post serves two purposes.

Firstly, I wanted to share my newly discovered recipe for 'Accidentally Tasty Chicken' (newcomers: this is NOT a cooking blog. Read on, you'll see why...).

Secondly, I wanted to shamelessly self-promote the new addiction of a facebook 'like' button to my (seldomly-read-let-alone-SHARED) blog.

I have no shame. But I DO have Accidentally Tasty Chicken. And so can you.

(And so can ALL YOUR FRIENDS if you were to... well... use the shiny new facebook button...)

Enjoy.

Accidentally Tasty Chicken

1. Buy two giant bags of chicken quarters (actually, these were just the leg/thigh quarters), split them into meal amounts and freeze them.

2. Next (several weeks later) realise that the two church committee meetings* fall right on suppertime and pull one bag out of the freezer with a vague plan to cook some sort of slow-cooker meal.

3. Forget to place anything at all in the slow cooker/crock pot when you get up in the morning.

4. Spend entire day incredibly busy.

5. Remember chicken half an hour before first meeting is due to start.

6. Tip bag of chicken pieces out onto a flat baking tray - push them around until there is space between all pieces. (Except for the one weeny piece that is much smaller - shove that one close to a larger piece in the hopes that the proximity will make it not be horribly over-cooked and shoe-leathery.)

7. Sprinkle generously (and frantically) with garlic salt.

8. Place into oven - 160C/325F degrees.

9. Yell at (vegetarian) daughter that if she wants mashed potatoes she'll need to cook them.

10. Leave house for an hour and a half.

11. Return in time to boil pot of potatoes and water (that daughter miraculously peeled and sliced in your absence).

12. 'Mash' potatoes in Kitchen Aid mixer with butter and milk. Microwave bag of frozen peas. (Preparation of veggies takes total chicken cooking time to about 2 hours.)

13. Cross fingers, pray, and open oven.

14. Remove baking tray from oven, place on stove, pull plates out of the cupboard, and yell "FOOD!".How's that recipe?

*For this step it helps if you actually WORK for the church in some sort of Pastoral role, so you can't - you know - just skip the two meetings...

Melancholy

2011-10-11T16:52:00.002-05:00

It's not a special day.

It's not even an especially bad day.

On the drive home from Walmart (milk, cheese, lettuce...) my thoughts turn to Sam.

I hear his cheeky laughter. I see him - heat-less, life-less, motion-less.

A cold hand slips around my heart and squeezes and I hurt, I hurt, I hurt, I hurt, I hurt...

We're stopped at the road works - windows down, warm breeze, sun on our faces.

Laura leans over and wipes a couple tears off my cheek.

Inhale... Exhale...

Life continues, without him.

It doesn't stop hurting, we just learn better pain management.

Death sucks.

Self-Evaluation

2011-09-19T14:40:00.003-05:00

I just posted the following status to my facebook -

"Filling out clergy self-assessment forms. For the uninitiated this is how it goes
Q How awesome were you last year?
A Super awesome.
Q How awesome are you now?
A Double super awesome.
Q How awesome are you gunna be?
A Triple super awesome, plus plus plus.
Consider me self-assessed. ;-p"

(Dear Person Reading This Blog in a Couple Decades Time,
back at the turn of the 21st Century we had this thing called 'facebook'.
It was kind of like that thing you use now to kill time and irritate people... only less amazing.)

I struggle with self-assessment - and I don't only mean the forms I fill out every year for the UMC. I find it difficult to walk the line between being unfairly critical and unrealistically flattering. Plus I have my Aussie culture hat on, which tells me that it's boastful to talk good about yourself - better to say less and let everyone around you (hopefully) chime in.

But I think one area where we all fail at self-assessment is when reporting back in answer to that Dreaded Question - 'How Are You?'

I reckon that's why facebook ask you 'What's On Your Mind?', and twitter* ask 'What's Happening?' It's pretty easy to report back on the intellectual stuff, and even more so on recounting current events. But, 'how are you?'... urgh!

That requires actual soul searching. And evaluating how much is too much or too little information - in the context of whichever cultural situation the question occurs.

It might even require VULNERABILITY.

We might need to one day decide to be honest with people and say -
"You know what? What's on my mind is pain. What's happening is all bad. And how I am is a work very much in progress."

But maybe if we could self-evaluate to that level it could change the grading curve for the people around us when they do their own self-evaluations.

So I'm gonna stop procrastinating (by updating a blog I haven't bothered to go near since November LAST YEAR - wait till you see how faithfully I blog when End of Year Reporting comes around!) and go fill out the forms. Because I have to. And because self-evaluation is a useful skill. And mostly because it's less frightening than the alternative... being evaluated by OTHERS!!!

But since I have to spend my afternoon at this activity, how about you join in too. So...

How are YOU?

(*We also had this thing called 'twitter'. It was like that thing you have now for communicating in short bursts... but you know, minus the dolphins.)

Lest we Forget

2010-11-11T10:57:00.001-06:00

I remember each year pausing for a minutes silence at school on Remembrance Day at 11am (the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month). Whatever class we were in the sound system would get our attention and we would stop what we were doing and (if we were well behaved children) be quiet to remember the Armistice at the end of WWI

Well, strictly speaking our timing was off because the Armistice was signed at 11am in UK time, which would make it um... a whole 'nother time in Aussieland.

Our teachers always stressed the silence was supposed to reflect the silence of the battlefields as the guns were silenced.

I remember imagining soldiers firing right up until the last minute, and all stopping as the clock struck the hour – and in that silence facing the horrible and full realisation of all that the war had cost.

Now I live in America, where November 11 is Veterans Day, rather than Remembrance Day. In America this day is more of a celebration than a solemn remembrance. This was really confronting to me for the first few years, until I worked out that we also have our version of Veterans Day - in April… we call it ANZAC day (my American readers will have to wait in anticipation for April next year to learn about that – or go to google).

But whichever mindset you bring to November 11 - whether this day is for sad reflection or proud recognition - to point is to not forget.

Because a senseless waste of life is made all the more pointless if we don’t attempt to learn from our mistakes and do better.

Because for a soldier to sacrifice home, comfort, safety, family and/or life and then to be overlooked and ignored is obscene.

Remember.

Disabled

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,
-- In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
All of them touch him like some queer disease.

There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race,
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg,
After the matches carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. He wonders why . . .
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.

That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
To-night he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

Wilfred Owen 1917

Churros

2010-10-26T23:32:00.001-05:00

Not as soft as you’d think.

Just saying.

Dear Chewing, I miss you.

2010-10-25T22:04:00.001-05:00

There are three things that currently are making chewing unpleasant enough as to be avoided where possible.

1 – It hurts.

2 – My front teeth don’t actually meet each other, making it necessary to use the back teeth, but…

3 – My back teeth are perilously close to some healing wounds, and also are entangled with annoying lengths of stitches.

The cause of all this consternation is the surgical removal of three wisdom teeth on Thursday of last week. (Well, reason 2 isn’t really connected to the wisdom teeth removal – it’s just a complication.)

I AM aware that the traditional age for this procedure is something closer to the 18 years at which I had my first wisdom tooth removed. Some of us are just a little slower at gathering wisdom than others (as evidenced by my marriage to a certain individual who recently compared me to a royal individual – of the green ogre-ish animated variety).

So currently baby food is all the go. Although I have had limited – if tiring – success with cutting soft food very small and pushing it against my front teeth with my tongue until it dissolves enough to swallow… and that’s how you spend an hour eating one slice of cheese…

I have learned some important lessons from this, however, that I share now with my eager audience (of one, if the number of comments received are any indication).

*Wisdom teeth removal under local anesthetic is not for the faint of heart. If you have not yet had your wisdom teeth removed I suggest you skip to the next section (this is the literary equivalent of sticking your fingers in your ears and humming). My very competent oral surgeon ensured there was NO PAIN, however I was still able to hear and sense when specific things happened. For example, nothing gladdens the heart less than the sound of a tooth cracking. Or the feeling of tooth movement (even without pain). Also there is one saw that cuts inconvenient bits of jaw out of the way that is NOT quiet – cutting, as it is, into your HEAD which is rather close to your EARS. There was one particular moment of reverberation which caused some rather charming vertigo. This is even less fun than it sounds. I was intensely glad we have pain relief now which makes it no longer necessary to bring three strong friends along to a tooth extraction.

*Surgery day is not the worst day. Many people warned me that two days after is the worst, but for me Friday the day after was awful. In typical under-stated Aussie fashion I would say that on Friday I felt ‘a bit average’ (this translates to ‘close to dead’). I did miss the local high school football game. They lost (sorry guys). The one source of comfort I got was knowing that somewhere on a dusty road in Africa a group of starving orphans, six miles from home, fetching water from a polluted creek, had all paused to hold a minutes silence in honour of my suffering. (‘Suffering’ = a minor surgery with anesthetic in a First World country in a sterile medical facility by competent medical staff, followed by a convalescence in the comfort of my own bed with nothing but a television, DVR box, laptop computer, Kindle, Big Bottle of Pills and the love, prayers and comfort of family and friends to keep me company.)

*Pudding cups/custard (of any flavour) eventually get boring. No, really.

(Please don’t mention the above observation to the afore-mentioned orphans.)

*’Chipmunk’ Face is painful, obvious and a little embarrassing while it occurs… yet in some ways is preferable to ‘Hey Has That Person Had Surgery Or Is Their Face Just FAT’ Face.

*Husbands are loving and supportive creatures and are in no way likely to video call you from another continent just to laugh at your appearance (and then slander you on international social networking websites). Oh wait, I think I got that one backwards.

And of course my final observation from my recent exciting venture into elective surgery…

*No one likes a whinger. So suck it up, Princess!

Blogging.

2010-09-27T21:00:00.002-05:00

So, um…

Haven’t done that in a while.

I guess there have been the one or two minor events going on with us lately. Let me see if I can think of any…

- My hair has got a bit longer.

- Been watching a fair bit of telly.

- Still get annoyed when computer geeks write programs that tell me off for using perfectly reasonable words like ‘telly’.

- Also… Nope really can’t think of any dramatic earth-shaking stuff.

(Oh yeah, I also moved to Illinois to take an Appointment, and became a British Citizen. Those things too.)

This is a Pointless Post.

2009-09-24T21:36:00.001-05:00

My darling husband (who is the greatest and bestest person in the whole wide world – and who is also in the same room as me right now) bought me a new laptop for my birthday this week. She’s shiny and red and I love her. I have decided to name her Scarlett (I DO live in ‘The South’ now, after all).

She also has a very neat feature which allows me to update my blog without going through the rigmarole of signing in to blog spot, and clicking ‘new post’ and etc.

Mike is so excited by this that he has offered to ‘test’ it for me.

Thoughtful of him, hey?

However I have decided to test it for myself – thus saving Mike from all that effort, and also proving that I am not the complete techno-fail that I generally consider myself to be.

Psalm 118

2009-05-20T12:52:00.002-05:00

Did you save me, Lord?

When the dog attacked,
Tearing flesh from flesh,
Spilling blood from veins,
And tears from eyes...

You sent a neighbour,
To fight off the beast,
To save a life.

But, did you save me Lord?

When the beast of burden,
Startled from docility,
Moved with sudden violence,
And broke a body...

You sent a Son,
To fight off the Beast,
To save a soul.

But, did you save me Lord?

When the beasts attack,
Clenching talons of fear,
Baring poison-tipped fangs,
To shred hope...

You send Your Spirit,
To fight off the Beast,
To save my soul.

Did you save me, Lord?

You do.

Cherith

2008-12-27T20:18:00.002-06:00

When I think of Easter Camp, I think of you.
When I think of women of grace and courage I think of you.
When I think of enduring hard times with love and laughter, I think of you.
You, my friend, have been a blessing to more people than you can imagine.

This is a song that has been running through my head today.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Du5E2ZZSLNg&feature=related

Here are the lyrics for anyone on slow dial up -

After the Last Tear Falls (Andrew Peterson)

After the last tear falls
After the last secret's told
After the last bullet tears through flesh and bone
After the last child starves
And the last girl walks the boulevard
After the last year that's just too hard
There is love Love, love, love There is love
Love, love, love
There is love

After the last disgrace
After the last lie to save some face
After the last brutal jab from a poison tongue
After the last dirty politician
After the last meal down at the mission
After the last lonely night in prison
There is love
Love, love, love
There is love
Love, love, love
There is love

And in the end, the end is
Oceans and oceans
Of love and love again
We'll see how the tears that have fallen
Were caught in the palms
Of the Giver of love and the Lover of all
And we'll look back on these tears as old tales

'Cause after the last plan fails
After the last siren wails
After the last young husband sails off to join the war
After the last "this marriage is over"
After the last young girl's innocence is stolen
After the last years of silence that won't let a heart open
There is love
Love, love, love
There is love

And in the end, the end is
Oceans and oceans
Of love and love again
We'll see how the tears that have fallen
Were caught in the palms
Of the Giver of love and the Lover of all
And we'll look back on these tears as old tales
'Cause after the last tear falls
There is love

Missing you already, say hi to Sam for us.

Firsts

2008-05-14T18:06:00.003-05:00

First bath, first smile, first time sleeping through the night.

First shoes, first skinned knee, first fight with a friend.

First day of school, first book read, first original joke.

First soccer game, first plane flight, first declaration of faith.

We saw these things in together, Sam, but not this -

First year without you.

Morning.

2008-03-29T00:12:00.001-05:00

The silent chair, the empty room,
The morning solemn as a tomb.
No tousled hair, or cheeky grin,
To greet us when we wander in.

Instead we cling to slumber, deep,
Without him here to steal our sleep.
We Sleepy Ones lay still at rest,
Our Early Bird has flown the nest.

For years his voice began the day –
Such little feet to lead the way.
But now he’s travelled on instead –
Such little hands to join the dead.

So now we force ourselves to wake
And greet each day, for Heaven’s sake,
Until we see, with unveiled eyes,
The dead in Christ, the first to rise.

(1 Thessalonians 4:16)

Some days, there are no words for...

2008-03-28T02:17:00.001-05:00

...

(happy birthday Sam)

The Club Meeting.

2008-03-08T11:02:00.001-06:00

Come, let us weep together.
More eloquent than words,
Tears without reason or meaning.
More varieties than Eskimo snow.
Remorse, regret, remembering.
Despair, heaviness, leaking.
A cloud-burst releasing the constriction.
Solving nothing, and yet –
Come, let us weep together.

Come, let us rage together.
Earth-shattering.
Ground-shaking,
Teeth-aching,
Dish-breaking.
Blood-thirst slaking,
Breath-taking,
Powerfully futile, and yet –
Come, let us rage together.

Come, let us laugh together.
Not as they do.
Not carefree or unfettered.
Let us open our mouths as the bitterness
escapes in staccato bursts.
Those without our knowledge, or empathy
Beware the fallout of this shrapnel.
Heavy-hearted anti-mirth, and yet –
Come, let us laugh together.

Come, let us sit together.
Clothed in common suffering,
These tattered rags we strive
To carry with dignity.
Hands touching softly,
Skin brushing, to comfort,
To be connected.
Muscles tensed against isolation, and yet –
Come, let us sit together.

BLOOD! Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!

2008-02-01T16:33:00.000-06:00

So, true story.

My dad and my brother, Michael (not to be confused with my husband, Mike), do not always get along well. It may have something to do with the fact that Dad is still waiting for Michael to leave the nest, or the branch, or the tree… Actually, I think my brother has been living at home so long he could almost claim that Dad lives with him.

Some years ago Dad embarked upon a lengthy campaign to encourage Michael to donate blood. Dad had been a loyal blood donor since the invention of modern medicine, up until a recent change in medication made him no longer eligible. All his attempts at conversation or encouragement were met with non-committal mutterings. This went on for who knows how long, until one day Dad went into his local Red Cross blood bank to find his younger son sitting in the waiting room. It turns out Michael had been a regular blood donor for years!

This is my brother’s idea of rebellion.

This story did not just randomly cross my mind for no apparent reason (as most of my stories do). No, I’ve been thinking about it this week because of the blood drive a nearby Baptist church held on Wednesday.

Now, I’m not saying I’m a champion bleeder like Dad (he has made 99 donations in total - a regular Bradman, my dad), but I have given blood before on a semi-regular basis. This was, perhaps, the most poignant donation I have made, however.

You see, Sam received a blood transfusion as part of his medical treatment after his fatal accident.

It is unfortunate that this thought struck me as I sat waiting to give – I wouldn’t want people to think I’m a big wuss, brought to tears at the thought of the needle. Nope, I’m tough – and also it just doesn’t hurt that much.

To be honest, my first thought was that someone else had sat somewhere in a plastic chair and given one of the most personal gifts it is possible to give – and that it had been for nothing. It would have been really easy to get up and walk out at that point. I think everyone in the room would have understood too. However, the thought then occurred to me – ‘What could be worse than having a child receive critical care and still not survive? Well – a child needing critical care and not surviving because the blood wasn’t available.’

In the end my son was saved not by a stranger’s blood, but saved eternally by his Saviour’s blood.

You probably won’t ever get the chance to save the world, but you could save a life this week by giving up an hour of your time and a unit of your blood.

It’s not hard, it isn’t agonizing, it is not barbaric – it isn’t even rocket science.

Hey, if it helps, you can spend the hour practicing your mad Doctor Frankenstein laugh under your breath. Give it go. All together now –

MWA-ha-ha-ha-ha!

http://www.donateblood.com.au/

http://www.givelife.org/

Happy Stinking New Year

2008-01-12T21:02:00.000-06:00

It can be tough to hear wishes for happiness, even knowing that they are generally meaningless statements made in passing by random strangers. I was tempted more than once in the last week or so to reply "Well it can't possibly be worse than LAST year."

A friend of mine (who also lost a child last year) posted an excellent comment online that discussed the importance of not wallowing so much in our grief that we dishonour the ones we have lost. And I agree with him. Completely.

Of course the nature of grief is contrary. I can one hundred percent agree and at the same time disagree. You thought artists had it easy with pleading 'artistic licence' all the time!

While I am in no way about to turn my back on life I also feel it is important (for me, at least) to take the unhappy moments along with the happy. I believe that my tears honour him just as much as my laughter does.

I may take a moment, every now and then, to be sad. Not to wallow, but just to be... sad.

So, Happy Stinking New Year. Some days heavy on the happy, some days heavy on the stinking.

No one wants to sweep the leaves.

2007-11-13T20:01:00.000-06:00

Once again we are faced with an onslaught of foliage.

We no longer walk outside, we wade.

When we pull into the drive we know where to park the cars because of the leaf-free impression we left when we drove out of that spot earlier.

I can ignore the yard, though (anyone who has been to our house will chime in ‘clearly!’), but we really needed to clear a path to the door. The UPS guy keeps going to the back door, for some reason, even though the deck out there can be hard to navigate at the best of times, let alone when it is two feet deep in leaf litter.

So I caved in this week and got out there and did it. And I now present you with the list of reasons why that particular job is no fun.

- The crunchy fun-to-jump-in stuff is only on top. If you’re had any rain at all in the last six months there’s going to be inches of slimy leaves under that.

- You can never find the leaf rake when you need it. I finally got the job done with an old mop, only to uncover the rake head two hours later.

- There are BUGS in there! A wasp stung me on the toe. The toe! Oh, the humanity.

- There is no ending. Do you stop sweeping at the end of the deck? At the stairs? At the bottom of the stairs? Do you keep going until you reach the road?

So, no, it isn’t a fun job at all. And, oh there’s one other reason – it used to be Sam’s job.

Ten Cent Therapy.

2007-08-23T10:32:00.000-05:00

It’s ‘back to school’ time here in the good ol’ U. S. of A.

Yes, it is very strange to begin a school year way at the end of the calendar year. Yes, it is odd that kids here don’t get their long break over Christmas and New Year, as God intended. My Aussie readers will agree with me completely on these points.

However, my US readers will know right away that this is the time of year for ‘back to school’ sales bargains.

Since we begin our (home) school year in January (and I’m not the best at planning five months ahead of time) we don’t benefit a whole lot from these sales. I suppose if I got my act together I could buy up now and have big shiny piles of stationery (my Dad’s favourite thing in the world) beckoning us between now and the New Year. Realistically though, stuff doesn’t cost all that much here at the worst of times anyway.

All this doesn’t stop me from getting excited when I go through Wal-Mart lately – hey, I am my father’s daughter. Crisp, new folders (all the little metal rings still meet up properly, unlike every single one the kids have ever got their hands on). Solid packets of pencils, with all the colours still present and accounted for. Textas (that’s ‘markers’, y’all), erasers, staplers… notebooks.

Ten cent notebooks. Ah, heaven. I couldn’t help myself, I bought a bunch. Then I went back later and bought a bunch more. It was a lot easier to buy a stack of them than to buy only two (instead of the usual three).

At some point we may even use some of them for school.

At the moment, though, they’re therapy.

Laura and Oli now carry one with them, almost everywhere. Sam appears often in the pages. We are assured this is healthy.

It can be hard to know how to answer people when they ask how the kids are handling all this. We have some idea, but quite a lot of what is going on in their heads is still a mystery to us. We have to trust that their hearts and minds are being kept safe by the Father who knows them best.

But, for now, we are thankful for midnight conversations and ten cent notebooks.

Oh.

2007-08-02T12:02:00.000-05:00

Oh, what a terrible cost,
To lose a son to save the lost,
To have to pay a price so dear,
God, you have no idea.

Oh, what a terrible pain,
To meet with grieving once again,
To know the hurt when loved ones go,
God, you just don't know.

Oh, what a terrible mess,
The aftermath - our great distress,
To walk this sharp and barren land,
God, you don't understand.

Oh, what a terrible weight,
To choose to love, and not to hate,
When dark ones whisper, 'Just forget it',
God, you just don't get it.

Oh, what a terrible Grace,
The blood, and the sweat,
...and the tears on His face,
To choose to pay a price so dear,
God, you've already been here.

(July 22/07)

Sobbing in Public

2007-05-17T11:32:00.000-05:00

…and other common occurrences.

How do I begin to write the hardest piece of non-fiction I have ever attempted?

I discovered yesterday that there are two times when a parent carries a child with slow steps and infinite care. When the journey is longer in spirit than in geography, and the weight of the burden held far exceeds any reckoning of mass or measure.

Those two occasions are the first time a newborn is transported from maternity ward to car, and the second is when a parent carries the urn that contains their young child’s ashes from the mortuary to the vehicle that will carry them home – and I pray to God that no other parent reading this ever has to bear that unbearable burden.

I truly apologise to anyone reading this who was not already aware that this week we lost our oldest son, Samuel, in a tragic accident. I have held off on writing here until as many people as possible had been told. For Mike and I the number of people who had already heard when we contacted them has been oddly encouraging. For us it has means that there are many people who care for us, and who will miss Sam at least a fraction of how much we do and will.

I cannot begin to describe now the horror and pain that we have begun to experience this week. I cannot now begin to count the many beautiful consolations that have tempered our grief - those tiny joys that touch at the edges of our sorrow.

Even as we feel this pain together we rejoice in the person that Sam was and is, and we rejoice in the decision he made just weeks ago to fully embrace his relationship as a child of God. Our Father has gathered him into His heart.

Samuel Thomas William Rayson. Your days on earth can be counted between March 28, 1996 and May 14, 2007. But your spirit dances into eternity.

We love you Sam.

Blood and Water.

2006-12-19T18:04:00.000-06:00

I have a small thug living in my house now. He’s six years old, and looks like he’s just survived a run-in with a rival gang.
The short version of the story is that one of his teeth came loose and had to be pulled.
The long version however…

I have long had a qualifier that I apply to the little peoples' requests for attention. It is: “Are you bleeding?” For those of you without children who are horrified at my lack of care and compassion, I should point out that for the better part of a decade now I’ve been unable to take a shower or use the toilet without hearing “Mu-um!” They’re like a pack of hyenas circling their prey but only attacking when the animal is injured (or has shampoo in its eyes). So the “Are you bleeding?” response is a quick way to draw their attention to the fact that it’s possibly not the best time for a lengthy chat. It works well, up to a point. Although I did have one occasion when Laura wandered away, picked at a scab and came back saying “Mummy, I’m bleeding now.”

For a change this morning I was not in the shower when the noise erupted. However, the qualifier – if I’d had time to say it – could have been answered with a resounding “Yes!” There was so much blood in Oliver's little mouth that it was hard to see where it was all coming from. And there were tears of course. Naturally no one seemed to know what had happened. Oli kept pointing at the plastic toggle on the end of the blind cord, but that made no sense at all. A hasty inspection revealed that one of his top, front teeth was now hanging slightly longer than the one next to it. So, short of an outbreak of ‘were-rabbit-itis’ it seemed pretty clear that something dental was going on.

Naturally I kept a calm head. Pah! My main concern was that I wasn’t sure if the loose tooth was a baby tooth or an adult tooth. I knew that he’d already lost some baby teeth, but I couldn’t remember which ones. ‘And the Worst Mother of the Year Award goes to…’

A hasty (and expensive – Fifty-five bucks!) trip to the dentist later and Oli was minus one baby tooth and plus a novelty pair of glasses. Phew! Well, you never know when you’re going to need a pair of novelty glasses. And at this point I should thank our pastor, Ryan, for his calm and efficient help in our mini-crisis.

Of course, none of this answers the ’what happened’ question. He finally confessed that at the time of the injury he was attempting to open and close the horizontal blinds with his mouth. The cord had caught on his tooth and pulled it loose - but not completely out - when the blind went down. Feel free to laugh now - that's been the general reaction. You know, I strongly feel that the window-covering manufacturers should add ‘possible cause of dental injuries’ to the little warning label on these things!

You’ll be reassured to hear that the child has since been banned from touching any blind or window covering until he is seven. So he’ll have to come up with some new inventive ways to injure himself in future. Just hopefully not while I’m in the shower.

I wonder where the boydies is...

2006-03-28T09:11:00.000-06:00

Spring is, well... springing, here in Tennessee. At least this is a season with a name we can all agree on (let's not even go into that whole Autumn/Fall fiasco). In fact, the weather has improved so much that I was inspired to dig me a hole.

'Has she finally done in one of the children?' I telepaphically hear you ask. 'Have things got so bad that she's ready to fill the bath and plug in the toaster?' No, sillies, it's Spring - time for planting things. Although, I don't expect to get much growth from what I planted this week. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

One of my first discoveries on hitting the shores of this great land (metaphorically speaking - there aren't too many shores near to where we are right now) was that these people are all drying their laundry in (gasp!) clothes dryers! Now my US friends need to understand that the backyard clothesline is so ingrained into Australian culture that for us a backyard without a clothesline is like a kitchen without a sink. The electronic clothes dryer is for the wealthy, the extravagant, or anyone living in Melbourne (city of eternal rain).

I have to say, to begin with it was no great hardship. 'Oh dear, I shall have to throw these clothes in the dryer rather than have the fun and excitement of hanging them up one by one, waiting for them to dry and unhanging them.' However, once the novelty of technology wore off I found myself missing my clothesline. I got really tired of having baskets of wet clothes lined up in the laundry waiting to be dried... and since our laundry is also our hallway, that can be an Occupational Health and Safety issue. Plus the clothes didn't smell as fresh, and I couldn't rely on 'sun power' to remove any lingering stubborn stains. I could go on. But I won't. It would bore you. Truly.

Anyway, some time last year I managed to get my hands on a Hills Hoist rotary clothesline. If anyone is at all unsure of what these look like, here's one now:

http://products.hills.com.au/FunnelWeb/website/hillsbranded/1/cattleprod/products/A1105COM

It came to us from Australia via Quebec, Canada. I called mine Hilda (the Hills Hoist). I inherited my mother's tendency to name inanimate objects.

Well, Hilda entered our lives just in time for winter to set in. Think frozen ground and days with about 23 minutes of sunshine. So Hilda has, until recently, been inhabiting our walk in wardrobe. Until, that is, this week. Yes, the plants were blooming, the sun was shining, and we even found our first tic for the year (eeuurgh). A perfect time for installing a clothesline.

I downloaded my instructions from the company's web site, got my tools, and was ready to go. Thankfully the 'call before you dig' people had already been out to our place and marked the safe spots for our cable company (who promise faithfully that they absolutely will get that electrical cable buried before the end of all time). So I managed not to electrocute myself or dig into a sewer.

Let me just pause to make the following point. You don't know how big a 250mm (10inch) wide by 650mm (26 inch) deep hole is - until you've dug one with a hand trowel. I felt like I should be gnawing on a carrot and taking the left at Albuquerque. At one point I was sure I heard David Wrightson giving the call to worship at Quakers Hill Uniting Church in Sydney, so I turned around and went back. If Oliver had said just one more time "What are you doing, mum?" I was about ready to pitch him into the hole and fill it in. Of course, like the saintly mother I am, I resisted the temptation. Instead I persisted until the hole was dug, filled one third with coarse gravel, and cemented the clothesline into position.

This took, you understand, the better part of two days. Two days of sun shining, boydies singing, and small forest creatures dancing and singing around lost maidens hiding in the woods from wicked step-mothers. When I was finally finished I put away my tools, scraped the mud from my shoes (and knees, and elbows), went inside and switched on the telly. I swear to you, the first words I heard - before the picture even had time to appear on the screen - were "Now for the weather. We're expecting snow in middle Tennessee tonight."

Oh.

In the end it didn't snow (of course), but I did have to wait a further four days before the next sunny opportunity to finally put Hilda to good use. Naturally, by that time we'd completely run out of clean clothes and I'd washed all our dirty clothes the day before and put them through the dryer like a wealthy, extravagant Melbournian.

Still, it is looking fairly clear today. If you'll excuse me, I just need to go encourage the children to grub around in the dirt a little...

Eating Humble Pie

2006-01-17T19:40:00.000-06:00

Well, after 18 straight hours of rain it finally got cold enough for....

...wait for it...

SNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, to be honest it actually snowed for the first time (this winter) a few weeks ago. But that was such a piddly amount it didn't bear mentioning. This time we're talking about snow that actually gathers on the ground and can picked up and formed into snow balls. The kids loved it. Us big kids did too. Even if it meant frolicking around in the dark, rather than risk having the illusive stuff disappear on us by morning.

Picture, if you please, Mike and Oli facing off against each other. In the red corner is Mike, armed with a snow ball the size of his head (and we all know that's pretty sizeable), Oli in the blue corner proudly toting a snow ball the size of... well, a marble. You can probably figure out who came off best. Well, we all know Mike throws like a girl. Hmm.. might not let him know I've updated, just this once.

So I recant my former position on the existence of snow. I bear witness to the presence of snow in my yard, right now. Never let it be said that I can not admit it when I am proved wrong.

Snow is real, and if any of you are still in doubt let me know and I'll post you some to prove it.

A Tale of Two Turkeys.

2006-01-06T09:43:00.000-06:00

There have been quite a few requests from family and friends as to how our Christmas went. I shall endeavour to please.

Firstly let me say right off that we have seen no sign of the white stuff I no longer believe in (see 'Ice, Ice baby'). No white Christmas for us. Not even that horrible dessert variety I remember from my childhood. Do they make 'white Christmas' over here? Must remember to ask someone (and then tell them not to bother, if they don't already).

Our first Christmas in the USA was very enjoyable (despite the distance from home). It did, however, last for the whole weekend. By the time we ate Christmas Eve lunch with Ryan and Heather, attended the Christmas Eve service, rang Australia to wish the family a merry Aussie Christmas, opened presents Christmas morning, attended the Christmas Day service, ate Christmas lunch with Sue and Carl, opened presents at Sue and Carl's, received phone calls from Australia from family wishing us a merry US Christmas, and then ate our own little Christmas meal at 'tea' time (that's 'dinner', for some of you - or 'supper' for those of you in The South).... well, we were exhausted. A good exhaustion though.

Two important issues need to be addressed. Firstly, I have to say that Ryan smokes the best turkey I have ever eaten. Ok, so it was also the first smoked turkey I had ever eaten. I never before knew anyone who smoked their own meat. Well, as far as I know. I suppose meat smoking could have some sort of enthusiastic underground following that I am unaware of, and that just about everyone except for me is doing it. Somehow I just doubt that. Anyway, it was a fabulous meal which we all thoroughly enjoyed...

...ok Ryan? So stop harrassing me for a blog review or it will affect your star rating (so far you're at three and a half).

Secondly, I have sad news for those of you who have been begging me to let them know how the deep fried turkey went, at Carl and Sue's house. The turkey did not get fried. Apparently there were some very sound reasons for the non-frying of the turkey. Well, it did rain - so that would make the cooking outdoors thing less appealing to some. All the same the regular oven-cooked turkey was lovely, as was the company (four stars Sue).

Now some of you might not have been aware of this, but over here they deep fry their turkeys. No, really. The first I became aware of this was at Thanksgiving when there was a story on the news about a family who had burnt down their home trying to deep fry a turkey. Naturally I assumed I heard that wrong. 'No, ' I told myself, 'They mean deep frying turkey pieces, like KFC - not deep frying a turkey.' But no. It did mean a turkey. As Mike said "Trust the Americans to take a healthy food and fry it in oil."

So that is our Christmas story. True, it was not as filled with pathos as some of the Christmas movie offerings we have been subjected to in recent weeks. But then, neither was the original Christmas story. We have, however, had the opportunity to experience self-less generosity from others in the form of gifts, hospitality and love.

You know who you are.
Thankyou.

I'm dreaming of a ... well, you know.

2005-12-24T07:06:00.000-06:00

Having become almost obsessed with the lack of cold, white flakey stuff (no, not chilled dandruff) I've decided not to dedicate another post to the topic, despite it being seasonally appropriate.
For my views on the four letter 's' word, see my previous post.

It occurred to me recently that being in the kitchen tends to remind me of people. "Huh?" I telepathically and through the magic of electronic technology hear you say. Well, at the time I was making Christmas pudding. The traditional Christmas pudding made months ahead of time and left to improve in flavour through careful storage. Well, that was my mum's tradition. Being a generation Xer (or whatever letter we're up to now) I have put my own spin on it. I just think about making the pudding months ahead of time. I plan for it. In September I even buy the fruit. Then I think some more until... well, I'll be blowed it's the week before Christmas! One year I even made the pudding on Christmas Eve, while wrapping the presents. I refuse to feel guilt about wrapping presents the night before Christmas - everyone does that (except for you, dad).

So anyway, I was making the pudding and thinking about my mum, like I do every time I make the pudding. Now that I stop to think about it, that may why I put it off so long. In particular I think about Mum's last Christmas with us, the first Christmas I made the pudding - because Mum was too weak to stir the mix. Well, mixing fruit and rubbing flour into the pudding cloth got me to thinking about other people who have also given me valuable kitchen lessons.
For example, every time I cook rice I now think about Rachel, who taught me how to cook it in the microwave (a service to saucepans worldwide). Rachel, by the way, makes a supurb Chicken Parmigiana... ask her sometime for the recipe.

I suppose we like to think that cooking is just a process, with a beginning a middle and an end. But I never really reach the end of a recipe, everytime I make something it is altered in some way... somewhat like my memories really.

Well, for those of you in the Northern Hemisphere it is still Christmas Eve so you're not too late to join in on my family tradition. You Aussies will just have to wait until next year (or really push the boundaries and make pudding Christmas day). You can find the recipe below. Feel free to substitue your own memories.

Jiffy Plum Pudding

You will need.
3 eggs.
1 cup of brown sugar.
7 cups any mixed fruit (chop large ones).
300mls cream.
2 and 1/4 cups of plain flour.
2 tsp mixed spice (I couldn't find this in the USA and used extra cinnamon and nutmeg instead).
1/2 tsp cinnamon.
1/2 tsp nutmeg.
1 tsp bi-carb (baking soda).

Brandy

A pudding cloth. A big pot.

Directions.
Beat eggs and sugar together until light.
Add fruit and cream and mix well.
Add remaining ingredients and mix well.
Wet pudding cloth and rub flour into a big circle. Plop mixture onto the cloth and gather the edges together, tying at the top.
Boil in a great big pot for three hours.
Hang in a cool dry place and pour brandy over. One or two cups should be enough. Cheap brandy is fine. Don't worry if you don't like brandy, it all washes off when you cook it again on Christmas day - it's really only used as a preservative.
Boil for one hour on day of serving. Remove from cloth and serve, preferably with hot custard.

Notes:
-should be made by beginning of October (ha!)
-do not allow to boil dry while cooking. Top up with boiling water from kettle.
-while hanging, don't let children or spouse use as a punching bag.

Oh, and happy Christmas.

Ice, Ice baby.

2005-12-14T12:43:00.000-06:00

Those of you who know me well have probably heard my theory about Perth. Perth as in the capital city of the state of Western Australia - not the Perth that is in Scotland. My theory, for those of you who haven't heard, is that it doesn't exist. Perth, that is. Well, I've never seen it. Well, that is, I had never seen it until fairly recently.

Imagine my embarrasment when I discovered it was real, all along. I would have felt my embarrassment more strongly, but it was having difficulty making itself heard over my exhaustion at the time. It turns out Perth is a long, long, long way from anywhere else. If any of you are tempted to drive to Perth and would like to know what it would be like, I recommend shutting your family in your car for four days and throwing money out the windows. Or six days, if you're travelling from Sydney.

You can understand why I doubted in the first place though. I mean, I had heard people talking about Perth. I had seen it written on the map. I learned about it in school. But I hadn't seen it. I had spoken to people who claimed to have been there - but they could have been lying, or making it up, or criminally insane. Right?
Well, seeing Perth with my own eyes certainly shook my theory somewhat. So, I now believe in Perth. And more power to those of you who are able to believe in Perth without seeing. I'm still not so sure about Darwin though. No, not the father of the theory of evolution, the capital of Australia's Northern Territory. Well, I've never seen it...

On, a related topic, I have recently come to an important conclusion about snow. I've decided it is an elaborate hoax played upon foreigners by the locals here. They talk about it as if it is real. The weather service keeps promising it. I have even seen pictures of it. Is it really only a coincidence that it always falls in surrounding areas, but never in ours? I think not. No, I'm fairly certain that it is like the 'drop-bear' stories that we Aussies use to frighten tourists. You know, 'When you're out in the bush watch out for the drop-bears, they hide in the trees and drop down and attack you'. Endlessly entertaining for the locals to watch tourists walking around nervously eyeing the treetops. Not to mention the fun of selling them a whole range of 'drop-bear' repelling products.

But I am no fool. I know exactly what all those snow shovels in Walmart are there for. They are for tourists who've bought into the 'snow' myth.
I will believe in snow when I see it. In the meantime, all we are getting is rain. Rain is boring. I have seen rain before. Don't get me wrong, I fully appreciate the benefit of a good rainfall. I do, after all, come from the driest state (South Australia) on the driest continent in the world.

(If you don't count Antarctica. Which I don't. Antarctica's claim is that it is the driest because all its moisture falls as snow, and not water. I don't believe in snow, ergo I don't believe Antarctica is the driest continent.)

It's just that the rain here isn't actually achieving anything. Except to make puddles. Which then freeze. Into ice. Aha. You were wondering when the ice was going to come into it, weren't you? Well, I may not believe in snow, but I certainly do believe in ice. I would have no choice but to believe really, considering the spectacular fall I performed recently by slipping on ice. The judges awarded me a 9.9. No injuries apart from to my dignity. So I will, in future be showing a great deal more respect for ice and all things icy.

Meanwhile I will continue to wait for things unseen. Aliens. The Loch Ness Monster. And snow. Who knows, I may even plan a trip to Darwin sometime - the next time I am back in Australia perhaps. If you'll excuse me, I need to go sit in the car for four days and throw money out the windows in preparation.

On U.S. Roads...

2005-12-01T11:49:00.000-06:00

In retrospect it may have been a tad foolish of me to blithely turn down our Pastor's invitation to collect Mike from the airport for me.

Let me begin by saying that the kids and I have been doing the 'airport run' for the last two or more years so successfully that I considered buying a cap and a sign. True, most executives requiring transportation from the airport would be a little fazed by the presence of three small children - one of whom is guaranteed to get car sick, and all of them likely to bicker. Then again, my rates are low.

That aside, for some time now we have braved the Sydney traffic twice a week in order to drop off or collect Mike. Now the Sydney run could go from forty minutes up to three and a half hours, depending on traffic. It could mean setting off at four am. or getting home after dark, depending on flight times. It could mean a simple trip there and back or it could mean getting halfway there and then dashing home again in a desperate sweaty hurry, depending on Mike's ability to forget stuff. But I had it down. I could do that trip in reverse, blindfolded while working out quadratic equations and knitting a scarf - which, in Sydney, is not such an unorthodox way to travel. Although, I may be giving the wrong impression by claiming an ability to conquer quadratic equations. In reality, just trying to count out $2.20 for the toll is taxing enough for me.

I fill you in on this history so that the following story doesn't cause you to think me completely incapable. So, back to the present. There were a few other considerations to bear in mind when doing the airport run here in the U.S.A. Let us not forget the minor issue of driving on the 'wrong' side of the road from the 'wrong' side of the car. But more on this later. Then there was the fact that I have only driven in Nashville twice, and both of those times have been the white-knuckled roller-coaster ride of fear that I like to refer to as 'following Mike'. So, needless to say, taking in the scenery was not really an option. Let us just say that he drives faster than I like to, and he doesn't give enough notice when he signals... and then let us never speak of this again. To sum up, my main concerns were,
1. That we would get lost.
2. That we would all die in an horrific flaming wreck.
3. That we would get lost.

Still, I had my pride to consider. My reputation as the 'go to girl' for airport rides. If I gave in on this I may as well have handed in my cap and sign. Seriously, what could really go wrong? I armed myself with directions from Mapquest, we fueled up 'Oprah' (our '92 Chevy Suburban) and we set off on our merry way, allowing an hour and a half for a forty minute trip.

One thing became obvious right away. At nine oclock at night on the Interstate there is no way to read directions without turning on the interior light - making it very obvious to any passing law-inforcement officers that my whole mind is not exactly on the job at hand (plus putting us at risk of option two, above). Hmm... perhaps it would have been wise to have given the directions more than a passing glance. Never mind, conveniently I happened to have brought the children - several of whom can read. So, throwing the driving directions in Sam's vicinity and switching on his little reading light I put my trust in the navigational abilities of a nine year old child.

The rest of the story gets a little hectic. Rather than give a blow by blow description, I will instead insert the following montage of images...

Sam giving directions. A road sign, claiming to lead to the airport, giving conlicting directions. Myself believing the road sign. A U-turn. Another U-turn. A further U-turn. Laura crying. Sam indignant because I didn't listen to him. Oli desperate for the bathroom. Laura crying. Still another U-turn. Sam needing the bathroom. Laura crying.

When they make 'Amy - the musical' this is the scene which will be set to Hillbilly music. And I have to say the task was not made any easier by the inconsiderate way the traffic was all travelling in the right-hand lanes. This may not sound like such a big deal - and it isn't - until you're trying to figure out which exit you want to take to go East... no , no , NO! EAST! NOT WEST! HANG ON KIDS, WE GOTTA TURN AROUND AGAIN!!!!!! Eventually I just caved in and rang Sue (my hero) who somehow knew exactly where we were, and also (and here's the important bit) how to get us to where we needed to go. Why is there no Nobel prize for navigation?

All of this drama, of course, made us ten minutes late getting to the airport. A fact I was more than mildly concerned about until discovering that the flight had been delayed an hour and a half.

Still, at least we managed to avoid that whole 'flaming wreck' scenario.

Cranberry 'salad'?

2005-11-26T20:19:00.000-06:00

Well, this week we experienced our first ever Thanksgiving. We were pretty lucky to be invited to join with another family for the meal, so we got the genuine experience with no effort required from me! Let me begin by saying I completely get the point now. Mm mm good food and good company while the kiddies run around and play in the barn. Actually, we had a barn - I make no promises that all your future Thanksgiving meals will involve a barn. And I am completely in love with pumpkin pie. This is a big deal for me since pumpkin is not what I would consider one of my favourite foods. Actually, I barely consider it a food.

I have to say something about cranberry salad though...
Now, I gather that this particular dish is one my hostess's grandmother invented - so it may fit in the same category as barns (see above, re. barns). However, I feel that to apply the term 'salad' to the dish we ate is a very loose application of the word. I guess I'll always believe it aint salad if it don't have lettuce and tomatoes. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't a nasty dish. Once I got past the 'Ok, this is a sweet thing being served at the same time as the savoury things' issue, I quite enjoyed it. I would pay good money, though, to go back in time to that kitchen long ago when someone first thought 'You know cranberries, Dairy Whip and marshmallows would make a tasty salad!'. For those of you who are not in the US, Dairy Whip is sort of like whipped cream... with preservatives. And for those of you who are thinking 'Aha! Now I have the secret recipe I can make my fortune!' - I believe there is a little more involved than just mixing those ingredients together.

Salad confusion aside, I thoroughly enjoyed my first Thanksgiving. I'm still a little fuzzy on the whole 'history behind the day' thing though. If you watched the Macy's Parade (as we did - oh yeah, we're embracing the culture over here) you kind of get the idea that the first Thanksgiving involved pilgrims and turkeys and marching bands... oh, and Garfield was there. As any self-respecting home schooling mother would do, I naturally went to the library in search of books about the day. Unfortunately, every other person had the same idea... and drove there quicker. So not a single book was left. Possibly next week then.

Still, the food was good. We made sure to put a whole heap of it in the freezer for Mike to sample when he gets back from Australia. We may hammer out some sort of 'Turkey for Tim-Tams' trade agreement with him.
NowI can hardly wait to see the look on his face when he tries the 'salad'......

Culinary sciences.

2005-11-14T23:57:00.000-06:00

This is terribly important advice. Seriously. Get out a pen and write this one down. We have suffered in the name of science and feel it is important to share the results of our research with the world. Yesterday an important discovery was made. It turns out that two minute noodles (or 'ramen' as they call it over here) will burn if you neglect to put any water in the bowl while cooking them in the microwave. Truly. Ask my son. No, not the one who deservedly has a reputation for destruction. The one who ordinarily is known for being quite bright. Also, the heat from burning noodles is sufficient to melt a hole in the base of a plastic bowl. On a related topic someone really needs to contact the people at Glade. Let me tell you, 'burnt noodles and melted plastic' smell has got the sort of staying power that puts 'ocean fresh' to shame. I can hear the accolades from the scientific community already.

At least we learnt a valuable lesson. Sam learnt that noodles need to be cooked in water. I learnt to be a lot more specific with my instructions. Laura learnt nothing. She went and did the exact same thing today! Hmmm... must make a point of watching Oliver especially closely tomorrow...

Crime and Punishment.

2005-11-08T18:56:00.000-06:00

It was a very remorseful Oliver who made a confession to me today. He held out his little fist and cried as though his five year old heart was broken, "I killed my friend!" I had been waiting for this day to come, based on past experiences, so I was not too surprised. But no, the juvenile detention centres would have to wait for him a little longer. Upon prying his fingers open I discovered nothing more horrifying than one very dead bug - or what I can only assume to be the remains of a bug. He spilled the whole truth out to me as he wept in my arms. We talked about how we need to be careful with delicate things because it is so easy to hurt them. He agreed, choking out "You can't squish them." before disolving again into tears.
So what is to be the penalty for his newly discovered 'crime' of insecticide? As I observed him cradling the buggy remains to his cheek and murmering, "I'm sorry little guy." I concluded that he had suffered enough.

Intro...

2005-11-08T14:10:00.000-06:00

Hello, and thankyou for visiting.
This is the Rayson family blog, the purpose being to provide updates from a family point of view. If you were looking for Mike Rayson's blog, try

http://mikerayson.blogspot.com/