Last week the eggnog required 3 cups of milk and 3 cups of heavy cream. Now in my book, that works out to 6 cups total of half-&-half, which saves individual measuring, anyway. Well, what do you suppose I found at the store on Monday but marked-down half-&-half?? I was so excited that I bought 10 quarts of it, and barely squeezed it into the freezer for future eggnogs, ice creams, and the like.
We found that our DVD player can play musical CDs, so that shoves off having to buy a CD player for the living room for another year - and the house is still filled with Christmas music!
Here is a transcript of Jane's first typing lesson:
m ./ b v vvvvv v bgkb ,n b hhhhhb,mbbbbbb
Apparently she can mostly reach the space bar.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Monday, November 28, 2005
Back to reality
Finally, things settle down. It's been a lovely week-and-then-some, but we hobbits can't always live on the heights, bless my buttons. Last week we had Oma visiting for a few days, and that was very nice: she admired her great-granddaughter extensively (but of course! Doesn't everybody?), took us all out to dinner, and bought Jane a next-size-up carseat for Christmas. Not terribly sentimental or heartwarming, perhaps, but intensely practical, and besides Jane will never know the difference.
Then came Thanksgiving Day itself, our first time hosting it and cooking a turkey of our own. Michael actually stuffed the stuffing into the bird himself! We had Todd and Marcela over, and I made real honest-to-goodness eggnog, complete with real rum, from a tiny bottle that I had been saving from some plane flight long ago when I got a complimentary drink.
On Saturday we hosted an After-Thanksgiving party, to eat up leftovers, make fudge, and play games. It was terribly fun, and somewhat reminiscent of those Game Nights at the Halls from long ago. Ah, me. I don't play Blurt nearly often enough these days.
The four-day weekend was absolutely lovely, but it spoiled us for real life, and now it's back to getting up early in the mornings again and cooking real meals instead of just grazing on leftovers. Oh, well. Less than a month until Christmas, and we're now playing Christmas music!
Then came Thanksgiving Day itself, our first time hosting it and cooking a turkey of our own. Michael actually stuffed the stuffing into the bird himself! We had Todd and Marcela over, and I made real honest-to-goodness eggnog, complete with real rum, from a tiny bottle that I had been saving from some plane flight long ago when I got a complimentary drink.
On Saturday we hosted an After-Thanksgiving party, to eat up leftovers, make fudge, and play games. It was terribly fun, and somewhat reminiscent of those Game Nights at the Halls from long ago. Ah, me. I don't play Blurt nearly often enough these days.
The four-day weekend was absolutely lovely, but it spoiled us for real life, and now it's back to getting up early in the mornings again and cooking real meals instead of just grazing on leftovers. Oh, well. Less than a month until Christmas, and we're now playing Christmas music!
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Time to face the music
Last night Michael explained to me all sorts of interesting things about close order drill. Many of the rules and regulations were invented for Boot Camp only and have no use beyond, but were branded so deeply into the brains of the young recruits that he remembers it all to this day.
For instance, when the drill instructor wants to get your visual attention, he may call out, 'Eyes!' Then all the recruits have to say, 'Click, Sir!' Or, if he wants them to listen particularly, he may holler, 'Ears!' All the recruits must reply enthusiastically, 'Snap, Sir!'
All discussion must be done in third person - no first or second person talk aloud. A request to address the drill instructor must be made using titles and names; for example: 'Sir, Recruit Focht requests permission to speak to the Drill Instructor, Staff Sergeant Smith, Sir!'
Colours is played twice a day, at 8 a.m. and at sundown. No matter where you are or what you are doing, you must stop what you are doing and salute the flag while the music plays. If you cannot see the flag from where you are, then you face in the direction of the music.
During boot camp, permission must be asked for everything, including permission to go to the bathroom. 'Sir, Recruit Focht requests permission to make a head call, Sir!' This is clearly why, aside from any philosophical issues I might have with it, the military life is not for me, who can barely muster up the bluntness to ask where the bathroom is in a strange house and would rather go blundering about looking for it than risk broaching such a delicate topic. Michael thinks this is very funny. I think it is less than funny to have bathrooms with no doors on the stalls and group head calls with three to a urinal.
Me: Was that awkward at all?
Michael: Nah, you get used to it.
Me: But was it awkward at first?
Michael: I don't remember.
Apparently guys don't mind this sort of thing as much.
For instance, when the drill instructor wants to get your visual attention, he may call out, 'Eyes!' Then all the recruits have to say, 'Click, Sir!' Or, if he wants them to listen particularly, he may holler, 'Ears!' All the recruits must reply enthusiastically, 'Snap, Sir!'
All discussion must be done in third person - no first or second person talk aloud. A request to address the drill instructor must be made using titles and names; for example: 'Sir, Recruit Focht requests permission to speak to the Drill Instructor, Staff Sergeant Smith, Sir!'
Colours is played twice a day, at 8 a.m. and at sundown. No matter where you are or what you are doing, you must stop what you are doing and salute the flag while the music plays. If you cannot see the flag from where you are, then you face in the direction of the music.
During boot camp, permission must be asked for everything, including permission to go to the bathroom. 'Sir, Recruit Focht requests permission to make a head call, Sir!' This is clearly why, aside from any philosophical issues I might have with it, the military life is not for me, who can barely muster up the bluntness to ask where the bathroom is in a strange house and would rather go blundering about looking for it than risk broaching such a delicate topic. Michael thinks this is very funny. I think it is less than funny to have bathrooms with no doors on the stalls and group head calls with three to a urinal.
Me: Was that awkward at all?
Michael: Nah, you get used to it.
Me: But was it awkward at first?
Michael: I don't remember.
Apparently guys don't mind this sort of thing as much.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Wizardry in the kitchen
When I was in the store yesterday, I noticed a shopping cart laden with holiday baking supplies. 'Getting ready for holiday baking?' the friendly clerk remarked. Only, it dawned on me that most of the boxes, cans, and pre-baked pie shells required very little actual mixing and measuring. And while I'm all for convenience and efficiency, I still can't accept the notion that merely opening cans and setting a timer on an oven qualifies as baking. It's shortcut cookery!
Once, when in a hurry, I made brownies from a mix and brought them to a dinner where they received compliments. And while I appreciated the good reviews, it put me in a quandary as to how to respond. There were several competing codes of conduct dictating a possible response:
1) The Institute programming that dictates that you never, ever accept praise for anything, because that leads to pride and selfish vainglory. Instead, you deflect every compliment to others so that God gets the glory and others get the credit. This keeps you humble (but not always, alas, honest).
2) Miss Manners' ruling that you accept sincere compliments with a gracious and demure 'Thank you,' as any attempt to deny the praise quickly degenerates into apparent compliments-fishing and shameless self-promotion. The harder you try to convince people that it was really nothing, the more insecure you look and the sillier they feel in their attempts to press one little consoling bit of positive feedback on you.
3) The simple fact that in this case, it was really, truly, honestly nothing. I opened a box, dumped in eggs and milk, and stuck in the oven. No talent, no effort, no cleverness required. So why should I accept credit for praise unearned?
But, alas, if I try to explain how I really feel about it, then I look like I'm taking Option A. Most people are too good-hearted to care about the details, and therefore wouldn't catch the shades of nuance between the obligatory, 'Oh, it was really nothing,' and an earnest explanation along the lines of 'This? Ha! That's nothing. It takes no talent whatsoever to stagger to the cupboard and throw together this instant brownie mix, so I can't leave you under the impression that this dish reflects my level of talent. Now, last week I tried out this new recipe that was really complicated, and that, I daresay, would have merited approval if it had turned out. I'll make it for you sometime, and if it turns out, you can rave about that instead. But don't waste your appreciation on this cheap cop-out.' No, that wouldn't go over so well. So I just smiled and said, 'I'm glad you liked it.' But it's NOT real baking!!
Once, when in a hurry, I made brownies from a mix and brought them to a dinner where they received compliments. And while I appreciated the good reviews, it put me in a quandary as to how to respond. There were several competing codes of conduct dictating a possible response:
1) The Institute programming that dictates that you never, ever accept praise for anything, because that leads to pride and selfish vainglory. Instead, you deflect every compliment to others so that God gets the glory and others get the credit. This keeps you humble (but not always, alas, honest).
2) Miss Manners' ruling that you accept sincere compliments with a gracious and demure 'Thank you,' as any attempt to deny the praise quickly degenerates into apparent compliments-fishing and shameless self-promotion. The harder you try to convince people that it was really nothing, the more insecure you look and the sillier they feel in their attempts to press one little consoling bit of positive feedback on you.
3) The simple fact that in this case, it was really, truly, honestly nothing. I opened a box, dumped in eggs and milk, and stuck in the oven. No talent, no effort, no cleverness required. So why should I accept credit for praise unearned?
But, alas, if I try to explain how I really feel about it, then I look like I'm taking Option A. Most people are too good-hearted to care about the details, and therefore wouldn't catch the shades of nuance between the obligatory, 'Oh, it was really nothing,' and an earnest explanation along the lines of 'This? Ha! That's nothing. It takes no talent whatsoever to stagger to the cupboard and throw together this instant brownie mix, so I can't leave you under the impression that this dish reflects my level of talent. Now, last week I tried out this new recipe that was really complicated, and that, I daresay, would have merited approval if it had turned out. I'll make it for you sometime, and if it turns out, you can rave about that instead. But don't waste your appreciation on this cheap cop-out.' No, that wouldn't go over so well. So I just smiled and said, 'I'm glad you liked it.' But it's NOT real baking!!
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Happy birthday...
...to the US Marine Corps, 230 years old today! On one of our early dates, Michael sang the Marine Corps Hymn to me. Unlike in the other branches of the military, Marines are required to learn all three verses of their hymn. And no wonder; it's grand enough for the few and the proud:
From the Halls of Montezuma
To the Shores of Tripoli;
We fight our country's battles
In the air, on land and sea;
First to fight for right and freedom
And to keep our honor clean;
We are proud to claim the title
Of United States Marine.
Our flag's unfurled to every breeze
From dawn to setting sun;
We have fought in ev'ry clime and place
Where we could take a gun;
In the snow of far-off Northern lands
And in sunny tropic scenes;
You will find us always on the job--
The United States Marines.
Here's health to you and to our Corps
Which we are proud to serve
In many a strife we've fought for life
And never lost our nerve;
If the Army and the Navy
Ever look on Heaven's scenes;
They will find the streets are guarded
By United States Marines.
From the Halls of Montezuma
To the Shores of Tripoli;
We fight our country's battles
In the air, on land and sea;
First to fight for right and freedom
And to keep our honor clean;
We are proud to claim the title
Of United States Marine.
Our flag's unfurled to every breeze
From dawn to setting sun;
We have fought in ev'ry clime and place
Where we could take a gun;
In the snow of far-off Northern lands
And in sunny tropic scenes;
You will find us always on the job--
The United States Marines.
Here's health to you and to our Corps
Which we are proud to serve
In many a strife we've fought for life
And never lost our nerve;
If the Army and the Navy
Ever look on Heaven's scenes;
They will find the streets are guarded
By United States Marines.
Let's talk turkey
One Thanksgiving long ago, when my father was unemployed and money was tight, my mother prayed for a turkey. Our family required a big bird, and she didn't think the food budget could stand the prevailing prices. And through a series of miraculous events, God provided not one, but three, turkeys!
While our situation is not nearly so drastic, I've been fretting lately while facing the prospect of buying a whole turkey. We won't be traveling to VA this fall, and it's my first Thanksgiving on my own - ergo, the first time that the responsibility of providing a bird falls on me. And while I suppose I could just run out to the store and pay fair market value, I've been half-heartedly praying - not with much fervour, I confess, because our situation doesn't seem nearly dire enough to merit an answer - for a good bargain on a turkey.
Well, this morning I got an adventure and a ticket to my turkey all in one! We received a flyer from a local car dealership offering a free turkey if you test drive a car during their weekend event. I called for details and ascertained that there was no purchase necessary. So off I went to the Suzuki dealership and got to test-drive a 2006 Grand Vitara! I told them up front that we weren't in the market for a car right now, and while we might be interested in a minivan in a year or two, I was just there for the turkey. The salesman was very nice about it, affably showed off all the features with no pressure to buy, and gave me a certificate for a turkey at the end of it.
It was a fun experience, because I didn't feel the pressure of a hard-sell that usually comes with such freebies, and I was able to relax and enjoy the drive and, meanwhile, learn a whole lot of stuff about modern cars. For one thing, most cars now - the ones that aren't absolutely indestructible, like Volvo - are built to crash a certain way, so that in an accident the frame crumples up around the cabin, the transmission and the engine drop away beneath the car, the air bags deploy and force shrapnel outward, and the passengers are generally unharmed. Also, the vehicle had a smart key, which needed merely to be in the vicinity to unlock the doors and - get this! - start the engine! I placed the remote on the console and turned the ignition, and the car started just like that!
It was a very cool car, and I had a lot of fun with the bells and whistles, but most of all I'm thrilled about the certificate for the turkey. God works in mysterious ways!
While our situation is not nearly so drastic, I've been fretting lately while facing the prospect of buying a whole turkey. We won't be traveling to VA this fall, and it's my first Thanksgiving on my own - ergo, the first time that the responsibility of providing a bird falls on me. And while I suppose I could just run out to the store and pay fair market value, I've been half-heartedly praying - not with much fervour, I confess, because our situation doesn't seem nearly dire enough to merit an answer - for a good bargain on a turkey.
Well, this morning I got an adventure and a ticket to my turkey all in one! We received a flyer from a local car dealership offering a free turkey if you test drive a car during their weekend event. I called for details and ascertained that there was no purchase necessary. So off I went to the Suzuki dealership and got to test-drive a 2006 Grand Vitara! I told them up front that we weren't in the market for a car right now, and while we might be interested in a minivan in a year or two, I was just there for the turkey. The salesman was very nice about it, affably showed off all the features with no pressure to buy, and gave me a certificate for a turkey at the end of it.
It was a fun experience, because I didn't feel the pressure of a hard-sell that usually comes with such freebies, and I was able to relax and enjoy the drive and, meanwhile, learn a whole lot of stuff about modern cars. For one thing, most cars now - the ones that aren't absolutely indestructible, like Volvo - are built to crash a certain way, so that in an accident the frame crumples up around the cabin, the transmission and the engine drop away beneath the car, the air bags deploy and force shrapnel outward, and the passengers are generally unharmed. Also, the vehicle had a smart key, which needed merely to be in the vicinity to unlock the doors and - get this! - start the engine! I placed the remote on the console and turned the ignition, and the car started just like that!
It was a very cool car, and I had a lot of fun with the bells and whistles, but most of all I'm thrilled about the certificate for the turkey. God works in mysterious ways!
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Found in translation
I have been keeping up (albeit erratically) with many friends from Holland, whom we visited last March. Recently I received an email from one dear friend who had heard about the hurricane and was wondering whether we survived it all right.
(I am so bad about procrastinating, and only just now got around to replying. The problem with a proper correspondence is that I want to make it just so, so that I keep delaying until I have a good spot of time to do a reply proper justice, and that moment never comes. So, every so often I get seized with a burst of industry and feverish creativity, highly tempered with guilt, and dash off all the emails I have been owing to everyone, with apologies affixed for the belated and truncated nature of the email. It is not a good system, but it is the best I have been able to manage thus far.)
Back came a reply (in Dutch) that was clearly an automatic out-of-office reply. Out of curiosity I copied it and ran it through an online translation site, and deciphered the following message:
Of Monday 7 November till and with Friday 11 November I am absentee. In pressing cases, you can take up contact with my colleague M- (026, 8888888), or a message leave behind e-mail (06, 5555555) on my voice; I read and hear e-mail my c. q voice anyhow a time per day.
With kind greeting,
A-
(I am so bad about procrastinating, and only just now got around to replying. The problem with a proper correspondence is that I want to make it just so, so that I keep delaying until I have a good spot of time to do a reply proper justice, and that moment never comes. So, every so often I get seized with a burst of industry and feverish creativity, highly tempered with guilt, and dash off all the emails I have been owing to everyone, with apologies affixed for the belated and truncated nature of the email. It is not a good system, but it is the best I have been able to manage thus far.)
Back came a reply (in Dutch) that was clearly an automatic out-of-office reply. Out of curiosity I copied it and ran it through an online translation site, and deciphered the following message:
Of Monday 7 November till and with Friday 11 November I am absentee. In pressing cases, you can take up contact with my colleague M- (026, 8888888), or a message leave behind e-mail (06, 5555555) on my voice; I read and hear e-mail my c. q voice anyhow a time per day.
With kind greeting,
A-
Monday, November 07, 2005
Vanity and vexation
This is a matter which has puzzled me for some time.
Apparently there are obscure tribes out there containing people who do not wear, and have never worn, shoes of any kind. Their feet have toughened up and they are perfectly accustomed to running around barefoot all of their days. Accordingly, their feet have followed nature's course and end up growing far bigger than our 'civilised' feet, with the toes splayed wildly and the length quite beyond our average foot.
(I assume this is all true. It seems to be something I've heard many times and grew up believing. If this is not true, please enlighten me. At least it makes sense.)
So, it seems that by wearing shoes, our culture has imposed a certain limitation on nature, much like wearing corsets artificially (but how gracefully!) shaped the body in another era. This is so normal that we take it for granted. So why is it not wrong?
In China, foot-binding was part of the culture at one time, and very clearly involved mutilation and pain. Carried to excess, this obsession with a certain shape and size destroyed the health and greatly reduced the practical effectiveness of those on whom it was practised. Gladys Aylward, the famous missionary to China, was a heroine for rescuing little girls from this oppressive and destructive ritual.
So how does our modern culture differ? Merely in degree? How are we not practising some minor form of foot-binding simply by wearing shoes that contain and repress our feet?
I haven't worked it out yet. I am sure we're not intentionally doing anything wrong, but it's hard to see why not. Perhaps the motive has something to do with it, the fact that we wear shoes to protect our feet and get around and not solely to make our feet ridiculously small. After all, the smaller feet we end up with (as compared to the au natural obscure tribe's feet) are merely a side-effect and not a goal of wearing shoes. And yet, who hasn't at one time worn a shoe that wasn't quite the most efficient or practical in order to look good? See, vanity does have something to do with it.
Apparently there are obscure tribes out there containing people who do not wear, and have never worn, shoes of any kind. Their feet have toughened up and they are perfectly accustomed to running around barefoot all of their days. Accordingly, their feet have followed nature's course and end up growing far bigger than our 'civilised' feet, with the toes splayed wildly and the length quite beyond our average foot.
(I assume this is all true. It seems to be something I've heard many times and grew up believing. If this is not true, please enlighten me. At least it makes sense.)
So, it seems that by wearing shoes, our culture has imposed a certain limitation on nature, much like wearing corsets artificially (but how gracefully!) shaped the body in another era. This is so normal that we take it for granted. So why is it not wrong?
In China, foot-binding was part of the culture at one time, and very clearly involved mutilation and pain. Carried to excess, this obsession with a certain shape and size destroyed the health and greatly reduced the practical effectiveness of those on whom it was practised. Gladys Aylward, the famous missionary to China, was a heroine for rescuing little girls from this oppressive and destructive ritual.
So how does our modern culture differ? Merely in degree? How are we not practising some minor form of foot-binding simply by wearing shoes that contain and repress our feet?
I haven't worked it out yet. I am sure we're not intentionally doing anything wrong, but it's hard to see why not. Perhaps the motive has something to do with it, the fact that we wear shoes to protect our feet and get around and not solely to make our feet ridiculously small. After all, the smaller feet we end up with (as compared to the au natural obscure tribe's feet) are merely a side-effect and not a goal of wearing shoes. And yet, who hasn't at one time worn a shoe that wasn't quite the most efficient or practical in order to look good? See, vanity does have something to do with it.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Nicely put
I just stumbled across this delightful quote by the ever clever Miss Manners:
'The difference between teasing and taunting is like the difference between kissing and spitting. The ingredients are the same; it is the emotion that determines whether it is pleasing or repellent.'
'The difference between teasing and taunting is like the difference between kissing and spitting. The ingredients are the same; it is the emotion that determines whether it is pleasing or repellent.'
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Half a year
My half birthday last week and Jane's half birthday tomorrow (Hey! One week apart, just like our birthdays were! What are the odds of that??) made me think of all the things that come in halves:
Half a loaf
Half a lump (Ha, ha! A little Pooh humour there!)
Half a league
Although, technically, it was half a league, half a league, half a league onward, which makes - let's see - one and a half leagues. Oh, well. I'm not great at making lists, so it was only a half-hearted effort, anyway. So forget about lists. On to mulling and pondering.
A span of six months usually doesn't make that big a difference in real time. For a kid, it can seems like a really long time, but for most adults, six months is just business as usual. With a few exceptions, when a lot happened really fast and things changed very quickly for me, my life has not undergone that many drastic revisions in the short space of six months. I can generally look back to myself six months ago and find myself more or less the same person that I was then, with perhaps a little more wisdom and experience to show for the time spent, but nothing out of the ordinary.
For a baby, however, the change is marked. Jane is a very different person from who she was six months ago. Everything about her has changed: her size, her personality, her abilities, her tastes, her perception of the world around her. She was 20.5 inches at birth, and now is 26 inches long, which means that she's been growing at the rate of practically an inch a month. I do not observe that drastic kind of change in my life.
I'm sure it has to do with the time span viewed as a percentage of the whole life. Right now, six months represents 1/51 of my life, so it's not going to make as marked a difference in me as it does in her. But still, can you imagine what our lives would be like if we lived at that breathless pace, learning and absorbing and changing and growing on a weekly and even a daily basis? It reminds me of those studies that prove that the average human uses only about 2% of his brain, and makes me wonder what we could accomplish if only we could tap into the other 98%!
Half a loaf
Half a lump (Ha, ha! A little Pooh humour there!)
Half a league
Although, technically, it was half a league, half a league, half a league onward, which makes - let's see - one and a half leagues. Oh, well. I'm not great at making lists, so it was only a half-hearted effort, anyway. So forget about lists. On to mulling and pondering.
A span of six months usually doesn't make that big a difference in real time. For a kid, it can seems like a really long time, but for most adults, six months is just business as usual. With a few exceptions, when a lot happened really fast and things changed very quickly for me, my life has not undergone that many drastic revisions in the short space of six months. I can generally look back to myself six months ago and find myself more or less the same person that I was then, with perhaps a little more wisdom and experience to show for the time spent, but nothing out of the ordinary.
For a baby, however, the change is marked. Jane is a very different person from who she was six months ago. Everything about her has changed: her size, her personality, her abilities, her tastes, her perception of the world around her. She was 20.5 inches at birth, and now is 26 inches long, which means that she's been growing at the rate of practically an inch a month. I do not observe that drastic kind of change in my life.
I'm sure it has to do with the time span viewed as a percentage of the whole life. Right now, six months represents 1/51 of my life, so it's not going to make as marked a difference in me as it does in her. But still, can you imagine what our lives would be like if we lived at that breathless pace, learning and absorbing and changing and growing on a weekly and even a daily basis? It reminds me of those studies that prove that the average human uses only about 2% of his brain, and makes me wonder what we could accomplish if only we could tap into the other 98%!
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
I can't believe...
...that culottes are making a comeback, only now they're actually calling themselves gauchos, as if a mere name change can disguise their intrinsic hideousness. Weren't the eighties styles bad enough the first time around, and shouldn't we be letting them cower in oblivion, instead of pretending that 'Career gauchos' can now present themselves in professional society?
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Snapshots of thought
- This Sunday marks the return to Standard Time. Hurrah for sleeping in an extra hour! But alas, it's going to be powerful dark by suppertime.
- I'm staggered by the news of Harriet Miers' withdrawal. Can't decide whether it's a good thing or not. Probably easiest to step down gracefully now than to try to stick it out and be battered to pieces in the process and probably not win anyway, but it's got to be a setback for President Bush.
- I'm reading aloud Ella Enchanted to Michael. It's a delightful fairy tale that I enjoyed reading to my little brothers the summer before I left home, but I still can't figure out how to pronounce Ogrese. It's definitely not as linguistically complex a language as any of Tolkien's works, but it's still original how it uses random capital letters and punctuations to denote a completely foreign tongue.
- Michael's reading aloud War on the Eastern Front to me, chronicling the ill-fated Russian campaign by Germany in 1941-44. It feels very much like reading War and Peace, and I'm struck over and over again with the vast expanses of land and grand sweeps of destiny. Last night we read about how the Red Army would round up civilians from local villages and march them across minefields planted by Germans to clear a path for the army to advance. There were millions of peasants to spare, and the Soviets had absolutely no respect for human life.
- Suddenly this week we are using the heat instead of the A/C. That transition happened quickly. This is the third winter we've lived in this house and we have yet to light a fire in the fireplace.
- I'm staggered by the news of Harriet Miers' withdrawal. Can't decide whether it's a good thing or not. Probably easiest to step down gracefully now than to try to stick it out and be battered to pieces in the process and probably not win anyway, but it's got to be a setback for President Bush.
- I'm reading aloud Ella Enchanted to Michael. It's a delightful fairy tale that I enjoyed reading to my little brothers the summer before I left home, but I still can't figure out how to pronounce Ogrese. It's definitely not as linguistically complex a language as any of Tolkien's works, but it's still original how it uses random capital letters and punctuations to denote a completely foreign tongue.
- Michael's reading aloud War on the Eastern Front to me, chronicling the ill-fated Russian campaign by Germany in 1941-44. It feels very much like reading War and Peace, and I'm struck over and over again with the vast expanses of land and grand sweeps of destiny. Last night we read about how the Red Army would round up civilians from local villages and march them across minefields planted by Germans to clear a path for the army to advance. There were millions of peasants to spare, and the Soviets had absolutely no respect for human life.
- Suddenly this week we are using the heat instead of the A/C. That transition happened quickly. This is the third winter we've lived in this house and we have yet to light a fire in the fireplace.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Quality of life
It occurred to me, as I was rinsing off the dishes preparatory to dumping them in the dishwasher, how very grateful I am for running (hot) water, which enables me to live in a state of comparative cleanliness. I can't imagine eating food off of dishes which have merely been soaked in dishwater, and yet that is how people lived on a daily basis up until a hundred years ago or so, except for the very rich people, who were able to pay (or force) other people to use several tubs of water for the process, thus getting the dishes fairly clean.
But it got me to thinking about the standards of cleanliness to which we are accustomed, and which we take for granted. Now we assume that we can have running water on hand to bathe in every day, to wash our hands off with several times a day, to wash our clothes in whenever we want, to wash our linens and dishes in; and we have top-notch vacuum cleaners to whisk away every last particle of dust, and long-handled brushes with powerful chemicals to deal with microscopic filth. But if we didn't have these tools, we wouldn't know any better, and would just live with it. Just like the medieval castle people who ate soup off of pieces of bread and didn't wipe the tables down afterwards, because they didn't know any different. Or like the pioneers who bathed basically whenever they came across a river, and considered themselves lucky if the water wasn't too cold. Or like the 18th-century commoners who routinely ate the weevils and mouse droppings in their grains because they didn't know any other way of food storage.
We think we have it pretty good. But the nobles in the castles thought so too, suffering from cold and damp and smoke in the cold stone rooms and halls and relying on the servants to pick the lice and bedbugs off of them, turning up their noses at the peasants who had to muck around in the dirt.
Modern technology has made possible a whole new level of cleanliness, and I am so grateful for it! I can't imagine life any other way. But I wonder whether further advances will push the frontiers of cleanliness even farther, and if future generations are going to look at us and wrinkle up their noses at us for living in such conditions. Will modern science ever find a way to rid us of those microscopic eyelash spiders, or invent a silt-proof spray we can spray on all household surfaces to repel cobwebs and dust particles, or eradicate the little dust-mites that live in linens and feed off dead skin cells? Or is there some natural barrier to how far human ingenuity can go, some limiting factor on the amount of scrubbing up we can do to tidy up the nastiness of this world? Is it even possible to ever be totally, completely, thoroughly sanitary and hygienic in a fallen and dying world? Probably not. So I'm very glad to have come as far as we have. As long as I don't know about the grasshoppers in my ketchup, I'll be happy.
But it got me to thinking about the standards of cleanliness to which we are accustomed, and which we take for granted. Now we assume that we can have running water on hand to bathe in every day, to wash our hands off with several times a day, to wash our clothes in whenever we want, to wash our linens and dishes in; and we have top-notch vacuum cleaners to whisk away every last particle of dust, and long-handled brushes with powerful chemicals to deal with microscopic filth. But if we didn't have these tools, we wouldn't know any better, and would just live with it. Just like the medieval castle people who ate soup off of pieces of bread and didn't wipe the tables down afterwards, because they didn't know any different. Or like the pioneers who bathed basically whenever they came across a river, and considered themselves lucky if the water wasn't too cold. Or like the 18th-century commoners who routinely ate the weevils and mouse droppings in their grains because they didn't know any other way of food storage.
We think we have it pretty good. But the nobles in the castles thought so too, suffering from cold and damp and smoke in the cold stone rooms and halls and relying on the servants to pick the lice and bedbugs off of them, turning up their noses at the peasants who had to muck around in the dirt.
Modern technology has made possible a whole new level of cleanliness, and I am so grateful for it! I can't imagine life any other way. But I wonder whether further advances will push the frontiers of cleanliness even farther, and if future generations are going to look at us and wrinkle up their noses at us for living in such conditions. Will modern science ever find a way to rid us of those microscopic eyelash spiders, or invent a silt-proof spray we can spray on all household surfaces to repel cobwebs and dust particles, or eradicate the little dust-mites that live in linens and feed off dead skin cells? Or is there some natural barrier to how far human ingenuity can go, some limiting factor on the amount of scrubbing up we can do to tidy up the nastiness of this world? Is it even possible to ever be totally, completely, thoroughly sanitary and hygienic in a fallen and dying world? Probably not. So I'm very glad to have come as far as we have. As long as I don't know about the grasshoppers in my ketchup, I'll be happy.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Smarter than dolphins??
Yesterday Jane was fiddling around with something. Usually anything within reach goes straight into her mouth, but sometimes when she gets intrigued she'll start working with her fingers as a look of profound concentration floods her face. I think it had to do with a fastening on her playmat.
Me: Look at that! She'll have that figured out any minute now.
Michael: She's a smart one, all right.
Me: She's figuring out how to work the latch, just like a raccoon! Five months old and she's almost as smart as a raccoon!
Michael: Well, she's a human. I think that ranks higher than raccoons.
Me: Oh, yeah, that's right.
Me: Look at that! She'll have that figured out any minute now.
Michael: She's a smart one, all right.
Me: She's figuring out how to work the latch, just like a raccoon! Five months old and she's almost as smart as a raccoon!
Michael: Well, she's a human. I think that ranks higher than raccoons.
Me: Oh, yeah, that's right.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
More of the wonderful weekend
I had barely uploaded the pictures yesterday, and had not gotten so far as to format them nicely, when I heard a soft thump behind me and turned around to discover that Jane had rolled off the bed and landed on the floor. Fortunately she landed on her back and the floor is carpeted, so after an initial bout of crying to work off her surprise, she quieted down and seemed perfectly fine. The little dear has been such a trooper these last few days!
As the pictures will demonstrate, we had a fabulous time of meeting old friends, although somehow the pictures with the bride and groom ended up on a different camera. Jane and I flew up Friday morning and spent the afternoon circulating around HSLDA, and Jane was a paragon of smiles and laughter despite having awakened at five and getting only an hour's nap all day long. Sara very kindly drove out to see us, and we hung out trying to converse, although in the midst of three little children clamouring for attention we agreed that we probably could have covered more ground just talking on the telephone during nap time. =) It's the thought that counts. Cora had baked us two loaves of her famous banana bread, and got to feed Jane her bottle. We breezed through most of the entire building, noting all the changes and being absolutely astounded at the sea of new faces. I think Legal has turned over about three times since my day.
Saturday was a beautiful day: sunny and warm, as all wedding days should be. Michael very generously walked with Jane out in the hallway through the entire ceremony, which was absolutely gorgeous. The bridesmaids wore long, sleeveless wine-coloured dresses and carried a single long-stemmed white flower (the name of which temporarily escapes me), and there was Janice!! I sat behind a whole row of PHC students, too, so it was a real blast from the past. It was a beautiful ceremony, and Joanna was radiant. I must add that here and there floated out a subdued whimper or bleat from some young member of the audience, and I wished so ardently that there could be a subtle way to get the word out that 'That's not my baby! My baby is being quietly walked in the hallway, and has been a perfect angel all weekend, despite not having gotten nearly enough sleep!' I tell you, this Mama Bear stuff is wholly engrossing. The reception was a wonderful party in which I got the biggest scoop of the year, over which I am still bubbling.
Sunday we went to church and met yet more old friends, and got to tour the new church building, oh-so-close to completion. After a pleasantly relaxing lunch with my family, we up and left. And Monday night we watched an episode of The Avengers, per Sara's recommendation and lending. Very quirky.
And that's the weekend in a nutshell! I am no longer setting Jane down on the bed while I work on the computer, no matter how far away from the edge she starts out.
As the pictures will demonstrate, we had a fabulous time of meeting old friends, although somehow the pictures with the bride and groom ended up on a different camera. Jane and I flew up Friday morning and spent the afternoon circulating around HSLDA, and Jane was a paragon of smiles and laughter despite having awakened at five and getting only an hour's nap all day long. Sara very kindly drove out to see us, and we hung out trying to converse, although in the midst of three little children clamouring for attention we agreed that we probably could have covered more ground just talking on the telephone during nap time. =) It's the thought that counts. Cora had baked us two loaves of her famous banana bread, and got to feed Jane her bottle. We breezed through most of the entire building, noting all the changes and being absolutely astounded at the sea of new faces. I think Legal has turned over about three times since my day.
Saturday was a beautiful day: sunny and warm, as all wedding days should be. Michael very generously walked with Jane out in the hallway through the entire ceremony, which was absolutely gorgeous. The bridesmaids wore long, sleeveless wine-coloured dresses and carried a single long-stemmed white flower (the name of which temporarily escapes me), and there was Janice!! I sat behind a whole row of PHC students, too, so it was a real blast from the past. It was a beautiful ceremony, and Joanna was radiant. I must add that here and there floated out a subdued whimper or bleat from some young member of the audience, and I wished so ardently that there could be a subtle way to get the word out that 'That's not my baby! My baby is being quietly walked in the hallway, and has been a perfect angel all weekend, despite not having gotten nearly enough sleep!' I tell you, this Mama Bear stuff is wholly engrossing. The reception was a wonderful party in which I got the biggest scoop of the year, over which I am still bubbling.
Sunday we went to church and met yet more old friends, and got to tour the new church building, oh-so-close to completion. After a pleasantly relaxing lunch with my family, we up and left. And Monday night we watched an episode of The Avengers, per Sara's recommendation and lending. Very quirky.
And that's the weekend in a nutshell! I am no longer setting Jane down on the bed while I work on the computer, no matter how far away from the edge she starts out.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Christian charity
Somewhere between turning the other cheek and turning out the money-changers in the temple lies a right and respectable model of behaviour for those of us who wish to honour God in our daily walk. I don't have a one-size-fits-all guide for ascertaining exactly which course this is, but I do know two extremes it is not. One is the abuse of God's name for personal gain at the expense of others, as experienced recently by Sara. That form of godliness strikes me as a scam designed to take in credulous good-hearted and well-meaning people.
And the other is the let's-not-make-waves, they-will-know-we-are-Christians-by-our-niceness brand of meekness to a fault.
Case in point: A certain person (let's call him Caesar) was invited out to lunch. The restaurant advertised that lunch meals would be served within fifteen minutes or the meal was free. Caesar's lunch break being limited, he was naturally anxious to get back to work, and went so far as to time the arrival of the food. When it arrived a good twenty minutes after ordering, he attempted to bring the matter to the attention of the waitress, and was immediately voted down by his fellow diners, who were obviously uncomfortable with the idea of holding the restaurant to its word and were apparently more interested in not making a scene than in following up on a perfectly good policy.
My guess is that they were simply people who couldn't deal with confrontation in any form, and didn't want to come across as critical of the waitress. But it seems an insult to God to cloak such timidity in the guise of Christianity, as if being a Christian means never being able to point out error in others or to complain of a wrong suffered. This reminds me of situations when an item of defective merchandise was not returned because 'it would be such a bad testimony to complain.'
I think the misconception here arises from a careless mixing of the rules governing the secular and the sacred, the personal and the institutional, perhaps an audacious statement because of course I believe that our Christianity should transcend every aspect of our lives. I propound, however, that applying principles for Christian individuals wholesale to institutions, policies, or governing bodies, is not what God intended when He called us to a life of personal holiness and commitment.
That misapplication of principle is where we get criticism of capitalism as such a brutal, uncaring, unloving, and therefore, surely, un-Christian economic system. Yes, capitalism can be cut-throat. As Churchill said, it's the worst economic system, except for all the others. (A socialist economic system, run by evil fallen human beings, is ten times scarier than a capitalist economic system run by evil fallen human beings.) But it's not the point of the economic system to exemplify Christ's ideal kingdom; it's the job of the people in the system to model Christ's character. What does that entail? In the professional level, it should involve good stewardship of one's assets; living as prudently as possible; seeking out the best bargains (but not using unethical means to do so); and using the bounty to bless others. One should not attempt to coerce the system into shouldering the burden of demonstrating Christ's love to the masses; in fact, that's a cheap cop-out of one's own individual responsibilities to love one's neighbour.
And the other is the let's-not-make-waves, they-will-know-we-are-Christians-by-our-niceness brand of meekness to a fault.
Case in point: A certain person (let's call him Caesar) was invited out to lunch. The restaurant advertised that lunch meals would be served within fifteen minutes or the meal was free. Caesar's lunch break being limited, he was naturally anxious to get back to work, and went so far as to time the arrival of the food. When it arrived a good twenty minutes after ordering, he attempted to bring the matter to the attention of the waitress, and was immediately voted down by his fellow diners, who were obviously uncomfortable with the idea of holding the restaurant to its word and were apparently more interested in not making a scene than in following up on a perfectly good policy.
My guess is that they were simply people who couldn't deal with confrontation in any form, and didn't want to come across as critical of the waitress. But it seems an insult to God to cloak such timidity in the guise of Christianity, as if being a Christian means never being able to point out error in others or to complain of a wrong suffered. This reminds me of situations when an item of defective merchandise was not returned because 'it would be such a bad testimony to complain.'
I think the misconception here arises from a careless mixing of the rules governing the secular and the sacred, the personal and the institutional, perhaps an audacious statement because of course I believe that our Christianity should transcend every aspect of our lives. I propound, however, that applying principles for Christian individuals wholesale to institutions, policies, or governing bodies, is not what God intended when He called us to a life of personal holiness and commitment.
That misapplication of principle is where we get criticism of capitalism as such a brutal, uncaring, unloving, and therefore, surely, un-Christian economic system. Yes, capitalism can be cut-throat. As Churchill said, it's the worst economic system, except for all the others. (A socialist economic system, run by evil fallen human beings, is ten times scarier than a capitalist economic system run by evil fallen human beings.) But it's not the point of the economic system to exemplify Christ's ideal kingdom; it's the job of the people in the system to model Christ's character. What does that entail? In the professional level, it should involve good stewardship of one's assets; living as prudently as possible; seeking out the best bargains (but not using unethical means to do so); and using the bounty to bless others. One should not attempt to coerce the system into shouldering the burden of demonstrating Christ's love to the masses; in fact, that's a cheap cop-out of one's own individual responsibilities to love one's neighbour.
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