She was born in 1954, the only brand new car my parents ever owned. Despite being mint green and boxy, she was a lemon.

  After a few years, she was retired to the back lawn behind the double row of pine trees, which hid her from the casual observer's view. Still, the family knew that she was there out of sight like some crazed auntie hidden in the attic. She had behaved rather badly after all. She had been "set aside" because my father had a new job that came with a pink station wagon, I think it was a Plymouth. It was also a lemon, but that's not the point of this story. 
 Fast forward a few years and Dad had another job at the paper mill right in town. Since the pink Plymouth was out of the picture, the mint green Mercury was back in. No need for a truly dependable car as my dad could hitch a ride, if necessary. Sometimes it was. (My father was a weekend mechanic back in the days when engines were much simpler affairs.) I remember how embarrassing it was. Though I was all of eight years old, I didn't think "our" car looked very much like the 60s models my friends' families had. Further, the pine needles and pine cones that blew out of her underpinnings here and there wherever we went did not help with my assessment of our situation. How truly embarrassing! 
 In the winter of 1962, a few days after Christmas, a blizzard hit. My father announced over breakfast that he was putting on the tire chains so that we could go tobogganing over the unplowed roads. This was a first for me! "Call the Neighbors," Dad bellowed as he left the house, "see if they want to come, too." Oh boy howdy! A party! 
 We all piled into the Mercury and packed in tight. There were seven of us: my mother, father, and sister and three of our neighbors—the mother and two sons. Their dad, perhaps wisely, stayed home. The adults were in the front; we kids were on our knees in the back watching out the rear window as the toboggan trailed behind us. 
 My dad took the first left, which would eventually take us over hill and dale in a big circle back to our house. We came upon the snow plow right off. My father started flashing his lights and honking his horn. The plow stopped. My dad hopped out and had a brief conversation with the driver and then hopped back in the car and we inched past the plow into unplowed territory. Dad explained that we would get a little ahead of the plow and then we could take turns being pulled on the toboggan. And thus ensued high fun and drama. 
After the snowplow, we never saw another car, which I am sure is the safest thing and part of God's protection over us. One of the mothers was always on the ride so that she could scream, "Get off!" whenever the toboggan was going so fast down a hill that it might catch up with the car. 
It was a Winter Wonderland to the tenth power with the added excitement of danger. Too soon, we were back home having some very calming hot chocolate and cinnamon toast. It had all been perfectly exhilarating. We never did it again.
 Still, when I think about the 1954 Mint Green Mercury, I see her from my toboggan perspective looking up at her shiny chrome bumper as she chugged up a snowy hill, her tire chains rattling and with the sound of laughter in my ears. I think my face looked a lot like this:

ツ

Another Note Card Party in the can. Thank you so much for making it fun and for being a good visitor who leaves comments and for sharing your talent and beautiful photographs with us! The next Note Card Party will be December 18.

My love for Pilgrims was fostered early in a first grade classroom by Mrs. Pulsifer. She is the very one who taught me Psalm 23 and The Lord's Prayer. She also loved Thanksgiving and so things really began to pick up once November rolled around.

Perhaps she had ancestors who arrived on The Mayflower; perhaps she was a Daughter of the American Revolution as well. Whatever, she could surely tell some stories.

It takes things awhile to come full circle around here. I could let today's particular closure go without discussing it, if I weren't writing this here blog for the benefit of my family. (Hahahahahaha...I do crack myself up. Actually, quite to the contrary, I had a family ban on reading my blog for years. When they did read it, they tiptoed in and tiptoed out. Sometimes I caught them; most of the time I didn't.) 
It was way back on a post written in November 2007 that I pondered what painting hung on the back wall of my first grade classroom. I had not remembered correctly at that time — close, but not quite right; however, when I saw it recently, I recognized it immediately!
Yup. Something like that portrait will stay with you! It certainly has for me. It hung on the back wall of the classroom above the piano. I think of it as being a large, framed print. I would never have been able to guess that my ancestors had such experiences as this young couple portrayed in this painting of being too close to the War Path. 
While wandering the genealogy paths that I have recently found, I learned some interesting, even shocking, things. This list starts slowly and gains speed ☺:
1. First of all, my grandmother's maternal grandfather's parents were second cousins so this becomes a double line.
2. My three times great-grandfather (Hezekiah) was a Civil War veteran.
3. My five times great-grandfather (Joshua) was a Revolutionary War veteran.
4. My first ancestor in that line came to this country in 1635 — that's not much later than the Pilgrims. He was my eight times great-grandfather (George).
5. George had many children. One daughter, a mid-wife, was caring for a multiple great-grandmother of Jill's(Jill's World of Research, Reaction and Millinery)when the unthinkable happened.(I find it fascinating that here Jill and I have been hanging out together in Blogdom for some years now and our ancestors were hanging out together way back in 1697. Good thing I remembered Jill's story!) 
Jill has told the remarkable, even controversial, story of her ancestor (and mine) on her blog. If you ever need a good great fascinating read, I point you to it *here to get started* (though she wove an incredible tale beginning somewhere early in March of 2007...she is a research librarian after all) and *here in some final musings*. Jill tells the story with compassion and love. I am not equal to that task and so I am very glad that Jill has already done it. Edited to Add: Jill actually has a very handy label in her sidebar that pulls all her posts on this subject together chronologically. It's called Dustin Family Saga. 
I find myself astonished that, as a New Englander, I have roots that go back nearly to the beginning of American history. (You may remember my describing my investigation into my family history as if my family must have crawled out from under a rock because I could find so little. If you are searching, keep searching from time to time. New information is being added to the web all the time.) If you have lived in an area all your life and your family is tucked all around you, you may discover roots that go way back, too.   Now I know that the Bible specifically teaches (1 Timothy 1:4) that genealogy is not something to spend much time pondering and I believe that. Genealogy is not an important thing, though I could make a case that not only does math prove God, genealogy does, too, because genealogy is so very mathematical. Eventually, we're all going back to you know who in The Garden of Eden. I kid you not. Do the math!
I well remember my uncle telling me, after his taking many genealogy classes about twenty-five years ago, that 16 generations back everyone on earth is related. When I told him the Garden of Eden bit, he blinked hard several times. He found that a titch more difficult to comprehend.
I have more to say about this adventure into the family archives, though I'll save it for another time, probably writing on a Saturday when no one is around to read.☺
Today, I want to close with a testimony my five times Great-Grandfather Joshua's mother Ruth (six times great-grandmother) gave. She lived in perilous times before the country had even been established. Abenaki Indians had been responsible for the horrific deaths of her parents in a raid on Haverhill, Massachusetts in the early 1700s. (I wish to add that that was then and this is now. Different times, different sensibilities.) Even so, Ruth could say this:
I desire to be thankful that I was born in a Land of Light where I have heard the Gospel preached and the Bible read...I have had encouragement from many places, John 6:37, Isaiah 1:18, John 7:37, Revelation 3:20 and 22:17. I desire the prayers of all God's people for me that I may walk and be found among Christ's people when He takes up His jewels. 
We, too, are living in a challenging time in history, yet we still live in this Land of Light where we may hear the Gospel preached and the Bible read. Let's push back against every effort to change our freedoms of religion or any other freedoms.
Thanks for reading such a lengthy post with so many links. Blessings!  

Because there are no buildings between my back lawn and the schoolhouse, if I were to walk out my patio doors here at the haven and down across my back lawn into the ravine and up the other side and do it all over again...I'm not sure how many times...I would eventually arrive on the playground you see at the right side of the building there. It's a parking lot now because it's an apartment house these days. (Once I even thought that I would like to move into an apartment there because I hoped that it would feel like home. Once I visited, not so much. The apartments are so very small.)


(Again, sorry for the blur — seems that life and memories can also be a bit of a blur.) See the windows? They've been modified making them much smaller and thus more energy efficient. Back in the day, they were large and a little scholar could look up and out to the treetops and sky. This was most conducive for daydreaming, something for which I was often admonished.

The bathrooms were in the basement and oh how I dreaded them. It was a horror to descend into the dungeon where the coal furnace lived rumbling and belching and where the janitor sometimes was seen before the flames shoveling coal. Because he was a kindly grandfatherly sort, I found it discomfiting that he was feeding that fire. We had an oil furnace at home. Still and all, we were toasty warm in that schoolhouse through the long, cold Maine winters. 

Though I loved school, my days were much too long since I arrived on the first bus run (our town owned only one bus in those days) and was delivered home at supper time on the last bus run. It was not very good planning on someone's part. I am told that my mother never complained on our behalf. Frankly, I still find that shocking. 

I remember having daydreams about little beds that children could climb into for naps. They floated up toward the ceiling in the large foyer between the classrooms. Cozy little things they were, too, for a daydream.

I really have far many more pleasant memories of schooldays in the little red school house than not. I remember all the teachers, the games we played at recess through the seasons of the year, the music, the stories, and the poems. My first grade teacher taught us Psalm 23 and told us that if we were ever in trouble that we would find it a good thing that we had committed it to memory. 

She may well have thought that we were in trouble since we had so many drills where we had to climb under our desks and huddle there with our hands over our heads. It was all about seeing a brilliant flash of light. Some of us of a certain age remember those experiences very clearly. 

Enough of Memory Lane for today...




We have recently gathered the winterberries and so I'll be able to make up my Christmas baskets in November. I do it early so I don't have to mess about in snow. If you haven't gathered yours, try to do it before too much longer or the birds and deer will have them all. October is the month!


  My ivy and geranium are safely inside these days. We had snow in our forecast; it didn't come. Have you seen all the bloggers who have had snow already? Happyone lives in Maryland! Yup, it's just a matter of time...
Do you have a snow prediction for your corner this year? (I predict a warmish, short winter for mine. =D )

Grandmother and Mother on Mother's Day 2010

A prayer written by Amy Carmichael has been my prayer as long as I have been a mother, and I pray it now for my grandchildren: (Elisabeth Eliot)

Father, hear us, we are praying,
Hear the words our hearts are saying,
We are praying for our children.
Keep them from the powers of evil
From the secret, hidden peril,
From the whirlpool that would suck them,
From the treacherous quicksand pluck them,
Holy Father, save our children.
From the worldling's hollow gladness,
From the sting of faithless sadness,
Through life's troubled waters steer them,
Through life's bitter battle cheer them,
Father, Father, be Thou near them.
Read the language of our longing,
Read the wordless pleadings thronging,
Holy Father, for our children.
And wherever they may bide,
Lead them Home at eventide.

   

Daughter, Son, and I~Mother's Day 1980

More Recently My Son's Sons~Growing Up So Fast!

But I wasn't there for any of the above, I just wanted to see Patti Page who was the featured performer of the evening. She of "How Much is that Doggie in the Window" and "Tennessee Waltz" fame. My earliest memories of her are from her picture featured on sheet music that sat on my grandmother's piano. Last night Miss Page was in fine voice singing before an extremely large crowd...standing room only. (I was one of the chain link fence huggers.) I learned a few new things about her last evening and one is that she's in the maple syrup business as she and her husband own a farm in New Hampshire where they harvest maple syrup.

I see from the treasures I have of that evening that somewhere in this house is a cd of Christmas music. I'm on a search.

Patti Page left us on New Year's Day, though we have our memories and recordings of her smooth, mellow voice. I will remember her as one who had a great deal of pluck right into her senior years.

Do you have a favorite Patti Page song?

It has been a fun month so far reading Cheryl's excellent series on hospitality at her blog Thinking About Home. She has some great tips and practical suggestions and she makes a gal like me think.



I am not by nature an accomplished hostess nor do I even particularly enjoy the role. (Did I say that out loud?!) Only since Cheryl began writing her latest series have I even begun to think why that is. It didn't take long to figure it out: my expectations are always set way too high. As Cheryl states so clearly, "hospitality is not to impress, but to bless." I have been too busy trying to impress and it does not work. At all. Nada. Nope.

So it is true that when that hospitality gene fell from the tree, it didn't land on me. However, it did land on both my mother and my sister. They were often in cahoots together on matters of hospitality beginning with my sister's church youth group when she was a teen. (I was already off over the trail to college as I am nearly four years older than she.) They planned amazing weekly events with casserole suppers and delicious rolls and biscuits and delightful desserts. Everyone wanted to attend. It was a time of great growth for the youth group. Teens were coming from all over the place. Great things happened and continue to happen to this day as a result of those meetings all those years ago. That alone taught me that Hospitality is important.

Since I am unable to point to my own winning ways with hospitality, I'll share what I've observed watching my mother and sister in action followed by placing myself in the role of "one who can always serve even as a bad example."

First of all, my mother planned. She wrote lists. She pondered and considered the event well in advance. Then she began baking and cleaning in advance. Finally, she made sure that she was bathed, dressed, and ready for her guests in her own person. Have you ever arrived for an invitation only to find that the hostess is not there herself? I have. I may even have been that hostess. It's not a good feeling either way. Cheryl described this so well recently when she shared how her hosts all came out of the house to greet her family as they arrived. (I'd send John. ☺) So definitely leaving enough time for yourself before guests arrive is a very good thing.

I clearly remember one Christmas arriving at my parents' home to find it glowing with warmth and the smells that are so evocative of the season. Then my mother came around the corner of her kitchen wearing a red pant suit. She looked fantastic wearing red and smiling so beautifully just like the perfect hostess. I may not be able to pull off wearing a red outfit (without looking like Mrs. Claus), yet surely I can wear a smile.

Then there was the time my sister and I and her two daughters and my daughter and son had just arrived back at her home after church. We were going to do something that afternoon, probably of a crafting nature. My sister worked a full-time job as a maternity nurse plus a half-time job as a home-health nurse. Her home often reflected the fact that she was a very busy and exhausted woman. That day, there was clean laundry being sorted and folded on the living room furniture and piled all over the coffee table. A few laundry baskets were perched hither and yon.

We'd not been there for more than a few minutes when there was a knock on the door. Church friends had stopped by; they were a young couple with two little ones under four. My sister was delighted; I was appalled.

Sis set immediately to preparing lunch and what a scrumptious impromptu lunch it was, too. (I busied myself with setting folded clothes in baskets so the guests would have a place to sit down.) I still remember that Sis came into the living room carrying a tray of cheese and crackers, tea, fruit juice, cookies, a dish of salted almonds and set it right down on the coffee table along with folded facecloths and undies. If I hadn't been so mortified, I'd have broken down either crying or laughing hysterically. Probably the latter.

I ran into that couple last Christmas while out shopping and they mentioned that day as a favorite memory of theirs. Really? Hmmm... I should have asked why exactly, though I think I know. It was the fact that my sister was genuinely thrilled to have them in her home.

The truth about hospitality is that sometimes the unexpected happens. We can't totally prepare because we had not one clue that someone was going to drop in. (Personally, I do love those who call first.) Anyway, one of my best tips for that kind of hospitality is from Brenda at Coffee Tea Books and Me who has taught me to have a "hospitality pantry." In it are kept some cookies and some specialty items such as flavored teas and even some cappuccinos and hot chocolate. It has kept me from feeling totally unprepared even if you might find me with folded laundry on the dining table.



I am learning that genuine hospitality is a matter of the heart. Thanks, Cheryl, for all your hard work in putting together this series and this party. Please find more hospitality tips *here.*

No, this is not a birth announcement! = )

You may remember, if you read here over the Christmas season, that my stove decided to give up the ghost just days before I was planning to bake up a storm.

Last night, I loaded it up with my baking chips and baking ingredients just to show how offended I was by its timing.

The stove was over thirty years old. It was purchased for me by my first husband who had grown tired of the comments people made when visiting. Seems that they felt the odor of propane was strong. Personally, I hardly noticed it. Both sets of parents were chipping and urged him to do something. Unbeknownst to me, one fine day he did. I arrived from grocery shopping to find it already in place.

I've not had many complaints about it other than the fact that it was a perpetual cleaning oven meaning that every time one baked, it was cleaning its little heart out and a little pile of debris always needed to be swept off once the oven cooled. I never could clean it the way other gals could clean their ovens because the sides of the oven were rough and caught at any fibers in the material used to wipe it out. Okay, so that was frustrating; otherwise, it has served my family for a very long time and I did feel a little pang when John hauled it out of here last night.


So the new stove is here and we didn't even have to wait forever for the delivery and it's a corker, too!


It's a bisque finish to match the almond one of the refrigerator. I suppose one should just move forward in color choice to what she really wants, but I always circle back trying to match up with what is already existing. I think it'll be fine — nice and neutral.

So the chore of switching it from natural gas to propane gas will keep John busy for a while. He does adore a project. We're trying to figure out if we didn't have them do the switching at the appliance store because we're too cheap or if it was because they told us they don't do it anymore not having the proper licenses. I'm coming down on the side of squuueeeeaaaaak.


Good thing he's such a handyman!

How's your day going so far?

This is it for this Christmas Season. I will happily be celebrating Advent and the First Day of Christmas before year's end. I love that the years begin and end with Christmas. What a wonderful Savior to love us so that He willingly left Heaven behind for us. How we need Him! How can we not keep Christmas all year through?

Since I'm still on Christmas, albeit for the final day (yesterday was actually the 12th Day of Christmas), I want to share a couple of ideas with you. First, Cheryl at A Nest On Feather Lane had a sweet interpretation of the window idea. Actually, she's changed it all up. That's the joy of Blogdom, one idea sparks another. Cheryl says that it's too much to put up a tree, yet she still enjoys seeing her ornaments so this was the result.

I also wanted to tell you of an idea my daughter found on Pinterest about saving Christmas memories from one year to the next in a canning jar. On Christmas Day, she passed us a slip of paper and we all started writing. (That's not quite the truth, but close enough.) Then my daughter gathered them all up, popped them into the jar, climbed up on the back of the easy chair, and set it up high on the ledge in the living room.

Where it just sat way up there calling my name. I grew more and more nosy curious until I also climbed up on the back of the easy chair and retrieved it.


Every single one shared wonderful memories. Some of us are more eloquent than others. I noted my gifts, the laughter of the boys, and the difficulty of this first Christmas without my mother. John wrote that he was happy to have finished the siding as a gift to me and that the day was "most enjoyable." Even the grands signed their names. My daughter wrote about how special her picture book was...her favorite gift of Christmas. My daughter-in-law wrote a humorous story about making Santa's sandwiches with the boys and what Santa left on his plate—the crusts.  My son wrote:

The assignment is to write down the fondest memory of 2011. Mom tells John it should be easy to come up with a fond memory of today. Laurel says it's for the whole year, but if you want to write one about today (Christmas), that's fine. As though I wouldn't have a hard enough time with this already, and to make matters worse they gave me a pen. I already want to erase what I've written so far. I'll do both. Today is easy; Sam's playing Clocks by Coldplay on Laurel's I Phone (hit the lighted button) and he can't stop. He says this song is like a rock song. That album was the soundtrack of my first year with Michelle. Glad to know we can agree on what's beautiful, at least sometimes. 2011 is another matter. There are some fond memories; Jake's face when Santa put him on his lap. I'll write what I least want to forget though: Grandma. Taking Sam out sledding (Jake was in school), planning to go to the boys' birthday party, even lying peaceful in my bed. Saying yes, Adam, I know you're here. As though there was no need to sound so worried.

The man is an accountant. I'm very proud of all of his accomplishments and his hard work of returning to school and earning his degrees. I had no idea that he could write. At all. Not even a little bit. I hope that he'll continue. He might get a journal for his birthday. Just sayin'...

Disclaimer: Now as for Clocks ...love the music and find the lyrics de-pressing. I found Sam's exuberant playing of Handel's Messiah wonderful.

A blessed Epiphany to you...

The better part of two days has been spent getting packages ready to ship to my sister in New York. Her birthday is next week. Yesterday, both John and I were involved in trying to find a box or envelope large enough. In the end, the USPS couldn't help and we added another item to our growing errand list. We found the box and the envelope in the stationery aisle at W*al*M*art.

This morning as I packaged the items, little tidbits kept floating back to me. I remember the evening when I first saw my baby sister.

Let's back up  a bit shall we? My mother was an only child and my grandmother (Nan) was very protective. From my vantage point today, I think she was overprotective. She swooped in one lovely autumn afternoon and declared that my mother was very tired and that it would be better for all concerned if I went to stay with her for a while. About two weeks later, my sister was born. I remember it vaguely because I went to stay with my grandmother's neighbors so that she could travel the fifty miles or so to visit my mother and the new baby. She reported back that the baby was "bald" and "squally."

I don't recall much more except that I was growing increasingly upset about being with my grandmother instead of my mother. I cried a lot. Guess I was getting squally, too.

One day, Nan announced that I would be visiting my mother and sister. Oh such joy in the camp that day!

I remember the long drive in the late afternoon because the sun set while we were driving. We arrived at my home, my parents' small apartment, and let ourselves in. No one was there. Finally, finally, the door opened and in walked my mother carrying Bald & Squally.

I paid no attention to my sister or very little. I was not much interested, though I do remember holding her while anxious hands rested all around lest I should drop her.

What I vividly remember was my beautiful mother looking like a vision to me, wearing a navy blue dress with white polka dots, cinched in the middle with a narrow white belt. Through the miracle of the internet, I can show you a very similar dress.



Now those are the memories I have of a very special day.

What happened next? I went back to live with my grandmother for several more weeks until I became so squally that even she couldn't stand me and I was finally returned.

Do you have memories of meeting your siblings for the first time?

What a glorious day yesterday was! Cold and windy, crisp and clear, beautiful and bold. After yesterday, we are reminded of what is ahead...

Yesterday, I remembered two special birthdays and hope that I honored the memory of those who are gone from me (my grandmother and my first husband). It was fun to celebrate their birthdays together through the years and now, perhaps they've celebrated together in Glory.

Yesterday, I was blessed to go to my grand's soccer game and watch him play. (He's the little guy on the left above.) What fun! So invigorating!

(We have another challenging birthday coming in November. It will be my mother's birthday and the anniversary of Nan's death. Such an odd coincidence or Divine planning? I don't know. It's strange and we have even more strangeness concerning birthdays and anniversaries of passings. I have heard from a number of you and the same things are true in some of your families. It seems that, as we mark these first anniversaries, the happenings are fresher in our minds. Normal, I think. I hope.)

Yesterday, I remembered that this life is for the living. Heaven is not yet mine; the veil between this life and the next has not been lifted. I'm working on staying focused on the here and now. Thank you, Lord, for allowing these remarkable people to be a part of our lives. Don't allow me to forget and do help me be present for the living.


Thank you to all who offered blogging/commenting suggestions on my last post. I do realize that I've been down this path before, around this mountain, over this hill, across this sea, whatever. It's a me problem. It reminds me of the quote above. I worry too much. So that's why I visited you all yesterday and enjoyed my visits and commented hardly at all and you didn't mind. I know you didn't.

Now, to return the favor, I am closing comments for today so that you can read and scoot. Have yourself the most delightful day.

But do return tomorrow and see what I've been working on. I can't take too much silence.



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