Quill #114 - Inscription on a Stone (1982)

From the days when skies were blue,
So many eons gone,
From the time of mortal man,
When man did still belong,
And from Earth before the Quake,
And yet, before the end,
We bring a message to your world,
The last that we may send.

The five of us, from colonies,
Spread across the Way,
Have come to tell Humanity
That all is not astray.
For though the ancient civilized
Exist no longer now,
They left with us a ray of hope
Which we, to you, endow.

It is a Child, a single Child,
Born of the Human race,
To give you joy and youthfulness
In a world so filled with age.
For at a time when life is death,
The lights of Heaven gray,
This Child will guide you through the night,
Unto a brighter day.

A beacon skyward is our sign
To pass the Babe to you,
Sing out unto your dying land
The praise of life anew.
Tell all others of the hope,
A life with which to grow.
Take care, remember what we say.
Fare well, for then we go.

(public domain image)

Quill #112 - Merry Christmas!

Mom's Christmas cookies were the highlight of every winter holiday. In this picture, I had just been in my school pageant, accounting for the bad makeup and odd dress. My brothers and I posed for a rare photo together, snapped by Mom.

Quill #111 - Cocoa & Carols

Our daughter was a performer in her university's choral recital this year, a family yuletide holiday festival. This recital was, without a doubt, the most uplifting and enjoyable holiday sing-fest I've ever attended. She was only a small part of the activities, but the performances were so strong that I would gladly have given four standing ovations rather than the one permitted at the end of the concert.

Both my children are vocalists and I've been to a lot of concerts, some where my extremely talented kids were featured, a few where my son was almost the lead vocalist in the entire performance. Therefore, do not take it lightly when I say that this show was amazing. If you get a chance to attend a University of Nebraska performance this year, please do.

Quill #109 - A Spookier Kid Comes Along!

This little guy turns three years old in January and is already reading with comprehension, knows numbers to a hundred, knows colors, reads and interprets street signs and signals, jumps, stands on one leg or the other, skips, stands 40-41 inches tall, and runs his parents ragged every day.

The Spooky Kid Part Two! (pictured with Spooky, the original)

Quill #108 - Love is Kinda Crazy With a Spooky Little Kid

While stationed at Fort Huachuca, my husband got his first computer, a gift from my parents. They spent $40 on a little machine that had about 40 kilobytes of memory and only understood Basic. Peregrin spent a couple of years trying to program that calculator to do anything before we finally got a better one.

He would sit on the floor and mutter the commands as he typed them. Our son, about two years old at the time, sat beside his daddy, watching, fascinated. We didn't think much of it till Spooky - who earned that nickname by doing things like this - corrected one of Peregrin's programming mistakes, and was right.

Even with these hints, even knowing we had a little whippersnapper on our hands, we didn't really take such events seriously. We didn't know what to expect from our first child and accepted everything as reasonably normal.

About two years later, when Spooky had just turned four, my mom took the three of us shopping at a Sears store. We were walking down the aisles in the household goods department when Mom turned to me and asked, "You do know Spooky can read, don't you?" I refuted her statement outright and she turned stubborn.

"I'll prove it, " she said, and took down one of the boxes of laundry soap to show to him. He promptly stated the name of the soap brand and a couple other words from the front of the box. Again, I refused to believe it. I said, "He's quoting from ads he's seen on TV." (Not that perfect ad quotation wouldn't be worthy of note, itself.)

She turned the box to its side panel and showed Spooky the list of ingredients in the soap. He started sounding out the words, "Phosphorus, sulfates, bleach, ...," etc. He read the entire side panel. I was stunned and still unsure that it wasn't some kind of trick. We had read to him quite a bit but he hadn't ever read back to us.

When we went home, Mom pulled out a pocket New Testament from her luggage and gave it to him, asking him to read it to us and prove this wasn't a fluke. He did! He began reading every word, almost perfectly. When he finished a few pages, I asked him if he knew what those words meant and he explained to me what he had just read. This was a child who had maybe been in church ten times in his four years of life, certainly not often enough to memorize bits, and none of his attendances in church had happened since the age of eighteen months!

I will say he probably needed every brain cell he got in order to survive his clueless parents. We expected a lot from the little guy and yet he almost always delivered. I hope he has at least a few happy memories from childhood. He sure gave us a lot of good times.

(family photos picturing Spooky, Kyrie, and nephew)

Quill #104 - Promenade (1981)

Daughter circles mother.

Mother greets the dad.
Smiling to each other,
All three take up hands.

Luna bows to Terra.
Terra bows to Sol.
Each one with an errand
They must help fulfill.

Do-si-do, around they go,
Constant to the end.
Then the stars applaud the show
And the dance begins.

(images from free Google images online)

Quill #102 - Gamblers Lie.

Oh, they'll tell you what they've won, but they don't tell you what they've lost or what it took to get to the occasional win. I suspect it's possible to win enough to break even, if the gambler could stop playing after their big win. How many can?

I had a family member, quite lovable, who was addicted to gambling. She had several personal issues she needed to work out and I think gambling was her method of forgetting about them. Like movies in the Depression, gambling was her way of avoiding the pain within her life. The problem was, though, that she would only talk about the wins. And she had some nice gains, a few over ten thousand dollars, which was big money to the people she told. One of those people was my mom.

Mom had, in all her married years, been the Keeper of the Purse. She managed the family budget with such finesse that, on a teacher's salary, we had travelled most of the US and parts of Canada and, from our midwest location, gone to DisneyWorld twice and DisneyLand six times. She was not a spendthrift. Her facility with money provided my parents with a retirement most people would only dream of having.

However, in the last five to ten years of her life, her health went dramatically downhill. The medical bills piled up, pharmacy fees were outlandish and, in spite of her best efforts, she slowly lost the ability to keep everything afloat.

To her, winning ten to twenty thousand dollars in a gamble seemed like the answer to her prayers. Encouraged by the family member whose losses were unknown, she began playing with small amounts and, when those were lost, was told she "gave up too soon."

It came to the point where she was losing more than she could afford in a desperate attempt to win like her relative was supposedly winning. She got herself into such dire straits that she felt she had nothing to lose by continuing to gamble with the little she did have. She borrowed from family, including me, to cover losses she couldn't explain - or didn't want to explain - to Dad, all the while encouraged to try again.

Some of this I put together later. Even when she borrowed hundreds from me (and I didn't expect to be paid back because, in truth, she helped me FAR more, over the years, than I could ever repay to her), I didn't realize how bad things were. I didn't know that she was falling behind on bills, or that their credit was maxed, or that the losses I thought were temporary would hurt them the following month, too. And her gambling increased as her situation worsened, all spurred on by the promise of one big win.

Mom had never been able to discuss finances with me. It must have been a matter of pride for her because I honestly didn't know they were hurting for funds. Nobody told me. Maybe my brothers thought she had, or that I should have figured it out for myself. I don't know if they knew how bad things were, either. Regardless, I found out the hard way.

I'm sure it was the stress. If she could have told me she needed money, I'd have found a way to get it to her, but she couldn't tell me, couldn't ask, and I couldn't read her mind. When she died, her checkbook was overdrawn by eighteen dollars - the exact amount of a check she sent to me for something I had asked her to keep as a gift. I told her NOT to send me money and she did, anyway. Maybe that was her cry for help - a check she knew would bounce. But, since the check arrived at my house while I was attending her funeral, the information came too late. If I had known, she might still be alive.

(photos from family archives)

Quill #101 - Grandma's Potato Soup Recipe

This was my father's favorite soup. The recipe was passed down to my mother from her mother and, presumably, from mothers before them. When I make this soup, I don't follow a recipe, so you'll have to forgive me if the instructions are a little strange. I'm putting this one in a blog for family members.

Home-style (Very) Potato Soup

a big pot about half-full of water
up to 1 medium-sized onion (sweet varieties preferred)
2-3 medium-sized potatoes, or whatever you've got
3 eggs
1/2 - 1 cup flour
milk or milk powder or canned milk
chicken broth or chicken bouillon (4 cubes)
celery salt
salt
1/2 - 1 tsp. black pepper

Chop the onion and potato into small bits and toss them into the pot. Add the broth or bouillon and a couple shakes of celery salt, for now. Set the pot to boiling.

While that's getting hot, whisk three eggs in a cereal bowl with a fork until they're smooth and yellow, then add a half cup of flour and keep stirring with the fork till the batter is how you like it for either noodles or dumplings. (Noodles, the batter drips thickly off the fork. Dumplings are thicker.) You may have to add more flour, depending on what you prefer. My dumplings usually take about a cup.

When the pot has boiled, drop in your noodles or dumplings, a little bit at a time, allowing each bit to cook a little before dropping more into the pot. Once all the batter has been put into the pot, reduce the heat and let the noodles/dumplings cook for a few minutes on simmer. Stir the pot occasionally as you're adding batter.

When the pot isn't boiling anymore, and the noodles are fully cooked, add the milk. You want enough milk, if possible, to turn the broth from transparent to opaque. If you haven't got that much milk, don't worry about it. The soup will still be good.

Now add a teaspoon of salt, if you're allowed, and a couple more shakes of celery salt, taste, and then add whatever amount of these is pleasant to you, tasting as you go. Add a half teaspoon of black pepper, again adjusting these three spices for your taste. Once you're satisfied with the flavor, serve. Some people like crackers with their soup.

-----

Now, I have to admit I've made personal adjustments to this recipe. Sometimes I add a few bay leaves while it's cooking, or use red pepper instead of black. Sometimes I add carrots or other vegetables when I'm low on potatoes. I've experimented with making lower carb versions, though none of my experiments have the flavor of the original.

Once I made the mistake of putting one of my versions out for dinner for my father, saying that I thought the flavor was an interesting variation. I don't think he could have glared at me more if I'd murdered my mother. In his eyes, the two crimes might have been equal.

In any case, nobody else is bound to the original. Feel free to make variations. If you serve one to me, I promise not to glare.

(image from Lolcats)

Quill #100 - Gift Ideas for Lean Years - Fleece Scarves

Thirty-six inches divided by six inches equals six scarves, but six inches is a thin scarf for winter time warmth. It might be fashionable to have thin scarves right now, but I prefer eight inch scarves, which only would allow for four scarves to a yard of fleece - plus a bit left over.

Forty inches wouldn't cost much more and that would give five scarves of eight-inch width. However many scarves you'd like to make and however wide you want them, fleece winter scarves are super easy to make and inexpensive.

Fleece can cost up to twelve dollars or more per yard for a good thickness and popular prints. But, you can usually find a decent thickness in good colors for around eight dollars a yard. That's four scarves that you can use as holiday gifts for about two dollars each.

Best of all, the most difficult part can be done by the sales clerk. Decide on your width before purchase and ask her to make the right number of cuts. Then, all you have to do is fringe the ends with two-inch snips about a quarter-inch apart. Perfection is not required. Part of the charm of these scarves is the whimsical appearance.

Don't worry if someone has better scarves or plenty of them. These babies roll up very small. We keep one in our glove box for cold weather emergencies, a few in luggage when weather is uncertain. If they become dirty or are ruined, they're easily washed (cold water, tumble dry low or no heat), and they're easily replaced.

When I'm stumped for a gift, these are almost universally suitable, either alone and tied with a ribbon around the middle, or in a basket of goodies. Plus, with all the varieties of fleece available, you're likely to find something suitable for any age or interest. And, if the recipient really won't wear it, they can pass it on or donate it to someone who needs the winter-time warmth.

Also, if you're looking for shelter or nursing home gifts, there are less expensive fleeces for buying in bulk. Some could cost as little as a dollar a scarf. Or, if you'd rather do lap blankets and shawls, use the same technique on a wider swath of fabric - perhaps two shawls/lap blankets to a yard. With fleece as low as five dollars per yard, you wouldn't need to spend much to warm a few friends and relatives.

I first got the idea for these scarves when I took some children on a fall trip to the St. Louis zoo. When we arrived, the weather was sunny and hot. A sudden wind swept through the park, sending whirlwinds of leaves everywhere, and bringing an icy chill into the air. Immediately, every child was cold and shivering, but didn't want to leave the zoo.

I darted into the nearest gift shop to look for warmth and found fleece scarves, just as I've described, available for seven dollars each. (This was ten years ago and they'd likely be more now.) I bought one for each child and hurried the trip along. We managed and still had fun.

(images from BigStore and Lolcats)

Quill #98 - Brown Family Tradition

Every child in my family, back through my father's line for generations, has had their feet dipped in the waters of a particular spring. I believe that this was a tradition begun by my Osage great-great-grandmother. This tradition has been carried forward, even to my grandson and daughter-in-law.

It's a very serious tradition. The child has to be bare-footed, and must stand in the spring if they are old enough to stand, even though the rocks are sharp beneath their feet and the water is very cold. My parents made me promise to carry on the tradition with my children, which I did. And, I made my children promise, as well.

Because the spring, like most natural springs these days, is a fragile site, I won't say where it is. I don't know if my brothers have kept this tradition, though I hope they have. Our family has roots in that area of the country in addition to the spring.

(images from Dover's free images online)

Quill #96 - Sanity Break

Sleestak hunters wanted.
Children of the 70s,
Having already failed,
Need not apply.

Quill #95 - 30 Years (2010)

I promised you, Love,
To be here when the rains came,
When lightning crawled over our heads.
I swore to be with you
On sorrow-filled sleet days,
Through poverty, illness, till death.

You promised the same, Love,
And here we're together,
Our children moved far from our hearth.
We both kept our promise and,
Though there were trials,
Survivors, we never did part.

We were not alone, Love,
Even when we felt lonely,
For islands are rarer this day.
Our family grew bigger,
Some born, some from marriage,
And some we adopted from fae.

Many years passed, Love,
And dark days were common,
But more were the hours spent in fun.
If I had to do over
I'd choose the same memories,
And you would be my only one.

But, if I had time, Love,
To do it all over,
I'd not repeat our lives again.
I'd add ever more years
That we'd spend together,
Choosing today to begin.

(images from personal archives and Lolcats)

Quill #93 - Dreams of You (1974)

When witches on brooms
Creep into my room
And the skies are darkest blue,
I become a fairy child
With magic that is strong and wild
And go to visit you.

I chant a spell ages old,
Wave a wand as bright as gold,
And you know I'm here.
Turn in circles just three times,
Say a mystic magic rhyme,
And I have you near.

Spirits wander in and out,
Magic spreading all about,
And you belong to me.
Misting and fading ere long,
Spell now almost gone,
And there's nothing more to see.

Then I'm back in bed
Where I shake my head
And all has been a dream of night.
Lightning from the skies,
I slowly realize,
And I wonder if I'm right...

...That all the magic was my love for you.

(image from Dover)

Quill #92 - Autumn Nights (1983)

I sing a new song,
A song of joy,
And love that soars the skies.
Springtime passion,
The days of summer,
Turning to Autumn nights.
We sing an old song,
A song of content,
And moonlight reflecting on snow.
Winter romance,
Dancing the slow ones,
Watching the children grow.
I sing a new song;
We sing an old song,
Both songs singing of life.
Our love's the same love,
Changed in but one way,
Built by the sharing of strife.

Quill #91 - Every family has one...

My parents, grandmother, middle brother and I were walking down an Omaha city sidewalk toward the optometrist's office where I was supposed to get new glasses. I was twelve or so, which meant my brother was about ten, old enough to not have his hand held constantly. He fell somewhat behind the rest of us and nobody really noticed or worried, assuming he was following along as he should.

My grandma started noticing, first, and then my parents, that every person walking the opposite way was giving us dirty looks, staring at us with outright hatred in their eyes. Puzzled, Grandma looked behind us and discovered Bro
walking as if crippled, using other behaviors to suggest a mentally challenged person, as well. Everyone who passed us thought we were ignoring our poor handicapped child!

I don't know why he bent his intellect toward causing trouble, but he was always a master at that skill.

(images from Lolcats)

Quill #90 - Choices

You know how people like to try to cover all their bases? I did that with my kids. I follow a philosophy that has some congruences with Christianity, though it is not close enough that many Christians would agree. However, I'm aware that I'm a fallible person. I wanted to make sure my kids could be saved if it turned out I was all wrong.

Both of them were baptized. Actually, they've both been baptized twice, by two different churches. Just in case. And then I encouraged them to study religions and decide for themselves. We're a hodge-podge family.

Kyrie decided to follow an ancient Egyptian goddess. Spooky chose to follow the Taoist philosophy that I do, though he may have evolved from that since we last spoke of the topic. I -think- my dear-daughter-in-law is Wiccan and hope she'll correct me if that's wrong. And Peregrin is agnostic with leanings toward atheism, if I understand correctly. Grandson and grandchild-on-the-way are both too young to decide, yet. One of my bestest friends is Wiccan, eclectic-style, and her husband is open-minded Christian. Their child is learning many paths to prepare for making her own choices.

I grew up in a household where a minister would be called to deliver a lecture if I even asked a question about other forms of Christianity. I'm still afraid for my children and friends being openly pagan because, in my head, society is not far enough advanced for them to avoid persecution. I fear for them about on par with fearing for an openly gay teen.

I realize things will never change -unless- people like them are courageous enough to stand up for themselves. And I only have to look at their father to see how my kids became heroes. But I'm their mom and I'll always worry.

(images from public domain sources online and Lolcats)

Quill #89 - Native Ancestors

Like most Americans, we're mutts. Our family tree looks like a map of Western Europe, almost. One of my lines is Swedish and German, mainly. Another is Native American, Scottish, Irish and German. Peregrin adds more Native American to the mix, as well as English and French ancestors. Thanks to him, our kids have the blood of three tribal nations and more NA heritage than I do.

When I was growing up I wasn't told about my native lineage. We lived near a reservation where the Indians were shooting at cars that passed through their lands if the drivers weren't obviously residents. It was considered a bit shameful to be an Indian and my parents were afraid I would tell everyone. They were right. When they did finally tell me, around age twelve, I was so pleased and excited that I told all my classmates the next day.

I went to the library and checked out everything I could find on "my people." I knew the basic history of mainstream textbooks. I didn't know, then, of the ongoing abuses. This search for my roots turned into one of the most depressing tasks I've ever forced myself to do. In the mid-seventies, small town library, midwest, there were no positive or uplifting messages about natives. New age books were not available. Books on NA religions were scholarly works, very rare, and not available to a girl with no money. Much of my later research was done at the university I attended after high school.

For many years, based on the books I read, I believed that I wouldn't be welcomed by reservation natives. About the time Kyrie was born, that error was corrected. I was told that anyone could take classes on reservations now - or at least the one nearest me. But, by the time I learned this, I had changed. My life was already too busy to add more obligations and my beliefs were somewhat settled. I chose to wait for a quieter time that never came.

(Images from Lolcats, public domain images, and personal archives.)

Quill #88 - Halloween Memories #8

Our first Halloween, as parents, we lived in an apartment complex in Denver. Peregrin was taking AIT to learn electronics calibration and repair at Lowry Air Force Base. I'm sure a lot of our neighbors thought we were after candy, but we really just wanted to show off our special little kid.

"Spooky's" third Halloween, he really wanted to be Liono from a cartoon called Thundercats. We found clothing and accessories that worked, but Peregrin bought a red clown's wig and molded it into the distinctive Liono sweep. He did a great job, though few of our base neighbors knew who Liono was. The fourth Halloween, if I remember right, was He-Man. Again, we made a costume that outdid anything storebought.

Spooky gave us enough practice, over the years, that it really wasn't abnormal for us to do similar costumes for Kyrie. Unfortunately, we have few pictures of either of them on holidays.

I think the best costume was made the year I sewed a yellow Pikachu outfit for Kyrie. Peregrin made the lightning-bolt-shaped tail stand out exactly like the cartoon. And then, I cross-stitched all of Ash's patches for Spooky to wear inside a vest.

They were in the Halloween parade that year, marching side-by-side as Pikachu and Ash. I wish we had kept that costume rather than donating it to Goodwill when she outgrew it. But, who knew Pokemon would still be popular when I'd have a grandson to wear it again?

Quill #85 - Halloween Memories #7

If you've ever seen the movie, Meet Me in St. Louis, with Judy Garland, you probably remember Tootie, the youngest daughter in the family, the mischievous troublemaker. Tootie had an obsession with all things ghoulish, though not of the harmful kind. Real danger frightened her just as much as anyone, but she had spunk. Tootie and my daughter could have been best friends, albeit competitive ones.

When Kyrie was eighteen months old, she memorized a poem called The Teeny Tiny Ghost by Lilian Moore.

TEENY TINY GHOST

A teeny, tiny ghost
no bigger than a mouse
at most,
lived in a great big house

It's hard to haunt
a great big house
when you're a teeny, tiny ghost
no bigger than a mouse
at most.

He did what he could do.

So every dark and stormy night
the kind that shakes the house with fright -
if you stood still and listened right,
you'd hear a
teeny tiny

Boo!

She would recite the poem and act it out, ending with a big jump on the "Boo!" She also had a black silk shirt that she borrowed from her daddy and she'd run around the house, arms outspread and flapping, with the silk streaming behind her yelling, "Bust, the Big Black Bat!" The red plush carpeting in our living room was lava and you couldn't walk on hot lava, so she'd build bridges across the living room out of books and toys that would help her navigate across the danger.

At two, my adorable daughter insisted on being a zombie for Halloween. At three, she wanted to be a werewolf. Similar progressions continued until she actually witnessed blood spurting from a stitch-worthy gash on her father's hand. After that, she was not quite as interested in lab experiments and dissecting.

She's still unique and fun, an interesting person to know, and she's planning on doing the Zombie Walk whenever possible. But, thankfully, I no longer have to worry about her becoming a sword-wielding murderess. She has a very kind and generous heart, eeeeeeeeevil laugh and all.

(Meet Me In St. Louis image from Reel Classics)

Quill #84 - Public Stocks (2010)

It was too good to last,
This Maudie from the past,
Though I still love my part,
I am suffering for my art.

The director's nice enough,
Though sometimes a bit gruff,
When he doesn't get his way
Every second of the play.

He thinks all should know his mind
And respond to thoughts in kind
By moving just the way he wants.
If you don't, he gives you grunts.

The he yells to drop the books
And proceeds to give us looks,
Tells us, "Just walk over here."
"You, there, don't come near."

And instructions never given
Become cats that must be driven,
When it's all reality,
One he first refused to see,

That dealing with child actors
Requires patience, other factors,
Like directions, blocked on stages,
Or else children just learn pages.

And they stand in place, refraining
From any rudeness, that's good training.
But the cast is just confused;
All the pleasant ones amused,

At this train wreck of rehearsal.
Many sane ones want reversal
Of their membership in Bird,
But we gave the man our word.

(pictures from lolcats and royalty-free images online)