April 25, 2024 Dream seeker or dissector?
What have you dreamed lately?
Can you remember or recall your dreams? Are they good, bad, indifferent?
For sure, most dreams are confusing. At least mine are.
So, recently I woke up having just a snippet of a memory of some dream—a most unusual one for me. What on earth, (or heaven) did it mean, I wondered?
I barely have dreams where I can remember anything, but this was vivid.
I was sitting down in a trio of people—including Ronald Reagan as president of the U.S. I wish I knew who the third person was, but it probably doesn’t matter. That’s about all I remember of that dream.
But Ronnie Reagan—in my dream?!
Maybe it was because the next day I was headed to the outskirts of Washington D.C., to a hotel near Dulles airport, the Dulles Regency to be exact. And of course Reagan lived in Washington D.C. for eight years. I was attending a Lions Club State Convention there, because of my role as our club’s secretary.
I need to confess, I never voted for Reagan but I ended up being happy that eventually he reached out across national borders to establish a friendship of sorts with Mikhail Gorbachev, somewhat removing the iron curtain or nuclear arms race for our two huge countries. Reagan served from 1981 to 1989 as the 40th president; my oldest daughter, who was born in 1981, remembers Reagan and how confused she was at the age of 8 or so when she heard that Reagan was no longer president! How could that be, she wondered?! (She soon got updated. 😊)
Of course we know a bit of Reagan’s eventual dementia or Alzheimer’s, and his cowboy movie beginnings.
I’ll leave you there. No great revelation. No outstanding learning. What did it all mean?
For me, and for our family personally, it meant a bit of glasnost. I wrote of this experience about two years ago when the recent war in Ukraine fired up. Back in 1990 we spent an interesting couple of days hosting a teacher from the former Soviet Union in our home, and showing her what we could about life in the U.S.
But again, how do your dreams go? Good, bad, indifferent? Exciting, scary, miserable? Are you left on a stage without your pants on, or worse?
I also always remember how terrified I was as a young girl when my cousins told us stories about kidnappers and how I dreamed about them. But I also worried so much that I spent years (maybe two or three) dutifully looking under my bed each night before I went to bed, and even heading over to a long narrow closet in my sister’s room to check for spooks. How unhealthy was that??
If you’re interested in exploring more about dreams, I found this from Women’s Health Magazine somewhat helpful.
Have you ever had a dream you truly tried to unpack?
Why do certain events enter our dreams?
Share here or send me a message!
April 16, 2024
My husband and I went to a local concert by a choir called “Resound” this past Sunday evening that featured some of the most glorious musical notes, ranging to at least three octaves above middle C on a piano. Way beyond my musical range, even when I was in my younger years. It was stunning, beautiful, and uplifting. A harp, trombones, and trumpets accompanied some of the songs, some written by the fairly well-known composer and director, Alice Parker. Grateful for such a heavenly evening! The evening concluded with the director, Jay Hartzler, inviting the entire audience to sing along. Somehow I can sing better when there is a whole group lifting their voices. (Video is from a rehearsal.)
We enjoyed stepping out of our usual Sunday evening routines of watching America’s Funniest Videos—and popcorn.
***
Recently I was leafing through a book I own and happened onto this memento from a small group I belonged to for a number of years. At one meeting – or perhaps it was a retreat—the leader, Patti, prepared parchment-type slips of paper and wrote on each a description of our gifts or traits.
My special message said this: “Melodie: To be the note that makes harmony out of diverse tones.” That was probably 25 or so years ago now.
I immediately appreciated her description then, and now: it was a rich reminder to me implying that she read me as a person who liked to have harmony or accord between people and in our diverse lives. Thank you, Patti!
Patti was certainly not writing about singing or music but something that is so necessary in our lives today: finding harmony with others across political, religious, race and ethnicity, family issues and more, that often bring discord.
***
In our family, when I was born, I was the third daughter. I know my dad was disappointed with the gender BUT never held it against me. I know he cherished all of his children—and finally got the little son he had waited on for so long.
And my little brother? Somehow my parents liked my idea for a name for our new baby brother: Terry. Pretty cool to name your own brother when you are a little girl just four years of age.
My mother chose my somewhat unusual name (and spelling, ending in “ie” instead of the more traditional “y”). She had read a long-ago book, “Unspoken Love,” written by Christmas Carol Kauffman. (Yes, I’ve written about her before on this blog. And talk about unusual names!!) But the book had a very likeable character whose name was spelled Melodie and that’s how I got my name and spelling. The main character in that book was a soldier in World War II who had major discord with his father and on a spur of the moment decision, decided to enlist in the Army, mainly to get away from home. I bet that happens more than we know. And I think the author wrote it as a true story that was fictionalized for a novel.
***
Speaking of novels, I was invited to be part of an author’s festival at our local Massanutten Library last Saturday in Harrisonburg, from 12-4 p.m. I enjoyed talking to other authors about their books, bought a book, and sold some myself. More than 200 visitors turned out. It too was a nice break from the normal cleaning and cooking I tend to do on a Saturday.
***
Have you ever slipped a note or comment into your Bible or other favorite books? Or on your dresser in the bedroom? Sometimes those notes and reminders can be just the lift that you need on a down day.
For all my readers, I hope you have a good one. You deserve a boost!
***
Comments very welcome.
Let me hear about your weekend, your Sunday, (or your Tuesday), your life!
April 2, 2024
I don’t mind telling you that I don’t diligently do spring and fall housecleaning like my mother did. Most women (maybe some men?) did so back then—almost like a religious rite. I remember Mom (maybe with Dad’s help) squished some old mattresses through upstairs windows out onto our porch roof for airing out in the spring, and using the old mattress beater to help with that routine. (You could say I’m so old I stink.)
But, I had planned a semi-surprise 70th birthday party for my dear husband this year and all of the children and grandchildren were coming to our house, along with some aunts and uncles and cousins. We burn wood all winter and use a humidifier to keep the air breathable inside, but both things together make A. Lot. Of. Dust. And dusting! I do love to “entertain” but as the years add up, it becomes more and more of a chore to clean everything in the house. (Too many things!)
I tend to do the best cleaning when guests are coming, right? Why waste your energy dusting when no one else will see inside your house for a month or more? So I planned to dust and clean a room each day prior to the Saturday night meal and party at our house.
It is rewarding to see things sparkle, making you feel very good. When the guests started arriving and then when the surprise guests—some from another state—arrived, it made my husband feel very happy. And all the hard work felt worth it.
The meal went well, people enjoyed getting reconnected, one teenager even came. I think there were about 29 of us all together, packed into our kitchen/dining room/living room area combined. Catching up, laughter, some serious conversations, a few guffaws all helped make the evening roll along beautifully. Our 14-month-old granddaughter was hustled off to bed early (suffering from a cold and fever) and she sweetly drifted off to sleep.
At last we brought out the birthday cake for Stuart to blow out seven little candles, and guests could choose from Stuart’s favorite Arnold Felcher cake (check out the recipe here), homemade apple pie, or a darling and fun Easter “lamb” cake brought by two of our guests. Kids went outside or to the basement to play and multiple conversations around the room rose to the rafters.
Most guests left by 8 to 8:30 and then a loud BOOM came from somewhere outside! Some of us thought it was someone shooting off a gun or perhaps firecrackers. But our lights all went out. I was hoping desperately that they would quickly blink back on. My son-in-law who has worked with many things electrical announced that he was sure it was a transformer that had blown, somewhere. One website explains this: “Utility companies transmit electricity at high voltages across overhead or buried wires, and a transformer ‘steps down’ this voltage to make it suitable for household use. When a transformer fails, however, it can fail spectacularly, resulting in a fire or explosion.”
Well, when you have kids in the house who are needing to go to bed and use the bathroom and you have a country septic system (no city system out here), you know you can’t flush stools unless you have buckets of water on hand to do the necessities. We managed that detail for the cousins who needed to go to bed. We do happen to have big tanks in the basement where we can draw water for such necessities. Especially in an area where our particular electrical system seems very prone to going out, as often as every couple months. Too often. We lit some candles that were handy and my husband took a large flashlight and cast it’s beam up through one of the lights on our counter, which made a temporary fairly bright light for us.
So even though the kitchen and dining area was a huge mess of plates and pans and utensils, we couldn’t go about cleaning things up. I snuck leftovers into the fridge and freezer even though my husband cautioned not to open those doors too much, in the event that the outage would go on for hours, or worse, days. One grandson observed that houses in the nearby woods still had their electricity.
We adults found our way out to the deck overlooking the countryside while trucks went up and down the area driveways and roads trying to pinpoint the culprit for this outage. It was dark outside, and not too chilly, and for the next 40-50 minutes we just chatted, wondering how long the lights would be out. We mostly put down our cell phones, conserving their energy for anything that might be really important. We reminisced, told jokes and stories, sat quietly for minutes on end, wondering when and if the lights would come back on so we could clean up and get ready for bed ourselves.
It was quite heavenly, and a marvelous way to catch my breath after hustling most of the day—and week—to make sure we had all the foods in place and decorating done. The cool night air handed us a peaceful balm, too rare these days.
Almost too soon, the electricity came back on and the elves set to work washing up dishes, putting away pots and pans, wiping counters and tables clean.
Not a bad way to end a busy, happy evening with friends and family. My heart was moved with thanksgiving and oh yes, the next morning was Easter morning. Thanks be to God.
***
Have you had enjoyable times when the electricity goes out?
Did you ever beat mattresses with a thing that looked like this? I told you I was old (older than my husband)!
Comment here, share, whatever!
March 12, 2024
We headed to Syria. NOT the far away and troubled country of Syria in the Middle East. I didn’t even know there was a nearby town with that name (well, about an hour and a half away), but my husband and I took a one-day getaway last week to celebrate a big birthday (for him). We traveled to Syria and a town called Madison in Madison County, on the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains/Shenandoah National Park here in Virginia.
It was beautiful. Restoring. And romantic. When we get to a certain age, romance kind of sits by on the side. Or even goes out the window.
When I sent a photo of our getaway location to our daughters, one wrote back: “Very nice! And you are lucky to have a comparable view off the porch/deck of your own home.”
Bingo, yes! A great reminder. Why do we see things differently when we’re somewhere new? One mountain is called “Graves Mountain” and behind that, “Old Rag” which is rather famous (hikers must get tickets ahead of time, just $2 but you also need a Shenandoah Park entrance pass, much more expensive.). My daughters and I got to hike it a number of years ago (sorry my husband had to work).
So our getaway location was an 1800 acre farm with the family name “Graves Mountain Farm” in operation since 1850s, (families settled there earlier in the 1740s, an interesting history!). In addition to raising cows, chickens, horses, sheep, apples, and peaches, it offers cabins and lodges, a swimming pool, volleyball court, horseshoe pit, a babbling brook with fishing, hiking, biking, local bands and singalongs, fireplaces….and plenty of great food options in season. Numerous family members work right there on the farm. The Graves Market and Deli is ready to fix fresh breakfast sandwiches and other items for lunch etc. Most of the year, meals are served in a large restaurant there, but not in the winter, which reopens later in March. So for supper that night we drove to the town of Madison, about 15 minutes away, where we enjoyed a delicious supper at Miranda’s Restaurant.
Our dog had a getaway too, we took her along since they offered some rooms where pets were welcome. (Our room cost would have been less if we had hired a neighbor to take care of the dog!) But ever since we got our cat about 2 years ago, dog Velvet has had to play second fiddle—or equal fiddle—in the attention department as the cat. So I think that although it makes the dog nervous and a bit stressed to travel (she’s almost 10 years old), she didn’t have to share our attention with the cat. The cat stayed home and was a good girl all by herself for 24 hours.
When we got back home, I realized that yes, our views of mountains and valleys and greening grass and spectacular sunrises is very special. I have lived in four states (Indiana, Florida, Kentucky, and Virginia) and two countries (U.S. and Spain) and the scenery right here in the Shenandoah Valley is hard to beat. Besides mountains, Virginia offers an ocean and numerous beaches, the Potomac River, the Appalachian Trail, splendid schools, colleges, and diversifying restaurants. And plenty of farmland, although that is shrinking.
Back at home, the sun is shining now, the grass is greening superbly, the local rivers and creeks are beautifully bubbling along, even though the wind is sharp and random snow flakes fly past my “office” window (a spare bedroom). It is March afterall. We’re keeping the woodstove going and happy to be so very very fortunate to live where we do.
Do take time to love the ones you’re with, and restore the precious and fond relationships that you may have. If we can put food on the table each day and have a warm place to sleep, we and you are rich.
There is so much beauty in God’s creation. Let us be thankful.
***
Tell us about one of your favorite spots, or when you were surprised by a new town or nature spot!
Ever had a birthday getaway? Where and when?
March 5, 2024
Well, we got an extra day this year, right? What did you do with your extra day on February 29? Ours was windy and cold and rather than grilling out, I fixed some hamburgers in our woodstove for supper which I love doing, if only because it warms me up as I sit there and turn them.
Our February is always packed with birthdays and this year it was truly special when our only granddaughter turned one year old. She is definitely, and happily, growing up. Though we live a couple hours away, we get to watch her five days a week on the camera at her daycare, holding our breath when she stands up and wavers for a split second before plopping back down on the daycare floor. Walking will come. She is exploring her world and making tentative moves towards playing with the others her age.
I always feel like once we get to March, the “new year” is truly marching along and as we age, our own time on earth begins to get shorter.
A husband-wife duo I know recently recorded a new number they wrote called “Evening Will Come.” More on that in a minute. That could sound morbid but with my husband now celebrating his 70th birthday (and don’t let me fool you, I’m older), we are truly looking at our later years. Retirement is great but arthritis is not, and of course it is hitting us greater with every passing year. Or month even. My two little fingers, or maybe “pinkies” as we call them, are stiffening up by the day. I think it was from all this typing over 43 years at the office doing what I’m doing right now. (I’m reminded of my recent blog post on learning to type!) I practice bending the pinkies as often as I can.
At this stage of life, we’ve all lost precious and beloved and sometimes “too young” friends and family members. My husband’s family lost a cousin a couple weeks ago, and we really wanted to go to the memorial service. But it was 1100 miles away in Nebraska. Siblings also wanted to go, but they had to deal with their physical difficulties in facing a 17-hour drive, 34-hours roundtrip. None of us from the east were able to go, but sent flowers, love and prayers.
I remember years ago my husband, one brother, and their dad jumped in a car and drove 700 miles (about 11 hours) to get to Montgomery, Alabama, where they picked up one aunt so they could all go to another aunt’s funeral in Corinth, Mississippi, 250 miles more. They turned around several hours late—after the service—and drove all night to get back home to Virginia the next day. (The aunt from Montgomery was driven home by someone else.) The main driver on that trip (and owner of the car) desperately needed a nap on the way home, so at one point my husband took over the wheel. It began raining and cars started sliding every which way on the freshly wet and greasy four-lane highway. He still remembers feeling, that even though his hands were on the steering wheel, God’s hands—or Someone’s—were on the car to help them get through that without a wreck.
But back to how the calendar just keeps marching on. Wasn’t it just New Year’s Day a moment ago, and then whack, we were celebrating Valentine’s Day and so on. The holidays keep marching on and so so soon it will be summer and you know, Christmas.
I mentioned a precious and appropriate song written, sung and recorded by neighbors of ours (who are not just “some neighbors” but musicians who could and should be strumming their tunes in Nashville or New York City). Known as the Clymer & Kurtz Band, they harmonize beautifully while also playing guitars or piano. They are also raising a family. The love and commitment shines from their eyes. I’m sharing a link to their YouTube channel so you can hear/see it yourself, but the lovely chorus goes like this:
All I hear is my name on your tongue
All I see is your face when we were young
All I know is evening will come
Evening will come.
Evening will come for all of us. And Someone is still watching out for us.
***
We can look at evening as a welcome time of day: time to rest, nap, read, watch TV. How do you feel about evenings? What is your best time?
Are you happy for March to come? What signs of spring have you welcomed?
February 28, 2024
Do you remember your first computer?
What an exciting time it was. Circa 1980. Roughly 44-45 years ago now.
But let’s go back a step further. Did you learn to type on an old-fashioned typewriter? I never realized commercial typewriters go way back to another century, when commercial typewriters were introduced in 1874. Wow, I had no idea they’ve been in use that long. My ancient (but beloved) grandmothers and grandfathers were born in that era.
So I learned to type in high school as did many others at that time. I enjoyed it. We typed on typewriters where you pushed the carriage back to do another line of work by slapping your hand on the carriage-return lever on the far left. You pushed it to the right to return the carriage to its starting position. Wikipedia reminds us that this made “the platen” go around which advanced your paper vertically. “A small bell was struck a few characters before the right-hand margin was reached to warn the operator to complete the word and then use the carriage-return lever.” Oh my. I had forgotten about that small bell-y thing ringing.
My mom worked in an office using typewriters of the day in the 1940s, which she enjoyed very much. She kept her small cheap typewriter up until the time she began to get rid of things in her 90s, circa 2020.
I’m told that old fashioned (to us in the U.S.) typewriters are still used in countries like India or Africa where electricity sometimes cannot be counted on to be reliable. We have a travel agent in our city who swears by still using an electric typewriter to type certain parts of the paperwork he prepares for your travel because of the precise information he has to include, and the narrow spaces he has to put it in.
When I got my first job after college, I worked in an office with a typewriter which by that time created words from a ball containing the letters and punctuation marks rather than the individual keys striking the ribbon of the 1800s and 1900s.
But I digress. I remember sitting down to my first electronic keyboard (like I’m doing right now) and being “forced” to learn a whole new way of typing from a visiting trainer. I remember when we would accidentally slap our hand to return the typewriter lever, which was no longer there or needed. It was gone. That required relearning much of what we had learned in high school about typing. Of course, the “Qwerty” set up of letters was (thankfully) carried over to the modern keyboard which my fingers know as naturally as the act of brushing my teeth. But I remember some of my older colleagues who hated the new keyboards, and called the machine we had to use “The Monster.” I found said monster to be rather exciting and soon was at home with it.
But my first true “home” computer was not purchased by my husband and I until roughly 1985, I think. We bought an Apple computer from a small business in town, and I remember sitting in that office and being so excited to get our first home computer. I had been using a manual typewriter at home (typing rough drafts of my first books which I later paid a secretary to retype because she was a super excellent and fast typist and loved doing that work at home). But by that time we had children approaching school age and I knew that they would be eventually learning to write on school computers and it would be handy and forward-thinking to have a computer at home.
Learning to use new forms of communicating are constantly changing, right? Which can be frustrating to us “golden years folks.” The extra keys on the modern keyboard include the ability to “Print a Screen Shot” and much more. They correct mistakes as you make them or let you, or prompt you, to choose better grammar. The F5 key on my laptop lets you find and replace things. And much more. I love watching bankers or perhaps accountants using the little numerical keyboard off to the right of the keyboard without looking at the numbers, and they do so perfectly. Me, not so much.
Eventually we moved on from our first Apple to Dells or HPs and other brands and I sometimes wish we had stuck with Apples. Oh well, too old now to change that and now we’re in the age of “AI.” The next twenty years will bring many more innovations. Little chatty people show up on my screen without my even asking them like one did right now, an HP product specialist wondering if I “need help selecting the right configuration” with a photo of her saying “Let’s Chat!”
Not right now, thanks. I “x” her out of my ‘puter. Which reminds me of my darling niece when she was about four and would call these devices “‘puters.” Now we turn to her if we’ve bought a new device and none of our own children are living nearby to help train us. Thanks Anna, and Ahmed, and oh yes, daughters on the phone helping us out of tangled messes.
What do you think of our amazing (and frustrating) electronic communication devices?
Oh and P.S. Just now, when I tried to send this draft to my daughters for “final” corrections, the lovely computer reminded me that I had not completed one of their email addresses correctly. Thank you, dear Dell.
***
If you comment here or write to me via email, (melodiemillerdavis@gmail.com) I promise not to be a “little chatty fake person.” But you are welcome to point out any errors, or your own issues and problems when it comes to 2024 communication!
I love to hear from you! Here or on Facebook.
However, I have no control over the ads that show up in my posts, sorry to say. I could get rid of them if I paid more for this space. Grrr…..
February 20, 2024
Papa’s Precious Philodendron
Someone else’s post (online) dredged up a long-ago memory that today still holds office in my laundry room. More on that in a few minutes.
In our family, Dad was the flower lover. He was not only a farmer but a flower and plant person who would bring in flowers and urge mom to put them in a vase, or, when I was old enough, he’d hint for me to do that. Usually, you think of women or Moms or grandmas going to the trouble to cut and arrange flowers in a pretty vase. Oh, Mom did it occasionally, but when I got old enough, either me or one of my siblings were entrusted with the fun of surprising mama with a pretty bouquet on her table. From Dad.
Dad might have gotten that yen from his Dad, my Grandpa Uriah Miller, who was known for cultivating beautiful roses, and also putting them in Grandma’s hands when she finally lay in her casket. In Indiana, it is common to have at least two days for friends and family to take time for funeral home visitations. There were fresh flowers in her hand each day. She died several years before Grandpa did, who passed in 1967.
Mom and Dad moved to north Florida in 1969. When I went off to college in 1971, Mom and Dad drove me from Florida to my college in Harrisonburg, Virginia, by way of visiting our relatives in northern Indiana. (I know, a long but precious path together.) I had done only barest bone packing: clothing; a few books; pictures; a coffee pot (the kind you boiled on a stove); toiletries and a little make up; a pillow and sheets (I think); a new blanket and maybe a fan. Probably shampoo and some towels and washcloths. That was about it, folks. (And I have exactly no pictures of my Freshman dorm room. Amazing, huh?)
Daddy looked around the small two-person dorm room and must have been thinking, “This room is lacking something.” My roommate had a radio but I didn’t really want one so Papa picked out a lovely philodendron at Woolworth’s in downtown Harrisonburg. (We didn’t have much in the way of shopping centers or Walmarts in those long long long ago days.) I was smitten with his sweet purchase; he didn’t have a lot of money but I still have that gift with me to me this day. Of course it went through some ups and downs, trimmings, and many moves, and finally found its forever home in a large old fashioned brown/beige earthenware pot.
When I lived in Spain for a year as a college junior, one of my friends in the U.S. promised to keep the plant in good shape, which she did. Thank you, Ruthie! It grew and grew from a small pot to a large leafy philodendron. When I moved to an apartment with another friend, Mary Ellen, it went with me.
When I married my husband, we lived in the smallest of mobile homes (a mere 45 feet long); it took prominence in our living room.
When I got my first real job working in an office and eventually had my own private space, I always made sure there was a place for it. When I retired 43 years later, it came home with me, to its humble place in our laundry/half bathroom.
This past winter, I decided to re-pot most of my house plants. None of them were looking very healthy. Three of them had the nerve to go and die on me after the repotting. I did not mess with Dad’s philodendron. It is still greening our laundry/half bath room.
Dear Dad! Thank you for this long prospering plant and the reminder that green things are important for purer air in our homes. It’s also a prompt to thank God for my dear parents and the love they taught us all their lives.
***
Any special gifts your Dad or Mom gave you long ago … that you still have?
Or stories this brings to mind?
What’s your best advice for how to handle repotting of plants without killing them?
You might enjoy the book my siblings and I wrote recently called Cultivating Fields, Faith, and Family: Mom and Dad’s Memorable Mennonite Life, available on Amazon, here.
Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name…
This week I want you to meet a gal who works long shifts in a small restaurant and pizza place, cheerfully bringing your favorite drink or sandwich to tables. She has a memory that all of us over 60 would love to have.
I’ll call her Molly. I can’t even remember her name at the moment but she’ll greet a table of regulars with an exact description of each person’s usual pizza, sandwich, or drink order, or if by chance someone at the table yearns for something different that night, she quickly alters her notes to include a switch out. Many of the regulars like to sit at what the restaurant considers “Table 18” just off of the busy, friendly kitchen. (In case you’re wondering, most restaurants give their tables numbers.)
When Covid was beginning to close down everything in 2020, even the special little places where everyone knows your name, this dear gal was, of course, out of a job. I’m not sure how long it was until Bob-a-rea’s Pizza and Subs got its Covid cleaning and distancing of tables and mask-wearing all lined up to reopen. Several months, if I’m remembering correctly.
We knew Molly was a young single mom and missing her work, salary, and tips. One day while we were yearning for Bob’s pizza, we got one to go, ordering through the outside pick up window, and put a special much-larger-than-usual tip into an envelope and asked that Bob, the owner, give it to our favorite waitress.
Sometimes this young woman wears a t-shirt that testifies to her faith but overwhelmingly, she demonstrates through her cheerful behavior and gratefulness to the patrons that her name is written in the Big Book of life. She is now married and has a second child. Those children are lucky little kids who can be tremendously proud of their mother, juggling the raising of a family with long shifts at a place like yesteryear’s “Cheers.”
And if anyone is interested in some of the best pizza in Virginia, or even buying this small business from the owner who longs to retire, or if you’re willing to work hard serving up some great sandwiches, pizza, breakfast, lunch, or supper, you can find it on Facebook. Just look for “Bob-a-Rea’s Pizza and Subs.” It is found in Bridgewater, Va., in business since 1975.
Do you have a Molly who shines as waitstaff somewhere? I’d love to hear!
Comment here!
February 5, 2024
Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Two books to not miss
Yesterday, February 4, was Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s birthday. Recently I was lucky to happen on to a copy of the book My Dearest Dietrich from one of the many “Little Library” stands we have around our county and towns. A free book without needing to worry about overdue library books! And the knowledge that you won’t have to make space on your bookshelves. You keep it as long as you like and then pass it on.
The book is part romance but soon gets into the nitty gritty of World War 2 and the horrible consequences of Hitler’s reign.
It caught my eye because in the 1970s, students at my college, Eastern Mennonite, were encouraged to read The Cost of Discipleship by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a lengthy text of some 350 pages. I still have my copy because of its message. (One of the few college texts that managed to survive my weeding out of precious, favorite books.)
When I started reading My Dearest Dietrich, (published 2019) basically I knew that the end story would be sad and tragic, but Bonhoeffer and the author Amanda Barratt offer a well-written true story (but fictionalized) that gives courage to all of us in these uncertain and difficult times. The world has too many wars going on in too many places.
Bonhoeffer was a Lutheran pastor and also a committed pacifist who believed and lived Christ’s words regarding killing others. Actually, they were first God’s words to Moses way back when God commanded “You shall not kill.” (Exodus 20: 13).
Bonhoeffer was also a deep thinker, exploring various aspects of Christ’s teachings and helping those who are trying to live out God’s way for our lives. Bonhoeffer’s classic line quoted often in various places “When Christ calls a man [today we’d say person], he bids him come and die.” So how does that work in times of war? During World War 2, Bonhoeffer took the road of working against the Hitler regime as an underground conspirator against Hitler.
There is a short history/memoir of Bonhoeffer’s life that is included in my copy of The Cost of Discipleship by George Leibholz, brother-in-law of Bonhoeffer. Leibholz writes that when war seemed inevitable in the 1930s, some of Bonhoeffer’s friends and followers urged him to leave Germany to perhaps save his life since he was totally “opposed to serving in the Army in an aggressive war.” At an ecumenical conference in Denmark in 1934, someone asked Bonhoeffer what he would do when war came. He answered, “I shall pray to Christ to give me the power not to take up arms.” By June of 1934, American friends who knew him (from an earlier year he spent at Union Theological Seminary in New York City), got him out of Germany.
“But soon he felt that he could not stay there, he had to return to his country. When he got to England on his return from the U.S., his friends quickly realized that Bonhoeffer’s heart “belonged to his oppressed and persecuted fellow Christians in Germany and that he would not desert them at a time when they needed him most. … I shall have no right to participate in the reconstruction of Christian life in Germany after the war if I do not share the trials of this time with my people. … I cannot choose security.” [From Leibholz’s memoir on Bonhoeffer.]
This gives us one picture of how dedicated and faithful Dietrich was. I won’t spoil the reading of either The Cost of Discipleship or My Dearest Dietrich but as difficult as his life became, the real Dietrich does not disappoint. When incarcerated, he was instrumental in helping other prisoners cope with their ghastly circumstances, including helping care for those who were sick or about to die, or sharing his own pathetic food.
These are a couple of books very worth reading and studying in these times. A friend and former colleague of mine, Jerry L. Holsopple at Eastern Mennonite University (EMU) created a multimedia play with Justin Poole which opened in 2022, was produced again in January 2024, and promises to come back to EMU stage and theater again. I will try not to miss it next time!
Are you familiar with the writings of Dietrich Bonhoeffer? What have you learned?
I’d love to hear your thoughts.
February 1, 2024
It’s That Season
We have to take our dog out in the middle of the night because she is getting older. Like us. You know, so she doesn’t leak.
The other day I took her out behind the house about 2:45 a.m. and was breathing in the lovely night air, looking for my favorite stars, waiting for Velvet to squat (she drags out her excursion awhile, surveying the countryside with me).
All of a sudden she dashes across the driveway, out into the front yard in hot pursuit of something, maybe a deer. We generally praise her for her deer runs: she gets good exercise and fun, and during summer, it keeps deer mostly away from our garden.
That morning I turned to see that there was a small creature about six feet away from her. I figured it was a rabbit and quickly turned on my flashlight, And froze.
Velvet was glaring at a skunk, a large one at that, likely male, standing stock-still facing the dog. I panicked thinking the skunk had already sprayed her. My heart sunk. A sprayed dog, in the middle of the night. Would we have to both get up and give her a bath, or let her smell up the house or basement? Already I dreaded the drama.
This is skunk season of course, we’ve seen numerous skunks on our country roads, flattened out and dead. The groundhog may come out on February 2 but I found this interesting analysis on Scienceing.com:
“Milder winter will bring out males in early February. Harsher winter may postpone the emergence of males a few weeks toward March. Yearling female skunks that were born during the last year will not be ready to mate in February; yearlings wait until March or April before they will accept a mate. Females who are not interested in mating will spray the male to let him know to get away.”
We get skunks occasionally in our garden in summer, grabbing our goodies. One year my husband decided to buy a no-kill trap to catch one. Tricky business, because of course what do you do with the guy after you trap him (or her). Our dear neighbor, in his 90s, gave Stuart this piece of advice: “Whatever you do, approach one very slowly in the cage, backing up, and he might not spray you.” We lucked out and my husband was able to open the door, slowly backed away, and left the skunk alone, who later in the day had vacated the trap. Yay! Thank goodness for wise older neighbors who know these things.
On my morning potty escapade with the dog, I quickly called Velvet to come, which she did, and I could detect no nasty smell or spray on dear Velvet. My thanks ascended to the God of the skies and earth for this small favor. No middle of the night bath for the dog, or for us. I praised and petted our mature pup (going on nine years) for finally learning this lesson. This time. There is no guarantee about next time. I have learned over the years when skunk season began, to make a raucous noise of some kind when we come out of the garage in the morning or night so the skunk has a chance to run away without spraying the dog.
Your science hint for the day!
What have you learned about dealing with skunks around your house?
Any tricks or advice?
Share your story here!
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