Padre Island Birthday Trip, May 2005

[Click to enlarge]


Spuddy Buddy and friend



a felicitous shot, don't you think?




true love (yawn)
Fa-So-La-La's 16th birthday



photographic prozac



shieldmaiden in shades

Sporting Spuddy Buddy

Great Scot

Spuddy Buddy and I just got back from a Texas Rangers game. The game was tied through the 9th. However, as Spuddy Buddy just described it to The Queen, "We lost in extra endings."

Although Abner Doubleday may flinch, he did capture the spirit of the thing.

Spuddy Buddy's Singing School Test

Over breakfast this morning, Spuddy Buddy was inspired to create a test for all you singing school veterans. Name this tune and he will send you a virtual paper airplane:

Ti ti ta
ti ti ta
ti ti tim-ka ta.

(So I guess he was actually listening in class!)

Oh -- he says it's actually a paper stealth bomber, and if you get it wrong -- "bang, bang!"

Legos for Melissa

I promised my good friend Melissa, Mother Of Many Lego Fanatics, that I would pass along a few links to some incredible Lego creations. I sleep better when I keep promises, so here they are.

(Andrew, this would be your cue to beckon your mom and brothers to the computer for me, please. ;-)

Martin Luther's life in Legos

Lego New York City

The Lego Church

Funny thing how different kids can be. We have a fairly respectable supply of hand-me-down Legos, too, but my kids have never messed with them much. They'd rather have cardboard boxes and duct tape any day!

350 Days and Counting

Queen Shenaynay

(If you know what the title of this post means, most likely I have hugged your neck in the past fifteen days. ;-)

The Beehive has been quiet, no?

We've been to two back-to-back singing schools in the past two weeks. Been across four state lines twice, had fun and fellowship with some of the best people on the planet, sang hymns in acapella harmony from morning til night for about fourteen days straight, and smiled til our faces almost froze into silly grins. Took more pictures than we can probably afford to develop (and may well have killed my Canon Rebel in the process). Ate entirely too much canteloupe. Was entrusted with many diverse and sundry late night secrets that I shall never tell (sorry, fellas).

;-)

I guess road tripping with a Suburban full of assorted chattering teenage girls and a wiggly 6 year old boy -- while in significant sleep deficit mode -- would not be everyone's idea of a great time, but I loved it. I love them. Even though the car windows were all the way up, I suspect that thanks to us, half of Louisiana can now sing along to the new Caedmon's Call cd (Share the Well) and whole counties in Alabama are now intimately familiar with Nickel Creek and Mark O'Connor. Mondo beyondo fun. Next year, if we get to do it again, I promise each of my passengers their very own personal stash of M&Ms, plus a respectable supply of Lime Lay's potato chips (yesss). Sharing was fun and all, but hey, life is short.

Alas, we must now start missing everybody, and all that glorious singing too. Nothing else like it on this whole insane planet. But now we're back home, back to the land of reality, and that too is good. I'm thankful that the Good Lord saw fit to give us so many of His people to love so much, and to grant us travelling grace... thankful that my home is still standing, that there's nothing waving at me inside the frig, and that my Great Scot (who stayed behind at home) is still really cute and still likes to kiss me lots.

And now the countdown starts again!

Spuddyisms

Queen Shenaynay

We rented the first three Star Wars movies this week. After watching the original movie, Spuddy Buddy naturally wanted to play lightsaber. Practically the moment the movie was over, he was wrapping duct tape around an empty gift wrap tube and making big plans to be Spud Skywalker With His Incredible Lightsaber.

Shieldmaiden, ever game for any activity that involves anything remotely sword-like, naturally jumped right in and made herself one, too. What good is one lightsaber, after all?

When the weapons were complete, Spuddy Buddy went running to show Fa-So-La-La. And in his biggest, chestiest man voice he proudly proclaimed:

"Hey look, sister! I made a life saver!!"

* * * * * *

I am always intrigued by the way that boy thinks. In the car today:

"Ya know, Mamadah... your head bones are kinda like an inside helmet."

Blastoff!

Sometime between Christmas and Easter each year, my anticipatious offspring begin counting down the days until singing school camp in June. They have even been known to make paper chains, drape them around the corners of their rooms, and tear off one link per day.

Tomorrow is The Day.

And today while running preparatory errands, Spuddy Buddy suddenly exclaimed:

"Mamadah! Whoopee! It's only one finger til singing school!!!"

AKA "Tails"

Spuddy Buddy: Mamadah, I will teach you the flipping game.

M: OK.

SB: You get a coin and you flip it, see.

M: OK.

SB: If it comes up heads, you win.

M: OK.

SB: And if it comes up George Washington's house, you lose.

M: *stifle*

Hu's in China?

Fa-So-La-La

Ok, ok, so maybe this isn't academically brilliant and insightful and intelligent like our average post here at the Beehive (grin), but I thought it was pretty funny.

Bush: Condi! Nice to see you. What's happening?
Condi: Sir, I have the report here about the new leader of China.
Bush: Great. Lay it on me.
Condi: Hu is the new leader of China.
Bush: That's what I want to know.
Condi: That's what I'm telling you.
Bush: That's what I'm asking you. Who is the new leader of China?
Condi: Yes.
Bush: I mean the fellow's name.
Condi: Hu.
Bush: The guy in China.
Condi: Hu.
Bush: The new leader of China.
Condi: Hu.
Bush: The Chinaman!
Condi: Hu is leading China.
Bush: Now whaddya' asking me for?
Condi: I'm telling you Hu is leading China.
Bush: Well, I'm asking you. Who is leading China?
Condi: That's the man's name.
Bush: That's who's name?
Condi: Yes.
Bush: Will you or will you not tell me the name of the new leader of China?
Condi: Yes, sir.
Bush: Yassir? Yassir Arafat is in China? I thought he was in the Middle East.
Condi: That's correct.
Bush: Then who is in China?
Condi: Yes, sir.
Bush: Yassir is in China?
Condi: No, sir.
Bush: Then who is?
Condi: Yes, sir.
Bush: Yassir?
Condi: No, sir.
Bush: Look, Condi. I need to know the name of the new leader of China. Get me the Secretary General of the U.N. on the phone.
Condi: Kofi?
Bush: No, thanks.
Condi: You want Kofi?
Bush: No.
Condi: You don't want Kofi.
Bush: No. But now that you mention it, I could use a glass of milk. And then get me the U.N.
Condi: Yes, sir.
Bush: Not Yassir! The guy at the U.N.
Condi: Kofi?
Bush: Milk! Will you please make the call?
Condi: And call who?
Bush: Who is the guy at the U.N?
Condi: Hu is the guy in China.
Bush: Will you stay out of China?!
Condi: Yes, sir.
Bush: And stay out of the Middle East! Just get me the guy at the U.N.
Condi: Kofi.
Bush: All right! With cream and two sugars. Now get on the phone. (Condi picks up the phone.)
Condi: Rice, here.
Bush: Rice? Good idea. And a couple of egg rolls, too. Maybe we should send some to the guy in China. And the Middle East. Can you get Chinese food in the Middle East?

Exemplary Stillness

Fa-So-La-La

I recently read Sophie's World by Jostein Gaarder, which was excellent but undoubtedly the most challenging book I have ever read as far as keeping your worldview straight while you read and analysing what you read. When I came to the chapter on Freud, I noticed that he defeats his entire analysis by the example he chose to illustrate it.

Here is Freud's main point, as discussed by Sophie and Alberto in Sophie's World--

"Freud claimed that our everyday life was filled with unconscious mechanisms like these. We forget a particular person's name, we fumble with our clothes while we talk, or we shift what appear to be random objects around in the room. We also stumble over words and make various slips of the tongue or pen that can seem completely innocent. Freud's point was that these slips are neither as accidental or as innocent as we think. These bungled actions can in fact reveal the most innocent secrets."

"From now on I'll watch all my words very carefully."

"Even if you do, you won't be able to escape from your unconscious impulses. The art is precisely not to expend too much effort on burying unpleasant things in the unconscious... It is actually quite healthy to leave the door ajar between the conscious and the unconscious."

"If you lock the door can get mentally sick, right?"

"Yes. A neurotic is just such a person, who uses too much energy trying to keep the 'unpleasant' out of his consciousness. Frequently there is a particular experience which the person is desperately trying to repress."

The problem with this is readily apparent in the illustration Freud uses to explain his ideas--

"Suppose that here in this hall and in this audience, whose exemplary stillness and attention I cannot sufficiently commend, there is an individual who is creating a disturbance, and by his ill-bred laughing, talking, by scraping his feet, distracts my attention from my task. I explain that I cannot go on with my lecture under these conditions, and thereupon several strong men among you get up and, after a short struggle, eject the disturber of the peace from the hall. He is now repressed, and I can continue my lecture. But in order that the disturbance may not be repeated, in case the man who has just been thrown out attempts to force his way back into the room, the gentlemen who have excecuted my suggestion take their chairs to the door and establish themselves there as a resistance, to keep up the repression. Now, if you transfer both locations to the psyche, calling this consciousness, and the outside the unconscious, you have a tolerably good illustration of the process of repression."

Did you notice the phrase 'this audience, whose exemplary stillness and attention I cannot sufficiently commend'? Obviously, the state of the audience being quiet is to be desired and praised, and disturbances, such as the unruly man, to be got rid of. It is only practical. The lecture will not be at all comprehensible or enjoyable if he remains.

But wait-- the audience and the man and the outside of the hall are all symbols for the conscious, thoughts, and the unconscious, right? And Freud believed that we are not to repress 'unpleasant' thoughts and delegate them to the unconscious. This does not work-- if the attendants of the lecture had allowed the man to continue his disturbance, the lecture would have been completely unenjoyable. No one could have paid attention over such racket. Just so, a mind in which 'unpleasant' thoughts are allowed to run wild will lead to a miserable life, I believe.

Now I am not advocating shutting up everything that you don't want to deal with in the unconscious, as Freud termed it. Rather, the Christian should rid himself of unwanted thoughts through prayer and communion with the Lord. That is the only way to attain true peace and joy, or an exemplary stillness in the concert hall. :-)

Pigtail Poetry

Queen Shenaynay

[Especially for my friend Donna-Jean, in response to her recent musings on intergenerational haircare on her blog.]

* * * * * *

Tell Me Why

As I braid your hair, standing you close so that the backs of your legs press against my knees, I sense mystery. Gold into gold and gold again, and the secret takes shape in my hands: simply that you are my child, branch of my vine. There, that's done. Now the other.

Perhaps it is the sense of ritual, of mothers through endless ages braiding the hair of daughters, that stirs this awareness of our connection. I do not know, but I am reassured. Lately it has seemed you are not my child, rising up against me, calling yourself "bigger," refusing bedtime stories, wiping off kisses. Now look in the mirror and see the neat braids. Go ahead, look really close and see the eyes behind your own -- not now, but someday, when you falter to know who you are, when you forget why the ivy twines.

by Suzanne Clark
from her lovely collection of poetic prose, Sketches of Home (Canon Press)

* * * * * * * * *

and one little poem, related, by me:


Said in Braid

I hope when you are grown
you will still come to me
brush in hand,
speaking ancient braid language:
"I need a hoo-ha" and
"French, down the middle" or
"regular but loose to swim" or
"can you braid me a hairband like that time when I was five?"

And you will not know
how I can recall that very braid
of a decade past
until you've beheld
through a hand-smudged window
(stained glass indeed)
the blessed vision of a small golden head
with a plaited halo
gilded by a sunbeam
in your own backyard.

How strange that my maternal memory
which has let so many moments flee
can somehow recall all that my hands have wrought
in a daughter's hair.

IT'S ALL ABOUT THE SWISH!

by Great Scot

More about the title of this post in a minute; however, the denizens of the Beehive have just spent the day at our regional Scottish Festival and Highland Games. This is our annual pilgrimage to give due honor to a notable ancestor of my family name, who is referred to in our house as "Uncle Bob".

Yours truly was decked out in my kilt and and various kilt accessories. On the way home, we stopped at a salad/sandwich place to eat dinner. While we were sitting and eating our dinners, a large group of 16ish girls came into to eat. Knowing that none of the girls had seen my less than typically Texan apparral, the Queen entreated that I go by these girls' table, so that the Queen and my kids could monitor their reactions. As I walked up to refill my tea, one of the girls who was standing there turned and saw me approaching and nearly choked on her own tongue. As she breathlessly returned to her table, she was heard to exclaim, "that is SO wrong".

She just doesn't get it.

Now, back to the swish. At the point in time that The Queen and I were first exploring purchasing a kilt for me, we were asking gentlemen that we met at various functions (who were wearing kilts) about their kilts, where they had bought them, how to shop for them, etc. At a Dickens Festival we attended, we met a very large gentlemen (read that a muscular Sean Connery kinda man) who was wearing a very striking Pipe Major Kilt. He advised us that we needed to purchase a heavier weight of wool for the kilt, since the lighter weight wool did not give you a good swish when you walked, and "after all, it's all about the swish".

A kilt, it is the only apparel in which a man can "swish" in a manly way!

[The Queen, all breathless from the fresh memory of her man so ruggedly arrayed, cannot refrain from interjecting that Great Scot, all kilted up, does indeed have a most captivating swish. *fans herself* If all Highland men of yore had looked half so fine in their kilts, I am convinced that Scottish cuisine might be worth eating, for surely those women would have cooked something better for such gorgeous specimens of manliness than haggis and oats.]

No Improper Pride

Fa-So-La-La

I am currently re-reading Jane Eyre (such a wonderful book!), and I ran across this quote:

"I have not much pride under such circumstances: I would always rather be happy than dignified."

This is a very wise attitude, I think. One thing that always bothers me when I am reading Lucy Maud Montgomery, for instance, is her value for pride and dignity. In the Emily books, Emily's main attribute, other than her love and skill for writing, is her pride. She is portrayed as always 'holding her head high' metaphorically and literally. It is rather sad, really-- the books are wonderful, but at the same time dangerous because pride is a folly to which the age of girl that the books are written for are particularly susceptible. Emily in these books goes for many, many years unhappy and lonely, because her pride will not permit her to encourage the man she loves; indeed, it will not let her admit to herself that she loves him. But the author never (in my memory-- it has been several years since I last read these) shows a dislike to this pride-- actually, you can tell she rather approves it.
Charlotte Bronte, on the other hand, shows a very wise attitude to pride, which is really the subject of Jane Eyre. The book shows many different types of pride, both proper and improper, and the conclusion reached is that the only pride worth having is the pride of morality-- the pride that keeps us above sin. As Jane says when explaining to Mr. Rochester, after they almost marry, why she must leave--

"I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man."