Chunky Tomato Salsa

Salsa is expensive so I try to make our own. The recipe I made last year was too vinegary and thin for our taste, so I tried a different one yesterday.

Chunky Tomato Salsa

For a step-by-step explanation of the salsa canning process, including a tip for easy tomato deskinning, see Pick Your Own’s recipe, on which this one is based. Mine is a halved from what theirs is.

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Ingredients:
10 lbs. tomatoes, preferably Roma, skinned, deseeded and drained
1½ C. onions, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
½ T. fresh oregano, chopped
½ C. diced fresh mild peppers such as Bell or banana
¼ C. diced fresh cilantro
1/8 C. diced fresh celery (about two large stalks)
2 jalapeno peppers, diced (1 if you want milder salsa)
1 T. salt (optional)
¼ t. ground black pepper
2 cans tomato paste
½ C. 5% apple cider vinegar
½ T. ground cumin
1½ t. turmeric
½ t. lemon juice
1 t. chili powder (omit for milder salsa)
2 T. corn starch (omit for thinner salsa)

Method:
Chop tomatoes into approximately ½-inch cubes. Dice, chop or mince all other ingredients in food processor. Put tomatoes in stock pot. If thicker salsa is desired, mix corn starch into vinegar before adding. Add all other ingredients and bring just to boiling.

Fill jars, allowing ¼ inch head space. Process in boiling hot-water bath for at least 35 minutes, depending on altitude.

Yield: About 5 pints

Shooting at the car show, yeah

Hubby and I attended our community’s annual car and motorcycle shows Saturday. I love photographing the vintage vehicles. I love the bright colors and the sculptural forms. Saturday’s light and weather were perfect, a true photographer’s heaven.

However, car shows have one very great disadvantage: flocks of people. Several great shots were ruined by a pair of inopportunely-appearing legs or other body part. Sigh.

In the hubcap photo’s case, I wanted the legs to appear in the foreground. This picture just says “car show” to me. Here are the brick street (the inspiration for my blog’s title), the cars and the people enjoying the cars. And I think the elongated reflection of the man walking past is funny.
This hood ornament on the flaming hood is the kind of image I’m always searching for. I love the bright colors and I’d like to intensify them further. I enjoy the hood ornament’s streamlined form and the contrast of chrome with the bright paint. The hood ornament bird seems to be swimming with the colors streaming out in its wake.

Rockin' Robin

“Rockin’ Robin” was a golden oldie when I was in high school oh, so many years ago.

Friday morning I taught junior high vocal music. I popped in a performance CD of “Rockin’ Robin” and my mind went back to my high school days.

We didn’t sing “Rockin’ Robin” in choir, but the pep band often played it at games. In those not-so-far-off days, we had no CD player. Eight-track tapes, then cassette tapes, were in vogue when I sat where those kids were sitting. I don’t think we’d ever heard of performance tracks in those days.

How technology has changed.

Unlike technology, great music never dies.

A girl named Robin with flaming red hair was in the class ahead of me. As the students sang “Rockin’ Robin”, I could see her in my mind’s eye. When our band would play “Rockin’ Robin”, she’d get up and dance. She was our personal “Rockin’ Robin” and did she ever rock.

“Go, ‘Rockin’ Robin’, ‘cause we’re really gonna rock tonight!”

Carrot Spice Cake

Kathy and friend Dallynn get ready to taste a bit of the cake.

Kathy turned 57 Tuesday, so we celebrated with a cookout.

When I think of the number 57, I think of Heinz’s 57 varieties. I suggested that we all give Kathy a bottle of some Heinz product and asked about what cake to make. I inadvertently sent the email to her, too.

She said, “Personally, I prefer 57 on my steak and not on my cake!”

That was the end of making Heinz 57 frosting. Sigh. I still carried out the Heinz 57 idea, though. The cake topper reads “Kathy, est’d 1951: 57 years and in a pickle. Happy birthday!”

Donna suggested I make a carrot or spice cake for Kathy’s cake. So I made a combination:

Carrot Spice Cake

This recipe comes from Kitchen Klatter Cookbook, which is unfortunately now out of print. The batter is very thick, more like brownie batter than cake batter.

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Ingredients:
5 oz. matchstick carrots broken in half, 5 oz. grated baby carrots or 3 large carrots
2/3 C. sugar
2/3 C. Splenda/Alterna
1/3 C. shortening
¼ t. butter flavoring
1 C. raisins
1 t. cinnamon
½ t. nutmeg
½ t. cloves
½ t. salt
1 t. vanilla flavoring
1 1/3 C. cool water
2 C. sifted flour
1/2 t. soda
1 C. chopped nuts

Method:
Combine all ingredients except flour, soda and nuts in saucepan and cook over low heat for 20 minutes. Cool 10-15 minutes and add flour and soda which have been sifted together. Stir in the nuts and pour into 9X13 inch pan which has been greased and floured. Bake for 1 hour in 325º oven.

Top with spicy whipped cream or cream cheese frosting.

Trash to tile table

When the neighbor across the alley moved away, he left quite a pile in his driveway. Of course, I had to see what he had left. This table had lost the glass panels in the top. They had cut a piece of particle board and laid it on top. I wanted to use it as more counter space for Hubby’s grill area. Particle board does not stand up to outdoor conditions and, besides, it’s ugly.

The wood was very dry, so I oiled it multiple times with linseed oil before painting it. I also primed and painted the under boards, attaching them with outdoor-grade deck screws. I put corner braces on each corner for added stability.

Hubby’s dad had given us some tiles he had obtained. The yellow tiles looked better than the white ones, but I was three tiles short. I asked Hubby what I should do. He suggested that we lay the tiles in two differing checkerboard patterns. I did.

The sealer bottle said I’d only need 2-3 coats. I ended up using seven.


All I bought for this project were the deck screws, under boards, braces, adhesive and sealer. Donna loaned me the grout.

We’ll have to put this in storage over winter. We learned that from our tile-top cupboard. I intended to touch up the cupboard’s grout and found that all the tiles were loose. Winter was not kind to the tile.

One more sign that I'm not as young as I used to be

One of my students held up a Razr phone yesterday. She asked me, “Can you hear this?”

“No.”

She tried again. I still couldn’t hear her phone.

Another student asked, “Is that why you have your phone set to that awful high-pitched tone?”

“Yes, people over 25 can’t hear it.“

He said, “Mrs. V can hear it and she’s definitely over 25. But then, she can hear everything. You’d better not say anything in her classroom that you don’t want her to hear.”

Is that “teacher’s hearing?” If so, I definitely could use it.

What makes life worth living

I laughed when I saw this pile of blocks several months ago. When I was a kid, we played a lot with little foam blocks that looked just like this. This pile looks like giant’s kids have been playing in this barn.

When I was a child, I often said, “I can hardly wait until I grow up. Then I’ll do whatever I want.”

Yeah, right.

It seems that life grows ever more hectic with ever more responsibilities. I am fond of saying that I’ll never die because I have so much to do. Of course, many of the items on that list are my own projects that I don’t have to do, but those projects and spending time with people I enjoy are what makes life worth living.

I work to pay bills.

I play with blocks or whatever else I can find because playing makes life worth living.

Repaying a debt

Mother holding me when I’m about six months old.

I hate donating blood.

First comes a bureaucratic nightmare in which the would-be donor has to answer the same questions she answered the last time she donated, plus repeat her name and birthdate repeatedly. I despise paperwork and bureaucracy, but I understand the need for blood safety.

Second, I’m delivered into the hands of a vampire who wants to suck blood from my arm.

My friend Martha asked me if giving blood was easy.

When I said, “No, I’m a turnip,” she howled with laughter.

That’s funny until the vampire comes.

I loathe needles and tense up whenever I get near a person wielding one. My veins collapse and disappear. The last two times I’ve donated, the vampires had to poke and prod and wiggle the needle around in my arm to get good flow from the vein. I just won’t scream, but I was biting down hard to keep from it.

“Are we hurting you? Do you want to try another vein? Do you not want to donate?”

“Yes, no and no. I’ve gotten this far and I’m going to donate!”

Yes, I hate the process, although Thursday’s experience wasn’t nearly as trying as the others have been.

I love being a blood donor.

Because of blood donors, I grow up with a mother. My mother hemorrhaged when she gave birth to me and needed blood badly. Because someone had donated, she received that lifesaving fluid.

Because of blood donors, I got to have my mother a little longer than I would have without them. My mother got acute myelecytic leukemia. She received repeated platelet donations because her clotting factors were so critically low due to the disease. The leukemia took her in five months, but the platelets prolonged her life and gave it greater quality than she would have had without them.

When I donate, I am repaying the inestimable debt I owe to my mother’s blood donors.

Whoever you were, I thank you.

The candle burned up my homework

Thursday I was an English teacher. One of the students was not journaling. When reprimanded, he said, “I don’t have a pencil.”

I said, “That is a lame excuse! You need to become more creative.”

Suddenly, my mind was back in my eighth-grade English class.

When we were seventh graders, Mrs. Redman had told us that she’d been teaching for over 30 years and was just a couple years from retirement.

“If you can give me an original excuse for not finishing your homework, I’ll give you an A for the day. But if you give me one I have not heard before, you’ll receive an F.”

We tried a few times to get by with excuses, but never found one she had not already heard.

In our eighth-grade year, we had a very bad snowstorm that knocked out power for a week, even for those of us who lived in town. Those who lived on farms were without power even longer.

When school resumed, Andy said that he hadn’t finished his homework because “I was working on it with a candle. The candle fell over and burned it up!”

Mrs. Redman burst out laughing. “I’ve never heard that one before! You get an A for the day.”

He said, “Can I get two A’s for the day? I really did my homework and was just joking.”

He got the second A.

Rescued cucumber

This cucumber had been hiding under our summer savory when I found it Tuesday night. Cuke weighs 1½ lbs., three times what a normal slicer cucumber weighs, and is blemished and yellowing.

I brought it into the house with the other cukes I’d picked, but told Hubby I intended to throw it out.

“It’s too big to eat,” I said.

“No, don’t throw it away,” he said. “I’ll cut out the seeds and will use it for a sauce.”

Just like this cucumber, many of us were headed for the Dumpster. Our lives were seen as bitter and blemished, worthless for anything but the landfill.

But then the Master said, “No, don’t throw her away. I have a purpose for this life. I must deal with the seeds of sin. I must cut away the blemishes, but I am patient. I will do what is necessary to complete my plan for her redemption. After all, I have already paid for it on the cross.”

Command presence

When I was in college, many of my friends belonged to ROTC (Reserve Officers’ Training Corps). They tried to recruit me, but camping out in snowstorms just was not very appealing. After I broke my foot and had to have it screwed together, they stopped recruiting me. Ground pounding on a damaged foot wasn’t a good idea.

However, I am very much interested in history, especially military history, and was always eager to hear what they had to say.

They talked often about how to induce people to obey. An officer must have a command presence, they said, a confidence in their ability to direct those subordinate to them.

At nearly 5’11”, I have a presence, but I usually find effacing that presence to be useful. Being taller and bigger than nearly every woman I meet, along with many men, tends to be threatening.

But there are times I can hear my ROTC friends in my ear: “Take charge! Stand tall. Snap your voice. Believe in your ability to command obedience.”

I’m not fond of portraying a cop and enforcing rules. But I’m a substitute teacher. At times, command presence is required. That or turn into a doormat for chaos.

Today was one such day. I told the class politely twice to be quiet. I wasted my breath. Finally, I swung around in my chair and loudly dropped my hard-soled shoes.

I marched to the front of the room and snapped, “I am not in a mood to tolerate this! You will be quiet starting now!”

The students’ eyes goggled. The paraprofessional’s eyes goggled. And we had quiet. Blessed, blissful quiet.

Thanks, ROTC guys!

On safari

We were in the middle of nowhere on our Sunday outing. Hubby decided he would dress in his safari hat. I’m not sure where he thought the lions were, but he looks like the big game hunter in this hat.

We were more likely to see a rattler than any kind of big cat. Fortunately, no snakes made their appearance.

We were walking in a ravine when he stepped into a side gulch and told me to snap this photo.

This hat was ironically a gag gift in a game of “Dirty Santa” at Christmas 2005. He wasn’t supposed to like it, but he certainly does. He had chances to take away other people’s gifts, which I thought were a better choice, but he would have nothing to do with anything but this hat.

Do all men have a “big game hunter” hidden deep inside?

Broken arm equals found pet

I [Steve] grew up in a town of about 3,000 people in Northern California. Town was a major destination for Bay-Area tourists because we had a large lake that welcomed fishermen and water skiers. My dad (now retired) was a family doctor there for about 35 years.

One summer my brother, about 16 years old at that time, had a job at a gas station. Are you old enough to remember the days when they pumped your gas for you, washed the windshield, and checked the oil? That’s what my brother did. One day a lonely dog showed up at the station. Dog had no tags and he knew of no way to find the owners unless they showed up looking for their dog. When no one showed up by day’s end, he brought the dog home.

Later that same summer, my dad was relaxing at home when the telephone rang. The phone rings a lot when your father is a small-town doctor who literally goes on house calls or to the hospital any time of the day, any day of the week. This call was from the hospital saying they had a boy with a broken arm.

As Dad was setting the arm, he talked to the boy to try to keep him as distracted as possible from the pain. During the conversation, he learned the family was from San Francisco enjoying a summer vacation.

“We brought my dog, too,” the boy said sadly. ”But he got lost and we can’t find him anywhere.”

My dad asked him to describe his dog.

Well, you can guess the end of the story: “The dog is at my house!” my dad exclaimed.

That’s a small town for you. And can you imagine that a boy breaking his arm was his good fortune?

Several years later the same thing happened to my sister when she went to college and was working at her job. She ended up bringing that dog home as well. I think our family must have some odor about us that dogs like.

Range on the home

Hubby and I went on an all-day outing with our friend Tonya yesterday. On our return, I saw this shed. The pattern of the roof’s shadow on the side of the building attracted me and I pulled off.

“My wife is attracted to these old buildings,” Hubby explained, “and is always having to stop to take pictures of them.” When we pulled into the drive, we found that the shed’s door was blocked by a range. Strange.

Oh, well. I’ve seen lots of strange objects in abandoned buildings.

I got out to take the pictures I desired. As I circled the building, he yelled out the window, “You could call this picture ‘Range on the Home’!”

Of course, that called for a song:

Oh, give me a range
Where the buffaloes are strange
And the deer are all deranged
Where often is heard
A tune with new words
And your ears are not safe,
No way.

Range, range on the home
Where the deer are all alone
Where often is heard
A tune with new words
And your ears are not safe,
No way.

Hubby said that this was awful doggerel, but he was laughing so hard that he could hardly read it.

A Sunday drive in the country

My Soul Brother and friend Steve writes his first guest post. His wife is Marilyn’s cousin, whom I referred to in the new profile picture post.

Sunday afternoon was beautiful this week on the Front Range, so I told my wife I’d like to take her on a 15-minute drive over to the new hospital to see the finished product. “When we get back, I’ll put some chicken on the barbie,” I said.

Patty liked the idea.

After we saw the hospital, it was too nice to go home. Instead, we went exploring for a while. We decided to drive out east of town and enjoy the countryside. Although not our intent, we were soon completely lost.

We eventually found a road going “sorta west” in the direction of home. It was a beautiful drive, so who cared if it was taking a while? Eventually, though, the question came: “Shouldn’t we be there by now?” Suddenly, literally without warning, the paved road turned into gravel. Oh, dear.

However, the street did have a name, and it seemed familiar. That street turned onto County Line Road. Apparently we were still in some county. Then we came to Cowpoke Road and knew we might be in trouble.

So we’re driving on this gravel road DIRECTLY into the sun, blinded. Too far right, we’re stuck in the deep gravel and some soft sand. Too far left, we could be driving into a head-on with a flatbed. Well, carry on.

“I’m sure the road we want is up here in this direction,” said Patty.

Then she exclaimed, “Is that a cow standing in the road up ahead?!”

How did I know? I couldn’t see. Pretty soon, though, I turned to her and commented, “There appears to be a cow standing in the road up ahead.” The biggest cow I had ever seen was standing directly in the center of the road. I slowed down and eventually stopped, looking at the cow. Bessie thought about it, then slowly sauntered off the road. I drove by, staring at the cow. Then she turned and looked straight at us, with menace in her eyes. I wasted no time getting out of there, seeing as Bessie wanted her road-spot back. I chose not to point out to her that the grass was “over there.”

It was evident we were getting nowhere. We’d stop at a farmhouse and make some inquiries. As we had been traveling what seemed like days, maybe we could also get some water and food and go to the bathroom. Nobody was at the first house except a big dog with a very mean bark. I drove down a long driveway to the next house. Upon arrival, five very yippy-yappy little dogs swarmed the car. I immediately turned around, while trying not to squash the yap out of one of the dogs with my front tire.

We finally decided to call it a loss and drive all the way back from whence we came. Along the way I had to stop and make water in a deserted spot on the road (well, all the spots were deserted along that stretch, come to think of it). Further on, we met old Bessie again. She had reclaimed her place smack-dab in the middle of the road. This time she refused to budge. We had no hay to give her. The appeal of our car horn landed on deaf ears. With barely enough road on the side, we carefully and fearfully drove around her. She still had the evil eye.

A pickup emerged on the horizon parked at the side of the road. Just when I thought I’d stop (who says real men don’t ask for directions?), I saw three guys wearing hunting caps. Did they hear me honk at Bessie? I kept going.

About two hours into our 15-minute drive, we found the road back to civilization. At this point, Patty took over the decision-making. “Go directly to Wendy’s,” she said. “I’m starving, I have to pee, and I’m not waiting for any gol-dang barbecue to cook up some chicken. I’m eating me a cow.”

He leads me like a shepherd, Part II

Marilyn and Bruce after their wedding May 5, 1995.

Marilyn resumes her story from yesterday.

I can explain what happened during the wee hours of the next morning only by believing that it was the Holy Spirit’s move in my heart and in my life.

In the darkness of 4:30 a.m. the following day, I was awakened with a sense that I should call the hospital to check on Bruce’s status. But instead of listening immediately to that prick in my spirit, I began to pray for him, and lay awake going over the events of the past several weeks. The phone rang at 5 a.m. A nurse told me to come immediately to the hospital because “your husband is having a hard time breathing and we need you to come.”

As I arrived at the entrance of the hospital, Bruce’s doctor walked in with me. He said not a word, but walked hastily into the building. A nurse friend of mine met us at the door, grabbing my hand urgently. I could tell by the look on her face that something was terribly wrong. At that moment, Doctor told me that I must not go to Bruce’s room until he had seen what was going on there.

My friend led me to a waiting room, where she held my hand and stayed with me. Her face was filled with fear. We began to fervently pray aloud for God’s favor upon Bruce’s life, that he might be restored to complete healing. As tears streamed down our faces, I felt as if I’d been taken from my body. Nothing made sense. It was as if I was watching a movie screen and sobbing through the sad scenes.

Finally, Doctor came to the waiting room. He sat down, looked at the floor, shaking his head. My heart fell to my feet as he shared with me that he was not able to save my husband’s life. He shared with me that at 4:30 a.m. Bruce had begun to have chest pains and had called for assistance. Nursing staff immediately called Doctor and me. By the time Doctor arrived to his room, Bruce’s heart had quit beating. Nothing Doctor did revived it, though Doctor tried repeatedly to do so.

I believe it was at 4:30 a.m. that God sent the Holy Spirit to me to be my Comforter, my Peace, my Protector and my Guide, as He prepared the way for Bruce to go home. Not long after that, Bruce left this world and entered the Kingdom of Heaven, where he now lives forever in a totally new body!

At the moment Doc told me that my husband was not alive, I felt the arms of God surround my own body and soul. Even though I cried desperately and for what seemed an eternity, my heavenly Father held me throughout the entire process. I never lost my sense of direction, of knowing what I needed to do next. I was never in a state of confusion or doubt. Even though I felt like my heart had a huge hole in it that would never be repaired, I knew in an instant that I was not alone. Even though I shed hundreds of buckets of tears, I found an inner strength in me that I never knew existed.

I was heartbroken as I walked out of the hospital toting my husband’s personal belongings with me. It was almost unbearable to bring his shoes, his clothes, his glasses, his wedding ring, home in my hands, leaving his body behind.

As my brother and family drove me home, I watched the cars that we passed on the streets. People were going to work, taking their kids to school, just going about their everyday lives, while my life had just been turned upside down and inside out! It seemed so odd to me that the world was still turning all around me! A gorgeous fall day surrounded me with a crispness in the air mixed with that comforting warmth mixed in.

Entering my home that morning was truly like being in another scene of that same movie. All of a sudden, the house was ominously quiet and still. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. The house was empty with the knowledge in my heart that my husband would never set foot in our home again. I was here alone from now on.

I would never walk out of our bedroom to see him watching TV or reading on the couch. I would never hear the sound of the shower running while making breakfast. I would never walk into the back yard to find him tinkering on something. I would never see him mowing the lawn again or painting the house eaves or changing oil in the driveway.

As I put Bruce’s belongings on our bed, I walked through my home sobbing. All my family was sobbing: Mom, Dad, Brother. We had lost our husband, our son, our brother, our friend. All our shared memories came flooding back in droves as we each handled our own grief.

Soon my home was brimming with friends, family and food. Our beloved pastor was with me from the moment the doctor had given me the unbearable news until some time late into the evening hours. He held our hands, hugged us, loved us and talked with each visitor who graced my door that day. I remember feeling so much love from so many people during that time, that it amazed me. The phone must have rang for days with wonderful people who wanted to know they loved me and my family.

Bruce’s family arrived and plans began to arrange the funeral service. This was to be no ordinary funeral service. This was a celebration of Bruce’s life and his move from this old earth to his new home in his mansion in heaven!

Many stories were told about Bruce at the celebration of his life. Tears and laughter were mixed together into one praise and worship service! Bruce’s life on earth was a testimony of his love for his Heavenly Father, and we celebrated that fact during that service.

Then there were the butterflies. Yes, the day of Bruce’s funeral, no matter where I walked, where I stood, there were butterflies. It seemed as if they followed me wherever I went throughout that entire day. I smiled as I noticed that. My heart ached for my beloved husband, but it also rejoiced in knowing where he was at that moment. As I watched the butterflies fluttering around me, I knew Bruce was in peace and in a place where I’ll again see him one day.

At the cemetery all of our friends and family members joined me in letting go of balloons. I stood and watched as they sailed through the sky until I could no longer see them. As my heart was broken into tiny shreds, I knew then that my life would never be the same. I also knew then that my faith would be grounded, once and for all, in Jesus Christ my Lord and Savior.

As I look back on those last days with Bruce, I feel so blessed that they were made so special for me. I believe God planned it to be that way. I believe that God was preparing me for the heartache which was only days away. He was blessing me with great memories of a deep love that I shared with this man whom He would remove from my life soon. God granted me a short 6½ years with this man. A short time, really. But in those short years, Bruce and I lived life to the full! We were almost inseparable and were truly best friends. We shared our deepest dreams, hopes and fears. We were truly content with one another. Our friends said we were like peanut butter and jelly. You can’t have one without the other!

My life has changed drastically and dramatically since Oct. 3, 2001. I am not the same person I was then. God has done some miraculous things in my life these past seven years and I’m sure he’s not done yet! I thank God for those six short years He loaned Bruce to me. I learned so much from Bruce about how to live my daily life and how to be a strong, knowledgeable woman of God. I have no regrets. God has shown me that He is in control of our every breath: we just think we are. We are not. It’s His decision when we stop breathing. He made us, He will remove us from this earth when His time is right. Nothing we can do will keep that from happening. Being the controlling type person that I am, I’ve become very aware that I’m not as in control of things as I think I am.

As I reflect on the precious days I spent with Bruce before he was taken to his new home, my heart still aches for him. In my mind’s eye, I can still see him so precisely, so exactly the way he was during those last few days of his life. I can walk through my house and yard and see where he has left his touch. The old saying, “You truly don’t know what you have until it’s gone” rings true for me. I knew our marriage, love and friendship were very special, but did not know the depth of that fact until I no longer had that relationship.

This time of the year is now so bittersweet for me. I have come to love fall more than any other season of the year. The fall colors are brighter now, the sky bluer and clearer, the air full of scents that seep into my nostrils so deeply I’ll never forget them. And my heart is filled to overflowing with life and thanksgiving to my Lord and Savior. Life is no longer the same. I don’t take myself nearly as seriously as I once did, yet I take love and life’s special moments much more seriously. I know first-hand that life can be right-side up one minute and upside down the next. I know that I have very little control over things I think I should have, that Someone much larger and stronger than me has those details taken care of. I have learned how to let go of things that just don’t matter and to focus on things and relationships that are much more important.

If I were to share one life lesson I’ve learned while walking through the past seven years without my companion by my side, it would be this: Don’t take life for granted. Don’t think of yourself as invincible. Don’t think you have it all under control.

And the hugest prayer I could ever pray is this: That everyone who reads this would acknowledge the One who is larger than you. The One who has all the answers, holds the universe in the span of His hand, and He wants YOU to come home to HIM when it’s your time to leave this old world behind.

He leads me like a shepherd

Marilyn and Bruce after their wedding May 5, 1995.

As the summer fades and fall draws ever closer, I [Marilyn] am reminded of how quickly my life is passing right before my very eyes. This very year itself has passed by at a speed that proves to me I am not in control of much here on this ol’ earth. It seems that just yesterday I was scooping an early spring snow off my deck, anxiously awaiting the arrival of spring!

This October marks the seventh anniversary of the death of my best friend, my companion, my teacher, my protector, my provider, my comforter: my husband. The man God gave me for just a very short time to enjoy life with.

Every fall as the seasons change, as the butterflies hover over late-flowering plants, as children return to school and football games resume, as early morning walks are blessed with crisp cool air and the nights lengthen and turn cool, at times my heart aches heavily with memories from that day that changed my life forever. As I stroll through my fall-colored yard, I can look up at the roof and see Bruce repairing that shingle. I hear his voice as we share our hopes, dreams and lives during those last few days of his life here on earth with me. I remember a picnic in the back yard on that clear fall day with some special friends, the last time they saw Bruce alive. I remember the mid-afternoon break in the back yard, when we lay on the grass and smiled in great contentment at our lives. I had no way of knowing that in just a few short days, Bruce would no longer be by my side.

Bruce and I were rejoicing that he was feeling better after recovering from minor surgery that had turned into a major recovery process for both of us. I was starting to breathe a sigh of relief that he was healing well and his strength was returning. He was so relieved to be able to work on our house again, that he finished up one project after another, with me right by his side.

That Sunday was special because he was well enough to attend both services with me! Oh what a day of rejoicing that was, not only for us, but for our wonderful church family! Everyone was so glad to see him up and around and involved with us again. Our feelings of joy and contentment were like a cup, filled to overflowing with blessings abundant.

Being able to breathe again did not last long however. Into the deep hours of that Sunday night, a deadly infection had begun to show its ugly head in Bruce’s body. Bruce woke me up with news that things were not as they should be. We immediately followed the same procedures we’d been trained to do after his surgery, with no good results.

The following afternoon, Bruce was admitted to the hospital. He was immediately hooked up to IVs with powerful antibiotics surging through his body. Tests were taken to determine the source of this downhill slide. News of what this infection could be made us shiver with fear. Steadily, Bruce became sicker and sicker, losing all the strength he had regained, and more, til he was no longer able to sit up alone. Food did not stay down, and dry heaves were hitting him hard.

On the evening of Bruce’s second night in the hospital, he called me at work. He sounded excited yet weak. He said that he was hungry for the first time in days, and wanted me to have supper with him. Our last meal together was Cream of Tomato Soup and a Grilled Cheese Sandwich at the hospital. Too weak to feed himself, I gave him small sips and bites of food. I was overjoyed to feed my husband and to see him eat!

As Bruce rallied that evening, my family and many of our friends came to visit us in the hospital. The room was packed with loved ones showing us how much they loved us!

The room quickly cleared though, as Bruce’s body once again turned for the worst. I watched in shock and total fear as I saw my husband’s condition worsen. The knot in my stomach grew ever larger and my heart grew tight. The doctor was called and administered some sleeping medication so that Bruce’s body would calm down and he could get some much-needed rest. As Bruce drifted off to sleep, I quietly left the room and returned to my empty house.

What happened during the wee hours of the next morning, I can explain only by believing that it was the Holy Spirit’s move on my heart. To read what took place next in my life, come see us again tomorrow at this same location, where I’ll pick up the story right here!

Remembering 9/11

I am too young to remember President Kennedy’s assassination. I wasn’t born when Pearl Harbor was attacked on the Date Which Will Live in Infamy. Those horrendous events are the only ones I consider comparable to the shock we all experienced Sept. 11, 2001.

Even though I well remember that horrible day, recalling it still has an air of unreality. How could such a bizarre attack happen? How could it have succeeded so well? Partially, of course, the attacks were successful because “who would’ve thunk it!”

The night before, I had finished reading a Tom Clancy novel, probably “The Sum of All Fears”. When the alarm went off, the local radio announcer said that a plane had struck one of New York’s Twin Towers. I thought I was dreaming this, that the book had gotten into my dreams. Surely this was an accident, I thought, but I could not shake the idea that I was dreaming. Finally, I went into the kitchen and turned on the TV. Surely that would dispel this nightmare world I’d fallen into.

Instead, I watched in shock and horror as another plane slammed into the second tower. I remember feeling completely numb. I believed my eyes’ evidence, but how could this be happening?

As I sat there open-mouthed, trying to make sense of what was nonsense, Hubby returned from an early-morning meeting. I said that the second tower had been struck. He fell into a chair. He knew that the first tower had been struck. That had happened before he left for his meeting, but he hadn’t yet learned that Tower No. 2 was a target.

We watched numbly until we had to leave for work. I went on my sales route. No one wanted to buy anything. People brought TVs from home to see what was happening. I missed almost nothing because every business was either glued to TV or radio.

I had the feeling that I had fallen into some movie set. None of this could be real, could it? As the events played out, the feeling of unreality kept growing. Even though I knew full well that planes flown by despicable, evil men had flown into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon and that, at the cost of their lives, heroes had prevented that foul gang from flying into some other target, I just could not shake the notion that this was not quite real. The scenario was too far out, too unbelievable, too wicked.

That evening, Hubby and I went outside to enjoy our lawn chairs, hoping to receive a respite from the day’s horrors. The sky was empty of planes. No friendly lights blinked above. Just the Moon, stars and planets shone down. The feeling was beyond eerie. I had felt a sense of violation all day, but those were TV images. As we looked at the sky, my sense of violation, anger and shock broke through the unreality of it all.

That weekend, we attended a show in Copper Mountain, Colo. Many of the vendors who usually packed the hall were trapped at other shows, unable to fly out. Some had rented vehicles so they could fill their booths. Some of the booths had displays but no vendors. Some of the booths had vendors but no displays.

One had been in the sky when the attacks occurred and had ended up at an airport far from his intended destination. The pilot had announced that the Towers had been attacked and that he had to get out of the sky, wherever he could find a place to land. Vendor was still shaken from the experience.

That night, we stood out under the stars holding candles, singing patriotic songs. “God Bless America” and “The Star-Spangled Banner” meant more to me than ever before. Many of us shed tears. Our beloved country had been attacked by cowards who used civilians to wage war. We grieved and mourned. We desired justice for those who had been so brutally murdered.

I will never forget. To this day, I feel relieved every time I look up and see contrails or airplane running lights. Something that meant nothing before is now a source of comfort.

God bless America and protect her from all her enemies.

Peach Custard Pie

Donna loves peach pie, so I made this pie for her birthday. I’ve never tried this recipe before. Nothing like using your friends as guinea pigs!

This recipe originated in the “Better Homes & Gardens New Cookbook”, the best cookbook I’ve ever found for quick breads.

Peach Custard Pie

Printable PDF version

Ingredients:
1 unbaked pie crust
3 C. sliced, peeled peaches
2 eggs
¼ C. Splenda/Alterna
¼ C. sugar
3 T. flour
1 t. vanilla
½ t. peach flavoring
1/8 t. ground nutmeg
¾ C. milk

Method:
Line pastry with double layer of foil. Bake crust in 450º oven 8 minutes. Remove foil. Bake 4-5 minutes more or until set and dry. Layer peaches in pastry shell; set aside.

For filling, slightly beat eggs with rotary beater or fork. Stir in dry ingredients. Gradually stir in milk, just until combined.

Place partially-baked pastry shell on oven rack. Carefully pour filling over fruit in shell. Cover edge of pie with foil or crust cover. Reduce oven temperature to 350º and bake for 25 minutes. Remove foil. Bake for 20-25 minutes more. Pie is done when knife inserted into center comes out clean.

We had a hard time getting the pie to finish baking. After 30 minutes, it still was not done. We increased the temperature to 450º and baked it for 5 minutes. That finished it.

Pineapple Fizz Cake

Fizz cake is my birthday cake of choice. A birthday without fizz cake just doesn’t seem like my birthday.

Saturday wasn’t my birthday, but I did not have time to make a fancy dessert for the dinner party we were having. So I chose to make fizz cake. Mother got this recipe from Kitchen Klatter, a recipe radio show. Kitchen Klatter made wonderful flavorings. I can always tell a recipe that originated from that program because it has some kind of flavoring in it. Of course, I’ve tweaked it a bit. I never can resist a bit of tweaking.

The company is now called X-Tra Touch and still offers a wide range of flavorings. While making this, I noticed that I am nearly out of butter flavoring. If I cannot find that flavoring locally, I’ll order it from X-Tra Touch.

Pineapple Fizz Cake

Printable PDF version

Cake ingredients:
1 box lemon cake mix
4 eggs
1 3-oz. box instant French vanilla pudding mix
1 12-oz. can Sprite/7-Up/Sierra Mist
1 t. vanilla

Cake method:
Mix mixes and eggs well. Add Sprite and vanilla. Pour into greased 9x13x2-inch pan. Bake at 350°.

Topping ingredients:
3 eggs
1 stick butter (do not substitute)
1/8 t. butter flavoring
¾ C. Splenda/Alterna
¾ C. sugar
1 C. crushed, undrained pineapple
1 T. flour
¼ t. pineapple flavoring
1 C. coconut

Topping method:
Combine all ingredients but coconut in saucepan on medium heat. Cook until thick (approximately 10 minutes). Add coconut and pour over cake when cake has cooled.

That radiant glow

Until I used this photo in an illustration, I did not notice that the leaves glow. I swear that I did not do some special tricks in Photoshop to make that happen. I don’t know that much about Photoshop! And even if I did, I doubt I’d have the patience to draw glowing areas around each leaf.

The glow is just some natural lighting effect, God’s gift to this photographer.

Or maybe the sunflower is radioactive and I’ve received some as yet undiscovered supernatural powers from exposure to this thing?

KO'd in badminton

In front of Kansas City’s shuttlecock sculpture in 2004, about as close as I’ve ever gotten to badminton since I stopped taking PE.

I started substitute teaching again this week.

Thursday I was a PE teacher. I hated PE throughout school. I was almost always the slowest, clumsiest student and nearly always the last one chosen for any game requiring physical skill. Math was not my strong suit academically, but at least academic issues could often be hidden. Failures in PE were public. Very public.

I could empathize with those students who hung back and did not want to participate. I certainly didn’t when I was in their shoes.

As they attempted to play tennis, I thought of an incident during my school years.

My best friend Jean had about the same physical skill level that I did. We were usually partners for friendship’s sake, but also because we didn’t embarrass each other with our lack of athletic prowess.

We paired as a doubles team during a badminton unit and actually did reasonably well, climbing to the middle of our class tournament’s chart. I usually played in the forecourt while she took the back court.

Did I mention that I’m accident prone, that things happen to me?

During one match, a high serve came over the net. I leaped to make an overhead smash. When I connected on these (a hit-or-miss proposition), I usually scored. This time, Jean had much the same idea. I didn’t usually call for the shot because I was never sure I’d actually hit it.

Well, I did hit it. And she hit me right below the crown of my head. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor with my partner and the teacher standing over me.

I have never met anyone else who was KO’d by a badminton racket.

The photographer needs knee pads

The next time I take pictures in a field, I’m going to add knee pads to my attire, the kind with hard plastic on them. Kneeling on a goathead patch is very hard on the knees.

My feet are very calloused. I hate shoes and wouldn’t wear them if they weren’t a necessity. Even those hard feet don’t protect me from those sharp goathead thorns. My knees have tender skin. Thorns hurt!

Frou-frou lamp sunflower

Sunflower at left reminds me of a fringed lamp. Can you tell that I have never lacked for imagination?

The head turning downward has a practical purpose. A sunflower head parallel to the ground makes life harder for birds trying to eat the seeds.

This particular sunflower field is a confectionery sunflower crop. Sunflowers grown for oil would have smaller heads. This head is full of sunflower seeds; therefore, it’s a prime target for birds.

Sunflower rising

I was trying to get this picture when I included my cap. I love the interplay of light and shadow across the flower and the variations in the petals.

The photographer wears a ball cap

The photographer wears work boots on her feet and a cap on her head. The cap keeps my hair out of my eyes and away from my lens.

Monday morning, I was trying to shoot a picture of a bashful sunflower, one with its head pointing toward the ground. Because I was holding the camera parallel to the ground, lens facing upward, I couldn’t see what I was shooting. When I looked at my screen after taking this picture, I laughed. Apparently, my cap thought that Monday morning was time for its close-up.

Where’s Cecil DeMille when you need him?

Sunflowers at sunrise

No light is better than that shining at sunrise. No crop is more beautiful than sunflowers. Put them together for wonderful pictures.

I arose early Monday morning, even though it was a holiday, to take sunflower pictures. I marveled at the glory and provision of God to make these beautiful creations to feed his creatures and for the wisdom He has granted us to improve their yield.

I thought of the song “When Morning Gilds the Skies”.

When morning gilds the skies my heart awaking cries:
May Jesus Christ be praised!
Alike at work and prayer, to Jesus I repair:
May Jesus Christ be praised!

When you begin the day, O never fail to say,
May Jesus Christ be praised!
And at your work rejoice, to sing with heart and voice,
May Jesus Christ be praised!

To God, the Word, on high, the host of angels cry,
May Jesus Christ be praised!
Let mortals, too, upraise their voice in hymns of praise,
May Jesus Christ be praised!

The night becomes as day when from the heart we say:
May Jesus Christ be praised!
The powers of darkness fear when this sweet chant they hear:
May Jesus Christ be praised!

Be this, while life is mine, my canticle divine:
May Jesus Christ be praised!
Sing this eternal song through all the ages long:
May Jesus Christ be praised!

Two flower girls, one dress

Hubby’s cousin got married Saturday. The flower girl, Ella, wore the dress our flower girl, Heidi, wore 14 years ago. My mother, a fabulous seamstress, made that dress and I know she would have been delighted to see it used again.

Ella in the recessional.

Heidi, now a college freshman, has grown rather too large to wear the dress.

Nicholas, our ringbearer, and Heidi, our flower girl, in the processional.

It’s hard to believe that our ring bearer is now in the Navy and our flower girl is now in college.

Watching Ella wear that dress was bittersweet. The last vocal music selection Saturday was “Holes in the Floor of Heaven”. I cried throughout the entire song. I could just picture my mother looking down at the wedding and feeling pleased that her creation was being reused. How I wish I could have told her in person and shared her delight. But that will have to wait until I, too, am on the other side.

Mother and I on my wedding day. Not only did she make my dress, an absolute masterpiece, but she also made flower girl’s, bridesmaids’ and candlelighters’ dresses.