Grated Cheese

Have you looked at your cheese grater lately?  Mine has two sizes of holes; one section has large holes and the other smaller holes for finer grating. This shredder makes using the cheese much easier in the recipes that I prepare. While using it tonight I started thinking that life is a lot like the cheese going over the grater holes.  Some of the things that happen to us in our life shred us into coarsely grated pieces.  These are the everyday things that happen to us – locking our keys inside the car when we are late or getting a short note from a friend.  These coarsely grated pieces allow our life to be flavored in a normal everyday sort of way.  The other side of the grater produces a much finer shredding of the cheese.  It takes more work to produce the same amount of grated cheese to use this side, but the finer shreds blend more thoroughly.  These finer gratings in our life are when we face surgery or are seriously depressed.  These times are harder, but they can produce in us a much better person. 

I also noticed something else while using my grater; it only worked when I was holding both the cheese and the grater in my hands.  Just as I needed to hold both the grater and the cheese, God always holds His love for us and our life in His hands while He is allowing us to be “grated” by life.  That’s the only way it works. 

Hometown page 2

The summer of my fifth year we moved to Templeton, population 2500 people, 1250 dogs of various breeds, 2000 cats of all colors, 2 rabbits – tamed, and 10 horses.  We had arrived in the big city!  I loved it there for one simple reason; our house was next to the public library.  Books. Glorious books.  They were everywhere.  Momma allowed me to go anytime I wanted and to stay as long as I wished. I could not imagine anything better than this.

But an end to all good things must happen and so did this chapter in my life.  Daddy had been working at the Chevy dealership’s garage repairing cars and trucks.  After one year of being told when to work and how to work he decided that he could do better on his own and be much happier.  He rented a Quonset hut building in a small town near by to open his own repair shop.  He and Momma purchased a house one block away.  It was in this house I was to finish my growing up within my family circle.  It would have been a painful move for me leaving all of “my” library books behind if Momma hadn’t introduced me to “the Library card.”  I could have kissed the feet of the genius who though up that idea.  I didn’t have to leave my books behind and better yet I did not have to go to plan A. 

Plan A was thought up the moment I knew my parents were moving.  Plan A, the result of many excursions to forbidden areas of the library, was so simple.  Step one was to set up a “nest” under the stairs that lead up to the grown up section of the library with all of my clothes and toys.  Step two was to sneak into the break room to “borrow” the librarian’s lunches each day.  I knew I could do it.  Of course, I would miss Mom and Dad but they had Dusty and would be to busy moving to miss me.  It was a perfect plan.

The library card saved me from my budding life of crime.  I was free to move to Brooks.  Free to read forever.   Free to live with Momma and Daddy, and to my surprise free to run all over town.  Brooks was so small.  The population of 100 people and the surrounding farms supported two grocery stores, a post office, a bank, a two-room school, and Daddy’s garage.  This was heaven on earth to me – books, school, and freedom to roam. I had no idea that my growing years would be filled with queens, entertainers, adventure and excessive blessings.  Not to mention my brief encounter with illegal drugs.  Little did I know or care that my life there would lay the foundation of my future of travel, children, status, friends, love and blessings beyond anything I could ever have dreamed.

Hometown page 1

You asked for more.  Here it is.  I will be putting it up in pages -- one page per day (or so).  It will be like the old Saturday movies, where you get the action, but you know more will be there next Saturday.  I hope you enjoy it.  Please let me know what you think or if you have ideas on how to improve it.  Thank you.

Page 1

Momma was working for Dr Cooper, the only doctor in town, so she could board in town and attend high school.  World War II was just over and Daddy with his eyes so dark you couldn’t see the black center and black wavy hair carefully combed back and held in place by Brylcreem had just arrived back in Villisca from his overseas duty.  It was only a matter of time before they met since the whole business section of town bordered on the four sides of the town park.  The population was near its all time high of 900 people all living in white washed houses spreading out from the town center.  Momma married Daddy at the tender age of 17, although she would point out rather quickly that she turned 18 four days later.  About a year and a half later when she became pregnant with me, their first child, Dad and Mom moved to a house on the far corner of Momma’s father’s farm.  Daddy farmed with Grandpa for the next six years.  I was born shortly after they moved.  With my three aunts still living at home with Grandpa and Grandma you can imagine the loving care I received.

The summer of my fourth year I was enrolled in the local country school.  I would be attending kindergarten.  There really wasn’t a kindergarten program in country schools then, but the teacher adored me and I am sure that Momma wanted some quiet time so I started my education at the ripe old age of four.  It was a one-room red schoolhouse complete with a bell on the roof that called us to come in from recess.  The teacher taught all of the grades, Kindergarten through eighth each day.  I was the only one in my class.  There were no first graders and only two-second graders.  I don’t remember how many of the other classes had students in them, but the school only had fourteen kids.  Penmanship was taught on the black board to the older class.   I watched and learned to write with them.  It wasn’t until later after we moved that I was taught how to print.  I also learned to multiply and divide at the same time I was learning to add and subtract because they were all taught on the blackboard.  

The school held an annual Christmas program for the whole community.  The parents and grandparents were seated in the student’s desk or crowed into whatever space was available to dutifully watch other people’s children recite poems or read sections of the Bible or a Christmas story waiting for their own precious child to do his part of the program.  After each student was finished there would be a proud parent who would start the clapping and be the last one to finish clapping.  Have you noticed that parents think that their child is the most talented one on earth?  Some are right and others sadly are wrong, but this does not stop them from being proud of their child. 

Finally the time for the last performance of the program had arrived.  It was my turn on the stage.  My adoring teacher, Miss Dory, stood tall and with her soft pleasing voice announced to the gathering that the next performance would be a piano solo by Victoria Penry.  My parents in unison started to turn white.  You see they were the only people in the room who knew that I had never taken a piano lesson in my short short life.  But there I was seated at the piano playing away like it was Carnegie Hall.  After a few minutes, Miss Dory started to thank me for my lovely piece.  I played on.  Again the ever soft-spoken Miss Dory started to thank me for my lovely piece.  I played on.  For the first time ever Miss Dory raised her voice to me and thanked me for my piece as she gently pulled me off the piano bench.  I took the hint.  Bowed and happily marched down to sit with my parents, who by this time were desperately looking for a hole in the floor to crawl into while praying as hard as they could for the end times to come this minute.  It was left to poor long suffering Miss Dory to start the clapping for my part in the program.  It was just the beginning of my love of being in front of people.  It is also quite possible that it was the reason that my parent moved to a town in the next county that summer.  They are both gone now so I shall never know for sure.   I do wonder though.

Hometown

After reading this, please let me know if you would like to hear more of the story and my thoughts on leaving.

I can close my eyes and still see the majestic pine trees in the Haven’s yard.  Standing still, I can feel the wind blowing gently over the land and through the trees rustling the pine needles.  I can smell the sweet smell of the soil after a rain.  If I try hard enough I can feel the warmth of the sun upon my face and arms and hear the wrens chirping as they fly to their nests. There just isn’t another place on earth as wonderful as my hometown.

If it was so perfect then why did I leave?  I have thought about this for the last 40 years.  The only answer I can come up with is that I didn’t see what was before me.  I hungered for change and adventure.  I wanted to see what was out there in the big wide world.  I didn’t see that the whole world was right there in that tiny town.  Age has had a way of making me look back and comparing the two worlds.  I now see that they aren’t so different.  

My Gift

Some of you know that I was a caregiver to my husband for over 25 years.  The Lord has taken this burden/blessing from me, but not the lessons I learned doing it.  Here is one of the thoughts I had while I was in the care giving part of my life.  I pray it has meaning for you.

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The words of one of the songs we sign at church goes like this, “Finish what you started in me.” Are we always willing for God to finish what He has started when often we are so unwilling for Him to start in the first place?  For some of us the refiners fire is caregiving.  It is never easy.  It is a very demanding job.  We are always “on”.  There is no rest for us.  Even vacations are work for us.  We have to remember the needs and the special equipment while we are in unfamiliar places and on an unfamiliar schedule in a disability unfriendly world.

We did not willing and with full knowledge choose to be caregivers, but this is what God gave us.  A gift it sometimes seems in an ugly box.  The gift has been given though.  Ready or not we have to open it and take it out and use it.

We have been given a gift.  A gift of caregiving.  We are imitations of Christ.  The perfect caregiver.  It is our ongoing gift from God. He will not finish what he has started until we die.  But he will finish and we will fully be able to enjoy this very special gift.  A gift very few are given.

Left or Right? God's path for us

Stand at the end of your sidewalk.  Now close your eyes. Which way should you go?  Left or Right?  Can you imagine the paths ahead?  Even though you have seen them many times do you remember what they looked like?  Do you know how they have changed since you last were on them?  You must open your eyes to see what is ahead. To see where you are going.

Living a life with God is like this.  We all are going down a path, but to choose the right path we must open our eyes to see what God has in mind for us. We must look with the eyes of God.  We must see.  Sometimes there will be a bend in the path that we can’t see around, but as long as we are on the right path we will be all right.  It is the path God has chosen for us.

Dusty

We were all sitting at the table eating lunch.  It was rare that we would eat lunch together.  Usually Daddy would eat as he worked or would walk over to the house and grab a sandwich when it fit into his work.  We kids would just grab some veggies out of the garden whenever we got hungry.  But this warm summer day we were all together having a rather pleasant lunch together. 

The side door slammed shut.  We all turned around to see Randy  walking into the house.  He would just walk in whenever he wanted.  It didn’t happen often but still often enough that that we weren’t surprised to see him.  He casually walked over to the table and announced, “Ol’ Dirt is out sweeping under the snowball bush.”  It was all we could do not to laugh out loud.  Ol’ Dirt was our white husky dog that we had named “Dusty” since a white dog in Iowa would not stay white long.  With Randy’s lisp just turned Dusty’s little nap into sweeping.  Randy was only about five at the time, but Mom and Dad never tired of telling the story.  I am sure that Randy was a bit tired of the story by the time he turned thirty.

We got Dusty when we were living in Fountainelle Iowa.  I was about three years old.  We had a dog, shepherd I think, that came with the farm we were living on.  One day he ran out in the road and was hit by a car.  Truly bad luck for the dog as we lived on a country road and perhaps two cars a day would drive by.  Well, after the shepherd died Mom said that we would not be getting any other dogs.  Point blank.  No more dogs.  As the summer turned into fall and the days got shorter and colder we missed playing with a pet. Then the winter snows came and we were basically shut into the house.  One evening after supper there was a knock at the back door.  Momma opened it to find Grandpa stomping  the snow from his boots holding a little white ball.  The first words out of Mom’s mouth were “Dad, take that back where you found it!”

“Now Hester,” he said, “ the girls need a pet and this little fella is just what they need.” 

It didn’t take long for us to see that Grandpa had a puppy and to start playing with him right away.  Momma could sense defeat, so she claimed the right to name the creature.  “We’ll call him Dusty.” She declared.  “He’ll never be that white again living on a farm.”  Dusty was officially part of our family now.  He would move from Fountainelle with us to the house in Corning, to the farm outside of Brooks, and then finally to the house in Brooks.  He remained faithful to us through all of these changes and never once wandered far from home.  Dusty quietly passed into the afterlife one warm summer day at a very old age for a dog.  We missed him and I still think of him fifty years later.  I never was much of a dog person, but Dusty was ours.  That made him different.