Thoughts from the road...

Letters to a Diminished Church by Dorothy Sayers

For the devilish strategy of pride is that it attacks us, not on our weak points, but on our strong. It is preeminently the sin of the noble mind - that corruptio optimi that works more evil in the world than all the deliberate vices. Because we do not recognize pride when we see it, we stand aghast to see the havoc wrought by the triumphs of human idealism. We meant so well, we thought we were succeeding - and look what has come of our efforts! There is a proverb that says that the way to hell is paved with good intentions. We usually take it as referring to intentions that have been weakly abandoned, but it has a deeper and much subtler meaning. That road is paved with good intentions strongly and obstinately pursued until they have become self-sufficing ends in themselves and deified.

Norms and Nobility by David V. Hicks

I know that we live in an age where the homely
or psychological detail is considered all-important.
We like heroes in shirtsleeves, or, in other words,
we don't like heroes. But things were not always
that way, and today is not forever. ~ Louis Auchincloss

A college president I know keeps three books on his night table: the Bible, the Iliad, and Louis Auchincloss' 1964 The Rector of Justin. When I once asked him, "Why the novel?," he responded, "Because it raises questions I cannot answer or ignore, the sort of questions that possess a wisdom apart from answers."

A repeat performance:



Reality:

The hotel WI-FI is, um, shall we say, a bunch faster than the dial-up dinosaur we left on my desk at home. Sad, but true.

Let's Get Real Monday (on Thursday)

For Randi, just a little late.
Let's Get Real Monday: Shoes.



What kind of shoes do I like? In a word: RED. In another word (or three): Cheap works, too.

The getaway

A wedding anniversary is the celebration of love, trust, partnership, tolerance and tenacity. The order varies for any given year.
~Paul Sweeney

Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom. ~Marcel Proust

Twenty years of marriage have made us better people; almost-sixteen years of parenting have blessed us beyond measure. Thank you, Lord, for the gift of my husband and children.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

Sonnet XLIII

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, -I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Happy Anniversary, love.

Vacation.....

I love our annual trips to Oregon. This year we have added an extra week to our trip; along with the added time, we have added several special visits and plans. Our pre-dawn dash Saturday brought us here in time for the graduation ceremony of Miss Autumn Rain.



If I cry for the graduations of my friends and adopted nieces, what will I do at the graduation of my own children? Get stock in Kleenex is my recommendation. The graduation was beautiful, and I am so proud of her achievements and her plans for the future.

The rest of our weekend was spent at Gutenberg College and with friends who work there. This was our first college visit with our children's futures in mind. We have followed the work at Gutenberg from its inception; we've supported our friends' work there, we have visited them on our Oregon trips and talked about how Gutenberg is doing, but this was different. This time I was Mom. I looked at those dorm rooms with eyes that could see my beautiful and serious daughter reading and wrestling with ideas at that window, behind that desk, on those overstuffed chairs. We talked with one of the tutors after church on Sunday, we had lunch with other members of staff and the board, and we definitely felt like we got to know a lot more about how to prepare a student for success there. Our daughter loves the Great Books, and she has always found the program details to be right up her alley, but she had a good look at the facility this visit. She loved the idea of cooking in the huge kitchen and working in the vegetable garden in the backyard. Living in a city would be a huge change for her, but that patch of country in the backyard made her country heart sing.



Now we are basking in the pleasure of deep friendships with A Learning Life, The Autumn Rain, and Lavender and Old Lace. We brought the heat with us, but time spent swimming in the creek, sitting in the shade to chat, plunking sleeping bags on the back lawn and storytelling way too late all seem to be making the heat have a feel of adventure in it. Tomorrow we're going to ditch the whole group of them and head to the coast for a celebration of twenty years of marriage. TWENTY YEARS! TWENTY YEARS!

What a blessed woman I am.

Thoughts from the road

The current issue of Touchstone Magazine was handed to us by one of our hosts this morning. I have only gotten to page seventeen and have enough to think about until we return from vacation to find our own copy in the pile of collected mail.

Two articles caught my eye: Anthony Esolen on the value of extended family, and Mary Walsh on companies that corrupt children.




From Esolen:

They are those strange people called cousins, strange and familiar at once, whose blood - nay, whose noses - exert a powerful claim on your duty and who, in their numbers and their crazy variety and their blissful being-themselves, place you within a community whether you like it or not and remind you that you are not the most important person in the world.

I am very close to an elderly cousin, and I have a cousin in another state whom I wish I could see more often, but we mostly find ourselves as the first generation in the long-term work of close extended family relationships. Will our children's children be close? No guarantees, but I look forward to seeing how it all plays out.

From Walsh:

Children have always imitated adults through their play. "Children" here includes teenagers, and "play" includes the clothes they choose to wear to express themselves. That is why their play is really not merely play, and their clothes not merely clothes, but a learning process. If we think of play as a learning and modeling process, the culture gives us something to be concerned about.

The not-so-quiet moments

Surrounded by my favorite people


Dunkin'



The water fight



Resting up after a vicious water gun battle


Getting ready to paddle (or sink!)

Yesterday...

I read this at friend Sparrow's spot:

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life...

and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary.

I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life... from Walden by Henry David Thoreau

Later, I read this at Mrs. M-mv's spot:

The "Let's Go! Let's Go! Hurry UP! Go, Go, Go!" mentality that pervades our business transactions and the Power Point school of presentation and the five-paragraph view of the world that governs our post-baccalaureate "education" have slowly stripped us of the ability to savor language. To read. To think. To learn. To hold a Great Conversation. And to synthesize all that we're learning. To reconcile it with the life we lead.

And the life we want to lead.

Steve Almond (Candyfreak) describes this well: "The unexamined life, it might be said, offers an extraordinary profit margin."

Ayup.

Just before leaving, this arrived from Dover:


A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers
by Henry David Thoreau

I had often stood on the banks of the Concord, watching the lapse of the current, an emblem of all progress, following the same law with the system, with time, and all that is made; the weeds at the bottom gently bending down the stream, shaken by the watery wind, still planted where their seeds had sunk, but ere long to die and go down likewise; the shining pebbles, not yet anxious to better their condition, the chips and weeds, and occasional logs and stems of trees, that floated past, fulfilling their fate, were objects of singular interest to me, and at last I resolved to launch myself on its bosom, and float whither it would bear me.

Seven hours later, I was here:




All five children were off in boats, my husband was napping on the couch, and the kind host of our invasion was returning his grandson home. I could hear the water lapping, the laughter of my children from far across the lagoon, and the flap of the ducks' wings as they made their evening rounds. I sat, mesmerized by the flickers of light on the surface of the water, and I listened as complete thoughts rolled back and forth and around again in my mind. No "hurry, hurry", no check-off list to work through, only a snatch of quiet minutes for thinking and dreaming and noticing.

The Red House Mystery

The Red House Mystery by A.A. Milne

From the introduction:

"I have a passion for detective stories. Of beer (if I may mention it) an enthusiast has said that it could never be bad, but that some brands might be better than others; in the same spirit (if I may use the word) I approach every new detective story. This is not to say that I am uncricitical. On the contrary, I have all sorts of curious preferences, and the author has to satisfy me on many strange matters before I can award him an honorary degree. Thus, to take a point, I prefer that a detective story should be written in English. I remember reading one in which a peculiarly fascinating murder had been committed, and there was much speculation as to how the criminal had broken into the murdered man's library. The detective, however, (said author) "was more concerned to discover how the murderer had effected an egress." It is, to me, a distressing thought that in nine-tenths of the detective stories of the world murderers are continually effecting egresses when they might just as easily go out. The sleuth, the hero, the many suspected all use this same strange tongue, and we may be forgiven for feeling that neither the natural excitement of killing the right man, nor the strain of suspecting the wrong one, is sufficient excuse for so steady a flow of bad language."

Well, what do we read now?

The Penderwicks was a hit! We finished it last night, much too late, because we just had to know; it was satisfying, all the way to the end.

"Yes, he said good-bye for now."

"That's nice," said Jane. "I like that."

"Hound, say good-bye for now," said Batty.

"Woof!" said Hound.

Then they were gone.

But we are left with a common problem: what do we read now? I still remember when we at long last finished reading The Lord of the Rings. The current reader shut the book, we all looked at each other in silence, and then someone said, "Well, what could we possibly read now?" We finally came to a conclusion: we'd better choose a bad one because, no matter what, we wouldn't like it. I seem to remember we were proven wrong, and we were happy with the book that had to shine in Tolkien's shadow, but it's never easy moving on from a favorite set of characters.

So, do you have any suggestions for a vacation read-aloud? We have plenty of audiobooks for the car, but we would love a good story to read at our final beach destination. If you do, drop me an email pronto; we leave before Mr. Sun comes to visit on Saturday morning.

The sounds of summer

Summer, by George Winston



The Very Best of the Manhatten Transfer

I love coffee, I love tea
I love the java jive and it loves me
Coffee and tea and the jivin' and me
A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup!

Just a little heads up: when I get to heaven, I would LOVE to sing like The Manhatten Transfer. I really, really would love to.

Thinking of....

my mother-in-law, who is in the hospital recovering from surgery to remove her appendix. If I could be by your bedside, Margaret, I would sing to you:

I love you a bushel and peck
A bushel and peck and a hug around the neck
A hug around the neck and a barrel and a heap
A barrel and a heap and I'm talking in my sleep
About you, about you

Cause I love you a bushel and a peck
You bet your pretty neck, I do
Doodle, oodle, oodle, doodle, oodle, oodle, doodle, oodle, oodle oo

Maybe it's a good thing we're over fifteen hours away, eh? *smile*

Across the miles we send our love, our prayers, and our hopes for your quick recovery, dear MomMargaretNana!

Summer Reading Challenge Update

Done

The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins

"Do you really mean to say that you don't feel any interest in what we are going to do?" he asked. "Mr. Bruff, you have no more imagination than a cow!"

"A cow is a very useful animal, Mr. Blake," said the lawyer.

In Progress

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

On June 5th I wrote: "I am on page 200, but I have come to the conclusion that it will take me one hundred years of solitude to be able to understand the importance of this novel. I should have been suspicious when I saw it was an Oprah choice...sigh."

Two readers wrote with their sympathy, having read Solitude without much satisfaction, but Mrs. M-mv wrote these words:

When I read Marquez (or Tolstoy or Gogol or Chekov, for that matter), I am confronted by a concern for all that is lost in translation. Oh, to be able to read the works in the native languages of their authors.

We can meet good (or great) books at the wrong time, just as we can meet good people at the wrong time. Perhaps this just isn't Marquez's time with you. I confess to feeling like a friend rushing in to ensure that you don't write so-n-so off simply because she neglected to call before stopping by. (*wry grin*) Set it aside for some other time, but don't dismiss Solitude as an Oprah choice. There are too many other books in her club that fit that moniker (Crown River? Icy Sparks? Back Roads? The Pilot's Wife?); I felt compelled to rescue the few don't-miss selections from suspicion!

Rest assured, Solitude will be in my vacation stack, and I believe it will benefit from the longer reading stretches those lazy days will provide. Right now, as we bob and weave between piano recitals, home projects, summer school and visiting friends, my reading is done in snatches. These days are perfect for the likes of Sayers' book of essays, but Solitude's demand for an hour or two at a time will have to wait until next Saturday.

So, thanks for the sympathetic emails, my friends; it's nice to know I am not the only one who has struggled through this book. Thanks as well to Mrs. M-mv for standing up for beautiful writing. Marquez DOES write beautifully; I just need time to hear the music.

Letters to a Diminished Church: Passionate Arguments for the Relevance of Christian Doctrine by Dorothy Sayers.

A chapter or two a week is my pace, and it is working perfectly. I love how Sayers writes.

Murder at Markham by Patricia Houck Sprinkle

Last night I had a rare bit of insomnia, and Ms. Sprinkle kept me company in the wee hours of the morning. Not gripping enough to stay awake, but enjoyable.

The Vacation Stack

Founding Brothers by Joseph Ellis

The Red House Mystery by A.A. Milne

Norms and Nobility: A Treatise on Education by David Hicks

Two of the days of our vacation will be spent in a get-away to the coast for our 20th anniversary. This may not be your idea of reading on a romantic get-away, but we can't wait. If that is strange, then I will revel in the fact that I had the good fortune to marry an equal in strangeness.

On the Art of Writing by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch.

A good portion of our first week of vacation will be spent enjoying the company of Miss Autumn Rain and her family, and this is on her summer reading list, too. I am hoping for afternoon tea time spent reading a chapter or two (as long as I can have coffee.)

And, can any summer reading challenge be complete without adding books to the list? Of course not.

When All the World Was Young by Barbara Holland, thanks to this entry at Mental multivitamin

and

A Cat Named Darwin: Embracing the Bond Between Man and Pet by William Jordan, thanks to a recommendation by reader Ann Marie.

Letters to a Diminished Church

"Somehow or other, and with the best intentions, we have shown the world the typical Christian in the likeness of a crashing and rather ill-natured bore - and this in the name of one who assuredly never bored a soul in those thirty-three years during which he passed through the world like a flame.

Let us, in heaven's name, drag out the divine drama from under the dreadful accumulation of slipshod thinking and trashy sentiment heaped upon it, and set it upon an open stage to startle the world into some sort of vigorous reaction. If the pious are the first to be shocked, so much worse for the pious - others will pass into the kingdom of heaven before them. If all men are offended because of Christ, let them be offended; but where is the sense of their being offended at something that is not Christ and is nothing like him?"

Letters to a Diminished Church by Dorothy Sayers

Memory Lane

I think it all began when I first wrote and posted my "Where I Am From" poem; somehow my mind was pulled down that reflective path called memory lane. Around the same time, my husband and I took a late afternoon drive back to our old stomping grounds. We grew up in adjacent cities on the San Francisco peninsula, and a wedding reception for a friend was what brought us back. Without five children in tow, we managed to arrive in town over an hour early, so we took the time to drive the slow roads and see the familiar sites of our Palo Alto years. The first stop was the baseball field where glorious championships were won and are still remembered with unbelievable detail.




How many times I remember driving past this sign; it has not changed one bit since we were children. I wonder if I was driving past when he was hitting home runs and pitching no-hit innings? It's very possible.

We also took time to visit the church where we met and were married almost twenty years ago. It is fancier now; in 1986 my mother despaired of my wedding being in a building that resembled a grocery store, complete with dreadful green linoleum. I only knew that I wanted to be married in the church I called home. How many times I walked the sidewalk in front of this building, how many long conversations took place in the parking lot. My soul was fed in those pews, and what fun I remember from our wedding day.


Peninsula Bible Church


We knew we needed coffee and a place to change clothes before we got to our final destination, so we tried to guess which corner would have been taken over by Starbucks. Well, we hit it spot on. As I sat at the table, staring down a road I had driven on, walked down, and run across countless times in the twenty-eight years I called this home, I got a little choked up. I didn't always have this life; I don't look down memory lane and see The Good Ol' Days. We had tons of fun and made many lifetime friends, but I realize now that those days were preparing me for the life I am living now. At some point, in the years since we moved away, I settled in with myself, no longer fighting or doubting who I am called to be. Like a runner breaking through the wall, I feel like I am finally hitting my stride. I still stumble when the road gets rocky, and the heat and constancy of the race can wear me down if I am not careful, but I do love this life.


Middlefield Road


The view from my table was filled with the light and shadow of dusk, and the yellow roses were in full bloom overhead as we walked back to the car. Happily caffeinated and dressed in our fancy duds, we went off to celebrate a friend's marriage. Memory lane continues, and even revisits its old haunts, but that night, a little earlier than we expected, we were happy to get back on the road to home.

How many years I called Palo Alto home, but not now. This humble hill, with our family's collection of strengths, weaknesses, preferences and idiosyncrasies, is home now. The road is not always smooth (we are human and our frailty often shows,) but this is where our memory lane now widens and fills with stories to be told for generations to come. I never could have imagined this twenty years ago. What I thought was joy has only multiplied; what I thought was difficult is now put in perspective. When "hard" comes again, I will know it is doing its work on me, and I am confident that it is a good work.

Oh, yes, I do love this life.


Home

Writing contest

Thanks to The Autumn Rain, I learned that Loni at Joy in the Morning is sponsoring a writing contest to encourage bloggers to post their "Where I Am From" poems. Here is a reposting of my offering, including the link to the template to write your own. Join the contest, but post your poem before June 21st at 11:59 EDT.


I am from peddle-pushers and freckle-face strawberry,
from Folger’s Instant and Kodak Instamatics.

I am from iris on the walkway, pyracantha for the birds to feast on,
from towering pines for hide n’ seek,
from chalk and hopscotch and roller skates and four square.

I am from hardwood floors calling, “Mom’s home!”,
from the sizzling cast iron with pancakes in animal shapes,
from the gas stove going “poof” if you took too long.

I am from the smell of fresh-mown grass and burying yourself in the piles,
from wave chases and sandy PBJs at Natural Bridges,
from olive trees wreaking havoc on the back patio and squirrels chirping
while cats stalk back and forth in front of the picture window.
From daffodils in the sandbox every spring.

I am from rare letters, perfect penmanship,
loud snoring and rollicking laughter,
From TWC and Joe and women I did not know,
paths traced from Ireland and Huguenots,
from simple folk and rich relations.

I am from only-the-good-news, weak lungs and prejudice.
From inner-family squabbles and fierce family loyalty.

I am from “that’s just the way that it’s done” and “say ‘g’ as in Gault”,
from sitting up straight at the table and “run along and play.”

I am from “It Only Takes a Spark”
and I believe in One God the Father Almighty,
from kneelers and stained glass windows.
I am from the down-the-road youth group where my heart was filled.
From campfire songs and Easter-week service projects.

I am from Fort Collins and Montreal,
Iowa City and Rye, New York.
From turkey dinners and tuna casserole,
from steak and Yorkshire pudding.
From holidays with Mom and weekends with Dad.
I am from two different worlds.

From risk-taking men and women who went along,
from Wall Street and the Malibu hills,
from golf course vacations.

I am from Charlotte’s Web and Puff having kittens
while men landed on the moon.
From quiet walks in the rain and fudge during Wizard of Oz.
I am from Gramps guarding the Christmas tree.

I am from the box of memories deep in Mom’s closet,
from the empty baby book and the stories told by someone else.
I am from best forgotten and moving forward.

I am from surviving and forgiveness,
from simple pleasures,
from making the best of it.

I am from stubborn determination and new life, from the miracle of joy and stability.


This is based on the poem Where I'm From by George Ella Lyons. You can read the entire poem here.

If you would like to write your own, click here for the template.

Creative deprivation

I first read the of the idea of creative deprivation in Amy Dacyczyn's Tightwad Gazette. Back when I had three children under three, and no pennies to rub together at the end of the month, I would read her newsletters for inspiration. Her "thriftier than thou" attitude was a little much for me at times, but her writing helped me get the most out of our limited income.

The idea behind creative deprivation is that if you don't buy a bunch of stuff for your children, they will be grateful for what they have and be more creative with what they find. We didn't decide to follow this philosophy; we simply did not have any money. Rather than feeling like I was ripping off my children, I tried to encourage myself that I was nurturing their creativity. The doubt was still there, though. "What if all this stuff really is necessary to become a whole and healthy adult?"

This August I will finish my sixteenth lap on the track called parenting, and I no longer doubt. Creative deprivation has served us well. I appreciate having a little room to wiggle with our finances, but I am deeply grateful that we were not able to buy "everything" for our children when they were younger. They are grateful for what we give them, they work hard to earn money for scout camp or a new backpack, and they are still thinking up crazy ways to play together.

The latest game? Water ball. The rules? Well, I couldn't begin to describe the game, but it has something to do with the two older boys dunking the basketball while the two younger siblings and Daddy spray or throw water in their faces. They think this is hilariously funny. The boys get points when the ball goes in the hoop, and the water team must get points when they thwart the dunking boys. It makes no sense to me, but it sure makes me smile to see them dunking, spraying and howling with laughter in the backyard. And all they needed was a hose, a bucket, a couple of empty yogurt containers, and a basketball.


Water ball

In the old days, we made sure we had a little money for sunflower and morning glory seeds or a trip to see Gram. Long walks and piles of books from the library were free; dancing to music in the living room or reading those books together for hours didn't cost anything either. Huge murals on the wall, covered with art work or thankful lists or funny quotes, filled out our rather "eclectic" decorating scheme, and little treats like ice cream cones made us feel like kings and queens. Somehow, as we scrimped and saved and worked hard to make it all stretch, five children had the seeds of creativity and gratitude planted in their souls. The unintentional result is something money can't buy, but it is what our hearts desired for our children all along.

Reflections for Ragamuffins

Following surgery for prostate cancer, I walked every morning for an hour...with a new pair of glasses. One vital aspect of the postmortem life, it seems, is that everything gets piercingly important. You get stabbed by things, by flowers and babies, by the mighty Mississippi and the inner beauty of your wife, by the loveliness of a plethora of things.

And, of course, it all slowly fades...

The Gospels indicate, however, that at every moment of his life Jesus was aware that everything came from the love of God. He never took his life for granted but each moment received it as a free gift from his Abba.

Reflections for Ragamuffins by Brennan Manning

For Kate

"What time zone am I on? What country am I in?
It doesn't matter, it's five o'clock somewhere." *


The clock in the playhouse.

Why did they choose five, Kate? Do we want to know? Maybe they just knew it would make me laugh...everyday!

* Lyrics by Jim "Moose" Brown and Don Rollins and performed by Alan Jackson & Jimmy Buffett - yes, just a little Jimmy Buffett to ruffle the ol' Circle of Quiet image this Friday. I have to keep you guessing a little bit, right?

The herb sanctuary

A few views of what is blooming in my daughter's herb sanctuary:





Foxglove



Little pink roses



Coreopsis



Penstemon



Scarlett runner beans


My happy gardener

Hollyhock Days

I first learned of Sharon Lovejoy, the author of Hollyhock Days, through Country Living Magazine.

Her herb shop in Cambria, California was featured, complete with pictures of the incredible gardens. Shortly afterward, I visited an old friend who lives in Cambria, and we were able to walk the paths of the Heart's Ease gardens. The herbal fragrances, both in the garden and in the potpourri room, stayed with me. The bright nasturtium, the hollyhocks, the morning glories and sunflowers all inspired me to do more gardening.

When we moved to our current house, the previous owner had put in rodent-proof flower boxes in a terraced garden in the front yard. Each year since, we have moved things around, learning to divide perennials and bulbs and figuring out what annuals can fill in the gaps. Truthfully, our mistakes have been legion (summer heat will kill plants without enough water, for example), and our confusion over soil quality and pest control continues to this day, but each year we learn and the plants come back like old friends who visit each spring and summer.

My daughter expanded the front yard area this year, creating a corner of herbs and flowers where she can read or just be quiet. In a small house with seven people, it's nice to have a place of beauty where you can be alone. Her efforts are being well-rewarded; the mint is growing inches each week, the foxglove, lavender and roses are now blooming, and the scarlet runner beans have grown beyond the length of their tepee poles. Her herb sanctuary is the perfect get-away, made all the more so by today's guest, arriving with a bright pink outfit:


The hollyhock is blooming!

Deep gratitude to Semicolon

for recommending our current read-aloud:


The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall

Subtitled A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy, a not-to-be-mentioned member of our family had doubts that a story of four girls could hold certain family members' interest. From the bellowing of frequent cachinnation in the living room, I would say that all are onboard with the read-aloud at this point.

The best part about the book? The author is ALIVE. She is writing a sequel, with thoughts of two more besides. We are so happy! We love all our favorite no-longer-living authors, but the problem with their lack of livingness is they can no longer write books this side of glory. We are delighted that Ms. Birdsall has every intention of continuing her tales of the Penderwick clan.

You can read about Jeanne Birdsall (and her plans for future Penderwick books) here.

A note to Miss Autumn Rain: the consensus around here is that you must read this aloud to as many siblings as you can convince to join you. It's as much fun to read as it is to listen.

Summer challenge update

One Hundred Years of Solitude

I am on page 200, but I have come to the conclusion that it will take me one hundred years of solitude to be able to understand the importance of this novel. I should have been suspicious when I saw it was an Oprah choice...sigh.

I will finish it and hold my definitive opinion until then. But for now I will put it aside in favor of these mystery choices:


The Red House Mystery by A.A. Milne

This does not technically fulfill my requirement of a new author, but he is certainly a new mystery author for me.


Murder at Markham by Patricia Houck Sprinkle

This recommendation comes via Amanda at Wittingshire (actually recommended by her mom.) Reading on Sprinkle's website, I found this about her:

I decided in ninth grade to become a writer, so after Robert E. Lee High, I headed to Vassar College, which had a great creative writing program.

After college I returned to my folks, by then in Miami, to work toward a serious test of my writing commitment. With $750, one suitcase, two coats and a portable typewriter, I headed the next October to a Scottish Highland village where, at that time, room and board cost $14 a week. Before the money ran out, I had sold one poem, one article, one short story, and a one-act play. Fortified by that major impact on British literature, I moved to Atlanta and started a series of writing-related jobs.

When I eventually met and married Bob, he looked over our budget and demanded, "Why don'’t you write a mystery to pay for all the ones you buy?" I immediately took a building where I'd once worked and put a body in its basement. However, being over endowed with the Protestant ethic, I wrote "important" things first and only wrote the mystery in my spare time. That first book, Murder at Markham (reissued by Silver Dagger in 2001), took thirteen years to complete. It took even longer for me to learn that any writing which gives me pleasure is important, whether fiction or non-fiction.

The Hill Update

The Hill is still there. I am climbing it daily. It is still hard, but I will climb it again tomorrow. Someday I will OWN that hill.

Letters to a Diminished Church

Letters to a Diminished Church: Passionate Arguments for the Relevance of Christian Doctrine

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Official Christianity, of late years, has been having what is known as bad press. (Side note: Sayers died in 1957. "Nothing new under the sun" comes to mind here.) We are constantly assured that the churches are empty because preachers insist too much upon doctrine - dull dogma as people call it. The fact is the precise opposite. It is the neglect of the dogma that makes for dullness. The Christian faith is the most exciting drama that ever staggered the imagination of man - and the dogma is the drama."

Reflections for Ragamuffins

The Rabbi implores, "Don't you understand that discipleship is not about being right or being perfect or being efficient? It's all about the way you live with one another."

Reflections for Ragamuffins by Brennan Manning

The sites and sounds of soon-to-be-summer

Breakfast on the deck


Gardening


Chic attempts at mosquito elimination


Sunsets that give pause