Dance, dance under the Christmas tree

 

A tree in our neighborhood. For 11 months of the year, it is ugly. But in December?

You might think that this post is a bit early, but there is a reason: I want to celebrate Christ's birth, listen to music, decorate with every bulb and garland I can find, and remember every Christmas possible. Christmas cannot wait and neither can I.

Photo taken from our hotel balcony on December 4, 2016 in Chicago

Waiting for Christmas is and has always been the most intense, insane experience of anticipation of all the year.  

Standing in front of the tree and being mesmerized by the lights is the disco ball of the season.  Shaking the presents and guessing their contents is always be part of the game.  The small train around the base wears itself out by the Big Day, only too happy to be packed away for next year’s new batteries and another chance to whistle.

(That was some years ago, when I turned 60 years old.  Then my young granddaughters informed me then that I have to move away from the tree.  It was their time to do the dancing.)

Christmas starts as a spark of joy, and then fills me all up.  Christmas is here!  Christ came into the world as a human, to experience the human pain and suffering.  Christ was crucified, resurrected, and ascended into heaven.   Christ dwells within me daily, reminding me that I am part of His family.

James at 6 months, June 22, 2017

Benjamin's 5th birthday, June 26, 2017

I am waiting for Christmas, slightly removed from the tree’s perimeter to allow children of all ages to dance wildly.

The spark is there and starting to burst into the “Hallelujah Chorus”! 

From YouTube

Do you get that spark?  Are the memories of Christmas both looking back and being in the present?  Are you still dancing?  Do you have to push the kids and grand-kids out of the way?
 

All in double digits, we have arthritis, and our family is all over the world. The rest of the Kane clan will be on and about to see other family members. So we now regroup with remaining older Kanes and try to dance. 

So, while there are no small dancers here with us, we will dance up a storm for at least 15 minutes, give or take.

November to December

   This a re-post of 2010.  I liked it, and juggled some words about to post it again in 2017. Now, here in 2019, I post it again.

Why is this post going up in early November, you may ask.  Christmas 2016 my husband's family went on a cruise because Mom Kane had died in February and none of us wanted to be home, without her.

It wasn't Christmas for any of us, we acknowledged it then and now.  Now, each year since 2016 we gather in one home or another and talk about times with Mom and Dad, and the joy they brought to Christmas.

This year, 2019 my husband and I will dance up a storm around the tree with our teenage granddaughters, laughing about all the other dances of the past. WE will stop our dancing after a few minutes while they carry away the night.

YouTube: Flash Mob, 2010

Merry Christmas!

 

Thanksgiving is about more than food

Thanksgiving!  All sorts of images, scents, and voices come to mind.

 

 

 

A few days to Thanksgiving! All the food excitement wafts through Mom's kitchen.  

The pies were cooling on our huge freezer, along with Grandma's pumpkin pudding. Mom's sisters appear with some special dishes, and the cornucopia fills the table. The eating is legend.

                                                        
All the post dinner stuff starts. My own sister and I are in the sink duty. This will last for an hour or more.

The pumpkin desert is cut and handed out to the adults. Our cows gave us cream, which mean whipped cream. Good stuff.

Next year? Who knows what will fill our plates then?

 

True giving doesn't need to be wrapped up.

 

 

YouTube Chevrolet station wagon

 

I wish my grandmother was still here. I would love to take Grandma Cardiff in an old black Ford like they used to drive around.  Taking her to places that were important to her would be awesome.  

 Merry Christmas to you and yours!

Hug all and love them!

Remember those who made Christmas for their family!

Rejoice!

Christ was born for all people and died for their salvation. He rose up to Heaven for us!

 

 

Little Children praising the Lord

 

Teach your children.Teach your children.

The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children. Romans 8:16 | NIV

I have no greater joy than to hear that my children walk in truth.
3 John 1:4

Children's children are the crown of old men;
and the glory of children are their fathers.
Proverbs 17:6 | KJV

 This was originally  published in 2015.. This past weekend, we spent time with 4 of our 7 grand-kids, when our progeny held a 50th wedding anniversary with family.  It was incredible. Being with children shows us that we did a good job raising our own children.  We are so blessed by our God.

. 

 

 

T-Giving and the adventures of food

 

 

 

Just three days to Thanksgiving! All the food excitement wafts through Mom's kitchen.  

The pies were cooling on our huge freezer, Grandma's pumpkin pudding. Mom's sisters appear with some special dishes, and the cornucopia fills the table. The eating is legend.

                                                        
All the post dinner stuff starts. My own sister and I are in the sink duty. This will last for an hour or more.

The pumpkin desert is cut and handed out to the adults. Our cows gave us cream, which mean whipped cream. Good stuff.

Next year? Who knows what will fill our plates then?

I have finally arrived.

                             

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This is THE Thanksgiving! Victor laughed as he placed two casseroles in the back seat of his new hybrid Toyota Prius.  His new pristine, low maintenance Prius—Victor eagerly caressed the leather seats around the Jell-O™ salad and hot vegetable dish.  How I love the new-car smell!

After years of wishing that he could finally sit at the Thanksgiving Adult Table never seemed feasible, Victor squirmed excitedly as he started the engine. The Adult Table!  And, I am only 25! Great-great Aunt Agnes had died in August, moving Victor up the roster from the Children’s Table.  At last!

Jell-O is Utah's official specified snack.

 

  He glanced back at the assigned dishes he was bringing.  Man, I was lucky with these!  Improvising, Victor had thrown together a lime Jell-O™, along with some fresh kiwi and fresh pineapple (see note belowꜜ).  These guys were on the verge of rotting…sure lucked out!

The odoriferous steaming hot Brussels sprouts, swimming in Cheese Whiz™, wafted fragrantly through the car. Victor opened the window, and in those few seconds, that precise moment, the beat-up Honda ahead of Victor’s precious Prius braked suddenly.

Victor braked hard and swerved, barely missing the damned Honda. 

That one moment sent the gelatinous Jell-O flying, covering the precious leather with green slime.  Brussels sprouts bounced merrily around the leather seats, leaving ball-sized Cheese Whiz dots there and on the ceiling.

What to do?? What to think??  Victor’s mind spun in search of an answer.

What do you think he should or will do? 

Note from Jell-O box: Do not use fresh or frozen pineapple, kiwi, ginger-root, papaya, figs or guava.  Gelatin will NOT set.

 

Many thanks will always be given to Delores, the founder of Wednesday Words (underlined above).

Hop on, Easter Bunny. Hop on.

 

Source etsy

This event was before the Superman Travesty, back before I knew just how low and evil my brothers were, and would become.

It was Easter, maybe 1960 or 1959.  Church was over.  Ham dinner was eaten and done. It was time for the egg hunt.  Hard boiled and dyed eggs had been hidden in our vast lawn after we all had fallen asleep.  It was never questioned by whom.

Source

It was a brutal competition, with lots of screaming, shoving and pushing. There may have been some scratching and punching as well. There are no memories about who garnered the most eggs; the hunt was not so much about speed—it was about who was most devious and/or violent. 

Then Easter was gone, baskets were packed away for next year, and deviled eggs were supper. With no holiday to anticipate, a veil of tedium settled over our farm in a pre-summer heat.

In the middle of the night, something woke me, something like a POP!  I rolled over, catching just a hint of chocolate.  Then a new smell came in waves---foul, recognizable, nauseating.

It was the distinctive odor of rotten eggs.  Rolling out of bed and looking under it, I spotted a lone Easter basket with the remains of an exploded egg.  One of my three brothers had placed it there before I went to bed. (My bedroom was that clean...seriously...even under the bed...)

Opened the window…threw the Basket out…and heard the muffled giggles from my brothers’ rooms.  They were waiting for my own explosion. 

Well, they did not get it.  I tiptoed down the stairs and slept on the couch.  The rotten egg smell did not limit itself to my room; it traveled to their room as well.

Justice and revenge would wait for another day.  I was the soul of patience.

Those bastards....


This is a post from 2015, rewritten and re-posted 2019 and 2020. Rewritten and here it is now. 

My brothers (whom I love dearly now) were miserable bastards in my youth. They were mean to me most of the time. Revenge will be mine. 

To Live Is to Have Meaning.

 

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When the town’s beloved, elderly, and feisty Lucy Powell died suddenly at age 95, all wondered how to peer into her belongings.  Miss Powell had no relatives yet alive and no family to inherit a lifetime of her history.  Her family was her community and friends.

Slowly, close friends began to assimilate bits of China, old books, quilts, and other items into their own homes.  That was when the diary was discovered. Who should take it?  Who should even open it?

A diary can paint a picture of unrequited love with hearts broken, hearts renewed, and love lost then found. Finding a worn diary, fringed from fingers turning pages over decades, awed all who gathered around.

Finally, Old Ms Alda Franklin stepped forward.  I will take it.  She and I shared so many memories… All agreed.

When Alda settled down into her rocker with a cup of tea, she opened the cover and began reading each page. She chuckled, cried, gasped, and sighed until she read the last page:

My life had meaning and gave me reason to exist.  Touching others, being kind and generous, loving those who are unloved: that is the essence of life.

To all who turn these pages: Go!  Make your life count!

Source

This is a re-post 2015, underlined bold words are from Wednesday Words, a site that offers word or photo prompts. Delores, we miss you.

Under the Ice

under the ice
This is not a photo of a person under ice, although it sure looks like it.

Such a pretty girl...How old did you say? 

Not sure who she is, what her name is, twelve years old.

Do they know yet what happened?  

They?  You mean the detectives?

Who else would I mean?  Yes, the detectives.  Them.

They don't know. Some kid found her in the creek, under the ice.

She....Vicky? The girl in the ice?... That's her name, right?--Vicky, and must have floated downstream...

       Then the ice froze over her...Vicky, yeah that's her name...her folks had waited for so long...

How are Ken and Sheila--Vicky's parents, right? holding up?

Okay, I guess. Can't look at them.  We're taking food in for the family.

  The church always takes fried chicken and peach pie. For her, what's her name again? Vicky? That's the name, right?

I wonder if or when they'll ever figure out...find out what I did? God, I hope not.  I didn't mean to...the car swerved..Vicky... just appeared and...

You must, you have to tell them what happened.

      She was so scared...at the end...Vicky was crying

 She was scared before that...you could have saved her...Vicky would still be alive.

       Father Paul, I wasn't thinking...
     
Time to own up, Tim...Time to give Ken and Sheila peace. Vicky. Time for you confess. Time for you seek forgiveness.

       Scared...so scared.  I am so scared.

So was she, Tim. So was she.

Whether it is Covid Virus or any other disastrous event, nothing nothing is more horrible and evil than what happens to some other Vicky, a little girl playing one moment then dead the next. 

The Game of Baseball

Bats, balls, uniforms, cleats and dirt are out and ready for baseball. That also means there are teams of pro and not-so-pro players are ready to hit the diamond.

The fans are passionate, really passionate.  There are sports jerseys on fans of all ages and sizes.  Being clueless, I did not even know there was any sort of competition at all, except sport bars will soon show little else.

Baseball passion goes deep.

It is important to check out the gear.

And then there is soccer/football! Thank you, Dear Lord, for blessing us all with these future sport stars.

Indeed, sport passion runs deep and it also starts early. In fact, toss a ball out for these boys and girls, and the action DNA kicks in.

This was a repost from 1918. 5-1-2018.  Like all my re-posts, I do updates. These are newer videos and they fill me with giggles.

  

John Deere and Those Who Love Them

In my stomping ground

My father once told me that I was a farm girl, that is all I would ever be.  My intelligence told me that this would not be.

Now, with a farm girl's genes, I smile whenever I see a John Deere tractor. Given that, seeing the following videos makes my smiles bigger. Yes, I know. These little boys were too young to be doing this, that riding these is amazingly dangerous.

It is a farming thing. 

Grandpas teach the Dads, and then the Dads teach their offspring. The level of safety has increased tremendously. Their parents are next to them, filming them, watching them. But the biggest things are that the parents are teaching them, instilling in them a respect for life and work. And even more important, they are learning to understand safety and how to avoid injury.

Below are videos of children learning that and more. Each is about 3 minutes, except the last one which is 6 minutes.

These are 4 brothers moving hay to feed cows. The youngest

brother (little blond sweetie) is riding with an older brother.

My brothers were on tractors by the time they were 10-12 yrs. old.  In fact, every farm boy was licensed to drive farm vehicles on public roads by the time they were 14. I even had to drive an old Ford to help dump corn for the hogs. I was 9 and I was terrified.

Farm kids are outside working with their parents. Electronics are in the house. Which would you choose?

A Man after Your Own Heart

One statement was made to me 1997, when my brother Robert died. "Oh, it will hurt less and less as time goes by." It was said with love and with the intention to comfort me.  

I knew that they meant to reassure me, but I always wondered if they knew what he had been through. Robert had continued to drink coffee and smile at the local cafe. He shared jokes with friends. So, they could not see what had been his last months.

Robert had an anaplastic astrocytoma brain tumor, an aggressive incurable tumor. He was diagnosed September, 1995, and died May 1997. People knew this was a 'time was short'. His community knew him well, some prayed for him.

In 1996, one of the times I was visiting, I walked to his house and found daughter Amy washing dishes. She was angry. "Dad's listening to this CD, searching for a song to be played at his funeral."


Robert gave me his characteristic crooked smile, but didn't say anything. This was the song.

Man after Your Own Heart, sung by Gary Chapman

We listened in silence while Amy and I cried silently. Then we listened to one other song. Neither was played, but that's the way it was.

Sometimes He Comes in the Clouds, sung by Steven Curtis Chapman

In truth, I do not think of Robert every single day, but I do think of our family when we were all together with Robert. 

Hurt less? Grief never stops or goes away, but hurt less? I don't know yet.

Joy to the World

We never see snow at all, so this was such a treat. We left the next day, for LAX California

The year I was born: 1951.
The day was: 4th

And on December 4, 2016, I turned 65 (sixty-five, yup).

It was the best birthday of my life.  Our son John married Arlette Foy, and we rejoiced in a big way.  Chicago sparkled all on its own.

This was a truly joyous day, just can't tell you how much.

John and Arlette Foy Kane

In the pass way

John and John, son and father

Lily and Clara, our granddaughters

Cemetery across the road from our hotel

Our hotel looked out on a cemetery

Catching the snow coming down

On the balcony of the hotel

Flying in to LAX

And then...

John and Arlette with Flynn, born May 6, 2018

Grandpa and Grandma

July 2018

Today is my 67th birthday. I look good, a few wrinkles or more, surrounded by those whom I love, my husband of 46 years, and a field of happiness around us. 

We are blessed.

Thank you, God.

Bring on the Feast

Water tower

As we finished the last of a very successful pot roast, I thought of the Memorial Day Dinner in my hometown, Nebo, Illinois.  What a feast it was.  It was ham, more ham, fried chicken, more fried chicken.  Then there were every potato dish  known to be prepared in the Midwest.  Then the dessert table overflowed with homemade pies, homemade cakes, homemade cookies and more pies. Don't forget the jello extravagances.

My Brother's Community Memorial Day Dinner

It was a wonderful day.  I was a teenager then and kinda resented my roll of refilling the dessert table and serving pie/cake/cookies to known and familiar people.  Also, I brought desserts to the unknown visitors who yet had a similarity to townsmen around them.
Good memories. Great food.

Yes, please.

This brings to mind what we now consider a lifetime of food memories.

So, given the excellent pot roast, what do you consider memories of good food? this is mine:

mashed potatoes, white gravy,creamed peas, ham salad, homemade rolls (made by my grandmother), bread pudding w/raisins, warm tomatoes from our garden, pickled cucumbers, pecan pie, strawberry shortcake with homemade whipped cream...Okay, enough already.

Your memories?

We Are Who We Are

When one walks into our home, one could guess that we just moved in and lived in perpetual scattered messes. Well, it is not as bad as all that, but I look at it with dismayed eyes. We are messy, in a community where it seems that other people live organized lives.  

Oddly enough, my house was very tidy when my children were little.  Maybe it was that a toddler or crawler was wandering around, or that I was a stay-at home mom. But things morphed when they grew to be teenagers who left a trails or heaps of stuff.  Then they moved out. (see below what they became as adults) 
Now all the messes around are our own.

We both are eclectic people with our own talents and interests.

He is all math and science, a huge bridge fanatic. Around his recliner, one will find books on bridge, astronomy, science fiction, and investing. 

I am all color and art, with writing as my joy. Around my chair, there is no mess. But on the table, my computer is surrounded  by printouts, post-its, rough drafts being edited, and photos.

When one combines those two, there is and will always be a mess.

So if and when someone visits, we will close doors to our "creative" rooms, hoping that visitors will focus on art around and on the walls. Will go "ahhhh" at quilts commanding parts of their own walls.   Will smile at our collection of family photos. Will nod with appreciation at my laptop on the dining table, knowing that I am a writer, one who writes everyday.

Being as we are, I believe our messes will be understood and maybe even admired.

Well, not admired, but at least understood.

A quilt for my daughter

My sister made this for me.  She is so precious.

Anatole Krasnyansky

Are we alone in this?  Do you have a flare of your own, resulting in a mess? Oh, please say yes.

Christmas is here! Christ is born!

A tree in our neighborhood. For 11 months of the year, it is ugly. But in December?

You might think that this post is a tad premature, but there is a reason: I want to celebrate Christ's birth, listen to music, decorate with every bulb and garland I can find, and remember every Christmas possible. Christmas cannot wait and neither can I.

Photo taken from our hotel balcony on December 4, 2016 in Chicago

Waiting for Christmas is and has always been the most intense, insane experience of anticipation of all the year.  

Standing in front of the tree and being mesmerized by the lights is the disco ball of the season.  Shaking the presents and guessing their contents is always be part of the game.  The small train around the base wears itself out by the Big Day, only too happy to be packed away for next year’s new batteries and another chance to whistle.

(That was a few years ago, when I turned 60 years old.  Then my granddaughters informed me then that I have to move away from the tree.  It was their time to do the dancing.)

That leaves me with the other delights: baking some, fixing meals, cuddling a baby, and moving furniture around to accommodate our grandson Benjamin and his almost 1 year old baby brother James. (:() 

James at 6 months, June 22, 2017

Benjamin's 5th birthday, June 26, 2017

Christmas starts as a spark of joy, and then fills me all up.  Christmas is here!  Christ came into the world as a human, to experience the human pain and suffering.  Christ was crucified, resurrected, and ascended into heaven.   Christ dwells within me daily, reminding me that I am part of His family.

I am waiting for Christmas, slightly removed from the tree’s perimeter to allow tween girls and a five year-old in pajamas to enter into the thrall of the tree. 

The spark is there and starting to burst into the “Hallelujah Chorus”! 

From YouTube

Do you get that spark?  Are the memories of Christmas both looking back and being in the present?  Are you still dancing?  Do you have to push the kids and grandkids out of the way?

This a re-post of 2010.  I liked it, and juggled some words about to post it again.


This post was five years ago and now our babies are now teenagers with braces.  Baby Benjamin is now 5.5 years old (the 1/2 is very important to him). His brother James/Jaimie is 11 months old, with 3 teeth. 

This 2017 and all our own babies and theirs will be here, gathered around our tree.  We'll laugh, listen to Christmas songs, and rejoice that we get to share one more Christmas together.

Why is this post going up in early November, you may ask.  Last Christmas my husband's family went on a cruise because Mom Kane had died in February and none of us wanted to be home, without her.

It wasn't Christmas for any of us, we acknowledged it then and now.  This year we will be together, without her physically, but with her love.

So, while my kids will be here for a short time in December and not on Christmas Day, we will dance up a storm.