This Surely Is a Funny Farm 2

I get laughed at almost every time I walk outside.

 

I don't know what's so funny, so it's a good thing I don't take myself too seriously and can laugh with them.

This Surely Is a Funny Farm

I found this on the step this morning:

I wonder what the cat equivalent to "Oh, $#!*" is, because I'm sure that's what passed through our cat's mind when he inadvertently stepped in this chicken dropping.

The Piano

I've been thinking a lot lately about art and creativity... It was through the act of creation that we had our first interaction with God. We were made in God's image, and He created. I've been thinking about art and the creation of things -words, pictures, music- and through these things we are able to communicate, associate, identify with and understand each other (and ourselves). It is through the creative that we find that we are not alone in what we are going through. It is largely through creation and the creative arts that we are drawn to God.

There are a lot of aspects of the creative that we bury under busyness and the excuse of "I'm just not very good." Well, rubbish! I've been realizing how important it is to pursue the creative. If we let it go too long, we start to lose a part of ourselves. If we neglect the creative, we are missing out on a key part of who God made us to be.

I can't say that Chris and I are extremely talented in the fine arts department, but both of us have some ability. Chris was in a band or two in his younger years, most notably Excruciating Pain. You know, it was one of those bands with the heavy drums and guitars and guttural vocals that no one would understand without a lyric sheet. I took piano lessons for years, and managed to learn the basics on the guitar. But as we forged ahead into real adult life, we set aside the music in pursuit of 'more important' things.

Even though we aren't particularly gifted, we had a vague hope that maybe one of our kids might be, and so we ferreted away into storage Chris's drum set and bass guitar and my banjo... just in case. Some days I would think with a tinge of jealousy about those uber-talented families who sit around on a winter evening, playing and singing together.

Growing up, we had a monstrosity of a piano in our basement. It was old and had real ivory veneer on most of the keys. My parents had a duet book that they would play from some times. When I was old enough, I remember sitting down with a worn copy of John Thompson's Teaching Little Fingers To Play, and after Mom showed me the basics, I worked my way through the book on my own. Not long after, she found a piano teacher for me. I don't know the reason, but at some point, my grandmother sent money for a new piano for me, and I took to recording songs for her on a cassette tape.

When I moved to Tennessee, I left the piano behind. After Chris and I got married, a piano Chris had ended up in our basement, but every time I sat down to play, a small child would be right there to disrupt my playing. Besides, it needing tuning in a bad way, so I couldn't stand to play it for more than a few seconds. Chris did have a small keyboard he bought for Reanna, but the Moonlight Sonata is impossible on the thing. As a result, for years, I have not played.

Lately, my mother, and I were discussing the piano, and she told me if any of the kids ever expressed interest in the piano, I could have it back. But how will my kids ever develop a real interest if there is no one around playing?

And so slowly, I have been waking up. I am repenting of the closeted instruments. Regardless of the magnitude of our talents, I don't think we should ferret them away.  How else can we inspire and encourage each other? How else can we honor the God that gave us all we have? (And I am reminded of the parable of the talents.)

So when a friend offered me the gift an old electric piano, I was glad to accept it. Saturday, Chris picked it up, and we made space in the living room. Then I sat down to see if I could tease out of memory a Sonata I played years ago. Some of the keys squeaked and others clunked a little, but the kids were crowding around, begging for a chance to play. I am so grateful for this gift.

A Minor Trial of Being a Short Person

Today, I spent a good while making a seat cushion for the truck:

It was ridiculous. I could barely see over the steering wheel. I suppose it wasn't really necessary, since I don't drive the truck that much, but I hate straining to see. That, coupled with the strange fear that a cop might mistake me for an underage driver and pull me over made the cushion more of a necessity.

I am about the same size as my grandmother was. Really, though, as her back stooped with old age, I was taller than she was. She drove an Oldsmobile Delta 88. I don't know how. I remember driving it once. I literally had to look through the steering wheel of that old boat. My dad says that car was the smallest one they could find when she bought it.

Really, though, I'm not complaining, and I'm not angry at the industrial world for making vehicles suitable to the average person. I can always make myself taller (I've been wanting a pair of those stilts drywallers use for the longest time.), and I can fit places you taller people can't.

If there is a TV show the epitomizes Chris's dream life, it is probably Sanford & Son. Everyone is funny, and the characters make their livings selling junk.

Chris has always been a bit of a pack rat, holding onto or bringing home things that he thinks are neat or have even a minor chance of being useful. Okay, so I do, too. But within reason. He knows that I have a tendency to bristle whenever something "new" makes its way here. One thing I can't quite object to him bringing home are things that we can sell to make money. So, even though I was already freaking out about the amount of stuff we have crowded in our house, trailer, and shop, when he brought home a work-van full of things from the office that he wanted me to ebay, there was nothing I could do about it. So, here we are, living a little bit of his dream to be a modern-day Sanford & Son, making our Christmas money by selling junk  things on ebay.

Back to my side of the dream (I don't know how people can be ebay sellers full time. I would shrivel up and die.), we made another rookie mistake, and left some of the new trees that we planted this year unprotected. I had intended to put wire cages around the fruit trees this winter to protect them from foraging deer, but I didn't even think about destruction during mating season. At least three of our trees got rubbed by a buck.

This was a nice little pine tree, but now several branches are broken, and the bark has been rubbed off the mid section of the truck. I really hope this tree lives. it was a nice one.

In other news, Finley has her own room, now. I finally decided it might be time for Finley to have some privacy and a place to retreat from the sometimes-irritating antics of her younger brother. (Why is it that boys think it's fun to be a pest?) I did explain to her that this was a privilege and that unkindness could lead to her losing her door or even being forced to move back in with her younger siblings. We'll see how it goes. The first thing Finley did was to write out a list of rules for her room (including keeping it clean, hallelujah) and so far, she has done well, even making her bed every morning.

Morning Surprises

We woke up this morning to find notes from the kids on our bed and night stands. Chris got a not from Joe that said, "I love Dad." My note from Joe said, "to Mom. Mom I luve you fary much and we our a family!" (I'm trying not to rub it in.)

Finley left us this illustrated poem: