Quite the athlete am I

Apparently, I've decided to train for the Olympics. I've spent the past few days making assumptions, jumping the gun, and leaping to conclusions. Now I am exhausted, so I am going to slice myself a hearty hunk of humble pie, and go to bed.

Ah, the chalky goodness!

I introduced Mr. Roboto to these this week. Although he declared the purple ones to be his very favorite, he also loved the black ones. Darn. I was hoping he'd hate them, and give them all to me. Alas, I was on the receiving end of the whites, and an occasional pink.

I guess I need to buy my own!

California Beauty Treatment: priceless

Remembering...

Yesterday I watched the movie based on the Zodiac killings which took place in California in the '60s and '70s. About half way into the film, they began discussing the possible connection to an unsolved murder in Riverside, my own home town. Then suddenly there flashed on the screen the actual senior class photo of the victim, my friend, Cheri Bates. And just like THAT, 40 years disappeared, and I found myself right back where I was on that Halloween weekend in 1966. Her death sent our entire high school -- our entire TOWN -- into a hurricane.

Keep in mind, 1966 was a tough year on the young men and women of America. The Viet Nam war was in full swing, and several of the kids from our class and the classes ahead of ours were in danger of losing their lives (many did). We were forced to learn to deal with the deaths of our classmates. But this? A horrible, brutal murder. How could this happen in peaceful little Riverside? How could this happen to one of our own?

Riverside was, and is, a small town at heart. For 10 years, the local newspaper published Cheri's photo every year on the anniversary of her death. Then every 5 years, then not at all. Now here it was again. I wanted to look away; I wanted to turn off the movie and find something to take my mind far, far away. But I couldn't. The maturity I have gained with those years has caused me to reflect on Cheri's murder in a new way. My spirituality, too, has altered the way I think about it.

As I watched the rest of this movie, wearing a sizable lump in my throat, the reality of that series of events, and the way it affected and changed the lives of each of us was as real to me as it had been then. Whoever murdered Cheri ripped the innocence away from a lovely little Southern California town, and we have never been the same.

My Dirty Little Geekret, IV

I like to get as close as I (safely) can to the car in front of me to see what is playing on their DVD, always hoping it'll be Princess Bride or The Muppet Show, and not something disgusting.

Addendum to the previous post...for Elissa

I once had a housekeeper ... ah, those were the good old days, my friends ... who came to clean my house each week while I was gone to Bible Study Fellowship. When I'd get home, there would be several securely tied black plastic bags lined up by the trash cans waiting for Garbage Eve when I would schlep them out to the curb for pick up. Only once did I question her about the contents.

"Don't look," she said. "You'll be happier not knowing."

I took that advice. I never did look, and I honestly believe I'm a happier woman today because of it.

I've attempted to apply that philosophy to The Boxes; you know, the ones we moved to the last house, kept in the garage (unopened) for 25 years, then moved to this house (6 years ago), and haven't yet opened? The ones that keep Mission Grove Storage in business? I want to apply the "don't look" method of housekeeping to them, and just get rid of them without even a glance inside. But it doesn't always work out well.

One year I took several of those boxes and, without looking inside, added them to the rummage sale pile, took them to church and drove away wearing a self-satisfied smile. Two days later I had to buy back my old love letters from Robbie McInteer, who was at that time an obnoxious teenager.

Now I check before I load the rummage sale boxes. Those love letters are still in there somewhere, and I bet Robbie's price has gone up considerably.

The Beatles were wrong about this...

Turns out, I CAN buy me love!

First day of school!

TheGuys started school today which means...yep, we survived summer vacation. Their dad shaved their heads for school, so Mr Roboto looks like a City of Hope poster child. C-Monkey wanted...insisted...begged to have his entire family there for his first day of Kinder, so both aunties came. Do you suppose he ran into their arms and clung to them -- or any of us -- for fear of the unknown? Nope. Wouldn't leave the swing. Had a new friend, his BEST friend, I'm sure, and he couldn't have cared less that we were all there. We had to go physically remove him from the swing to tell us good-bye. Looks like he'll adjust fairly well. Mr Roboto's arch enemy, Brandon, whom we feared might be in the same building as Bubbs, is not only in the same building, but the same class, and actually sits directly across from Bubbs, desks touching. Irony, thy name is Third Grade Seating Plans.

More Goth Beatles

Oh, no; here's another one:

Rocky (Raccoon) had come
Equipped with a gun
To shoot off the legs of his rival

Honestly, I can't believe my parents let me listen to this stuff!

Monkey C

C-Monkey was the World's Greatest Bible Boy at his auntie's wedding...that is, if the World's Greatest standards are not too high. He stood very very very still. Occasionally.

So far, we haven't heard anything from the tuxedo rental place about the break-dancing-induced knee holes. Gotta love the $5 full-coverage insurance clause.

Gotta love a clear thinking 5-year-old

When their dad dropped TheGuys off with Mommy, he informed her that C-Monkey had begun using a particular swear word --the "D" word -- on a regular basis. She assured him that such language would not be tolerated on her watch either, and they agreed to be aggressive in treating the behavior. Later, Mommy discussed the situation with C. Here's how the conversation went:

Mommy: So, C-Monkey, have you been saying a naughty word?
C-Monkey: Yes. Yes, I have.
Mommy: Oh, I see. And what does Daddy do when you say that word?
C-Monkey: He puts that d%*# Tabasco on my tongue.

At least he's using the word correctly.

My Dirty Little Geekret, III

Eye --and ear!-- opening

Isn't it weird how you can sing a song for years and years, and never really pay attention to the lyrics?

I am a child of the '60s, and therefore a certifiable devotee of all things Beatles. Well, except during the final few pre-Yoko years, when George discovered the sitar, and they added at least one of his weird non-songs to each album. Thankfully, it was also during that period that Ringo must have stomped his little foot and demanded that they include some of HIS 'songs', too. So on your Best Of album right after Within You/Without You, we might find Yellow Submarine. Oh, you silly, silly boys.

Anyway, a few years ago I was happily singing along (in perfect harmony, thank you) to an all-Beatles weekend. The Fab Four and I were rockin' Little Girl when it suddenly occurred to me that we were threatening to KILL our girlfriend! Exhibit One:

You better run for your life if you can, Little Girl
Hide your head in the sand, Little Girl
Catch you with another man, that's the end
Little Girl

Wow, really? How did I never hear that? Then my friend Bill pointed out this little nugget:

Bang! Bang!
Maxwell's silver hammer came down on his head
Bang! Bang!
Maxwell's silver hammer made sure...

You'll have to finish it for yourself. I can't go on...

I have to go find my Monkees albums now.

Arrived in the mail today

I'm sure it's a fine college, staffed with lots of brilliant people. Hmm, the classes listed inside are scheduled to begin in September...it's been a while since I went to college, but aren't September classes are still held in the FALL Semester?

I'm just saying, everybody needs a good editor.

Looks like we made it

Only one more week of summer, and TheGuys go back to school. We bought new shoes and a sizable stash of Tony Hawk t-shirts. We spent a good long time selecting the perfect backpack -- which is better: Spiderman? Superman? Batman? Transformers? SpongeBob? Thomas the Tank Engine? Camo?...college students don't face such dilemmas. Now the real trial of summer begins: the effort to change the interior clocks of a 5- and an 8-year old back to Early Bedtime mode. TheGuys attend a school which starts at like 7:45, so unless they go to bed at 4:30 in the afternoon, there's no way they're going to get their recommended twelve to fourteen hours of sleep. Phopl aims for a 7:30 bedtime during the school year. So next week, she starts acclimating them to going to bed before the streetlights come on.

I'm just saying, God bless the good folks at Benedryl.

Such a good movie!

If you haven't seen this movie, you've missed Kevin at his cutie patooty finest. The final 16 minutes rip my heart out every time. And the song that accompanies the Terrified-Daddy-In-The-Waiting-Room scene is perfection. It's called This Woman's Work by Kate Bush. If you're struggling to choose a boy's name, watch the closing credits.

I'm just saying, I laughed, I cried...it became a part of me.

So I Think He Can Dance

Danny

I'm just saying, he looks even better when he's moving!

Whew; done!

If you haven't rented or purchased the audio books, DO IT! Jim Dale is the most amazing reader, and you really get to know the characters through his various voices.

I'm just saying, good-bye, Harry. I'll miss you.

Nothing, really, to add...

We held the memorial service for my father-in-law this weekend. It had been nearly two weeks since Grandpa had died, and I didn't expect to feel weepy. But, come on! Taps. A flag-draped coffin. A soldier holding that folded flag to his heart as he lovingly perfected the three corners. Then the soldier knelt in front of my husband's chair and said, "On behalf of the President of the United States and a grateful nation, I respectfully present this flag to you with gratitude for your father's service to our country." If you don't tear up after that, pack your bags and get yourself back to Russia. The youngest of Grandpa's three sons, Mark, wrote a touching eulogy, and asked me to read it at the service. Here's how Mark remembers his father.

Eulogy for Gilbert Joyce Johnson (by Mark Johnson)

Our grandfather, Peter Magnus Johnson, was just a boy when his father moved the family from Sweden to America. They settled on farming land near Big Rapids, Michigan, where many Swedes had moved prior to 1900. Eventually Peter Johnson also became a farmer, and raised his 5 children, including our Dad, on the land. His years growing up on that farm shaped the rest of Dad’s life.

I can’t say that Dad was a man of God, but I can confidently say he was used of God. And he was born at a point in time perfectly suited for the gifts God gave him. On the farm, they worked with their hands, used heavy tools to repair whatever was broken, and hunted the game that would sustain a large family through the Depression. Dad’s father taught him, by example, how to sacrifice and do whatever was needed to support a family, whether it was spreading gravel on the roads alongside WPA workers, or spending long winters making furniture crates in Grand Rapids to earn a few dollars. In the summer, the men in Dad’s family worked as migrant farm workers, camping in tents and picking cherries near Traverse City. I’m proud to say none of these experiences was demeaning for my Father. He did what was needed, used of God, to support his family.

Although he would later earn his GED, Dad finished his formal education at eighth grade after attending country school. Then he joined his father on the farm. Like many boys, he developed a lifelong love for new technology. But it wasn’t the computer that fascinated him, it was the combustion engine automobile, starting with the Model “A” and then the Model “T” Ford.

Dad was drafted into the Army during World War II, and all the skills he had acquired along the way were put to use for his country. He butchered meat as he had on the farm, for our soldiers fighting to secure freedom, both here and abroad. He reenlisted in the Air Force and used his strong hands not to repair farm equipment or automobiles, but the airplanes used in defense of our Allies. He served through the Korean War, a full 20 years in the military, to preserve democracy. He did what was needed, used of God, to support his country.

Dad’s father gave him a pair of barber shears when he left the farm to join the Army. He cut hair in the barracks to earn extra money to support his new bride and later his three sons. Dad gave me (Mark) a pair of barber shears when I left home for college. It seemed like a curious blessing at the time, but I cut hair in the dorms and earned extra money for college. Because of his example, it never felt demeaning.

Dad’s love of the automobile never wavered. He especially loved Dodge Darts and Plymouth Valiants. Whenever one of my friends bought either a Valiant or Dart from his collection, Dad was always there checking things under the hood when they stopped by the house, or helping them change the oil on a Saturday morning. He was generous with his time and talent for fixing things.

Dad taught me and my brothers, by example, to do what was needed, to be used of God, to support ourselves, our friends and our families. He was at one time a butcher, a barber, and when he worked at Marie Callender’s, even a baker…he was never a candlestick maker. He was a simple man, a man born for his time in history, a man born as each of us is, to be used by God, for His glory. We love Dad and we’ll miss him.

My Dirty Little Geekret, Part Deux

Police scanner.

Don't knock it 'til you've tried it.

Is he bad? Is he good?

I'm just 100 pages from the end, and I still don't know if Severus Snape is a hero or a villain. I'm taking TheGuys to see Underdog. I'm going to burn the last 3 CDs onto my ipod, so I can sit happily in the dark, munching popcorn and listening to HP while TheGuys watch the movie. Can I multitask or what!

Efficiency Expert

Are you a list maker? Me, too. Sometimes I buy note pads that come with preprinted boxes to check off at the completion of each task. Sometimes, I draw the little boxes myself. Sometimes I add stuff I've already done, just so I can check off a few extra boxes. Wow, I am accomplishing a LOT today. Look at me go. Sometimes I write "make a To-Do list" as my first item, then check it off. My truly favorite way is to get a pad of Post Its, --not the cutesy kind; this is serious efficiency work; I need the REAL ones, yellow and square --and write one task on each page. Then I line up the little notes, maybe stick them to the 'fridge or the dashboard (not over the speedometer or gas gauge, though; that's just careless), and as each job is completed, I RIP it off and throw it away. Oops...better add "empty waste basket" to the list...

Today I have to:
~ go to work
~ go to the bank
~ wallpaper my kitchen
~ meet with Pastor Roy to discuss the funeral
~ clear out Wedding Central aka my office (the wedding was a month ago!)
~ re-rearrange my new living room furniture til I get it just right
~ call a carpet cleaner (before the Health Dept finds out about the playroom)
~ call Salvation Army...old couches are clogging up the front porch
~ clean the house for weekend company
~ choose a Boy to spend the night
~ stay awake for tonight's episode of SYTYCD

So want to come over for a visit today? I'll make a nice cake. Let's see, cake mix, eggs, oil ...hey, where's that note pad?

My Dirty Little Geekret

Reality TV.

I know. I'm so ashamed.

A Quiet Morning. Except...

Sunday. Day of rest. Peaceful. I can hear my neighbors doing their neighbor-y stuff: hosing off the drive way, walking the dog, trimming the shrubs, playing b-ball with the kids. Then suddenly, there it is...someone comes flying down the street, ignores the warning sign, and hits the speed bump in front of my house. It's a loud, metallic and rubber, you're-going-to-pay-dearly-for-this kind of noise. I'm not proud of how funny we all think it is. But come on. It's like seeing someone trip and fall down. Of course you know they're embarrassed and possibly hurt. But still, it wasn't you who fell, so it's pretty funny.

Then it's over; the moment has passed. Back to the peace of a quiet neighborhood. Lovely. And good to know it won't be long before someone else comes flying down the street...

My Girls

Here is a photo of me and my support system. We have the privilege of leading worship for our Women's Bible Study each Thursday morning.

Kay is an amazing pianist/vocalist/arranger/song writer. She is a devoted child of God, and listens carefully to His heart. Then she takes what she hears from Him, and generously gives it to us in the form of a new song or a life lesson. I am in awe of her frankness and willingness to share those lessons with us. Isn't she beautiful? Believe me, that beauty comes from the very core of this wonderful woman.

Diane is so flexible. She can sing the highest notes with perfect pitch and clarity. She and Kay take turns singing the melody, but when we add that high obligato part, it's usually Diane singing it. She also plays the piano. There's not a hymn you can name that she can't just start playing, by ear, with all the chords and runs and trills and other piano-y stuff. The letter in her pocket? Probably an informational letter about one of the many quilting retreats she hosts each year. Talented lady, my Diane.

As for the other face in this photo, when did my mother join the trio??

Just a Suggestion...

Preparing for Grandpa's funeral has put me in a pensive state.

As my girls were growing up, we had the obligatory critter parade: hamsters, rats, mice, birds, fish, dogs and cats. Except for the dog (a 100-pound Rhodesian Ridgeback) and the cat, who had the decency to wander off someplace to die, as each animal met it's demise, it was lovingly placed in an empty Velveeta box. The box was carried to a special spot beneath the elephant bush, a hole was dug with Mom's strongest serving spoon, and we would have a small funeral. After 25 years in that house, you can only guess the amount of nachos we had to eat to accommodate the pet population. But it was simple, and a nice tradition.

Which brings me to a bit of free advice:

Don't die.

Or if you insist upon dying, do it in such a way that you leave no physical remains. For example, you might choose to lower yourself slowly into a vat of molten steel a la T2. Or you might hire a large, hungry carnivore (i.e. shark or grizzly) which will finish you off in one sitting. Alien abduction might work, but apparently they insist on bringing folks back, which sort of defeats the purpose.

My point is this: unless you planned way ahead and set up the whole "pre-need funeral arrangements" thing back in the mid 1970s, you won't be able to afford to have yourself buried. We're talking like eight grand for a simple graveside service...pecan wood casket et al. If you planned to leave anything to the kids, forget it. You'll be reposing in their inheritance for the rest of whatever. I'm not saying it's a racket; I don't like to call anything a racket. But it's a really really really expensive um... industry. So you might want to start dropping your spare dimes into a piggy bank to pay for your own pecan wood casket.

Unless you have a Costco-sized Velveeta box and a really sturdy spoon. In which case, you're welcome to join the Johnson Critters Memorial Park. We'll even add a nice Popsicle stick head stone; no extra charge.

Gone but not forgotten...

Wednesday August 1, 2007

Last night at 11:00 pm I got the call we'd been expecting for several days. My father-in-law, Gilbert, had passed away quietly. Now the busyness begins: close out the apartment, store the furniture, pay the final bills, deal with the finances, the lawyers and the morticians. But in a few weeks, the finality will become real, and we'll begin to realize we'll never spend another moment with him. He had always been the crabby, critical old goat who sat at my dinner table a few times a year and belittled me for my faith. It was hurtful, and I admit many times I chose to avoid spending time with him, instead of pouring God's love on him. I have to ask God's forgiveness for that.

In the past two months as I have thrown myself into this, Gilbert's final journey, I have come to see him as I never had before. I now know he was a frightened, lonely old guy who was suddenly facing the end of his life, and didn't know how to feel about it. He continued to be completely unwilling to hear the Gospel message, regardless of how many times we all tried to explain it to him. He insisted that he had never been a bad person (true) and therefore deserved any reward the next life might offer (untrue).

So now he's stepped into eternity. No one knows where he is today. We do know we have done our part, telling him the message, showing him our own faith, being faithful to the God we serve. We also know we are not the ultimate Judge of man's soul -- thank heaven for that! -- and that our God is a fair and loving Father. But in that fairness and love, He has freely offered the way to an eternity in glory. If Gilbert denied that fairness and refused that love, he today stands separated from his own Father. This side of eternity, none of us will know where Gilbert's journey has taken him. We can only prepare our own souls, and pray for the souls of those yet undecided.

May heaven be a sweeter place because your name and mine are written in the Book of Life. I want to see you there.