Freeze and fog

After our cold, clear weekend last week, this time we had a foggy, cold weekend. This evergreen in the mist is to me a very Western Washington visual.



From the back deck down to the creek, the view becomes misty.



But it was still cold. The water in this bucket was frozen.



And the pond was frozen, with leaves suspended in the ice.



St. Francis and the saxifrage were doing okay.



The deep freeze put the kibosh on the calla lily.



That pretty much happens every year. Every spring I buy a new calla lily.

And so the deck waits for spring. It's too cold to sit outside yet.

How cold is it?

Brrrr. Brrr, I say. It's cold. If I were Johnny Carson, I'd say, "It's so cold tonight..." and my audience would yell, "How cold is it?" And I'd say, "It's so cold that ______________." The blank would be filled with a funny joke.

When I was in college, I heard a line of a play, I think it was by Thornton Wilder: "It's so cold, the dogs are sticking to the sidewalks." Makes no sense, but at that age I thought it was hilarious.

Know much about history?

Been reading some nonfiction lately. First I read Alison Weir's account of the Wars of the Roses.



I've always heard that was such a confusing subject, and it is, a little. It's not the war itself (or the wars--various conflicts over about 30 years time) that's hard to understand, but what I find difficult is the family tree of the combatants, especially because the founder of the Lancastrian side had children by two wives and a mistress. And Henry VII, who finally ended the conflict and founded the Tudor dynasty, was a Lancastrian by his mother and on his father's side the grandson of the wife of Henry V by her second husband, Owen Tudor.

At the end of the book, I felt that Weir gave quite a quick wrap-up to the whole Richard III and the princes in the tower events, but I went on to discover she had previously written a book about that before going back to investigate the Wars of the Roses. So I read that book.



In case you don't know, the Wars of the Roses were conflicts between two branches of the English royal family, the house of York and the house of Lancaster. One family had a white rose as their symbol and the other a red rose. I forget which was which. Finally, after they had pretty much killed each other off, the last Lancastrian, Henry Tudor, married the senior daughter of the Yorkists (most of their men being dead), Elizabeth of York, and thus reconciled the two sides. They were the parents of the notorious Henry VIII and the grandparents of the incomparable Elizabeth I.

Then I went back further in history and read a biography of Matilda, the wife of William the Conqueror.



So I guess maybe I do know a little something about history.

Saturday to the north

These striking mountains are in Canada (in the province of British Columbia). I wish I knew their names.



They are visible from here in north Whatcom County.

My grandma (the flower-loving one, who also was a talented painter) included them in a painting of the family farm where my dad and grandpa grew up. At a later date if I can find a photo of that painting I'll post it.

The farm was near the Canadian border. They did own some land right on the border, and in those simple times sometimes took their cows across the border to get to a nearby road, then over to the border crossing and down the road and over to their main farm.

Here's the one, or the one pair, as you may look at it:



And again:



And the other one:



And again:



You can see a tiny black cloud that was to the left when I took the first picture of this one, and when I took the second picture (directly above) it was in front of the mountain--just a little smudge at the top.

Yesterday and today have been overcast again. Actually, clouds and mist can also be lovely, but I don't have any pictures for that right now.

Saturday to the east and northeast

The mountains were stunning again on Saturday, so I drove around a little bit to take pictures. To the east are Mount Baker and the Twin Sisters:



Just Baker:



Just Baker again:



Just the Twin Sisters:



Just the Twin Sisters again:



And to the northeast, some pretty mountains whose names are unknown to me:

Clarity

Today was a clear, cold day. In the afternoon as I drove from Bellingham to Lynden the view of the mountains to the east and north was stunning, superb. I didn't have my camera with me, so you'll just have to take my word for it.

Vignette

In the morning when I wake up, I open the blinds and then I sit on the couch and stare out the window. Doubtless I am slack-jawed and vacant-gazed. Perhaps occasionally my eyes roll up and I snore lightly. But slowly, slowly I wake up and watch it get light outside.

This morning when it was light enough to see out the window, I saw snow. Not much, just a little.



By the time I was ready to walk the dog, the snow was already starting to melt. The pavements were wet and slightly slushy, not frozen.



I walked the dog and when we got home, I stopped to look at the little clay bunnies I set out on a patio table in the long-ago days of last summer.

Satisfying

I worked a rather long day today, but I did good work.

Chat show

I'm up late. Last night I went to bed on time, but woke up during the night so still didn't get a good night's sleep. So why go to bed on time?

Via Neo-Neocon, I watched this fascinating interview of Richard Burton by Dick Cavett. At one point,  Cavett says he couldn't keep a diary and when he did he found that reading back over it, seeing when he got up and what the weather was wasn't very interesting. That's a little like my blog sometimes (except I do find my own blog interesting to re-read -- doubtless because it's about me). Richard Burton said he keeps a diary irregularly but is able to sometimes work some part of it into an article he can sell to a magazine.

Here's the interview. It's about two hours long, and worth watching.

Playing hookey

I slept in and am missing church. Having a leisurely morning. My yesterday's illness is my excuse, but I still have every intention of going to an extended family open house this afternoon to see a cousin from Germany who only gets Stateside rarely. When you're a kid, if you stay home from school sick, then you can't play outside after school is over. But I'm not a kid, so even though I stay home from church, I will go "play" afterwards.

I guess the statute of limitations is up on my high school attendance, so I will confess that in my senior year I sometimes just didn't attend classes that I disliked. If it was the first class of the morning, I would leave campus before the homeroom where roll was taken and go have a little bite at a nearby McDonalds. By missing homeroom, I ensured that my name was put on an "absence list" that was distributed to teachers, so none of my teachers would expect to see me in class that day.

My good parents had no idea I did this. They raised me better than that.

In my defense, my first hour class that year was a French class where the teacher had truly dreadful body odor and who spit when he talked. My assigned seat was in the front row, so I would get droplets of his spittle on my desk and notebook. This revolted me intensely. That would be well over 30 years ago now. I wonder if he is still living. He of course seemed old to me then, but I have no idea how old he really was. He was a heavy smoker, which is partly why he stank. When the bell rang at the end of class, he was the first one out the door, and I presume he was running to the teachers' lounge for a cigarette. Poor man. I hope he lived to enjoy retirement.

Lovely thoughts for a Sunday morning. I should at least play some sacred music on a CD.

Resting

Busy work week and then today I wasn't feeling well, so just hung around home mostly reading, watching a little TV, mild internet surfing. Now to bed.

Back to the routine

Well, after a day at work, the holidays seem like a distant memory. Although I did promise myself as I drove home that this evening I could polish off the final olie bollen and the last of the egg nog tonight.

My tree is down. That was my big project yesterday.

I did keep my New Year's resolution last night by going to bed on time. I still was tired and spacey today, though. I must still need to catch up from staying up the night before last to welcome in the New Year.

Bright new year

It was bright and cold this morning.



Frost outlined every little thing.



Every leaf.



Every needle.



Every blade.



Happy New Year! God bless us every one.

The last blog post of 2012

Soon I'll head over to my folks' to spend New Year's Eve with them. I still have my year-end Mary Bennet problem in that I'd like to say something not only very sensible but downright profound but I know not how.

As I thought about it, my mind drifted to movies that incorporate New Year's. In When Harry Met Sally..., Harry and Sally finally acknowledge their mutual love at New Year's. In Bridget Jones's Diary, Bridget meets Mark Darcy at a New Year's Day luncheon--the turkey curry buffet.

That's all I could think of off the top of my head. Any other suggestions?



Also, is New Year's a holiday particularly suitable to be included in romantic comedies? Are there any dramas or mysteries with New Year's in them?

Year-end pondering

At year's end, or New Year's, it seems as though one should stop and reflect on the year that is passing and consider what one hopes to accomplish in the year ahead. I find myself like Mary Bennet in Pride and Prejudice when her father asks her opinion:

Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.

I went to church this evening, and we had a most suitable service. We celebrated communion, and because it was an evening service it was "old style" communion—the way they always were when I was growing up. The elders handed the trays of small squares of bread to those at the ends of the pew and we took one and handed the tray to the next person. We all held our piece of bread until everyone was served and the pastor served the elders, then the pastor said, "Take, eat, remember and believe that the body of Christ was broken for the complete forgiveness of all your sins." Then we did the same with the trays of small glasses of grape juice, and the pastor said, "Take, drink, remember and believe that the blood of Christ was poured out for the complete forgiveness of your sins." They used to say "remission" rather than "forgiveness."

I have been in churches where you can choose either grape juice or wine—grape juice for those who find wine a stumbling block—but most CRCs I've been to just use juice. We are not a "dry" denomination. We do not believe that the consumption of alcohol is wrong or sinful, but I think there is a feeling that if any recovering alcoholic is in the congregation, we don't want that person either to refrain from receiving communion or take the wine but then be led by that small experience back into their old ways. I think wine is would be more correct, but I understand why we use juice instead. The only problem I have with it is if the pastor administering communion refers to it as "juice." I find that distracting. If it must be juice, it must be, but don't call attention to the substitution. Any minister can avoid the issue just by saying "the cup" without specifying what is in it. That's the wording of the biblical passages about the Last Supper and the Lord's Supper anyway.

The text for our sermon was Ecclesiastes 3:1-15, also very suitable for year-end reflection. The gist of the sermon was that good and bad things happen and we don't understand why but God is in charge. Good to remember.

Our pastor also read a list of all the deaths and births that occurred in our congregation in 2012. In my extended family, I lost two uncles this year, one in April and one just a couple days ago.  They were both good, kind, dear men, faithful and loving husbands and fathers. Tomorrow is the funeral of the uncle who just died three days ago. My cousin who is his son was blessed with a baby daughter this year, so there too we have the coming and the going: A time to be born and a time to die, as this evening's text had it. If I am granted a normal life span, say 70 or 80 years (as Psalm 90 would have it), then I am more than half-way between those two times, closer to the end than the beginning.

I once had a good Dutch Christian Reformed pastor who mentioned that in his youth they always read Psalm 90 at the New Year. I suggested that to my parents once, but my dad was not into it. He didn't care to dwell on the brevity of life while celebrating. Although that's part of what makes celebration precious. As in Keats' Ode on Melancholy:

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 

Keats was very mindful of the brevity of life, since his brothers died of TB ("consumption") at a young age, and he himself died of it at age 26. It's actually quite amazing that he wrote so many masterpieces in such a short life.

Although I haven't actually talked to them about it, I do expect that I'll spend New Year's Eve at my parents' place with them. I ordered olie bollen, a traditional Dutch New Year's treat, and a stick of banket to bring along. My order is at the Lynden Dutch Bakery, which turns out wonderful food. It's so nice to be able to just order these treats. I would certainly never make olie bollen, which requires a deep fryer, and, although when I was younger I did make banket a couple times, I would really rather buy it than bake it. Sadly many people live in towns where you can't buy these because there is no Dutch bakery. Such deprivation.

Um

When I was driving in my car today, I thought of something to blog about. Now I can't remember what it was.

Try, try again

I've been kicking around ideas for New Year's resolutions. I may try again to establish a schedule that gives me regular, adequate hours of sleep. I've tried that before. I'm trying to remember what year I made that resolution and it just never happened. I may try again.

Not without hope

Received some expected, but sad, news tonight, of the passing of a very dear uncle.

Into your hands, Father of mercies, we commend our brother in the sure and certain hope that, together with all who have died in Christ, he will rise with him on the last day.

Yesterday

I worked today. Yesterday, Christmas Day, was a wonderful day. Here are two wonderful people.

Blessed Christmas morning

... the light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness has not overcome it.

I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas

My little great-niece sings along with this song: "Feliz Mommydad."

Increasing light

Friday was winter solstice, so now, whenever it feels dark and cold, I can tell myself every day is a little longer -- there is a little more light every day.

Sleep tight

As snug as a pug in a rug.

Iron bars a cage

I assembled the dog's new crate this morning. Last night I hauled the rather heavy box down from my car into my house.

"Step One," I said. "Get it in the house."

Then I sat on the couch.

"Step Two," I said. "Take a nap."

I slept until the wee hours, then was awake for a few hours, during which I did not assemble the crate, then slept again for some hours until slightly later than I had intended to get up.

But after walking the dog, I finally cut open the box and pulled out the crate, hoping it would not be as complicated for me as the wooden crate had been. And it wasn't. Basically, it was packaged collapsed, and you just had to unfold it and hook the pieces in a couple places.

I had bought a soft pad for the bottom. It is made for this crate but sold separately, and I put it in.



Yesterday I had put in on the couch and put some of my dog's favorite blankets on top, hoping to make it smell familiar and good to him. When I put it in the crate, he was immediately intrigued and did go halfway in to sniff, but then he backed out again. So I got his little bed out of the broken wooden crate, brushed off the wood chips, and tossed it in. Then he went all the way in.



When I leave the house in a little while, I'll put him in and shut the door. I hope it withstands whatever he does in my absence. If only he was calmer about it all.

In Richard Lovelace's poem, To Althea, from Prison, it says:

Stone walls do not a prison make
Nor iron bars a cage
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love
And in my soul am free
Angels alone, that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

If only my dog could read poetry.

The Pawshank Redemption

Yesterday, I left my dog at home while I went to work because I knew I had to go to court a couple times, and not just to hand some papers to my boss or to file documents in the clerk's office but to sit in the courtroom and wait for the proper time to talk to a judicial officer. I also thought I might work a short day. So I put the dog in the attractive wooden box I assembled for him this fall. He is not safe to let loose in the house while I'm gone because he does (ahem) inappropriate things.

As it happened, I ended up working a rather long day and, as I drove home, I felt compunction for what a long, sad day my dog must have had. I anticipated that when he heard me coming in the door his yipping and wild scratching at the door of his box would be even more frantic than usual.

I came in through the upstairs of my house and, when I opened the door at the top of the stairs, imagine my surprise when my dog greeted me enthusiastically on the spot.

"You got out?" I said, with displeased astonishment.

He cavorted happily.

I went downstairs and what to my wondering eyes should appear:



"Holy. Cow." I said. He must have scratched so vigorously that he broke the wood and popped out one slat and loosened two others. Then he must have wiggled through the opening. A wooden slat lay on the floor; chips of wood were scattered around.

I was almost awed by his accomplishment. Then I felt a sense of dread. What damage would I find in the house? I walked all around my place, looking for unspeakable messes, and I found he had indeed done (ahem) inappropriate things, but not irreparable damage--except to his box.

Who would have thought this little guy could stage a violent prison break?



I later found a package at the front door and guessed that the deliverer thereof probably rang the doorbell. Under the best of circumstances, the dog reacts to the doorbell with a high level of energy and action. After being in solitary confinement for a great many hours, I suspect the sound of the doorbell ringing was enough to send him berserk.

Today, he and I went to Petco to buy him a new crate--a metal one--which I must assemble tonight, as I can't leave him alone in the house until I'm able to secure him, and I do want to go to church tomorrow.

Dropping by

It's been particularly busy at work for me. I hope to take a break starting this weekend until after New Year's. So far, we're having a rainy, mild winter. We did have a "dusting" of snow, as they call it, yesterday morning. I'm good with no snow because it makes driving to work a hassle.

Waiting for the Light

Well, I guess we're one week away from winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. I will be glad when that's past and I can tell myself the days are getting longer again. It is hard to wake up in the morning when it is still dark outside.

I believe the church chose this time of year to celebrate Christ's birth because it is symbolic of the light coming into the world.

A brief sort-of conversation

The phone rang tonight as I was finishing supper. I trotted from the kitchen across the family room to get it. I looked at the caller i.d. and it was a company that provides a service to my house. I wondered if my payment was late. I answered. A recording said, "Please continue to hold." I hung up. "I don't think so," said I.

Amen to that

I’ve always preferred the term “late bloomer” to “complete failure” . . .

Max Lindenmann, Diary of a Wimpy Catholic, Avoiding the Advent Trap

First Sunday of Advent 2012

Taize: "Wait for the Lord," Jacques Berthier, 1923-1994

Chorus:

Wait for the Lord, whose day is near.
Wait for the Lord, keep watch, take heart.

Descant verses:

Prepare the way for the Lord.
Make a straight path for God.
Prepare the way for the Lord.

Rejoice in the Lord always.
God is at hand.
Joy and gladness for all who seek the Lord.

The glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
All the earth will see the Lord.

I waited for the Lord,
My Lord and my God.

Seek first the kingdom of God.
Seek and ye shall find.

Time and space

From "Advent Retreat" at Sacred Space:

Ignatius suggests that whatever time you allocate to your prayer, you should be faithful to it, even if you are bored or find it difficult or distracting. Many people say ‘I don’t feel I’m getting anywhere’ but you are offering God your goodwill, time and space. God does the rest, deep in your being where you cannot notice what is going on.

Little hands

This is a tale of my great-niece. Here she is with my niece, her mommy.



Every other week, my niece comes over to my house while I'm at work and does a little housework for me. I have contracted with her to do this because I tend never to get around to it, and then my house gets unacceptably dirty.

My great-niece is preschool age, and she comes with my niece. When I get home in the evening after they've been here, the cleanliness tells me my niece was here, but I find other clues revealing my great-niece's visit.

The next time I turn on my TV, for example, it's tuned in to a station that shows children's programming, and the volume is rather louder than I generally have it.

A while back, I bought this dog carrier on wheels, thinking I would need it to smuggle my dog into my workplace.



It turned out, happily, that there was no objection to my bringing my dog, so now I just walk boldly into the building with him on a leash, and this carrier stays home.

Meanwhile, back when I was in college, my mom gave me a gift of a little stuffed lamb. Perhaps I was a bit old for such a gift, but my mom doesn't see it that way.

This is what I look like about now:



This is what my mom sees when she looks at me:



So one time I came home after the housecleaning, and eventually I noticed that the little stuffed lamb was in the dog carrier. The next time I saw my great-niece she said, "I was at your house." I said, "I know, because I found a little lamb in the dog carrier." She giggled.

The last time they were here, after I was home a while, I noticed my dog was nosing around the box I got for him. He likes to sit in there sometimes.



I noticed the door was shut and latched, and I knew the little girl had found that interesting. So I opened the door for him, but noticed after a little while that he did not go in the box. So I looked more closely and realized the little stuffed lamb was in there. So I took it out to make room for him.

I'm guessing that my great-niece likes to pretend that the little white lamb is my little white(ish) dog.



It's kind of fun to find evidence of my little sweetheart's playing around my house.

And that's my story.

One degree of separation

Beautiful sunny clear autumn day today in great state of Washington. My folks and I drove to Birch Bay to look at the water, which was a stunning blue color.

I was going to post some pictures, but I got this message from Blogger:

Whoops! You're out of space. You are currently using 100% of your 1 GB quota for photos. Upgrade storage

Photos are stored in your Picasa Web Albums account and are included in your 1 GB free quota for photos. Additional storage you purchase is shared between several Google products and is in addition to your free quota. Learn more   I will probably buy storage, if I must, but I have to think it over first.   Meanwhile, here's a link to a Facebook photo album, which includes the photos I was going to post here.

Oh, boy, oh, boy

I made my sister laugh by telling her about my dog's reaction when I sing in the car. My dog goes to work with me, and on the commute he spends much of the time with his paws on the dashboard, snorting excitedly at pedestrians, bicyclers, and dogs.

Get your motor runnin',
Head out on the highway,
Lookin' for adventure,
And whatever comes our way.

Sometimes I sing in the car, because I'm such an irrepressibly exuberant lark. Or just because some tune drifts into my mind. The dog pays no heed. There were a couple days last week where I kept bursting into "Danny Boy." He would not pay attention as I warbled my way through the first verse:

Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,
From glen to glen and down the mountain side.
The summer's gone, and all the roses falling;
It's you, it's you must go, and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,
Or all the valley's hushed and white with snow...

Until I got to:

It's I'll be heeeeeeeeeeeeeere in sunshine or in shadow...

I'd strain, not altogether successfully, for the note of here, and my dog would turn his head and look at me, then cock his head to one side.

Every time.

Here's how the song should sound:



But my performance is more like Beaker's:

Boerenjongens

Tonight I tried to make boerenjongens ("farm boys"), a Dutch sweet or dessert topping consisting of raisins, sugar, and brandy. I looked online for recipes and found them from as complicated as one that involved zesting a lemon -- a thing I have never done -- to one that is basically equal parts sugar, raisins, and brandy.

I tried a combination of recipes. I measured how many cups of raisins I had, then measured that much water and that much sugar into a pan. I threw in some cinnamon and a little ground cloves. I heated and stirred till the sugar dissolved and the water started to boil. Then I put the raisins in. I had bought one box of regular (dark) raisins and one of "golden" raisins. I stirred and simmered the raisins in the sugar water for 20-25 minutes, then I spooned a few raisins at a time into a small strainer and from there into the canning jars (which I had prepared by washing and then keeping in a warm oven). The 12 small glass canning jars I had bought turned out to be the perfect size, the raisins just filled them. Then I boiled and stirred the remaining sugar water for a while to "reduce" it. I poured some into a measuring pitcher then poured in an equal amount of brandy, then poured the sugar water/brandy mixture into each jar of raisins until they were full. Then I put the lids on.

Things got a little sticky -- literally. If I happened to dribble some of that sugar water onto the stove, it was sticky to clean up, the spoons I used got sticky, and I'm fearful that when I go to take the lid off one of these jars it will be glued there by sticky syrup.

I also felt that maybe instead of mixing the sugar water with the brandy to pour into the jars, I should have just poured brandy in, to make them stronger. And I worried that the sugar water was still hot enough to evaporate the alcohol in the brandy so that the final product will not be an alcoholic treat. But, there they are. You're supposed to wait a certain amount of time to open and eat them. That time varied, too, in the recipes, from serving it the next day to waiting a minimum of three months. I plan to try one jar out around Christmas or New Year's.

I already think next year, less syrup, more brandy. But anyway, I'm sure the sugar will help them taste good.

I am a little fearful if they'll be okay. In the old days, canning gone wrong resulted in botulism. But part of me also says, How wrong can it go? It's raisins, sugar, and brandy.

So I decided not to give any jars away until I consume one and survive.

Song search

On the Veterans Day holiday (real Veterans Day 11/11 was on Sunday, but then we had Monday off from work), I was trying to find the perfect video of a patriotic song with accompanying pictures of military folks. I watched a few, then remembered I had intended to do things like laundry and other household tasks.

Sometimes when I try to find a video on youtube to express my mood, it takes so long to find one that I waste a lot of time, or go to bed late. Kind of a silly activity in a way.

But just talking about it makes me want to go look at music videos on youtube.

Season's progress

Three weeks ago, I took a picture of the maple tree in the middle of our cul-de-sac, with its autumn colors.

Today I took a picture of it denuded of leaves.

So the seasons progress through their cycle. Today looks like autumn because there are still a lot of leaves on the ground and blowing around, and not all the trees have dropped all their leaves yet. But the wind and the air temperature feel almost like winter.

Those autumn leaves

For the record: Stitching

Also, I started a new pillow project today. I was able to see when I started the last one by going through this blog, so now I can see when I started the next one, which is a design of pansies.

Ta da!

Accomplished

It's just a little over two years ago that I ordered the kit and exactly two years ago that I started it, and tonight I finished it:

Tomorrow, my sister-in-law will help me sew the pillow backing to it (and by "help me" I mean "do the task herself while I watch") and I'll put in the pillow insert I bought, and it will be a finished product.

Hooray!

I had it kind of done last weekend, but when we looked at how the backing went on, my sister-in-law advised one more row of white all around the edge, so I did that this week, yesterday and today.

Favorite things

I'm hearing and seeing flocks of geese in the air this autumn. I say hearing and seeing in that order because I hear them first, then look for them in the sky.

One of the first times I heard them this fall, at first I didn't recognize the sound at first. I thought it sounded like someone's radio cutting in and out.

It also reminds me of the song in The Sound of Music, with the line "wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings." I mostly see them in the daytime, though.