I wish I had paid better attention to the stories that my dad told me.  I wish I had paid better attention to the stories Ken told as well.  But I didn't.  And when I find myself wanting to ask one of them a question, they aren't there.  And the stories are gone.  They both had the most interesting lives.   I can write about what I remember, but it only skims the surface.

I  wonder why I didn't pay better attention.  I think maybe because I didn't know at the time how much I had been blessed--because they were all I knew.  It's only in looking back that I am amazed at the exceptional lives they both led--in light of the people I have met along the way.  They were both truly exceptional people.  I took them both for granted. 

They loved each other.  My dad thought Ken hung the moon.  And visa versa.  My dad and mom were good friends of Ken's mom and dad, and they went to all of Ken's football games together when Ken was in high-school.  I don't know where I was.  With a baby sitter--my grandparents probably.  I was just starting first grade when Ken started the ninth grade.  I don't remember him.  I do remember his dad and mom because his dad was our pastor.  His dad baptized me.  And his mom was my Sunday School teacher. 

Through the years, as I have taught Bible classes of women, I have found out how horrible life can be for some people.  I have heard so many horror stories.  Not every woman got wonderful parents.  Or wonderful husbands.  Or perfect in-laws.

God has blessed me with a life full of wonderful people.  And as I have lived my life, I have become very aware of how exceptional they all were.  Many times, we don't know what we have until it is gone.  And of course, it is too late to tell them how much they meant in my life.  They are all gone.

I am missing both Ken and my dad today.  Really bad.  They sat around and told stories.  They treasured each other's company.  They were such good friends.

Well, I did a "stupid."  I am just glad I didn't break any bones.  I wanted to get rid of the invasive green stuff that was taking over my Koi pond and waterfall.  I think it's called moneywort.  (I didn't take what I wrote to you last Friday to heart.  I let my buzzing brain override my common sense again.)

So I climbed up the stacked rocks of the waterfall and started ripping the green stuff out.  Problem was, I didn't take my sandals off and when I was trying to climb back down, one of my sandals shifted and down I went on a bunch of sharp stones.  My arm is black and blue.  Band-aids took care of the cuts.  And I learned my lesson.  I won't do that again.

 I just can't imagine all the things I have to learn that I can't do anymore.  Growing older is just a series of "giving things up."  You spend the first three fourths of your life learning how to do stuff, and the last fourth not being able to do any of it.  Frustrating as all get-out.

That's why they tell you to save for retirement.  Because you are retired.  Finished.   Kaput. You either have to give up all the things you want done, or hire it done if you can afford it. 

However, I can still sing.  The choir director had me sing a short solo part when we performed this afternoon.  I haven't done that in sixty years.  I still have a voice.  I can still play the piano.  I can still play the marimba.  I can still do the wash, the dishes, fold the clothes, sew, cook dinner, and all the other things that I need to do.  Praise God; I'm thankful for that.  Just can't do some of the things I want to do.  The list of things I can do is much longer than the list of things I can't do.

1 Thessalonians 5:18  "In everything give thanks.  For this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you."  Everything.  That means all of it.

The thing I am most thankful for is that I can still think.  At least I think I can think?

Well, it is done.  Except--I really don't like the color on the cabinets.  Really, really, really, don't like it.  So.  There are two choices.  Learn to live with them.  Or.  Repaint the door and drawer fronts.

If I were in my twenties, or thirties, I would grab a paint brush and get at it.  I've painted many a house before we moved in.  Once, I painted an entire house interior while I was two weeks away from delivering a baby.  Ceilings and all.  But that's not possible any more.  That girl no longer exists.

Looking back, I didn't appreciate the physical ability to work.  To execute the project.  I didn't ever think about not being able to do what I set out to do.  But now, I have to sit around and watch while others do what I wish I could do.  I don't bend very well any more.  And when I get down on the floor--which I would have to do to paint the cabinets--it takes forever to get back up.  I have to roll over on my knees and find something to hold onto to so I can pull up.  Ridiculous.

My mind doesn't stop thinking up things to do.  It's full of bees.  It's the body that has betrayed me.  And when I let my mind override my common sense, I end up so sore that I can't do anything.

That scripture in Ecclesiastes 9:10, "Whatsoever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might," still applies.  However, my "might" is mighty small.

In 11:9 the writer continues:  "Rejoice...in your youth; and let your heart cheer you in the days of your youth..."  I'm doing that now.  Rejoicing in my youth.  I'm glad I once had a youth.  I guess that's why they say that older people live in the past.  It's the only time they could do whatever they wanted to do.

Memories.  They bring me joy in the middle of being frustrated about the color of the paint.  Like Becky says, "It's just money."  The question is, "How much money to repaint."

I have had people working in my house, outside my house and under my feet for weeks.  Today they are supposed to finish.  "Hope springs eternal in the human breast."  They are all nice people, but I want them out of here!!  They have caulked, sealed, tiled, painted, sawed, nailed, stained and grouted.  It seems to be never ending.  But today, God willing, it will be over.

I bought the house last year, and knew there was a lot to do.  And I had hoped it would all be done before I moved in.  But the master bath had to be redone--also some work in the utility room--and I moved in before it was started.  So I put it off until last month.   Dust, fumes, and confusion.

I just want to put everything back in the cabinet where it belongs.  I want to fill the bathtub to the brim with hot water and sit and soak and unwind.  It will be heaven.

Sometimes we start something that is too big for us.  Sometimes we begin a task without thinking about how long it will take.  Sometimes we contract a job without counting the cost--both financial and emotional.  I did all three of those.  I've done that before.  I don't seem to learn.  It all seems simple before I begin.  It's only when I'm bogged down in the middle of a project that I wonder, "What was I thinking?" 

Jesus said, "For which of you, intending to build...doesn't sit down and count the cost (in time, emotional stress, and money) whether he will have sufficient to finish it.  Lest haply, after he had laid the foundation and is not able to finish it, everyone that beholds it begin to mock him, Saying, This man began to build, and was not able to finish."  Luke 14:28-30

Would someone stop me before I start another big project.  Please.

By the end of that year, when we moved to Miami Ok., I was eight months pregnant.  I think every animal on the farm was pregnant.  We had bought ten acres to hold the cow, and all the animals and give Pat a place to ride the horse.  One day after Ken had gone to work and the kids had caught the bus to school, the horse got out and went trotting down the road with me in close pursuit chasing it with a broom.  I had no idea how to catch a horse or what to do with it if I caught it.

Luckily, a passing farmer took pity on me.  He stopped and corralled the horse, put it back in the barn and told me I probably shouldn't be chasing horses in my condition.  Which I knew, but what else was I supposed to do.  I am definitely not a farm girl.  Even though I was barefoot and pregnant.

Ken hadn't wanted to move to Miami anyway.  But I thought we should live where he had a job-- so he wouldn't have a fifty mile commute every day--both ways.  We had been drug all over America while he was in the Corps--which was fine.  However, the houses we lived in had concrete streets, sometimes on two sides.  But farm life?  Dirt.  Every imaginable kind of poop that I invariably stepped in.  It just wasn't for me.

I tried--because Pat wanted to live on a farm.  But when Pat got beat up in the girl's bathroom at school, and Becky came home crying (Becky never cries) because she made the cheerleading squad--knocking off one of their regulars and making all the other girls gang up on her, well, that was it.  We had never experienced friction like that.  It was a tough town back in the sixties.  And we had lived in enough towns to know tough when we saw it.  I told Ken that I had been wrong, that we should have stayed where we were; we never should have moved.  He agreed, but didn't say, "I told you so." 

But when Becky said, "I want to go home," Ken said, "Put this place on the market.  Let's go home."  So we did.  And God willing, I will never live in the country again. 

Concrete.  You've got to love it.



  

Pat's chicken died.  Lisa and Becky made the observation that Pat had been rescuing animals all of her life.  She had a kitten named Sheba that got hit by a car and was obviously dead.  Lisa said, "Pat got it out of the street and brought it back to the house to see if she could fix it.  Poor thing was flat.  And missing some parts.  But Pat refused to give up on it.

She always had some animal around.  Once, our next door neighbor offered her a calf that the mother cow wouldn't nurse.  So we put up fence between our house and our neighbor's house, brought the calf to town and Pat fed it every day.  No, you aren't supposed to have animals in town, but nobody on the street complained.

When we left Pryor and moved to Miami (Oklahoma), Ken and Scott took the back seat out of our Chevrolet, and put the cow (who was now grown) into the back seat.  Head out one window, tail out the other.  And that was how they moved the cow.  People would pass them on the road, then pull over, and you could see them trying to figure out what a cow was doing in a Chevy.

When we finally got moved, we had two collies, a horse, a cow, and our next door neighbor's geese, ducks and chickens--who knew Pat would feed them.  And of course, cats.  That had kittens.  And more kittens.  Pat was happy with the entire zoo, until the horse ran her under a big tree limb and knocked her out.

And then an opossum moved into the barn to feast on baby chicks.  So Ken got a shovel and started to the barn to dispatch the 'possum with Becky trailing behind him begging Ken not to kill it.  "Give it one more chance, Daddy.  Please.  Just give it one more chance."  He didn't.

I don't know if Becky really cared about the possum, or was just worried about Pat finding out.  A possum will play dead.  I don't know if Pat could revive one.  I know she would try.

My sister Lisa came Thursday night for a couple of days.  I love it when she comes because she is so easy to be around.  I guess because we were raised by the same mother and father even though we were twenty one years apart--we think alike, eat alike, share the same motivations for getting things done, and have many of the same memories.  She is the sweetest, most pleasant person in my family.

We hung shelves.  Those little ones from Italy with gilt leaves.  Thirteen of them.  She had hung twice that many the last time she was here. It takes one person to hold it, the other to say, "A little to the right," and hand the nail and hammer.  Then both of us to say, "It's too high."  Or "Too low." 

Four of us, Becky, Lisa, me, and our cousin Ann, went garage sale-ing this morning.  When you get four women together--especially family--talking is a problem.  Everyone talks at once.  It was fun.
And it is amazing all of the stuff that people have for sale.  There are some things that you see over and over.  Especially exercise equipment.  Good intentions spread out on the driveway.  George Foreman Grills and pasta machines and smoothie blenders.  And shoes.  Millions of shoes.  And a billion different kinds of dishes.

I am sure that people had a plan to use those things when they bought them, but many items are still in the box with the price tag attached.  Good intentions that went South.

I bought ten dresses for my "soon to be" great-granddaughter Olivia, that still had the original tags on them.  For next to nothing.  The mother who sold them to me said that they were gifts that never got used.  It is a lot of fun.  We all came home with treasures.  I guess the old saying that "One man's trash is another man's treasure," is true.  But in Edmond, the sales are up-scale, definitely not trash.

I love a bargain.  Everyone loves a bargain.  And eternal life is the best deal going.  It's free.  The price has already been paid by Jesus.

I got married at 18.  One year and one month later, I had Pat.  Eighteen months later I had Becky.  And eighteen months after that I had Amy--who lived nine days--tragic.  Then along came Scott eighteen months later.  I was twenty five and had had four children.  Time to quit.

They pretty much took care of each other because I was constantly overwhelmed with military life, moving, cooking, cleaning, sewing and trying to keep us all fed, shod, in clothes, and making ends meet.  Ken would bring the paycheck in, give it to me and say something like, "You're doing a good job.  Press on," a Marine Corps slogan.  He was seldom around.  (Just long enough to father a bunch of kids.)  He expected me to manage the money, and everything else.  He never complained and never criticized.  He knew it was hard, but there was nothing more he could do than what he was already doing.   We made it.  And it was good.  Love covers a lot of problems.

Nine years after Scott was born, after Ken got back from Viet Nam and retired from the Marines, Pat, Becky and Scott were pretty much capable of managing almost anything.  Even me being pregnant.  Accidents happen.  Pat was almost fourteen, Becky twelve and Scott was nine.  When Jonathan was born, I was very sick with a tumor in my heart and couldn't take care of him.  So the three of them took him over and handed him back and forth for months and months.  We all tease Jon now and tell him that he didn't learn to walk until he was five, because someone was always carrying him.

Of course Scott, who had bugged me for years to get him a brother, (and save him from a house full of women), proceeded to torment his new brother like boys will do.  But one day a few years later, when Scott came home from college and jumped Jon and wrestled him to the floor--like brothers do--Jon rolled him, pinned him and said, "Say uncle."  Jon had grown into a bruiser.  All muscle.  Scott was tall and extremely fast.  Jon was shorter and extremely strong.  Very different.

Jon just sat on Scott.  Forever.  It finally became obvious to Scott that the jig was up.  And he said, "Uncle."  And Jon said, "Don't mess with me anymore."  Scott didn't.  Ever.   

      I sometimes think my two daughters have a screw loose.
      Becky called awhile ago and asked where that scripture was that said that you had to paint the inside of the closets first--because if the house was clean on the inside of your closets, then everything would be fine.   "Always clean from the inside out was what you told us."
     "That isn't a scripture," I said.  "I have no idea what you are talking about."
      "Don't you remember," she said.  "Every time we moved, the first thing you would tell us to do was to paint the inside of our closets.  You told us that it was a rule.  We had to paint inside the closets before we put our clothes in them.  The way you said it, I always thought it was in the Bible.  And then, after you mopped all of the floors, you would come in my room and dump all my stuff out and tell me to organize it.  I had no idea what that meant.  How do you decide where things go?  I still don't know where things go."
      "Why would you want to put your clothes in a dirty closet where someone had just moved out.  Why wouldn't you want to organize your things in your chest of drawers," I asked.  "We were at the mercy of the military.  Rent houses weren't clean, and I wasn't going to live in someone's else's dirt.   
      "Well, I've always thought it was scripture.  You made it sound like it was straight from God."
      
      Then Pat called and said that she had a baby chicken that was sick.  She was afraid it was going to die, so she had taken it into the house where it was warm.  "I don't think I should give up on it as long as it is trying to live.  I wouldn't want God to give up on me," she said.  "We aren't supposed to give up on things.  It's in the Bible somewhere."
      "It's a chicken," I told her.  "Sometimes they die.  You have a lot of other chickens."
      "But it's my chicken," she said.  "If it wants to keep trying, I don't want to give up on it."
      "But it may be suffering.  That's not good."
      "No, it doesn't seem to be in any pain.  It's just very quiet.  I just wanted to tell you about it."

      I wonder what all I told them that they believe is in the Bible.  I'm sure hope it was all good. 
      
      

     

We ate out only twice in the first seven years we were married.  No money.  For food, or for baby sitters.  Every time we were driving cross country to a new duty station, I packed a jar of peanut butter, jelly, bread, an ice chest full of lunch meat, etc. and a big thermos of ice water.  Cups, plates, and napkins.  No soft drinks or potato chips.  Too expensive.

I still have a hard time spending money.  I think about how hard it was to make ends meet back then.  But as a result of all that "Making ends meet," I learned to be frugal, and how to make the money last before the month ran out.  God was good.  We may not have lived like kings, but we never went hungry.  Except once.

Scott was eleven or twelve, and by then, we could finance an occasional meal out.  Ken and Scott and I had gone to Tulsa for some reason, and we stopped at one of those all you can eat buffets.  Ken and I finished, but Scott went back for more.  And more.  And more.  After he had eaten four plates of food, I said, "I've never seen you eat like that before."  And he said, "That's because there never is enough when we eat at home."

   There were six of us to feed and I always had supper cooked at night.  Big meals.  Perhaps in learning to be frugal, I hadn't paid enough attention to the fact that when we ate dinner at home, there was never much left over.  Scott had eaten it all.  He had gone from being a little kid to a growing boy, and I had never fed a growing boy before.

Now they are all gone.  So cooking is no longer a joy to me unless someone comes over to eat with me.  Why cook.  I think of all the years I spent learning to cook.  But that talent is no longer needed.  You never know what you are going to miss when you grow old.  I miss watching Scott eat.   I miss cooking for all of them.

When you start thinking about things that your children did back when they were growing up, there are a zillion stories to tell.

Jonathan was born nine years after the other three.  As a result, I was a relaxed Mom.  I knew all the stages we were going to go through, and that none of them lasted very long.  Like when your kids wanted to make a "cave"?  There were a million ways to do it.  I had a refrigerator crate in my back yard when I was growing up.  Some of my kids set up card tables and covered and them with quilts.  One of my kids backed my two love seats together and covered them with sheets.

But Jonathan decided he wanted a real cave.  So he, and ten of his friends (they were probably around nine or ten at the time) all got shovels, and every afternoon after school they set to digging in our back yard.   Every day the hole got deeper and deeper.  And the pile of dirt surrounding it got higher and higher.  It kept them busy for weeks.

People would pass by and ask if I knew there were kids in my back yard digging up my lawn.  I guess they thought I hadn't noticed!!   Even my friends would ask why I was allowing such destruction and why didn't I stop it.

It was just dirt!!  And after a few weeks, the boys all lost interest and set out on a new project.  And I had the hole filled up.  No big deal.  They had a blast, and I knew where they were every day after school.  I could watch their progress out the kitchen window.

People get upset about the strangest things.  I guess we are all different.  But I find it strange that it bothered people that I was letting Jon and his friends dig a hole in the lawn.  Getting it filled back in and getting new sod was cheaper than a box of Legos.  And now, thirty years later, when Jon and his friends get together, they still talk about the cave they dug.  It's a fun memory they have.

Joe Mike and Becky Bacon came Friday and stayed the night.  We got caught up on things.  They are family to me.  Joe was a Viet Nam aviator, and was Garth Brooks pilot before he retired.  Becky is an RN, and stepped in and personally took care of Ken during Ken's final few days.

Joe is the one who woke us up in the middle of the night (4:00 AM) to deliver lobster he had brought us  from Maine.  And he had named them.  Franklin and Eleanor.  He was standing at the door holding an ice chest, and was dressed in full "pilot" uniform.  I don't know who he flew on charter to Maine, but was thrilled that he remembered how much I love lobster.  Even if I did get it in the middle of the night.  I told him that if he ever brought me lobster again, not to name them!!  It's hard to cook something that has a name.

Anyway, Joe told me that I had left out part of the story that I wrote about Ken landing on the postage stamp concrete that turned out to be a repair facility--not an air strip--because he thought Pete had done it.  Seems Ken had told Joe the story and I had forgotten part of it.  "Ken said he had a Snuffy in the co-pilot's seat that was trying to get South on leave.  So when Ken stalled the airplane over the concrete for that impossible landing, (it turned out that all the planes parked there had been towed in and it wasn't an air field after all--just a square piece of concrete with planes lined up on either side), that he realized he was going to have to get the plane out of there, so he told the young Marine to get out.  Reason?  Because I'm getting ready to kill myself getting out of here."

The poor kid had no transportation to anywhere at that point.  But Ken said he was more than ready to get out.   That was when Ken backed up into the building, revved up as high as the engine would go, and took off.

God watches over us even when we are stupid.
  

The cryptoquote for today was:  "Wisdom is the quality that keeps you from getting into situations where you need it."  How very true.

And, of course, experience is the best teacher.  But you don't have to have the experience to have wisdom.  Observation works just as well.

When Becky was a child, someone asked her why she never got into trouble.  "Well," she said, "I just watch my big sister Pat and brother Scott get into trouble, so I know what not to do."

I think--maybe-- she would have gotten into more trouble but she was better at avoiding notice.

Wisdom is cumulative.  Learning one thing leads to learning another.  It is like taking steps along the right path.  You are heading in a direction.

"Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom: and with all your getting get understanding."  Proverbs 4:7

I try to make friends with people who are wise.  They are a blessed source of solid information when I am confused.  I don't get confused as much now as I used to, but when I do,  I have a short list of people I go to.  The world isn't stocked with very many wise people.

Trying to make good decisions.  Trying to do the right things.  That in itself is wisdom.  

Did you ever wonder if you were really going to go to heaven?  Did you ever wonder if Christ really saved you?  We all probably wonder about it from time to time because we think there must be something more that we can do.  It is hard to fathom that Jesus did it all, and all we have to do is trust Him, repent of our sins and allow him to come into our lives and let His Spirit and do all the work of changing us.  There really isn't anything you can do.  It is so simple that it seems impossible.

John, one of the twelve disciples of Jesus, was writing to you and me for times like that when he wrote:  1 John 5:11-13 "And this is the record, that God has given to us (you and me) eternal life and this life is in his Son.  He that has the Son has life; and he that doesn't have the Son of God doesn't have life.  These things I have written to you that believe on the name of the Son of God; that you may know that you have eternal life and that you may believe on the name of the Son of God."

That is one of my all time favorite passages.  John always wrote to validate the truth.  He says things like,  "...this is the record..." and "...I have written to you..."  Making sure that you know that he is an eye witness to the events of Jesus' life.  John is telling it like it is.  He was there.

The thing that is so unique about the passage is that he is writing to believers.  So that they can know.  So that they can believe.  It is a circular description of what John knew that we were going to do as believers.  Doubt.  So he writes to us so that we can know.  And believe.  Again and again.

So every time I start wondering why God would want to save me, I go back to this passage and the words of John and reassure myself that this man John, who personally knew Jesus and spent three years with him, is telling me the truth.  God wants me for his own.  All I need to do is believe.  And then I know.  And I believe even stronger, because I have heard the truth from an eye witness.

Jesus loves me, this I know.  For the Bible tells me so.  Little ones to Him belong.  We are weak, but He is strong.

Scott was throwing things and hitting his mark at the age of three.  His idea of an educational toy was to take puzzle pieces or blocks, and see how many he could toss into one of those round glass bedroom light fixtures.  One day, this three year old kid took all of my tomatoes outside to see how many times he could hit a spot on our house while standing across the street.  He just loved to throw things.  So baseball was a perfect sport for him.  (He was a handful from day one.)

We had gone to Miami to watch him play.  He hit a ball to the fence and flew--all the way around the bases into home.  But the ball arrived at home plate at the same moment he did, so he dove head first into the catcher--arm and fingers extended to the plate as far as he could reach.  He hit the catcher dead center with his head and went flying.  Up.  A ten year old kid testing the limits of his speed.

Knocked him out.  Cold.  I knew he was unconscious because when he went up into the air over the plate, he was limp before he hit the ground.  The ambulance got him to the hospital and Ken and I sat down by his hospital bed and waited.  The doctor didn't give us any encouragement.

But after four or five hours, he started to move, mumble and open his eyes.  And of course, being Scott, the first words out of his mouth were, "Was I safe, or was I out?"  To tell you the truth, I don't remember.  I was so glad he hadn't broken his neck, or ended up in a permanent coma.

He proceeded to play baseball all his school and college years.  But he never learned to play it safe.  He tore up his shoulder, knee, knocked his front teeth out, and had six major concussions before it was over.  The price of the game for him was pain.  But he still plays.  Behind the plate.   Umpiring girls softball, or high school or college baseball.  Whatever comes along, he's out there.  Playing the game.  And now he has a son coaching at Neosho County CC, who were the number one team in the nation rankings last week.  "My dad taught me the game," Ben says.  "I just tell my boys to do what my dad taught me to do." Scott had a passion and love for the game and he handed it down to Ben.   

Christophe and Carine, Becky's friends  in Paris, read my blog every night.  Which humbles me. Becky stays with them in their hotel when she takes a group to Paris.  She got back last night--after ten days--and told me all about how sweet they were to her and the group she took with her.  Carine fixed a picnic lunch for them, and they went to the garden that Monet painted--the one with the curved bridge that you see in his paintings.  Becky said that it was unbelievable the different things Carine had prepared.  Not only does French food taste delicious, it is always "Presented Beautifully."

Every time Becky comes back from overseas, I get to listen to all the stories.  The thing I like the best is her descriptions of the food.  I do love to eat.  She has been trying to talk me into going back with her soon--but I don't know if I can walk it anymore.  And you do have to be able to walk.  Even with buses, the Metro, and cabs, there is still plenty of walking.  She says we will take a cruise from Amsterdam to Switzerland, but why go overseas if you don't go to Paris.

I started going with her twenty-seven years ago once or twice a year.  She had so many frequent flier miles that she got my ticket when we used to take the boys.  It was fun, but I don't remember where I have been or when I was there.  I know I have been in a bunch of different places, but it all runs together.  I do remember a few things that were special:  An organ concert in the Notre Dame.

But I do remember the first trip.  Talk about transgender; I had to go to the bathroom.  We found one.  Talk about shock.  Men and women both used it at the same time.  I ran out and told her there was some mistake!  She said, "No, that's the way it is here.  If you want to go, you don't have another choice."  Things have changed over the last twenty seven years, however.  Which is good.

Americans think that things have to be the way they are done here.  But other countries have their charm and own way of doing things.  Different is good.  And fun.  The people are the best part.

When Ken asked me to marry him, I told him that I had two requirements of a husband that were absolutely not up for discussion, and if he wanted me to marry him he would have to agree to them.   The first one was that we would always go to church together.  The second was that I didn't want alcoholic beverages to have any part in our lives.  That not only would we not drink, we wouldn't serve either.  I didn't want to deal with alcohol problems.  Ever.

He agreed.  So at that point, I began to consider the possibility of marrying him.  Which I did.  Good decision.  But in the Marine Corps, not drinking was a problem.  It is the oil that moves the world.  In business, in the military, and in every walk of life.

The commanding officer of the group would call Ken in at least once a month and say, "Ken, I want you to reconsider your position on not serving alcohol.  You don't have to drink, but you need to serve it as a choice. (Ken was the commanding officer of a squadron at the time.  Up till then, it hadn't been an issue.)  So Ken would come home, we would discuss it, and then Ken would go back to the group CO and say, "I've reconsidered my position, and I am not going to serve alcohol." 

So, to show the CO that you could have a fun time without booze, we decided to throw a party at our house on a Saturday.  Fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans, coka-cola, iced tea, coffee, home made ice cream, etc. and invited everyone in the group.  And their children.  Nobody had done that before.  The group CO brought his children--one of his children had Down's Syndrome--and our kids took her by the hand, and everyone had a blast.  There were a lot of kids.

The following Monday, the CO called Ken into his office and said, "You've proved your point.  I'll get off your back.  Nobody ever invited my children into their home before.  We all had a great time."

I guess you just have to do what you have to do.  And live the way you decide to live.  Period.

A wonderful thing happened in the last two weeks while I've been so sick:  I had to feed the fish in the Koi pond every day, so I would pry myself up and go outside with a handful of fish food pellets.  Instead of throwing the pellets into the water, I would squat down at the edge of the pond.  And now, they see me coming and rush to the side of the pool to eat out of my hand.  They have lost their fear.

The moral?  Well, when I was well, I fed them twice a day.  While I've been sick, only once.  They got hungry and learned that the food was in my hand.  So they would nibble the pellets out of my hand.  Those silly fish can learn.  Who would have thought it??  Which leads me to think:  If a fish can learn, why are some people (including me) so stupid.   We do the same thing (wrong) over and over again thinking we are going to get a different result.

I do the same things every day.  I get up and go through a series of behaviors that never varies.  It is systematic.  I could do it in my sleep.  I get the paper, let Squig out, put some food in his bowl,  fix a cup of hot peach tea,  take some pills, etc., etc., and let Squig back in before I sit down.  Then I do the cryptogram, the Suduko, and last, the crossword puzzle.  At that point, I read and edit the blog that I have typed the night before and post it.   All of that never varies.  Squig has learned exactly where he fits into my pattern and goes along with the system.

Around 9, I start thinking about food, open the fridge door and eat whatever I see first.  Which means my morning meal is eccentric to say the least.  Yesterday it was cold baked beans.  Today it was cornbread and milk.  The day before it was a burrito. 

I've been trying to lose a couple of pounds.  But I keep doing the same things with food expecting a different result.  I think I am going to have to start planing what I am going to eat if I want to lose a couple of pounds.  Habits are hard to break. The first step is to recognize you are in a rut.  I'm in one.

Have you ever read The Revelation?   (Of St. John)  You should try it.  Every letter that John wrote, he validated by saying, "This is the record," or "I bore record," or "This is the testimony."  He wanted everyone who read what he had to say to know that he had been an eyewitness.  That he had seen and heard everything that he wrote about.  It wasn't second hand information.

In Rev. 1:3, he says, "Blessed is he that reads and those that hear the words of this prophecy, and keep those things which are written therein..."  You get a blessing if you read it.  I don't know what kind of blessing, but every time I try to wade through it, I learn a little bit more.   And it is the last Prophecy that we will ever get.  There is no more prophecy, only teaching about Jesus, and the prophecy of the coming of Jesus.  Anyone who tells you they have a new prophecy is a quack.

I am not one of those who uses the book to predict the end of time.  I just try to understand what I can and go on.  And one of the first things you will learn occurs in 1:4.  That the number seven is going to be an important number throughout the book.

"John, to the seven churches which are in Asia...from the seven Spirits which are before his throne."  It is not until 4:5 that you figure out who those Spirits are.  "...there were seven lamps of fire burning before the throne, which are the seven Spirits of God."

John ends the first chapter with 4:20, "The mystery of the seven stars which you saw in my right hand, and the seven golden candlesticks.  The seven stars are the angels of the seven churches: and the seven candlesticks which you saw are the seven churches."  And then John proceeds with a message to each of those seven churches.  When you are through reading all that, you are ready to begin Chapter 4.  So, first time through, try and read chapters 1-3.

You get an idea of what God expects of churches.  And what displeases Him.  We, the church, can do better as a group.  Just as we can do better as individuals.  And you will be blessed for reading it.

I think the world has been turned upside down.  Courtesy, politeness, good manners.  Where did all that go????  I guess you can tell I've been watching the presidential primaries on TV.  Big mistake.  I suggest that you don't do it.

And after all these months, I really can't tell what anyone is promising to do for the country.  Well,  I've heard some of them say "what" they will do, but not "how."  "How" is important.

I would love to see a printed agenda.  Signed by the candidate.  I would like to see the first thing on the list for anyone of the five left in the race to be:  1.  Balance the budget.  (So that we don't give China one third of our tax income in interest on our debt--never mind the principle.  China now owns us.  Why should they go to war with us when they can simply buy us up.)  I think I am too old for all of this governmental stupidity.

The reason I've been watching so much TV is because I've been really sick for the last two weeks.  Viral pneumonia.  And even though I've seen a doctor, they won't give me antibiotics because of my arm.  They are "saving" antibiotics for my next arm infection.  They say I have to beat being sick on my own.  Unless I'm dying.  It's a catch twenty-two.

Like the rules of engagement in Viet Nam.  Secretary of Defense McNamara wouldn't let our pilots fire when someone was shooting at them.  Not unless it was proved that they were being fired on by the enemy.  "When do you know that they are the enemy?" a pilot asked.  "When they hit you," was the answer.  Ken said they dropped most of their weapons in the water because they weren't allowed to return fire.  "You can't land a loaded plane, so we dumped it all.  Stupid.  Stupid."  Ken couldn't stand McNamara.  I never met a Marine that could. 

If you didn't live through Viet Nam, you have no idea how stupid government can get.  McNamara's method of deciding whether we were winning was to count bodies.  Really.  God help us.