In 1957, we were living in California.  I told Ken I wanted a real marimba.  Concert sized.  A new concert marimba cost thousands of dollars--which then was a huge hunk of money we didn't have.  Ken told me to look for one.  So I started watching for used musical instrument sales in the Los Angeles paper.

A marimba was advertised, so we went to look at it--having no idea how much it would cost.  The lady who owned it invited us in.  I told her I was interested in buying it and she said, "I don't know if I want to sell it to you!  Where are you planning on playing it?"  I told her I played for church and civic groups regularly.

She said, "Play for me."  So I did.  I played for a long, long time. Everything I knew. (I was a lot better back then than I am now--age stiffens your wrists.) 

When I finished playing, I asked her if she would sell it to me .  And if she did, how much it cost--expecting a price well over eight hundred dollars.

She asked me, "How much money do you have?"  I told her.  "Seventy-five dollars." But I told her I would pay it out if she would let me buy it.  She replied, "The price is seventy-five dollars."  I was shocked to say the least.  "Why are you selling it to me for such a low price!" I asked her.

"I played for many many years with the Los Angeles symphony orchestra," she said.  But I have arthritis and my doctor said I have to sell it. Because I can't pass by my marimba without stopping to play it, and I'm destroying my hands. I've been waiting for someone to come along that had the ability to play. Someone who will use it to play for people for the rest of their life."

I've been playing ever since.  Yesterday, I played two arrangements for an assisted living residence when our senior choir sang. I bought my marimba sixty three years ago.  I've been playing ever since. I'll play as long as my hands last.

The most powerful Christian stories are the personal ones.  Every Christian has one.  There came a moment when God whispered in your heart and you responded.

I was seven or eight.  Hershel Hobbs was preaching a revival.  I had no idea what salvation was all about, but I heard that voice in my soul, stepped out and went forward.  My uncle Cleo--a deacon--was at the front and asked me did I want to follow Jesus--and I said yes.  

The pastor probably explained the plan of salvation and repentance.  But how much sin does a seven year old have to repent from??  I don't remember feeling sinful or repentant.  I just wanted to be a child of God.  That's it.

The thing about childhood conversions is that from that moment on, God's got you.  He's not going to let you out of his hand.  He will speak to you again and again.  And He did.  Every time I felt that tug, I responded.  I learned that when God speaks, you answer.  You may not understand it all, but you are responding to what you know.  And you know God is speaking to you.

There came a day when not only did I accept Jesus as the sacrifice for my sins, not only was I repentant, not only was I baptized, not only had I given him my life to deal with however He saw fit-------I finally trusted Him.

Trust means you are willing to accept whatever happens to you, but also whatever happens, whatever God wants for your family.  Your husband and children.  For me, that was the hard part.  Giving him my life was easy.  Telling him I was relinquishing control of my family to Him was hard.  

He had them anyway, but I hadn't let go.  I thought I was in control.  You might as well let go. They were His first----and still are.  

I lost the video of the asteroid hitting the Gulf on "Drain the Oceans."  When I went to save it, I deleted it.  I'm looking for it.  If any of you find it, send me an email on how to get it back again.

After teaching the "Gap" theory for fifty years, it's nice when science validates the Bible.  Finally.

I went to our church revival last night and the speaker was Caleb Freeman.  He was in an accident two years ago when he was 16, in a coma for months, given up for dead.  He had an awesome story and the film industry is now doing a documentary about him.

The family had taken pictures of his journey from day one and it was unbelievable to watch his progress from brain dead, slowly emerging.  Relearning to use his feet, hands body control, and speech.  He fought his way through it in a dramatic series of steps.  He's still fighting.

He could speak, walk, and use his hands.  Barely.  You had to listen carefully.  The hour was one of those times that if you had known ahead what was going to be said, you would have invited the world to come.

His testimony for Christ was awesome.  He had been shy, now he speaks, cracks jokes and generally lifts the spirits of those who listen.  He went from being a young healthy sixteen year old athlete to being a broken body full of fight--who has a powerful message about the grace of God.

Two years ago, he said he would never have spoken to a crowd, he was too shy. Now he is changed into a dynamic funny witness to the power of God in your life.  His message:  you need a personal relationship with Jesus.  I'll say Amen to that.

I found out something the other night watching "Drain the Oceans."  The program used some wizardry to drain the Gulf of Mexico.  The result was a crater impact scar with sediment thrown up into mile high walls of strata surrounding a deep chasm, caused by an astroid that was humongous.

Following the impact, sulfur compounds from the earth were thrown into the air and began to circle the earth, blocking out the sun and burning until the sky was black. Green vegetation died. Then the food chain began to die--until nothing much was left. No vegetation resulted in no land animals. 

The team of scientists said that this impact in the Gulf was conclusively the trigger for the abrupt death of the dinosaurs world wide--all at once.  Leaving only life in the waters.  The sulphur in the atmosphere burned for a long time cutting out sunlight.  Dinosaurs going extinct all at once was a puzzle to evolution theorists. No animals in strata for eons, then mammals appear.  

Genesis 1:2, "And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep..." Without form:  Earth got knocked off its axis?  Void:  Everything on earth died?  Darkness on the face of the deep: Skies are burning sulfur, blotting out the sun?

I have mentioned the "Gap Theory" before.  The gap between the dinosaurs and mammalian life.  Well, there it is.  Until the sulfur burned out, nothing lived on land to reproduce.  Then, "The Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.  And God said, "Let there be light..." it had been there all along, since Gen. 1:1 when he created it.  He didn't have to create it a second time after vs. 2."

And what we call the "creation story" is Genesis, verse one.  Verse two begins the restoration story--after the gap.  And don't get hung up on the "days."  A day is one rotation.  Who knows how long a rotation was after earth got knocked off its axis?? (Which is recorded in polar magnetism in rocks.)

Rebecca Perkins just reminded me I forgot to post.  I've been at the dentist's office.

I'm going to give myself a hall pass for today.

I'll do better tomorrow.

I am hooked on Dr. Pol.  I have learned a lot of things.  How to pull a calf, how to recognize polio in a goat, how to set a broken llama leg, and on and on.

The first degree I got was in Pre-med.  My plan was to go to med school.  Ken was back from Viet Nam and told me to go do whatever I wanted to do.  He said I had been a good sport being dragged around the country while he finished his career as a Marine Pilot.  He told me he would be a house-husband.

But I got a tumor in my heart, which once removed, left me pretty helpless.  My two girls took over with the help of a woman who came in to assist.  It was complicated by the fact that Jonathan was one year old at the time--our unexpected surprise.  I was useless for a long time. 

Three years later when I was finally back on my feet, I realized I would never be the same physically, so I gave up on med school, but never lost the fascination of surgical medicine.  I watch Dr. Pol.  I went back to school and got a math degree--and taught at NEO.  

It satisfies something to watch Dr. Pol.  Lots of blood and gore, and sewing up rips and tears.  Cutting and stitching.  I was a seamstress.  Maybe that's why it appeals to me.  I always felt satisfied when I fitted a sleeve to a bodice and it was perfect.  Or taped up one of my kids who had ripped skin that needed to be smoothed back into place and taped and kissed.

Friday night, I thought I broke a bone in my wrist.  I caught it in a cabinet, then fell backwards until the wrist was completely distended.  My solution was a popsicle stick and tape.  Nobody else agreed with me.  

Turned out I just bruised the bone.  It's still sore.  No, I didn't go get it X-rayed or cast.  It's just going to hurt for a few days. 

Today, I am making meatloaf.  I'll get it all ready to bake and put it in the oven in the morning.  My connection group is having a pot luck Saturday.  

Then some of us are going to the movie to see Downtown Abbey.  If you didn't watch the series on television, you probably aren't hooked.  I can't think what the movie will add.  Will it be new material?  Or old?

I have a stress test this morning.   They used to do have you do the stress test on a treadmill, now they inject you and race your heart.  Very uncomfortable.  I don't like them.  At all.  Oh well, I have to do it every now and then.

The worst part of tests like that is that I can't eat or drink anything beforehand. 
I like to eat.  All day long.  They are doing the test at 9:00 and I woke up at 5:00.  It's going to be a long four hours before breakfast. 

Scott called me yesterday to ask if his great-grandfather really played the fiddle and the harmonica and why he (Scott) didn't know about that.  Lives are lost to history in three generations if someone doesn't write something down.  I guess I just never told anyone that before.  

I know things about my grandmother's dad and mom because she talked about them.  Great-grand father George died when my Gran was a baby.  My Gran's mother's name was Sarah.  Sarah died when my grandmother was a few years old.  So my Gran was an orphan; her older sister raised her.  My Gran married at fourteen--she always would say, "I was almost fifteen."

I guess that was common back then to get married young.  Especially when life overtook you.  So I'm not going to complain about a stress test that keeps me going.  God has been good to our generation.  My great-grandparents had a hard life and both died very young. 

I've had a house guest this week.  Rebecca Perkins.  She lives in Dallas and stays with me when she has business in Oklahoma City.  I love having guests.  

However the people who stay with me aren't guests, they are friends.  They let themselves in, go to the guest room, unload their stuff and make themselves at home.

They know that I'm not going to cook and usually bring groceries to suit their taste and shove stuff around in the fridge.  (Sometimes I cook--not often.)

We talk, or we don't talk.  Mostly sit in a convivial silence with an occasional remark.  We know everything about each other anyway.

Becky Bacon said, "I'm coming to your house so we can sit around and not talk."  Those are the best kind of friends.

Yesterday my conversation was: (as I was doing the crossword puzzle) "What was the Beach Boys top hit?"  Rebecca and I ran through their hits, neither of us could come up with it.  I filled in the answer later when the answer popped into my head.

Carolyn says people ask her what we talked about on the phone.  She told me she has to say, "I have no idea."  Which is true.  I don't have any idea what we talk about either.

That's how it is with good friends.  You can talk for an hour, solve the world's problems, and be ready to do it all again the next day.

I love my friends.

Sixty two years ago today, a neighbor took me to the hospital because I was in labor.  Ken--of course--was thirty thousand feet in the air somewhere.  

It wouldn't have mattered where he was, anyway--because fathers didn't get to go past the waiting room back then.  I was nineteen years old, married thirteen months and had already moved cross country three times in those months.

I knew nothing about childbirth, babies and such.  I was on a military base--Camp Pendleton, California--and had no friends or family within a thousand miles.  

Alone and clueless.  And things went down from there.  I ended up spending seven days in the hospital.  The doctor who delivered the baby hadn't ever delivered a baby before.  I remember a second doctor coming in the door and screaming "Clamp that , you fool."

And then I went into shock.  I guess I had my daughter Pat.  I don't remember that part.

I don't remember if Ken came to see me.  I don't remember much of anything.  I don't recommend childbirth.  But I had four more after that.  Which were uneventful.

I've been alone in my life.  That was one of those times.  Makes you realize you how much the people you love, and the people who love you, mean to you.  

Those are "You and God" times.  As a Christian, I know He's always there.

Happy Birthday, Pat.

Becky is always bringing me presents--it's her love language.  She likes to get them, and she likes to give them.

Last night she brought me a bracelet.  I reminded her that I can't wear bracelets.  "You can wear this one," she told me.

"Thank you," I said.  "It's sweet of you, but my skin is like crepe paper, it will scratch my skin. " I told her.

"Not this one," she replied.

And sure enough, the inside of the bracelet was perfectly smooth.  "It has a magnetic clasp which you can manage," she added.  I can't clasp a bracelet because my fingers won't do what they are supposed to do any more.

It turned out that my wrists and hands are so small that I can just slip it off.  I wore it for the rest of the evening after she left because I forgot I had it on.  It was that smooth.

This is the first bracelet I have worn in a zillion years.  I put it back on this morning and can't even tell I have it on.  Go figure.

Why do women wear bracelets.  The Egyptian artifacts show that women wore bracelets way back then.  A bunch at a time.

I never did.  They rattled when I played the marimba, and sometimes I even caught the end of the mallets in the bracelets.

I'm going to give it another try.   I still don't know why women want to wear them.

My grandfather played the fiddle.  And he was good at it.  Every time I went to his and Gran's house, he would usually play the harmonica and do a soft shoe shuffle. He called it a "jig." He was a quiet man except for music.  

He loved to play records of Sons of the Pioneers.  Ghost Riders in the Sky.  Tumbling Tumbleweeds.  Cool Water.  I can still hear those songs in my head.  He would sit by his radio as well, and lean his ear against the mesh front and listen to the Grand Ol' Opry.

Those are the things I remember most about him.  I don't remember much that he said.  Like I mentioned, he was a quiet man.  But I remember the music he loved. I remember him leaning into the front of the four foot tall radio.

He ran a small grocery store on the northeast side of Pryor.  And everyone on that side of town owed him money, because people bought on credit back then.  He kept them supplied until the first of the month.  Sometimes he never got paid, but he kept on keeping people "on the books."

He would put coca-colas, the kind in the green bottles, in the freezer of an old refrigerator, and turn them over and over during the day until the coke turned into slush.  When I would get home from school, he would give me the slushy coke and the end of the bologna which was tied with a string. He had a slicer sitting on the counter to slice as many slices as you wanted to buy.  But he couldn't sell the ends.  He handed those out to the kids on the block.

That was back before there were zoning laws.  People would roll carts down the streets selling ice cream, tamales and whatever else they wanted to sell.

I wish I could go back to that time for just one day.  I would appreciate it more. But when you are a kid, you take everything for granted.

Never say never.  A year ago in August when I moved across the street to this new house, there was so much to do that I piled all the leftovers in the garage and thought I would clean it up the next month.

Which never came.  But this week, a year later, I am finally on it.  I have moved a zillion items, changed storage shelves from one side to the other where they won't be in the way, and swept leaves and dirt out from under them.

I feel restored.  Maybe I will feel like it's my house because I will know where everything is.

I don't put much stock in houses.  If you move, you take the things that make up your home with you.  The people are what counts most--which I don't have.  Then your familiar things.  And of course--the dog.  

Squig has been helping me.  He is calm today because I had to give him dog meds last night.  He's still drowsy.  It was raining and he was frantic.  He couldn't stop shaking. 

Once I get the garage done, I might can discipline myself to hang the rest of the pictures that have been lying on the bed in the guest room.

It's hard to motivate yourself when there is nobody else in the house.  I would just as soon sit down and read a book.

But then, there is the verse that says, "Whatsoever your hand findeth to do, do it with all your might."  Sometimes I have the thought that if I hadn't memorized so much scripture, I wouldn't feel guilty about so many things.  But then I'm reminded, "To whom much is given, much is required."  God has been good to me.  I'm actually glad I have scripture in my head. 

America doesn't need to go to war.  We're killing ourselves from the inside out.

I've lived eight decades, and I've never seen such a spirit of disunity--on everything.  I wonder if we could put an army together to fight a war if we were attacked from the outside in.

Would there be enough American patriots to fight?

If you listen to the news, CNN, or FOX either one, all you hear is what is wrong with the way the other half of what the nation thinks.  It is so bitter.

Congress can't agree on anything.  Where are the statesmen?

The only thing that remains consistent is that God is in control.  He has used dysfunctional nations in the past to teach His people to return to him.  

Reading the Old Testament gives you a  testimony of God's people being repeatedly punished by bad nations--because God's people didn't follow Him.

I don't think anyone would disagree that we are being run over by people addicted to drugs.  People who get through their day with alcohol. People that can't stay married.  People who cheat on their taxes.  People who spend their paychecks on gaming.  Etc., etc. Frivolity to escape from their problems.

Of all those decades I have lived through, the one with the most positive and encouraging life style was the decade of the "greatest generation."  

I pray that America will come to her senses.  That we don't give up.  That we trust in God and live lives that please him.   

I was listening to the news yesterday evening about our dysfunctional prison system.  I know someone who is caught in it. And this is the story of thousands and thousands of inmates in Oklahoma.  They are trapped in the system.

They made a mistake when they were young.  Non violent.  As a result, they were incarcerated.  They were charged for every time they went to court--with no possible way to pay the fees because they couldn't get a job due to their record.  Fees, and interest, mounted every time they had to appear in court.  

Upon release, they were ordered into counseling--which they had to pay for.  If they failed to meet any session, they had to go back to jail.  If they were lucky enough to find someone who would hire them, they couldn't take off work to go to the sessions.   It's a catch 22.  A vicious cycle.  Poor.  No money.  No job.

All the while, their court costs that they can't pay because they don't have a job or a car, are accruing interest.  Once caught in the system, it is almost financially impossible to get out.

They are continually in and out of jail over court costs. They can't pay--so back to jail they go. It costs the government forty to fifty times the amount they owe to keep them in jail.  But here's the kicker.  Police and courts are dependent on the offenders money to stay in business.  That's part of how they are funded.

The moral to the story: don't ever make a mistake.  They can take everything in your car, sometimes the car itself.  That's the law.  It helps fund police departments.  It's not the fault of the police or the courts that they operate that way, it's the state of Oklahoma who sets funding.  Our court system is a mess.  We punish with no hope of reform.  We don't help nonviolent people get out of the system.  They go to jail, don't have a job, sit in jail with their fines increasing daily due to the interest. Then go back to court and get charged again.  And again.  And again. We don't help people get back on their feet.

I am still editing the book.  Obviously it won't be out in September.  The publisher didn't give their edition to me until the first week in August.  (They promised I would have copies on July 4.) 

There are over three hundred pages for me to emend and okay.  Most of which are so messed up I don't even know where to start.

I have learned a lot of things that I didn't know.  None of them good.  If you ever decide to publish a book, call me and I will save you a lot of pain.  They tell you they will do something and then they don't.  Or they do--and it's all wrong. 

You think you have control.  You do--if you don't want to get the book published by them. They like big words.  Fluffy words.  Adjectives.  Emotion in every line.

Problem is, I'm trapped.  I signed a contract that says they will publish when we agree.  I will never agree with their changes.  So there you are.

I dread getting up in the mornings because I know I am going to get into it with the editor again.  And again.  And again.  And I have to emend, and argue, and emend and argue.   

This has been going on for over a month.  It is mentally exhausting. I told you I was like Christian in Pilgrim's Progress--in the slough of despond.  Well I am stuck there.  This editor keeps telling me this is a fabulous book.  I am glad she likes it.  I want her to leave it alone and stick to punctuation and structure and stop putting words into my character's mouths. 

Carolyn and Jeanette have patiently listened to me gripe and groan for the entire month.  I may be looking for new friends before this is over.   

This post is number 1737.  I can hardly believe it.  I didn't know I had that much to say.

I probably didn't.  I just kept writing.  I think I've left a record of everything I ever knew--I doubt if anyone will want to know any of it, but you never know.  Some great-great-great grandchild might??  It's out there.  On record.

I wish someone in my past had left diaries of their life.  I like to read biographies.

The New Testament is a biography.  A biography of the life of a man by the name of Jesus.  It is also a time capsule of the lives of a few men who lived at the same time He did and were his friends for three years.

I talked about the apostle John Sunday in my class.  About the second of his three short letters.   John said that he had "written" or left a "record" or was "declaring" something over and over again.  He "wrote" because he didn't want the truth to be lost to future generations

He wanted people to "know" the truth.  He used the word "know" over and over again.  Dozens of times.  And he was writing to believers who already "knew."  He said, "And this is the record...(that) 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."

There is nothing like a first hand account of something that occurred.  That a person was a witness to.  John was Jesus friend.  Probably his best friend.  He was there.  And he wants us to know the truth.  That's the reason he wrote it down.  So that those of us who believe can know and believe and know and believe.  We can know.  And because we know the truth, we believe.

I had a wonderful surprise last night.  Becky Bacon dropped by and brought a friend--Kathy.  The two of them and four others came to Oklahoma City to see the art exhibit--Monet, Picasso...etc. (private collection on loan to the Oklahoma City museum.)

Chihuly--the man who designs those fabulous blown glass art designs--married a woman from Oklahoma City, and her mother still lives here.  So we also have dozens of permanent Chihuly glass creations in the museum as well.  You see his art all over the world.  I think it is beautiful.  One of my favorite things.

Becky asked me to play the marimba for Kathy--which I did. They had been to Hideaway Pizza and brought me the leftovers.  Yea!!! I have breakfast for tomorrow--and a bunch more tomorrows. 

I don't care for eggs.  Or milk.  So breakfast is always a challenge.  I've been known to open a can of black eyed peas.  Or a can of hominy.  I cut a recipe out of a magazine the other day that is for pancakes made with cottage cheese.

My friend Jeanette is going to come over and mix them up for me.  I am a flour-challenged-non-baker.  We are going to have them for lunch.  Somewhere in my kitchen is one of those small waffle irons.  That will probably work.  Otherwise we will have to do them one at a time on a black skillet.  I gave my griddle away to a young guy who moved my furniture over here last year.  He had just gotten married and didn't have any kitchen stuff.  I loaded him up.  I've given up on most cooking.  It's hard to cook for one.

But--bad news--my next door neighbor that is always bringing me food is moving.  It really is sad news.  They are wonderful neighbors.  But her husband John is a realtor, and found an acreage he wants.  I told him he could go, but to leave his wife next door!!  She told me she would bring me meals on wheels.

Today, I get to go back to choir.  It's the only way that I can remember that it is Thursday.

When you are retired, it is hard to remember what day it is.  The days run together.  On day is just like another.

That doesn't happen when you work.  You are always counting the days until Friday.

Sunday helps.  I go to church and teach a class.

Today got away from me.  I went to the nursery to buy some shrubs and got busy figuring out where they went.

Luckily, my lawn man was here when I got home and he planted everything for me.

The rest is up to God.  I'll water them.

We are all watching the hurricane off the Florida coast.  The pictures of the Bahamas are gut wrenching.  It looks like nothing is left.

Today they are saying it may hit the S. Carolina coastline.  Which prompted a memory that I had totally forgotten.

When I lived in Beaufort S.Carolina, halfway between Savannah and Charleston,  I knew nothing about hurricanes.  I was an Oklahoma girl.  Tornadoes were the type of wind disaster I knew about, and a hurricane didn't look too bad to me.  

It was slow.  You had days and days of warning.  You knew what to prepare for and by the time it hit, you had time to evacuate.

Well, we had a hurricane.  I don't remember the name of it.  I don't even remember being concerned about it.  My mom was concerned!!  She called and called warning me about it.  Telling me to leave.

We were living on base, and the Marines came and boarded up our windows with plywood.  I thought the whole thing was interesting.

And the Marine pilots did what needed to be done.  They flew every single airplane inland.  And left their women and children to weather the storm.  They sat at an airbase somewhere in Tennessee (as I recall) and played Acey-ducey until it was over and then flew the airplanes back into Beaufort.

I had been a Marine pilot's wife for seven or eight years by then.  Having the pilots leave with the planes didn't seem strange to me at the time.  Looking back, I should have thrown the kids in the car and driven home to Oklahoma.  We lived on the water.  It could have been a disaster, but the storm didn't hit us.  God takes care of idiots.  

Jon, my youngest, brought his two boys over this afternoon. Brady will be eight next week, and Tate is four and a half.  They are like wound up energy machines.  I can't imagine how I raised four kids.  I must be super-human.

I have a big basket full of cars that Tate runs and finds the minute he comes in the door.  He knows where it is and knows it is his basket.  He has never been interested in any other toys except the ones that have four wheels.  I buy cars and trucks at garage sales every time I find new ones that some child never used. I've been amazed at how many brand new toys end up in a garage sale.

I asked Jon how long he thought this "car stage" would last, and Jon said, "Well it's lasted four and a half years so far."  In other words, since Tate was born.
Brady goes to Bible School every year with me.  He likes puzzles and games.

I sent the two of them out to water my flowers and of course they came in soaking wet.

By the time they left to go home, I was exhausted.  That's the reason that God gave children to young adults.

But I love having them here.  They are the last of my grandchildren.  Jon and Jennifer aren't having any more, and all my others are in their late twenties and thirties.  Jon started late.  He was born late--ten years after my others kids.

And then he did four years in the Navy, (which Ken and Scott wouldn't let him live down) and was much older when he married.  And then, they waited a long time to have children.

I hope I'm up to it when it's time for Tate to go to Bible School.  

Today is a holiday.  I'm gonna do nothing all day.  Will post tomorrow.