Happy Birthday Megan!

Megan Christina Hendry Rytting and her son Jonathan Anson

At the moment I am with Nathan in the library on Palm Beach State College campus. There is a poetry night for his Spanish class--hosted by the Spanish Club. It is extra credit for his Spanish I grade. He was thinking about reciting "The Gecko" but we got here and found out that you needed to have signed up in advance to present a piece. I have really loved hearing him practice the poem aloud as we've driven from place to place this week. For those of you who do not know the poem:

The gecko has adhesive toes.
Straight up the walls the gecko goes.
And then, and this is most appealing,
The gecko walks across the ceiling.

Fool hardy is the one who tries
This topsy-tervy exercise.
To certain death he will be fated,
The gecko can't be imitated.

All of the poems that have been read so far have been written by teachers and there is someone now introducing a novelist who has written poems, is working on her second novel, and teaches at Florida Technical College. It looks like she's going to read from her first book. It takes place in Cuba and has something to do with the fall of the Berlin Wall.

I am making the most of my time here and writing about my oldest daughter's 26th birthday today. I am speaking at the Saturday night session of our Stake Conference (in a few weeks time) and have been asked to speak about living the law of tithing. I am, instead, going to speak about "What Am I?" The Church spends much time with its tag trio of questions: Where did we come from? Why are we here? Where are we going? As I have thought about tithing--and about Megan--I have been drawn to the truth revealed in the answer found when I ask WHAT AM I?

Am I honest? Am I kind? Am I obedient? Am I brave? Am I truthful? Am I to be trusted?

Behind these short queries lurks a dark, unknowable future place where WHAT we are is revealed. It may in the aftermath of a horrible hurricane when I open my home for shelter and offer my time to re-build. It may happen when I count my change and find that the cashier has mistakenly given me $10 too much. It may happen in the middle of the night when my infant cries and cries and cries--and I am still patient and loving and calm. It may happen when I am in the best room in the dorm--and then change my things for my roommate's after the Christmas break so that she can have a turn living in the best room. It may happen when an exhausted friend needs two large dogs walked every afternoon. It may happen when I am prompted to knock on some one's door and I don't know why. It may happen when I don't think that I can pay for rent and for groceries and I haven't paid my tithing yet. It may happen when someone needs to organize a dance and I am volunteered and then I do my very best to put on the very best dance that the Stake has ever known.

Megan is one of those people who is made of very stern, faithful stuff. She has forgiven me when I betrayed a trust. She has nursed family members when they were gruff and rude and unappreciative. She has adopted the extended family of her husband--spending endless hours on delicate artwork for the centerpiece of a reunion and volumes of her scant time to craft drawings and paintings to give away to those she loves. She is a valiant mother--teaching her son joy and confidence in the Lord. She is strong--working with Anton to finish his dissertation and get it ready to publish. She has a spirit that is irrepressible--when math does not make sense--when her offer of friendship is cruely rejected. She is compassionate as she teaches newly baptized members of the Church the New Member Discussions. She is inspired in the many Relief Society lessons she has taught to women of the Church. She is careful of her family's health. She is empathic when (unasked) she takes supper to a young mother whose husband is away on business. She is charity incarnate.

Nathan shared with me one of the highest validations of all that Megan is when he told me that "I want to marry someone exactly like Megan."

Two nights ago Nathan and I were in Barnes&Noble and I walked past a book. "The Girl Who Could Fly." I finished it last night and am sending to you, Megan. It is the story of a girl who does, indeed, fly--with her body, her heart, her spirit, and her whole soul.

Happy Birthday, Megan! Your 26 years on earth have made it heavenly for me. I love you.

Images I Wrote About Last Time

This is the stack of Eyewitness Books that squashed the flowers that I will take to my Plant Identification class to put in my collection to get a good grade.

These are the squashed flowers Ruellia tweedia (I am SO impressed by the fact that I remember that name.) from the plant family Acanthaceae. (I am satisfied that I finally remember how to spell that--versions of it have been scribbled all over every thing that I have been taking notes on all week long. Finally! I remember it!)

I described these dried flowers as "triangles" but they are more like taffy-violet cloud puffs with handles.

I like how they turned out.

Down on the Flowers

This week is the first week of classes at Palm Beach State College. I am enrolled in a photography class and our assignment this week was to bring in a collection of photos of "things."

I am also taking PLANT IDENTIFICATION 1 (CULTIVATED PLANTS). Really...that's the name. On Tuesday night we ranged all over the campus, clipping pieces off of all the species of ACANTHACEAE to dry for a plant collection and there were no blooms on the Ruellia tweediana we found. Well, I happen to have lots of Ruellia tweediana in my yard because it grows anywhere there is no water, no soil and lots of weeds...{and my yard is full of places like that} and so I collected a handful of their flowers today so that I could dry them and share them with everyone else.

Combining both classes, I took some photos of the flowers. As I finished, this little bit of down blew over. It was a cool combination--delicate flower petals and weightless white puff.

The cat is sleeping on the top of the big leather sofa chair I'm sitting on. She has had a long day--Mary has left and she has followed Nathan and me around all afternoon. I tried to fill in, but after trying to snuggle with her, she kind of gave up and just went to sleep. The soft grey ripples in her fur remind me of the soft grey-purple flutter of the Ruellia tweediana blossoms that are now (three days later) silk-thin, edge-flared triangles between the pages of an old telephone book which is resting beneath three dozen of the Eyewitness volumes that I refuse to part with . . . even though they are definitely not books that I would sit down and spend the afternoon with. I have given away a few duplicates that I've somehow acquired, but {like the "Nine Bowls of Soup" ichthyosaur} I "can't break up the set." And every now and again, Nathan will pull a stack of them into his room and spend a month going slowly back through his favorites.

I like a good mix, I suppose. Brent just kissed my forehead and told me not to stay up too late. It is 9:06pm and he is wisely heading off for bed.

I Leave for DC on Thursday

Brent and I have planned a short cruise (our first) to celebrate our anniversary this year--our 28th. Before that, however, I will be able to spend a week with Megan and Jon Jon and Anton--although Anton is seldom home. He works at a job that requires a lot of him and he is the clerk for the ward. I keep thinking that Anton is in "that phase" where he needs to work really long and hard in order to establish himself. Brent is well-established in his field, but he still puts in 60 hour weeks and goes into the office during his vacation days if there is a problem that he feels he needs to handle in order to keep his group functioning well--and the Chief Financial Officer and the President of the company supplied with answers about legislation that has just/is going to be soon passed.

But this entry was to have been about my up-coming trip to DC. I will be babysitting for Jon while Meg and Anton have a real date on Friday night and Saturday morning I'll be with him while Meg and Anton join one of the recent converts in their ward as she attends the temple for the first time to do baptisms for the dead. Meg, Jon and I will spend a day at the Smithsonian mall--there's an exhibit that Meg wants to see. It is a collection of artwork made from "found" materials. I can't remember the particulars. It sounds good, though.

Nathan was pleased with the rolls that I made tonight. The Publix where we usually shop offers pizza crust raw dough in a bag. I brought a bag home with us today and let it rise on the counter. Then I just squished it down, pinched off 5 or 6 round rolls and baked them for about 30 minutes at 450 degrees. I didn't try the bread when it came out of the oven, but when I had to eat something with my night pills, I pulled a roll apart and took a few bites. "Hey, this is pretty good!" I exclaimed. Brent and Nate both looked at me like I was saying something really strange. "Of course it's good! I really like it," Brent answered. I guess I'll be bringing home bags of pizza crust dough more often now.

The rabbits are in a molting stage. I pick one up and an explosion of rabbit hair explodes into the air. I am really glad that I'm not allergic to it. I would spend all of the year with perpetually red, runny eyes and a sore, irritated runny nose. I keep trying different ways to "defuzz" them, but so far the only method that seems to make any difference is to use rolls of masking tape to gently tease out the disconnected hairs. They hate this, of course, in the same way that they had having their nails trimmed or their ears cleaned.

Which reminds me that . . . I can't remember what I was going to write. It is late and I am on an extra "sleep inducing" med. I rumbled into a patch of poison ivy or something this afternoon so the Walk In Clinic doctor gave one look at me and my rapidly spreading lines of itchy, flaming blisters all along my hands and arms and wrote me a prescription for a healing steroids and one for itching. So the drowsy fog of the meds has just hit me.

Good night. You are in my prayers.

Nathan is a super, incredible missionary.

Funny, Funny Mother

In the spirit of the Christmas reading enclosed below, I have included a photo of the cardinal that I have been trying to take a picture of for the last month. Either my camera is too cold and so fogs up; my camera's batteries are too low to focus; I can hear him but not see him; he is in the sun and I am shooting from the shade; OR Nate or/and Brent call me to come and see him and he is gone before I can get outside----all of this has conspired against me thus far. Last week I was outside and one of the lone sandhill cranes flew over and decided to drop in for lunch. He kept calling to me as I went into the garage to get a scoop of seed to spread on the corner of the driveway, but was moving slowly enough that I had time to grab my camera and snap pictures as he strode up the side of the street. I was clicking away when I backed up to get a different perspective and LOW AND BEHOLD!!! the cardinal was there right beside me. I had an empty digital card, new batteries and was shooting from sun to sun and got some PERFECT shots of the red head. My triumph for the month! My left knee is still swelling and bothering me after physical therapy this week--so I will dwell, instead, on this clear, well-centered photograph of "my" cardinal.

The poem below is a piece that I remember my mom reading at a church Christmas party when I was still in grade school. I had tried googling/yahooing it several times--assuming that she had probably found it in a humorous collection somewhere. BUT I found her original, typed copy in among a box full of pictures. It is too good to keep to myself.

SEE MOTHER. FUNNY, FUNNY MOTHER.

See Mother. See Mother laugh. Mother is happy.

Mother is happy about Christmas.

Mother has many plans. Mother has many plans for Christmas.

Mother is organized. Mother smiles all the time.

Funny, Funny Mother.

See Mother. See Mother smile. Mother is happy.

The shopping is all done. See the children watch TV.

Watch children watch.

See the children change their minds.

See them ask Santa for different toys.

Look, Look, Mother is not smiling.

Funny, Funny Mother.

See Mother. See Mother sew.

Mother will make dresses.

Mother will make robes.

Mother will make shirts.

See Mother put the zipper in wrong.

See Mother sew the dress on the wrong side.

See Mother cut the skirt too short.

See Mother put the material away until January.

Look, Look. See Mother take a tranquilizer.

Funny, Funny Mother.

See Mother buy raisins and nuts.

See Mother buy candied pineapple and powdered sugar.

See Mother buy flour and dates and pecans and brown sugar and bananas and spices and vanilla.

Look, Look, Mother is mixing everything together.

See the children press cut cookies.

See the flour on their elbows.

See the cookies burn. See the cake fall.

See the children pull taffy. See Mother pull her hair.

See Mother clean the kitchen with the garden hose.

Funny, Funny Mother.

See Mother. See Mother wrap presents.

See Mother look for the other end of the scotch tape roll.

See Mother bite her finger mails.

See Mother go.

See Mother go to the store 12 times in one hour.

Go, Mother, go.

See the faraway look in Mother’s eyes.

Mother has become disorganized.

Mother has become disoriented.

Funny, Funny Mother.

It is finally Christmas morning. See the happy family.

See Father smile.

Father loves the fruitcake.

Father loves the Christmas pudding.

Father loves all the new neckties.

Look, Look, See the happy children.

Santa was very good to the children.

The children will remember this Christmas.

See Mother. Mother is slumped in a chair.

Mother is crying uncontrollably.

Mother does not look well.

Mother has ugly dark circles under her bloodshot eyes.

Everyone helps Mother to bed.

See Mother sleep quietly under sedation.

See Mother smile.

Funny, Funny Mother.

Written and performed by Nancy Kathleen Burton Wagstaff

Probably in the late 1960s or early 1970s while we lived in Minnesota.

Birthday Creation from my Lauren

Purple, Purple Everywhere

I turned 51 this month and Lauren made this cut-work card for me. It was way too incredible to relegate to a page of my scrapbook--so I framed it. I will put it up with the other artwork that her dad, sister and brother (and she) have already fashioned. She also wove me a basket, accented in purple, and so I'll hang the two of them together.

I have gotten a lot of my hand-work finished since I have been laying on the couch waiting for my knee to begin to heal. There aren't any spectacular cuts or gashes to show off for all of the time I am restricted from doing the things that I love. I will have to be satisfied with the needlework I've done and the creations Lauren has sent.

How Important It Is to Be Ernest CEW Hendry Megan CH Rytting Re-write MD April 2010

How Important It Is to Be Ernest

CEW Hendry

Megan CH Rytting

Re-write MD April 2010

Once upon a time, there lived a very young, very handsome mouse named Ernest.

He had a mother, a father, a brother named Sam and a sister named Rachael-Lin.

Ernest was good at telling jokes. He was good at climbing trees and he had his own tree house.

No one in his family could run faster or sing louder than he could.

Everyone in his family had chores to do every day.

Ernest was in charge of watering the house plants and bringing in the mail. He was in charge of putting the plates and spoons on the table at supper time.

Ernest did a pretty good job of remembering to do his chores all by himself.

His brother and sister and mother and father also had chores that they did. Everyone helped to get the work done.

When Ernest turned 3½ years old, he decided that he didn’t like the jobs that he was supposed to do. He began to notice the things his family did. He watched his brother weed the garden and pick carrots for the family to eat. He saw how his sister patched the hole in his pants and sewed a new shirt for him to wear. He watched as his father painted a new shelf for the kitchen and washed the family car.

He saw the jobs that his family did . . . and did not do his own chores.

Ernest’s mother noticed that the plants in the kitchen began to die. She found letters from the mailbox dropped all over the hallway floor.

At dinner one night, every one sat down to eat—but there were no plates or spoons to eat with! Ernest’s mother asked him why he did not do his chores and he told her that only mouse-lings did dumb jobs like water the plants and bring in the mail. He told his family that he didn’t like doing his chores. He wanted to do big mouse jobs--jobs that were important!

They all talked about it and decided that on Monday, Ernest would trade chores with Sam; on Tuesday he would trade chores with Rachael-Lin; and on Wednesday he would trade jobs with his father.

After lunch on Monday, Ernest was in charge of weeding the garden. Sam showed him which plants were weeds and which plants were carrots. He gave Ernest a pail to put the weeds in. Then Sam went inside to water the house plants.

It was hot outside! Ernest pulled a weed. He pulled up another. He sat down on the ground and rested for a while. He reached over to pull on the next weed—but it wouldn’t budge! He reached for the next plant. It came up easily with a small “pop”! Ernest looked down at it—and then he looked at the weeds already in the pail.

It wasn’t a weed. It was a carrot!

Ernest tried to push it back down into the ground, but it wouldn’t go. He looked up all around him. It seemed like he was in a forest of weeds. He tried to pull up another weed—but it stuck fast in the ground.

Sam saw Ernest sitting in the garden and walked over to him. Ernest held up the carrot and gave it to Sam.

Then he went and climbed up into his tree house and lay on his back, watching the clouds and feeling sad.

On Tuesday, Ernest was in charge of sewing buttons on the new shirt that Rachael-Lin had just made for him to wear. She showed him how to thread a needle. She got out the buttons for the new shirt. She told him how to sew on a button: the needle went in the front and out the back. Next, the needle went in the back and came out the front. She handed Ernest the needle and thread and then she went down to put the plates and spoons on the table for supper.

Ernest got all the buttons off the table. He picked up the needle with its long trail of red thread. He put the shirt on the floor and placed a button on the front of the shirt. Then he began to sew. He pushed the needle in the front, through the button hole and down through the cloth. He turned the shirt over to find the needle so that he could pull it out the back. He could not find the needle. He looked at the front of the shirt again. He couldn’t find the needle there, either. He picked up the shirt and shook it. The needle fell out and onto the floor. Now he had the needle, but he couldn’t find the button. He pulled on the needle, but the thread was in a big knot—it would not come out. Ernest picked up the shirt and saw the button rolled away.

Ernest went to look for the button. He held on to the needle as he walked across the floor. The shirt dragged after him, pulled by the big knot of red thread. Rachael-Lin came to check on Ernest and saw him looking for the button. He looked up as she came into the room. He held up the needle, the shirt swinging from the knot of red thread. He gave it to her and he walked outside.

Then, he went and climbed up into his tree house and lay on his back, watching the leaves, and feeling sad.

The next day was Wednesday and Ernest was in charge of washing the car. His father showed him where the sponge and the soap were kept. He got out the special window cleaner for Ernest to use and gave him the bucket to hold the soapy water for washing the car. Then, his father went to get the mail.

Ernest went and got the hose and turned it. He began to put water into the bucket with the soap. The water came out so fast! Ernest ran back to turn the water off. By the time he got back, the bucket had over-flowed and there were suds everywhere!

Ernest got the sponge and got it soapy. He washed the bumpers. He washed the tires. He got a stool and climbed up on the hood of the car so that he could wash the top of the car. Ernest began to rub the sponge across the top of the front window, but he started to slip! He was falling! He grabbed for something to keep him from sliding off of the front of the car. He felt something . . . the windshield wiper came off in his paw! He rolled softly off the hood of the car and into the bucket of suds.

Ernest crawled out of the bucket. He looked at the windshield wiper he held in his paw. He looked at the ground, all covered with piles of creamy, foamy suds. Ernest looked up to see his dad standing by the car. He held up the windshield wiper and gave it to his father.

Then he went and climbed up into his tree house and lay on his back, watching the birds, and feeling sad.

Ernest spent a lot of time in his tree house that week. He watched the clouds changing shape. He saw a mother and a daddy bird bring food to the babies in their nest. He felt the wind as it blew some leaves off the branches. He noticed how, on other branches, there were new leaves starting to grow.

Ernest thought about the things that had happened that week.

It was important to keep the weeds out of the garden. But it was also important to take care of the plants inside the house.

It was important to have new clothes ready to wear. But it was also important to have the table ready when the family sat down to eat.

It was important to wash the car and take care of the things the family needed. But it was also important to make sure that the family got to read the letters that came in the mail.

His family had important jobs—but so did he.

That night, Ernest told his family that he didn’t need to do their jobs; he already had important jobs to do.

The next morning, he woke up early and watered the plants. He filled the watering can and watered the fern by the kitchen window. He looked and saw four, tiny, curled leaves just coming up out of the soil. Around each of these sprouts, Ernest dripped water slowly and watched it settle into the soil. When he was done watering the plants, he put the watering can away in the hall closet.

Ernest went into the kitchen and got down five plates. He stood on his father’s chair and put a plate on the table. Then he put a plate on the table for his mom, for Sam and for Rachael-Lin. Last of all, he put a plate on the table in the place where he sat. He went to the drawer and counted five spoons and five forks. He placed a spoon on one side of each plate. The forks went on the other side. Ernest got five cups from the shelf and put one by each plate. When he finished, he looked at the table—it looked very nice.

Skipping down the hall and outside, Ernest went out to the mailbox. There were four pieces of mail inside of it: a letter for his mother, a letter for his dad, a paper advertising a sale on strawberries at the market—and a magazine for him! It was a science magazine with pictures about fish that lived in the sea. He carried the mail into the house and placed it carefully on his mom’s desk in the family room.

Then, he went outside. He climbed up into his tree house and sat in the sun, reading about fish and about the ocean in his magazine.