AGING EARS, YOUNG HEARTS
                                                         T. Wieland Allen
   My Bible study sisters and I have been meeting together for praying and studying the Bible for 35 years.  We feel like we have grown up together. We usually end up laughing for a long time as well as executing the primary purposes for meeting together.  Last Tuesday was no exception.
  At the meeting were Jane, 83 years old;
  Dorothy, 81 years old;
  Cathi, 65 years old;
  I am 79 years old. 
  Blanca is the baby of the group and she is 55 years old.
  Marcia was not in attendance but she is 79 years old. 
  Esthela has been meeting with us lately and she is 30 years old.  Esthela occasionally brings her four month old baby with her.  He is a dream child, a wonderful baby.
   Every week that we meet, before we begin praying together, we voice our prayer requests and then we pray in agreement for every need that has been mentioned.
   I had mentioned that Jan from Oklahoma City, who is 65 and also a member of the group, had asked us to pray for her daughter who has a chronic bladder or kidney infection every three months or so.  I also mentioned we need to pray for my niece Joy who has chronic bladder infections and is recovering from one currently. 
   Blanca, who is from Mexico and has a very strong Spanish accent said, "Tell them to make a tea out of the hair of an ear of corn and drink it. It will cure them." 
   I don't know if it was because of the four month old baby who was there with us or not, but I heard her say, "Tell them to make a tea out of the hair of an umbilical cord and it will cure them."
   Dorothy heard her say, "Tell them to make a tea out of the hair of a gourd and it will cure them."
   Puzzled, I asked, "Where do they get the hair off of an umbilical cord?"
   Dorothy said, "Yeah, where do they get the hair off of a gourd?"
   Jane says emphatically, "You can buy it at any store."
   I said, "You mean you can get the hair off of an umbilical cord at any store?"
   Cathi, who is very astute and wondering if she needs to find a younger group of friends, said, "Yes, seasonably you can buy corn with the hair still on it at any grocery store."
   Dorothy said, "I've never been in any store that has a gourd with hair on it."
   Esthela said, "You can even freeze it and keep it." 
   I asked, "Esthela, did you save the hair off of your baby's umbilical cord and freeze it?"
   Blanca and Esthela were both emphatic by this time about being able to buy corn with the hair still on it which must be dried and then boiled in water and drunk until the infection is gone.
   I was still muttering, "I can't believe you can buy the hair off of an umbilical cord in any store.  Surely you have to go to someplace like Whole Foods."
   By that time Jane and Cathi were thinking Dorothy and I had developed dementia since the minute we started giving our prayer requests because we didn't know where to buy corn with the hair still on it.  Looking at Dorothy and me they both emphatically said, "Of course you can buy corn that still has the hair on the ear at any store," which was echoed even more emphatically by both Esthela and Blanca.
   Dorothy said, "Well, I've never seen the hair off of a gourd anyplace."
   The young ears of Blanca finally figured out that we hadn't understood her heavy accent and said loudly, enunciating distinctly this time, "C-O-R-N.  C-O-R-N.  We said the hair off of an ear of
C-O-R-N."
   Oh, corn, Dorothy and I finally understood that they were saying the hair off of an ear of corn.
   Jane was still saying, "You know, that brown hair that is sticking out of the end of an ear of corn.  They are saying that you can use it to brew a tea." 
   By this time I am glad I finally heard the right word, that being corn, or I would have been really grossed out thinking that there would be brown hair growing out of the end of an umbilical cord.  Dorothy was still trying to visualize hair growing out of the end of a gourd, but she caught on when all four, Esthela, Blanca, Jane and Cathi, said in unison, "C-O-R-N, the hair on an ear of C-O-R-N."  
  "Oh, corn," I said. 
  "Oh, corn, Dorothy said.
  If they had said the silk off of an ear of corn, I might have understood.  Nah, probably not.  I would have been visualizing a piece of silk hanging off of the end of an umbilical cord. 
  We have prayed for some weird things and now I'm wondering if, in the past, we've prayed for the right things or not. Oh, well, God knows our hearts and He can figure out what we mean.
  What are we going to be like when we're 90?     
  Get ready for some real miracles.  We have great faith and have had some miraculous results from our prayers.
  God loves our Prayer Posse so much, he grants our prayers whether we know that we're praying for or not.  He discerns the intents of our hearts.  That's something to be grateful about, for sure.
 

EDAN AND MEME'S EXCITING CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE

“There are so many nice people in San Francisco,” is a direct quote from my granddaughter Edan when she was only four years old. While playing at a park that was close to her house she had struck up a long conversation with the young mother of a six month old baby, telling the mom that she really needed to let the baby go to day care because Edan, herself, had had so many happy experiences at Miss Carol’s Day Care. Later, on our way back to her house, she voiced the declaration to me about there being so many nice people in her birth city. I agreed with her completely. On the uphill walk back to her house, that four year old urban child of the City, said, “Meme, let’s talk British all the way back to my house.” Having had no practice in talking British, I did the best I could. I occasionally commented “bloody good”, the only phrase I could think of, as Edan conversed like British royalty. Now that Edan is eight years old she is riding a bicycle like she was born on it. It took a while for her to master it, but she “owns” it now, as they say. However, there are limited places in her neighborhood where she can ride her red Schwinn with ease because of the steep hills. We must descend long hills to get to the park which is several blocks away. After you descend, of course later have to ascend them in order to get home. The day after Christmas, we decided to go to the park for some fresh air, having not left the house for two days. Baking sweet rolls took up most of Christmas Eve day and opening presents took up most of Christmas Day. We left for the park with Edan pushing her Schwinn bike down the steep hills with MeMe relatively close behind her. I was having to walk at a fast pace to keep up with her young, adrenalin driven legs, which it seems to me haven’t been completely still for several years. We stayed at the park for a long time with her riding her bike in the park and also on one unoccupied tennis court after asking permission from a young couple who were volleying the ball back and forth on the other court. She didn’t want to disturb their game, but they were amenable to having her ride in circles and figures 8 on the vacant tennis court. She rode the bike with a look in her eyes of being free as a bird. As the sun began to set in the winter sky, it became apparent that we needed to start walking the bike up the long, steep hills back to her house. Edan looked at the heavy bike and said, “MeMe, there’s a back way that is shorter. Let’s go that way to my house.” This was news to me, having been at that park with her many times. She pointed to the “short way home” that was up a steep hill which looked like a mountain to me. There was evidence of a seldom traveled trail up the steep hill which started with five steps made from railroad ties. I told her that I was up for an adventure if she was sure it was a shortcut. Edan struggled to lift her bike up the first step but made it. That bike was an unusually heavy one. She again was able to lift it up the next wide step. I helped her lift it up the succeeding three steps and then we walked up an incline on a rugged trail that was only about two feet wide. I suddenly realized that we were going up a very, very steep hill. It looked like a mountain to me, the one on which I had seen young adults rappelling down a sheer cliff next to the park many times. I began to figure out that this was the same steep hill that lent itself to rappelling. My assumption was that we were going to cross the hill rather than climb it to the top. By this time I was doubting whether Edan’s assessment of this being a shortcut home was accurate, but I continued to assure her that I love adventures. We took turns pushing the bike up the primitive trail, welcoming more railroad tie steps when they came. By now it took both of us to lift the bike up the wide and tall steps, with Edan in the front and me in the back of the bike. The areas without steps were becoming more rugged as we ventured upward. Darkness began to fall quickly, as it always does in winter. It was obvious that we were climbing higher and higher up rather than across, and the top of the hill was nowhere in sight. There were no other “adventurers” in sight, either. If there were, it would have been difficult to see them because of the thickness of the trees and bushes. We were still on a narrow, rugged trail so it was obvious that it led somewhere. Edan knew where it led and she encouraged me over and over with assurances that we were almost to the top of the steep hill. By then I had complete ownership of the bicycle since we were still ascending slowly and my eight year old companion was eager to get to the top. Each step I took was a struggle since I was lifting and pushing the bike uphill. Suddenly Edan said inquisitively but with genuine concern in her voice, “MeMe, do you always breathe so hard when you are on an adventure?” I listened to myself breathe and realized that I was not huffing and puffing, I was merely huff, huff, huff and then huffing. I deduced that I was having trouble breathing because of the height, the lifting of the bicycle, but also the fact that I had a lung operation 25 years ago and the upper quadrant of my lung was removed. No wonder my labored breathing was beginning to alarm my precious granddaughter, as I sensed the concern in her voice. At that point I had the fleeting thought that we should leave the bicycle there in the denseness of the terrain, ascend the rest of the trail and if someone stole the bike, I would buy her a new, lighter one later. While entertaining that thought, I spotted a huge boulder ahead of us upon which we could sit and rest until I regained control of my breathing. I started to yell at Edan who had run ahead of me to see how far it was to the top of the hill, but I couldn’t get enough air to yell very loudly. I could see her ascending the hill like a young doe eager to reach the top. I stopped pushing the bike, stood there in the darkness, examined the trail to make sure I wasn’t on the edge of the tall hill and liable to slide down with red bike in hand, when I heard some sounds behind me. I turned my head toward the sounds and saw three young men hiking toward me. With what breath I could muster, I asked them to carry the bike the rest of the way and to accompany Edan and me up the hill. They were delighted to help us. If I could have kissed them I would have, but I was using my wide open mouth to breathe in what air I could. All I could do was huff, huff, huff, huff. A few minutes later the crest of the hill appeared, just like Edan had promised me that it would. We both thanked the boys profusely. I sounded like a locomotive as I sucked in air, but was able to get a few thank you words out of my mouth aimed at them. I told them to expect something wonderful to happen to them because of their good deed. Edan rode her bicycle on the sidewalk a very short distance down the hill to her house with me joyfully but laboriously speed-walking behind her. After all, I needed to restore my image to her of being a cool grandma who was still breathing. She burst in the door to her house and yelled, “Mom, MeMe and I almost died,” with emphasis on the word “died”. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how frightened she must have been. Of course she was. I was breathing loudly like the Little Engine That Could up that ominous hill which must have sounded to her like I was going to expire at any moment. I told my eight year old climbing companion that the three boys who rescued us were angels because they appeared out of nowhere and helped us. She grabbed onto that assessment easily and agreed that they were angels. We found out a few minutes later that Edan’s dad had gone with a flashlight to find us because of the darkness of the cold winter night. Fortunately he came upon some people who told him that they saw a woman and a child carrying a bike up the steep hill. I’m surprised they didn’t say a “stupid” woman carrying a bike up the steep hill. They might actually have said that but I was spared the actual truth. We have laughed and laughed about it. We call it our Christmas of 2014 Adventure. I’ll never forget it and I know Edan will not. Before bedtime, she had already told the story two times to relatives on Face Time. She was a brave little girl who will in the future only take the shortcut home when she is with her mom and dad, sans the heavy bicycle. I will remember that I do get winded when I climb four or five flights of stairs speedily because of the lack of having two full sets of lungs and that I also get winded when I climb up steep hills or mountains, especially carrying a bicycle which is meant to be ridden, not carried. I often think I am a 79 year old woman living in a 30 year old body. That new adventure cut me down to size a little bit, even through it was a true joy experiencing it with my precious and loving granddaughter. We will both remember it for years. The angels appearing as young men came just at the right time. We must remember to always entertain strangers because they might be angels of which we are unaware. The three of them helped Edan and me at the end of our adventure, lightening the load of the bicycle and accompanying us to the top of the steep hill. To quote a wise little girl, there are so many nice people in San Francisco. The adventure turned out to be enjoyable, even though I doubted at the time that the trail was a shortcut home. It really was. After we left the rugged trail we descended the hill only a short distance from their front gate. Yes, Edan, I must remember that I do breathe hard when I am on certain great adventures and I will make provisions for that. There are limitations to having had part of a lung extracted. That is hard for me to admit. I know what the readers are thinking; and, no, I didn’t have my cell phone with me. It wouldn’t have been such an exciting adventure if we had been able to call ahead for assistance. Next adventure, I will. I promise. Besides that, Edan had everything under control. She usually does. She didn’t have a problem on the adventure. It was her air sucking grandmother who had the problem. I don’t ever want to stop having great adventures with my grandchildren. Not ever. I’m ready for the next one!

POSTAL ENTERTAINMENT

People don’t expect entertainment when shopping, mailing or checking the post office box. I’ve learned to expect a chuckle or two from my post office visits. My first really enjoyable visit to the main local post office was in the summer when I went to mail my youngest sister’s birthday present. I had wrapped it in bubble wrap, put it in a small box, then put it in a larger box which was marked Priority Mail, one having a set price to guarantee fast service. Good planning on my part, I thought. It was early morning on a Saturday in the summer when I drove to the US Post Office in our Midwestern town, parked my car in an available space and walked in to get in the line of about five people who were waiting to be beckoned to approach whichever window became free of other mail patrons that day. As I waited in line, I recognized the face of one of the officials manning the windows, an older man -- I say older but he was probably fifteen years my junior. It would be more accurate to say he was older than the other mail officials manning the windows. I heard the mail official tell the patron whom he was helping that he wasn’t supposed to be working that day but was called in to replace someone else who was probably fishing rather than working that day. He was not a really happy camper at being a substitute but he was handling it with humor, which infused an air of joviality into the hot summer day. When I approached his window, he said, “Well, young lady, what can the US Postal Service do for you today?” I replied that I wanted to mail the box to my sister for her birthday and had placed it in the Priority Mailing box which cost $14.95. He immediately became my adviser of good financial judgment. He told me that there were boxes adjacent to the counter in which I would find similar boxes which were not for priority mailing and one would, in fact, only cost me $4.95 to mail and the box would arrive two days later than the Priority Mail one I appreciated his help but I was concerned about the people behind me. I voiced my concern, telling him that I didn’t want to interfere with the flow of traffic in the line of patrons waiting to mail their packages. He immediately said in a loud voice, “Do any of you nice people object if I save this young lady ten bucks this morning? “ What could they say, they were at his mercy so they all said, “Of course not,” “Go ahead” and voiced other affirming phrases. Having their permission I took a couple of steps and obtained the box I was advised to bring back to the counter. I expected to be instructed to repack my gift in the approved box, but to my surprise the kind man ripped open my box, took the smaller box containing the gift out, emptied the packaging peanuts into the new box, and proceeded to repack the gift, all the time assuring the waiting patrons that he would be ready to help them in a few minutes after he saved me ten dollars. When he closed the box, before applying the wide shipping tape to my new inexpensive box, he said to me, ”What’s your sister like? Is she a good sister?” I replied that she’s younger than me and I felt like I had raised her, and we are very close. He added, “But is she a nice sister or is she bossy like my sister?” That hit a nerve since I had on occasion accused my sister of being a little bossy but most of the time she is kind and loving. I informed him of that truth. He said, “Well, my sister is so bossy she made my life miserable when we were growing up, so I’m going to finish preparing this box for mailing like I would a box for my bossy sister.” He proceeded to wrap the wide tape around, around, around and around. By this time he had all the waiting patrons laughing with glee. When he finished, he held the mummified box up in the air and everyone cheered. To which he said, “That ought to take her a while to get into that birthday present. She will love you for whatever is in there by the time she cuts through all that tape.” I was laughing out loud by this time, definitely not expecting to be entertained as well as being saved ten dollars at the Post Office. Now that Christmas is approaching, I usually mail my packages at the Postal Service satellite office at a drug store closer to my house. My last box to be mailed was not ready until Saturday morning, having had to work on the last gifts for grandsons the preceding night. Early the next morning I went to the downtown, main Postal Office to mail the box since the satellite one is not open on Saturdays. There were several people in front of me but the same comical official was working in addition to a young lady at another window. While waiting for my turn I was lucky enough to hear the comical official finishing up collecting the money and stamping the legal appearing box of a person. I heard him ask, “Is there anything else I can do for you today, sir?” The elderly patron said, “Can you estimate how long it will take for that box to get to its destination? The mail official answered, “I can’t tell you any estimate. It depends on what kind of monkey is driving the truck and how many times he stops to wet his whistle during the journey,” with a twinkle in his eye. He continued, “Sir, you should have been here yesterday. People were backed up out the door all day long. Nobody had an easy mail endeavor and we were overloaded all day. I could hardly walk when I left work because of never having a break in the unreasonable demands of the patrons.” Then he said, “And I rarely do this, but my good friend Jim Beam and I had a lonnnnggggggg conversation after I got home last night. I felt a lot better with his help until this morning when I realized I shouldn’t have had quite so long a conversation with Jim as I did. “ Of course the patiently waiting mail patrons and I laughed, which pleased the comical official immensely. When it came my turn, I had to go to the window of the young lady. I have to admit that I was disappointed to have such a dull time, only mailing a box instead of have my own personal comic who has a way to make the waits at the Postal Office endearing instead of taxing. After completing all the mailing tasks, the young female official gave me a long tape out of her machine and said that I might want to fill it out and rate the efficiency of the local Post Office. As I assured her that I would do it, I heard the comical, older official say, “All you people be sure and fill out the form. If you are pleased with the service, be sure and put my name down. If you’re not pleased with our service, put Bruce’s name down. There’s no Bruce here and that will confuse the heck out of the officials.” After I got home, I filled out the form. I gave the service of the Postal Service a C- because I mailed a Priority box the 15th of October loaded with Halloween decorations for my granddaughter. It arrived at her house three weeks after Halloween. That box went into storage for next year. Even though I gave them a C- for service, I wrote on the form that I gave them an A+ for entertainment since my experiences with my downtown Postal Office get my day started off in the mornings with laughs which affect my entire day. The twinkle in his eye tells it all, kind of like Santa Clause’s twinkle when he delights kids by telling them they will get everything they want for Christmas. He knows better than that, but it makes the kids happy. Whatever that comical official tells me makes me happy, whether the boxes arrive at the promised time or not. It’s all in the twinkle! Merry Christmas

KARMA? NOW I BELIEVE

KARMA? NOW I BELIEVE T. Wieland Allen See, I’ve never had a problem believing that we reap what we sow, that what goes around comes around, and what you do to others they will do to you. But karma? Nah. Even though when I think about it, they are all the same thing. So if karma means that circumstances repeat themselves; then, yeah, I can attest to it as being real. Twelve years ago three of our grandsons from California were visiting us and the oldest of the visiting boys was getting ready to swing on a tire swing in the back yard. The tire swing was cleverly made to look like a horse. Grandpa had tied a heavy rope around it and tied the other end to a huge tree. We named the horse Prissy Sue. Prissy Sue was a thoroughbred, her craft festival papers proudly declared. Grandson Jarrett was going to mount the tire swing and have fun on the swing. As he put his hand into the mouth of the rubber horse to help him mount, he screamed “bloody murder,” as we used to say. There was a wasp’s nest in the mouth of the rubber horse and a wasp stung him on his hand. He wasn’t very old, so it was a real shock and the sting hurt the little guy badly. We immediately took him into the house and applied some of PawPaw’s Ointment to the area of the wasp sting. That was not a very good memory for Jarrett to have relating to his summers in Oklahoma. He was a trooper, though, about it. We were overly sympathetic about it since we were in charge of him and his brothers and felt like we had neglected our duties. I guess there was no karma necessary because we were compassionate toward Jarrett and his pain. Two years later our entire family was attending a family wedding in Sonoma, California. We were renting a big four bedroom house with three baths, a garage apartment, a giant kitchen, and a huge dining room which accommodated all ten of us. The living/den area, which the grandkids claimed as their own early on, had huge overstuffed chairs with ottomans which made into beds. All five of the grandkids had a ball playing in their own self adopted area. The house was an ideal place, very rural, with a large barn and many acres of land. The five grandkids explored the premises, loved being together, and enjoyed the rented house with its outbuildings. They became very adventuresome after they got over the fear that seven year old grandson Jesse instilled in them when he said he saw a bloody chainsaw in the old barn and he thought the chainsaw murderer was buried there. The youngest grandson, six year old Stephen, never ventured within 100 feet of the barn after that wild story. Their adventure on the second day that we were there was more memorable. Four of the five grandchildren came running into the house yelling and screaming that wasps were stinging Nathan, Sure enough, Nathan came busting into the door crying loudly, saying amid sobs that he had been stung many times. We treated him for eight wasp stings, gave him Benadryl and made him lay down and stay quiet for a while. After we quieted Nathan down, we asked the other four kids what had happened. They all talked at once and related an interesting story. It seems that the five of them were playing down by the pasture, standing behind the log fence bordering the pasture. We were told that there were some birds in the pasture close to the kids and Nathan bragged that he could hit one of the birds with a rock. The other kids included his cousin Jesse, his brothers Jarrett and Stephen, plus his cousin Lindsey, the only girl in the group. Of course they called him a liar and challenged him to try. According to all the kids, Nathan found a rock, threw the rock at a bird and, sure enough, downed the bird. According to them, all of a sudden out of nowhere a swam of wasps started toward them. The kids all took off running toward the house. What happened next was hard to believe, they said, but the grandchildren all agreed that it was true. They swore that the swarm of wasps flew right past the four of them and targeted Nathan as all five of them ran toward the house. Not one of the other kids was stung by the wasps, even though they were behind Nathan on the frantic run. The kids said that the wasps enveloped only Nathan and stung him. He was finally able to get away from them and run into the house with the other kids. The mystery was why the wasps targeted Nathan and only Nathan. He was the one who had thrown the rock and hit the bird. Maybe there is something about birds and wasps hanging together. Who knows? All five of the kids told the identical story. Fortunately, Nathan recovered from the eight wasp stings in time to enjoy the beautiful outdoor wedding the next day. I have told that story hundreds of times, even laughing along with other people at the image of poor Nathan running ahead of the other kids with the wasps chasing him and only him, even flying en mass past the other kids as if the wasps knew that Nathan had been the kid who had thrown the rock that knocked the bird to the ground. It was a funny image in our minds, kind of like a movie cartoon, and my telling the story has elicited many laughs from myself and other people at Nathan’s expense through the years. He didn’t seem to mind, seemed to kind of enjoy being the center of a funny story. So back to karma and my sudden belief in it. Ten years removed from Nathan’s experience with the wasps, the telling of the story came back to bite me, or maybe I should say “sting me.” I had been trimming my long hedge along the courtyard, enjoying every minute of it, looking forward to the end so I could stand back and admire the work I had done with my hedge trimmer and my new long pole chain saw which I use to cut the outer edge of the hedge that is too far for the hedge trimmer to reach. I was down to the last section of the hedge which is beneath a pergola which has Virginia creeper hanging from it, serving as a decorative vine. I love the Virginia creeper because it turns brilliant colors in the fall and the berries feed the birds in the fall and winter. In trimming the hedge I also have to trim the Virginia creeper so that it doesn’t hang all the way down but merely creeps along the top of the pergola structure. While trimming the last section of the Virginia creeper with the pole saw, getting ready to change equipment and trim the hedge, suddenly I felt a sharp sting in my upper arm. I grabbed my upper arm and a wasp flew off of my shirt. Suddenly there were two more wasps who came at me. One stung my other arm in two place. I started running to the house being chased by the wasps. Speaking of karma, while I was running to the house being chased by the wasps, I suddenly had the image in my mind of Nathan and his running ahead of the other kids while the wasps targeted him. It must have been terrifying for him. After reaching the house, running in and closing the door, I checked the places where I felt sharp pains and, sure enough, I had five wasp stings on my arms, two on one arm and three on the other arm. They hurt like crazy. I suddenly imagined how Nathan must have felt with eight stings on his little seven year old body. He was a tough kid to refrain from putting on more of a screaming scene than he did. Benadryl Topical Gel relieved my pain after a while and ice prevented the areas from swelling too much. PawPaw’s Salve finished the job, covering the bright red punctures with its greasy anticeptic properties. Karma? What goes around comes around? You reap what you sow? No doubt about it for me. The comments people make in jokingly saying, “It’s karma all over again,” fit this situation to a T. I had told Nathan’s story many times, laughing along with other people at the mental image of the wasps chasing him and bypassing the other grandchildren. Here I was ten years later being chased by wasps at my own house and also being stung. No doubt about it, it‘s karma. I took a long rest after making sure I wasn’t going into shock in case I was allergic to the wasp stings. Then I grabbed a can of wasp spray and took off for the courtyard where the chase had begun. I was loaded with arsenal and I was going to use it. Two wasps were flying around the before-mentioned area so I let loose long trails of the wasp spray, targeting the wasps. They were faster than the spray was, so they kept flying out of the area of the spray. My intent was to finish the job, only lacking one last section of the hedge, the one which obviously had the wasp nest somewhere in the Virginia creeper at the top of the pergola. I emptied the entire can of wasp and hornet spray on that small section of foliage. Just in case the wasps came back and wanted to play chase with me again and use me for their pin cushion, I put together a protective outfit. I donned my thickest down-filled ski jacket, figuring that if the wasps came back and wanted a better taste of me, even if they tried to sting me the jacket was so thick that their stingers wouldn’t make it down to my skin. I also put on a painter’s mask which covered my lower face. I found huge sunglasses of mine from the ’70s and wore them. I put on a small hat and then put a larger sun hat over that hat. There was no way those buggers were going to sting me again. I looked like one of the homeless people I see in cities wearing thick winter coats in the summertime. Maybe those coats are for protection from wasps and bees for the homeless people, too.

It worked for me. Don’t know if I looked so weird that the wasps were too busy laughing at my getup on a summer day to try to sting me or what, but I did make it through with finishing the job and cleaning up the clipped leaves without being stung again. Yes, it was karma all over again, as people jokingly say. I learned my lesson. Those wasps are persistent dudes. And, boy, are they fast. I must ask my grandson Nathan for forgiveness. He’s a precious young man and will forgive me willingly. I don’t want to run that race again with the wasps. Those dudes are fast. So karma is over. All is forgiven. Yes, even the wasps are forgiven. They were merely protecting their domicile. Buddha called it karma. Jesus said you reap what you sow. Maybe it is the same thing. I know one thing, those wasps are smart dudes. They knew who threw the rock and they knew who laughed about their chasing my grandson. They took their revenge out on both of us. Their brains must be bigger than the human brain. They learn faster and they never forget. I’m just glad loving grandsons always forgive easily, karma or no karma. Sometimes karma brings to mind good times with loved ones, so karma is not always bad. It cues us to write down the good times and the bad times, hoping we learn from the bad ones, and knowing that writing them down will help us treasure the good ones for years to come. Thanks to karma, or reaping what we sow, for bringing this loving occasion to mind, even though it came with stings of pain. They were worth it to bask in the heart warming memories of the unconditional love of grandchildren. Gramps was right, when people become grandparents they "turn just plumb goofy". We did. We became the goofiest of all. Maybe it was the over abundance of love that is shown to us. Whatever it is, I like being goofy. It's like being a kid again and you get to laugh all the time. Thanks, God, for the memories.

THE HAYSTACK PRINCIPLE

You’ve heard of the saying that searching for something was like looking for a needle in a haystack. My latest experience has enlarged that concept to the highest degree, as far as I‘m concerned. I was married 57 years ago and I immediately started the craft of sewing, copying my mother who was a gifted seamstress. She had to engage in that craft because she had to dress four girls in the most up to date and beautiful dresses that could be made. We would travel to a nearby town almost every Saturday, meander through the big city department store, and Mother would look at expensive dresses, always keeping the impressions in her mind. Her intent was to create the same dresses for her daughters that were displayed at the expensive store. She would then go to JC Penney or Montgomery Ward stores who had a fabric department, buy material similar to the expensive creations we had viewed; and, lo and behold, in a few days we all had new beautifully created frocks. My memories of her from those days are of her sitting at the Singer sewing machine late on a Saturday night putting the finishing touches on one of the dresses or sitting in a chair under a dimly lighted lamp while hand sewing the hems of all four creations so they could be worn to Sunday School at First Baptist Church the next day. None of us appreciated her labors until years later when we, ourselves, started sewing. Her value increased in our eyes considerably as we realized the labor that was involved. After getting married I loved sewing my own clothes. Many years later as my children grew, the most enjoyable thing I would do was make darling dresses in current styles at the time for my daughter. It was like making doll clothes for the most beautiful real life doll. For several years I even made T-shirts for our boys as well as our daughter, my husband and myself. Halloween costumes were my annual creations during October. I tell you that background to let you know that I was always sitting at the sewing machine also, just like my mother did when I was growing up. Two things that a seamstress cannot do without are needles and thread. I always had many colored spools of thread but the needles proved to be a problem for me. I was always losing the needles. It was a consistent habit of mine to always put the needles into my one and only pincushion, which I’m sure I must have bought during the first year of my marriage.

  It was about the size of an average orange. It was thickly padded, like every other pincushion, and the covering was green velvet. The problem that began to emerge after a few years was that I never could find a needle, even though I had placed them into the pincushion when I finished my hand sewing. It became apparent that there had to be a needle eating ogre in our house or there was something around whose intent was to drive me nuts with curiosity about what happened to the previously used needle. I would occasionally go to the fabric store and buy another package of needles, which usually held about five needles of various sizes. Some were embroidery needles, too big to sew hems or tack on frilly lace, so those needles were rarely used. Sometimes the smallest needles had tiny eyes through which the tread had to be forced. Very often I would spend ten minutes laboring at getting the colorful thread all the way through the tiny eyes, then having to do it all over again after the long length of thread was used. Another contributing factor to the frustration was that we had cats for pets and it was a puzzle to me why the cats seemed to always take an interest in my sewing. One or another of the cats would always hop onto the sewing table and slap the pin cushion around, sometimes biting at the straight pins and pulling them out. So I blamed the cats for the disappearance of the needles, wondering if those darn cats had caused the needles to fall into the carpet. However, nobody in the household had ever complained with a piercing scream that a needle had been stepped on and was making its way into the inner sanctum of his or her foot. I had other things to worry about during those days, so I just took it as a matter of fact of life that there was a mysterious needle fetish belonging to some invisible being in our household. Occasionally, if I was desperate, I would push on the top of the pin cushion and cautiously feel on the opposing side. I could always feel the sharp point of a needle. The thin little metal shaft had to be completely submerged into the middle of the pincushion, so I would get my tweezers and make a desperate attempt to put enough pressure on the top of the pincushion so that a hidden needle would be peeking out the other side enough that I could take the tweezers and pull out the needle. Most of the time that maneuver worked. Other times, I would give up and go to the store and buy another small package of needles. Heaven knows, I would need them in the future. That scenario went on for years, my going on a treasure hunt, looking for a needle that I could have sworn I had put back into the now aging pincushion. The playful cats occasionally made their way to the top shelf where I kept the pincushion and I would find it on the floor with straight flatted pins strewn around the area. I made sure that I picked them up and put them back into the pincushion. It was strange that I never found a needle on the floor. Perplexed? Yes, I was. It only took 57 years to solve the mystery. Now that I’m older I have time to spend in solving life’s big problems, like is there a God, is the universe going to end at any time soon, why do men love to go to war, why do men always capture the remote control like they own it, why does a dropped vitamin always end up under the cabinet even though it had to go uphill to get there, and where did all my needles go. I finally had some time to decipher that last 57 year mystery. Recently I needed to take a few inches off of a pair of jeans and hem them, so I got the navy blue thread out and grabbed the infamous faded green pincushion. You guessed it --- nary a needle in sight. Okay, I was faced with deciding if that pincushion was so old that I didn’t mind sacrificing it to solve the problem. Besides that, I didn’t want to go to the store and buy another package of needles when there might be one or two needles hidden inside the pincushion, ones I wasn’t able to retrieve during all the years. I marched myself defiantly into the kitchen, grabbed the sharpest knife I had and started sawing on the faded green velvet pincushion. Nothing is holy after all those years and it had served its purpose. The filling inside of the pincushion resisted the butcher knife but I was a woman with a purpose. I applied more and more pressure. What in the world could that filling be composed of to be so stubborn? I had imagined all these years that the filling was shredded foam of some sort. Those insides were definitely not foam. The butcher knife finally broke through the faded green velvet and pierced into the filling. Out poured a combination of some sort of sawdust and finely ground leaves. Well, one mystery was immediately solved, part of that stuffing must have been ground catnip and that’s why the cats had such a fascination for it. I already felt empowered with that knowledge, that the cats weren’t weird at all, they were just normal cats drawn to catnip or some other cat loving plant. Then suddenly the innards of the pincushion revealed some thin, silver metal objects with small eyes in one end. Good, I thought, as I reached for one of the obvious needles, now I have something with which to sew. As I moved around the sawdust and ground plant particles, more needles appeared. Then more and more needles were visible. I was astounded, though now I know I shouldn’t have been so surprised. After all, there were 57 years of disappearing needles for which to account. I picked out more and more needles of various sizes. There were even two sewing machine needles among the others. I took a little break from retrieving the lost needles from the sawdust and plant matter because I certainly didn’t need a vast number of needles that day. But, the thought came that I might as well get all of them and put them in the new pincushion I had bought a few years ago but rarely used because I didn’t want to abandon the told green one. I didn’t want the green one to have feelings of rejection. After all, it had been so loyal. I finally found all of the needles, took the sawdust and ground plant matter and put it in with some dirt in a flower pot. The task of putting the newly found treasure of needles into the new pincushion became laborious so I put the task aside and decided to finish the job later while I was watching television. No, I’m not easily distracted from a task, but this one was too ominous to complete in one sitting. If you think I’m a weakling for quickly abandoning the project, stick with me for a few more lines of the story. The reason it took two sittings to complete the task is that the final count of needles that were nestled inside of that pincushion were 68. It was a needle swallowing pincushion, helped in its quest by the cats in the house who had probably pushed the needles down inside as they were slapping it around. The old saying of looking for a needle in a haystack is passe to me. Looking for 68 needles in a pincushion fits my 57 year adventure to a T. I will never run out of needles. Maybe I can sell some of them at a garage sale. They’re precious to me now. They hid for years and years right there in that old faded green pincushion. Each needle holds fond memories of creative garments I lovingly sewed for my family. Sixty-eight? Yes, I said 68 needles. How that pincushion that was the size of an orange held all those needles is a mystery to me. Maybe now I can solve the mystery of the jumping - bean vitamins that have the talent of hitting the floor when dropped and then bouncing uphill under the cabinet. I really do have an active mind, not always worrying about things, but vigorously searching out reasons behind every unexplainable phenomenon. Inquiring minds always want to know. The truth of the Haystack Principle is that we must be careful in looking for a needle in a haystack. There might be a vast number of needles with sharp points ready to prick you, or you might be overwhelmed with what you find in that haystack. It might be just what you’re looking for, or it might be something you don’t want to know. Sometimes inquiring minds don’t need to know. I’m 68 needles richer but I’ve stopped making creative garments. What project can I find that requires using 68 needles? One just might show up. I’m up for the challenge.

THE GIANT AND THE WHITE PETAL PILLOW

My precious granddaughter Lindsey, her guy friend Major and their college friend named Richard came to see me Friday night. They are typical college students, completely enamored with college life. Major is a really nice fellow. I've grown to love him because of his wonderful character. Just to show you what I mean, he was sitting across the room from Lindsey and she accidentally dropped something. She started to pick it up and began to reach down for it. Major, who never hesitated in the story he was eloquently telling, hopped out of his chair and told her that he would get it, ran across the room, picked it up and handed it to her, returning to his story without an interrupted pause. “Wow,” I thought. Used to, when I dropped something it was always greeted with a laugh and maybe a sarcastic comment such as, “Well, clumsy,” or “Can’t you hold on to anything?” I was shocked at Major’s impromptu gracious act and I was enamored with his respect for Lindsey. Now to the theme of this story, the giant and the pillow. Their friend Richard is from a very small town in Oklahoma. He looks to be about 6’4” tall, and is huge, with a big cranium, wide shoulders, thick torso and legs The guy had on shorts because it was a warm day before the last cold front came in. His calves were giant, even bigger than My husband's dad's calves were and they were huge. Well, this guy’s legs were enormous, as was his body. He was a football player and I’m sure he was a very scary opponent. He also was of American Indian descent, making his looks even more ominous because of his size. Lindsey told me they had measured and that Richard’s ankles and calves are bigger than her thighs and she has very shapely thighs. I tell you that lengthy description because of something the young man did. Lindsey and Major had shown Richard all around my house, even the basement and bomb shelter. He seemed impressed, but his interest centered in on the most unlikely thing in the house.

He picked up a decorative pillow that was given to me by a friend. I have that pillow sitting on one of my antique chairs in my entryway.. The pillow is constructed with layer after layer of soft, white felt fabric cut into petal shapes, all layered together and forming a beautiful flower. Richard, that giant of a young man, looked to me so strange holding that white, frilly pillow. He caressed it like it was a rare object, even put it up to his cheek to feel the softness on his face. I was bowled over with his freedom in showing the feminine side of his nature, especially since he was such a massive young, sports minded man. He continued to hold it lovingly as if it was a piece of valuable art or a treasure. When they all left, I kissed Lindsey and Major, like I always do, and I also kissed Richard. I had to stand on my tiptoes and he had to bend way down to receive the kiss. His gentle eyes showed he enjoyed the loving attention from me. He had blessed me with his show of sensitivity when he embraced the frilly, white pillow, so I was compelled to place a big kiss on his cheek. His stature reminded me of the professional football player who did needlepoint, Roosevelt something, who was about the same size. I sound like it doesn’t take much to excite me, but for some reason that visit from the young people was a real gift for my heart, with Major being so gentlemanly with my precious granddaughter Lindsey and with Richard being so sensitive and gracious. I felt filled with love when they left, like I had been in the presence of unusual young people who give love and respect so freely. Lindsey is always very loving, but the young men were a surprise in their virtuous actions. While they were here, Richard and Major gave me good advice about my ailing computers and we discussed the upcoming Super Bowl at length, but I will never forget their actions, with Major and his gentlemanly respect for my granddaughter and Richard with his confident appreciation and admiration of the most unlikely object, a frilly, white decorative pillow. Maybe we can clone them.

IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

There are so many opportunities in our daily encounters with people to find joy and appreciation. One such opportunity happened to me this week. I was at Big Lots shopping for birthday gifts, had made my selection, plus a few other unintended purchases, and I was standing in line to check out. The person in front of me had quite a few items, too, so the wait was longer than expected. It worked to my advantage or I would have missed a good laugh. A very pretty young lady of about 25 walked up behind me in the company of a strikingly beautiful little girl of about three or four years old. The little beauty had long, black hair, lily white skin, big blue eyes and was dressed in her Sunday best dress. She was a picture of health and happiness. Most three or four year old kids who are forced to wait in line are not patient like this little beauty, nor are they so well behaved. The little one was intrigued by the Halloween suckers at the end of the counter. She would pick one up, make a remark about it and show it to her mom. She never asked for one, never begged for the candy which was plentiful on the aisle. She was engrossed in the animal shapes of the suckers. Her mom was patient with her, not once sharply telling the little girl to put down the suckers. The mom knew her daughter and knew that the child would handle them with care and place them back in their proper place, which she did. That exchange between mom and daughter went on for about five minutes as the lady in front of me seemed to have some trouble writing her check. When the elderly lady’s purchase was complete, I knew the little girl needed to have her waiting time shortened, so I told her mom to go ahead of me and check out. Her mom was grateful and thanked me. The little girl joined in the graciousness and thanked me also. The mom told the child to put her desired purchase, which was clutched in her small hand, onto the counter so that the checker could ring up the price. The child laid it down and I was surprised that it was a package of Chap Stick. I was expecting a toy or maybe some candy because of the patience of the little one. It was almost like there was a 30 year old inside the body of the small child. The checker rang up the purchase and informed the mom of the price, who began searching in her purse for the right change. The little black haired, well mannered little girl stood staring at the checker with a look of concern on her face. Then the innocence and childlikeness came to the surface. She said to the checker, who had very dark maroon lipstick on her large lips, “Did you know your lips are dead?” Her little voice was full of concern, not criticism. She wanted the lady to know something was obviously wrong with the checker’s mouth, something to which the checker might be oblivious, that maybe her lips had died on the way to her work day. The checker was a good sport and laughed loudly, as did the mom and me. That was a surprise to the little girl because of the amount of concern she had for the lady. I appreciated the reaction of the mom. She quietly said, “Sweetheart, this presents an occasion for some instructions when we get to the car.“ That was quoted with a sweet, loving voice, not one of stern chastisement or harsh discipline. The mom and daughter walked out the door with the same sense of mutual love that had been shared by them while waiting in line. The mom knew how to handle the situation, with love and patience. As they walked out the door, the checker again erupted into loud laughter, telling the people in line behind me what the innocent, caring little beauty had commented with such concern for her. I’m sure the little treasured girl learned a lesson from her loving mom, one given with gentleness. I learned a lesson, too. I’m throwing away all of my maroon lipstick, not wanting to cause nightmares for any small child who might think this woman’s lips are dead, too.