This comment, dropped into a thread wishing a friend happy birthday but declaring no gift bought, earned me an "Honoray Jewish Mother" designation from some of my Jewish friends. I'm so proud. ::sniff::
"I WOULD have had something for you, if only you'd given me a call. All day I sat, but noooooooooooooooooo, nothing for your mother, your mother who gave birth to you. But it's ok. I know you're busy. So busy with all your little internet friends while your mother sits home alone waiting for your call, that call that never came. So don't blame me, no, no, don't blame me that you don't have a gift from me, your mother. You could've just called me on your birthday, so I know you're ok and that you're not laying somewhere in a DITCH, dead or worse. You DID put on clean underwear this morning, didn't you? I can't imagine the embarrassment, my son laying dead in a ditch all night and they find him in dirty underwear! Oh, the shame you bring upon me, my son! My precious son! First no call on your birthday, now this. Excuse me, I need to go get a tissue." ::click::
I'm tired of tortured good guys who do evil for reasons I'm supposed to sympathize with (c.f. "Breaking Bad" ) and am tired of being told I must try to understand those whose actions are anti-human and cruel.
I'm re-reading The Silmarillion this winter. Tolkein's world is a place where evil is not described in lurid, pornographic detail, but is known, unmistakably, as evil all the same, and where the good guys, when they sin, seek forgiveness and grace, and are granted it. And where hope is never lost although the world has gone mad and dark.
Old Betty Rampenhausen died last week, quietly, at home. She slipped away, like a Christmas Eve visitor sitting in the last pew at church, the door to Heaven swinging gently on its hinges as it closed behind her tiny four foot ten inch frame.
It is common, of course, in small rural churches, for a saint to die. The phones ring, the grapevine shudders, at the post office and at the co-op, and the machine of the body of Christ churns into action, calling the pie makers and the soup-stirrers and the bread-bakers to bring nourishment for the family of the departed. This is Wisconsin after all, and Lutheran Midwesterners do not send people off to sleep in Jesus without food for those doing the sending.
There was a small glitch, however, in the otherwise entirely mundane proceedings surrounding the end of Mrs. Rampenhausen mortal trials. Because old Mrs. Rampenhausen had been a shut-in since her husband Eurig passed away, she had not beein in church for over fifteen years. And she had not attended a ladies' meeting at church in that long either. Which meant that nobody could remember whether Betty Rampenhausen had been a member of the Ladies Guild or the Mission Circle. The groups normally take turns doing the funeral dinners at St Dishtopass and always do the dinner for one of their members, but in the abscence of this critical piece of information, there was instead awkward silence instead of the expected social churning in the days leading up to the funeral.
After calling her daughter to relay this ticklish snag, and to discuss the various merits of mini-Kaiser rolls over regular sized Kaiser rolls if one was going to serve both turkey and ham, Darlene Meijerkrampsch simply got busy and organized the funeral dinner for the Rampenhausen and Schlingerheimer clans. Having been a member of St Dishtopass and of the Ladies Guild a mere twenty years, Darlene had little patience for whatever event it had been, some sixty or seventy years ago, that had separated the women of the church into a Mission Guild and a Ladies Aid with all the finality of the Berlin Wall.
So Darlene picked up mini-Kaiser rolls at the Piggly Wiggly, which she and her daughter had agreed would allow the meat to stretch further than full sized Kaiser rolls would, and ordered the ham and the turkey. She checked the Nesco roasters in the back of the church storage room for mouse poop. She called Morla Apfel and arranged for some pies. Irene Stuntgartner could be counted on for German potato salad, and a few more phone calls later, American potato salad, pickle plates, and bread and butter were also arranged for.
You might think it strange that nobody Darlene called mentioned that it was the Mission Circle's turn to do a funeral dinner until you realize that whomever might mention it might be then be asked to call the president of the Mission Circle and let her know that it was the Mission Circle's turn. That's just one of those phone calls you never want to have to make.
So, the bad thing about getting up at 4:30 am three mornings a week and at 5 am two mornings a week is that you're wide awake at 6 am on Saturday morning, no matter what time you went to bed the night before.
But the good thing about being wide awake at 6 am on a Saturday morning is having the house quiet and still for hours before your almost-teen wakes up and starts telling you stories about Moonscar the battle-hardened cat and the rest of the Cat Planet's news. And if your husband is a morning person like mine is, you get to sit in the living room room reading and blogging in companionable silence, steaming cups of coffee nearby.
Making a cylinder-shaped pillow for under my knees when I read in bed. Ended up having to buy fabric and piping, because nothing I had on hand was quite right. But I did not have to buy a pillow form (because I made it myself) or a zipper.
It's such a pain in the butt, home decor sewing in general and piping in particular. But the end results are always worth the work.