As good today as then. Hopefully with the same results as 2012!
BIRGing and CORFing are acronyms coined by social psychologists.
I first heard the terms a couple of years ago in our Beth Moore Bible Study in the book of Esther. She was warning of the danger of putting people on a pedestal.
BIRGing means “Basking In Reflected Glory”
CORFing means “Cutting Off Reflected Failure”
I noticed a lot of BIRGing back in 2010 when the Giants won the World Series. Giants’ fans came out of the woodwork. It cracked me up. Everybody was on the bandwagon. People who had never mentioned the word “baseball” were suddenly wearing Giants’ jerseys and hats, talking about how “OUR boys are doing good!”
The same thing happened a couple of weeks ago when OUR team clinched the National League West. I kept hearing that WE are going to the World Series again.
To be honest – I, myself, kept saying, “WE are going…
View original post 215 more words
After we have placed our cards in two rows we usually count to 10, touching each card as we go, starting at the top row left and finishing at the bottom right.
Like most kids, my grandkids love all things olive. They have olive-tipped fingers every time they get the opportunity. They even love my 
Last week they wanted some tapenade with lunch and I didn’t have any chips or crackers to go with it. The only crunchy thing I could find in the cabinet was a half-empty box of stale ice cream cones. Well, why not? I coated the insides of a couple of cones with tapenade and the kids were thrilled. They finished the rest of the box.
Our list included ice cream cones, and I was informed that we needed to get a lot of them. Olives, taco meat, refried beans, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, sour cream, and salsa.
the tomatoes.
Audrey said, “Mommy is going to be sad that she has to go to a meeting tonight and she won’t get any ice cream tacos. But Daddy is going to love them.”
Someone gave me this cute little book journal in January, 2006. I really like the picture on the cover, although I prefer my own big cuddly reading chair, and the cluttered oak table beside it. I usually have a mug of coffee on the table so I’m pretty sure I’d knock that orchid over every time I reached for my cup. Still, I love this little journal. It sets on the cluttered table by my reading chair and every so often I pick it up and slide myself into that roomful of books. I look at all those overflowing shelves, try to read the titles, and imagine titles for those I can’t read. It’s really lovely. And when I open the journal, it gets even lovelier because I have kept a list of all the books I’ve read since that January 11 years ago. It’s like my little private bookshelf in a book.
So as I was reading Mere Christianity for my morning “devotional” reading, I was reading Kate Morton’s THE LAKE HOUSE for pure enjoyment. Also because it was the January book for my book group. I love Kate Morton books. They are a little hard to get into because she throws out a bunch of threads and it’s hard to keep them sorted out, but the mystery grows and the sub-plots all come together, and they never disappoint! One thing I especially love about her books is the way she flows from generation to generation.
My friend Sandy and I are both book lovers, but we have vastly different taste in books. For example I can’t be bothered with the Amish generational novels that are some of her favorites and she shudders when I talk about Hind’s Feet on High Places or other allegories. But her enthusiasm for SUMMER OF LIGHT by Dale Cramer got my attention and it was totally uplifting and enjoyable! Although I don’t really remember many details about it now, ten months later.
I asked her who are some of her favourite authors. She said she loves anything by Jodi Picoult, but her favourite book in the world is OLIVE KITTERIDGE by Elizabeth Strout. She said she likes these books because they deal with “women’s issues” – which I was not sure what she meant, but I thought they might be in the same category as Anita Shreve, who I like very much. So I picked up a copy of Olive Kitteridge, intending to chat with her about it the next time I see her at a book sale. I have to say Elizabeth Strout is a good writer and she definitely knows about women’s issues. She nails a lot of the feelings and problems and situations we face, and I’d swear she had been reading some of my deepest darkest thoughts. I’m glad I read it. Details from that book will be stuck in my mind forever, and I find myself pondering what I would have done in such and such a situation. Well written – but no hope. No peace or joy. No answers.
In March our Lalas Book Group read THE UNLIKELY PILGRIMAGE OF HAROLD FRY by Rachel Joyce. It was recommended by my cousin Debbi, as we were engaged in one of our hundreds of on-line Scrabble games. What a good book! Average, boring, middle aged Harold Fry, set out to mail a letter and that walk to the mailbox turned into a pilgrimage that changed his life and the lives of many people who knew him and who met him on the way. A book reviewer might say it is “A triumph of the human spirit!”
I read TOUGH AS THEY COME by Travis Mills, a true American hero who survived quadruple amputee injuries during his third tour of duty in Afghanistan, and has gone on to live a satisfying, productive life.
After I left the bog, I read THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS by Kenneth Grahame. I told my son, David that I was reading it for the first time, and he reminded me that we read it as a family. I argued with him, and assured him that I had never read it. I said all I knew about it was a bad Community Theater production I took them to when they were little, and Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. He started quoting parts to me and reminding me of things that happened in the book, so I looked back at 
Finally, at the end of my April shelf is THE PRINCESS BRIDE: S. MORGENSTERN’S CLASSIC TALE OF TRUE LOVE AND HIGH ADVENTURE by William Goldman. Very much like the movie we all love, but even more so. Inconceivable!
So that’s the end of the first four shelves of my 2016 reading. I’ll come back next week and talk about May to August. But right now I have to go read! It’s kind of an emergency. There’s a bunch of mysterious threads pulling on me, and tangling my thoughts, and calling me to get back to this haunting story about a Forgotten Garden…
So a few months ago my grandkids and I took this water coloring a step further. I got three glasses of water and let them drop colors in, and stir. 
We made a glass of red, a glass of blue and a glass of yellow. Then I let them pour certain colors together into other glasses to make green, purple and orange.
And then last week we made a “rainbow” on a plate. We placed Skittles all around the edge of a flat white plate and poured enough water to just touch the candy – then we watched the colors mingle and cover the plate. Again they were delighted!
It was a little nerve-racking to have a two-year-old stirring jello into boiling water. That’s why I chose a four-cup measuring cup for the one cup of hot water. Less chance of splashing.
Caleb poured yellow Jello from the cut corner of his ziplock bag, and stirred it with a plastic chop stick. Nathan chose red and Audrey chose blue.
We got seven drinking glasses and mixed and stirred, and stirred and mixed a quarter cup at a time. We had quite a discussion about the difference between indigo and violet. Purple was easy: blue mixed with red. Finally we decided that indigo is bluish purple and violet is reddish purple. Not very scientific, but it worked for the under-six crowd. And it worked for Grandee.
I set a timer and we went about our day. Each time the timer rang, we came into the kitchen to add the next color to the rainbows. We added about ¼ cup of new color each time, in rainbow order.
The kids were so excited to show their parents, and then to take them home for dessert.
I’ve seen some changes in the pizza world. We’ve gone beyond mama’s traditional pizza. Now we have pesto, barbecue sauce, and ranch dressing…bacon, chicken and garlic…pineapple, fresh tomatoes, sun-dried tomatoes, zucchini, and broccoli… My daughter even sprinkles whole kernel corn on hers.
It’s a surprising little patch of country right on the busy highway next to a strip mall…dry cleaners, nail salons, and restaurants. “Drive slow after you pass Walgreen’s,” our friend had warned us, “or you’ll miss it!” And we almost did. After the strip mall we came to an area of grass and woods which thickened to almost a wall of greenery. Then it gave way to a long tree tunnel, marked by a small sign, a profusion of orange daylilies, and a lamp post.
of little halls and passages, and where you find still older cottage rooms in unexpected places with lattice windows and green growth pressing through them. Mine, which we entered first, was of this kind, with an up-and-down roof that had more corners in it than I ever counted afterwards.”
We later discovered that if we turned right instead of left at the sitting room door, we would come to a flight of stairs leading to the kitchen. It made us wonder if The Twin Room Suite had been the servants’ quarters back in the days of the Swan family. What fun!
Across the sitting room was another short hall. Turn to the left and there was a door to an exterior walkway that went along the roofline of the house, 
and took us to an outside staircase going down to the back lawns. Turn to the right and there were two beautiful bedrooms, and a lovely old bathroom with a wonderfully deep tub.
I felt like I was in the best antique shop ever! The place was filled (not cluttered) with cute, beautiful and interesting pictures, knick-knacks and lamps – all so comfortable and touchable!
Although everything I have described was old and antique-y, there were a few exceptions. Our suite had its own air conditioning control; so the weather was lovely when we came in from the ninety-five degrees of heat, and fifty per cent humidity that made the grounds flourish like a greenhouse. And there was nothing old and antique-y about the linens. They were glorious! The sheets were many thread count and wonderfully crisp and clean, the beds were soft but firm, and every day brought a new supply of fresh thick white towels.
of making you feel like you, of all her guests, were somehow special. Each time we came home from one of our excursions she would call out a greeting from the kitchen. Without being pushy she would ask about our day, inviting us to pause and chat for a moment.
After breakfast that first morning, (a lovely and beautifully presented feast) Nina invited us to wander around the house and look in all the guest rooms since there were no other quests at the moment. I was thrilled about that since I had furtively been peeking into the empty rooms, wishing for a longer look. And it’s a good thing we took her up on her offer that morning, because that was, I think, the only moment The Oscar Swan was empty.
Nina gave the illusion of being a bit scattered and absent minded, but over the course of our stay we saw just how sensible and capable she is. While we were staying there we watched her expertly juggle two large weddings, a “Mystery Dinner” a lunch meeting of “The OK Croquet Club”, as well as being very attentive to her “regular” house guests.
At home in Modesto we enjoy visiting The McHenry Mansion, a grand old house about the same size and age as The Oscar Swan. But at the McHenry Mansion the rooms are cordoned off and you dare not touch a thing. 
Here we reveled in touching. Each room is labeled with a small brass name plate: The Oscar Swan Room, The Betty Jean Swan Room, Oscar and Jessie Swan’s Bedroom, etc. 
I mentioned how this rambling 6,000 foot house made me think of Dickens’ Bleakhouse. Well, the literary allusions didn’t stop there. The second morning of our stay I looked out the window and was transported to Daphne DuMaurier’s Manderly, where that grand estate was preparing for the mid-summer gala party. In this case The Oscar Swan was preparing for a gala wedding with about 200 guests – gardeners sweeping walks and the setting up of the great tent – although I could watch the preparations from any distance I chose, I still felt like Nina’s special pampered houseguest.
Still another literary allusion was in store for us. Tramping over the eight acres of lush lawns and gardens a few days later, we discovered Betty Jean’s little playhouse. It was pretty much modeled after the big house. (No wonder Betty Jean talked her parents into abandoning Chicago and moving to the country!) My friend and I ducked our heads and stepped through the little doorway, back 100 years into any little girl’s paradise! 
Wall paper and small antique furniture, and sweetest of all, a fireplace with roses for flames like the fireplace in George MacDonald’s Princess and the Goblin.
Paladini Potpie 