Fifty-five Dollars

We expect periodic car breakdowns.  It’s the price we pay for owning beaters.  On the way to an appointment today we stopped for a quick rest-stop by a scenic lake, and when ready to leave, the car wouldn’t start.  The engine didn’t even sputter, let alone cough.  

We made a quick call on my cell phone and waited for a friend’s daughter to come jump the battery, but before she arrived a Good Samaritan appeared out of nowhere.  “Can I jump you?”  He was pleasant and helpful, a true servant with more than casual knowledge about cars and batteries and related issues.  But despite his efforts the engine remained mute.  The battery was only a year old; it wasn’t dead after all. 

So we switched to Plan B: towing.   For $55 the car was towed, but not for miles -  rather ½ of a city block!  I mean really, when you walk to a tow service in 2 minutes and the bright-eyed owner of the shop hops in his truck and comes to get your car in less than a minute, can he ethically charge $55??  Of course he also offered to fix the starter – the suspected problem – and we said sure, okay, since the car is already here and all.  He couldn’t get to it until tomorrow.  Well, alright.  

“And by the way, what will it cost?” we asked.

 “Well, so much for the part, and so much for labor, and….”

It added up to more than expected.  We overpaid for the tow, and we’ll overpay for the repair.  Besides, can you trust a tower to do mechanic work?  I guess we’ll find out!

But back to the $55 for such a short distance tow.  I realize a rule is a rule is a rule.  A minimum charge is a minimum charge, and I can respect that.  Every business has overhead and is entitled to necessary fee schedules.  And yet it seems to me when legislation, or in this case a business protocol, can no longer be case-specific and sensitive to an individual circumstance, we’ve slipped into a dog-eat-dog mindset.   It seems our cultural norm so often justifies pride and manipulation, and in the process loses something: compassion.

Towels and Growls

Yesterday’s grand adventure? Cleaning and organizing our deep-and-dark, black-hole-of-a-bathroom closet crammed full and piled high with STUFF.  Since this house was a lake cottage for ten years before becoming a permanent home, we’d accumulated plenty of odds-and-ends.

First I dug through everything in discovery-mode, sorting as I went, organizing all the NyQuil and Sudafed and Ricola cough drops in one box, the ace bandages and icy hot salve and knee braces in another.  Countless bottles of mostly-outdated sun lotion from SPF 4 to 8 to 15 to 30 to 45 gathered together in rows according to their numbers, and the grandkid bathtub toys and Mr. Bubble happily piled into into a couple of little pails.  Shoe polish found their place in a smaller homey-looking box, and extra sunglasses (a necessity at the lake) nestled in a cute box with a cut out front for easy access.  There.  Much better.

Then as I folded bath towels into three piles – keepers, sort-of ratty but usable ones, and threadbare rags, I sensed a slight tremor.  Yes, it was unmistakable.  My equilibrium faltered.  Was I dizzy?  Had there been a slight earthquake? 

I stopped folding momentarily, stared at my aging visage in the mirror, and wondered if I was losing my mind.  Did my balance falter while folding towels, of all things? What I really THAT OLD?  No matter.  I probably imagined it.

There.  I gently patted the tall piles of towels standing like multicolored Torre di Pisas (leaning towers of Pizza) ready to topple, and gazed at them proudly.  Surely they wouldn’t fall…no earthquake today!  I’d wanted to sort through them for months, so felt a sense of accomplishment.  Only the keepers would return the closet, and the others would find use according to their new caste assignments.  Some, the untouchables, would end up in my son’s mechanic shop.  Poor dears.

Then, no mistake, I heard a low rumble - sort of a grumble or growl.  Not trusting my hearing (I often mix up or distort auditory signals), I waited.  There it was again!  Thunder?  I checked outside.  Sunshine and blue sky greeted me. 

Then another deeper groan-and-moan, and sort of a hum. 

I decided to investigate, and walked into the living room to discover this scene outside the window:

The workmen installing our new sewer line last December had been forced to stop due to wintry weather, but yesterday were finally able to return and finish the job!  They were busily digging and clawing at the earth just a few feet from the house.

No earthquakes.  No thunderstorms.  JUST A BACKHOE! 

This morning the keeper-towels are neatly stacked in the closet, while the Torre di Pisa-towels still await their various fates:

Which One?

As part of our remodel in the kitchen, we’re switching the knobs on the cabinets.  Here are a couple of pictures showing both options, but at this point I’m not saying which is old and which is new!  Anyone want to cast a vote?

A Diary Entry

I introduced the pre-Easter season with some introspective thoughts back in the March 8^th blog, and during the last month I’ve continued to ponder two things: self-denial and giving.  These attributes require honest self-examination, openness to change and growth, and a willingness to sacrifice and serve.  They fit the season of Lent well.

A year or two ago I read the diary of a Polish woman published posthumously (I will refrain from saying any more about her at this time) that continues to influence and shape me.  Today I'm electing to share one of her entries, a beautiful prayer that expresses desires borne of an intimate relationship with her Lord.  Her words express an important cause-and-effect.  Only as she receives His mercy personally will she be able to see herself, and her involvement with others, in proper perspective – as a humble and merciful agent of His mercy and love.  This seems to reflect the spirit of Lent.

O Lord, I want to be completely transformed… to be Your living reflection. May the greatest of all divine attributes, that of Your unfathomable mercy, pass through my heart and soul to my neighbor.  

Help me, O Lord, that my eyes may be merciful, so that I may never suspect or judge from appearances, but look for what is beautiful in my neighbors' souls and come to their rescue.  

Help me, that my ears may be merciful, so that I may give heed to my neighbors' needs and not be indifferent to their pains and moanings.  

Help me, O Lord, that my tongue may be merciful, so that I should never speak negatively of my neighbor, but have a word of comfort and forgiveness for all.  

Help me, O Lord, that my hands may be merciful and filled with good deeds, so that I may do only good to my neighbors and take upon myself the more difficult and toilsome tasks.   

Help me, that my feet may be merciful, so that I may hurry to assist my neighbor, overcoming my own fatigue and weariness. My true rest is in the service of my neighbor.   

Help me, O Lord, that my heart may be merciful…May Your mercy, O Lord, rest upon me.

O my Jesus, transform me into Yourself , for you can do all things. Amen.

A "Squashy" Mountain of a Meal

(Disclaimer: My mountain analogy is a bit of a stretch here, but just think low rolling Smoky Mountains rather than sky-scraper Rockies or Cascades, and you'll be okay.)

I’ll not pretend this simple Sunday evening dinner is the ultimately perfect meal nutritionally, but it sure comes closer than some…and with the taste-bud-tantalizing-ness we all sometimes crave.  Cooked spaghetti squash piled high (hence the mountain reference), rather than carb-laden pasta, is topped with chunky red-lava-sauce made from tomatoes, wild ground venison, fresh mushrooms, extra virgin olive oil, garlic, oregano and basil.  Snowy white, freshly grated asiago cheese tops the crest of the mountain!  YUM!

Saturday Morning Errands

When you live out in the middle of the boonies like we do, errands can require a lot of running around!  That’s okay though.  The countryside is beautiful in a stepping-back-in-time sort of way, and as long as I’m not hurried I enjoy driving through the hilly terrain.  

First I visited our nearby village.  There’s not a single stoplight in this town, so that tells you how small it is.  I mailed a package at our teeny-tiny Post Office (no lines here), gassed-up the car (for a small fortune), and stopped to buy paper plates and kleenex at what we affectionately call “the mall” (actually Dollar General).

Then I drove the OTHER direction waaaay out in the deeper boonies to shop at a local country outpost – a small privately-owned store offering the best Amish rolled butter, fresh eggs, and amazingly-awesome-blue-cheese on the face of the planet.  Not to mention great service, friendly advice, and a sense of “coming home.”  The brick house and big barn that flank the store building, although unique in their own right, remind me of the farmhouse and barn we owned for so many years.  The atmosphere of the whole property – well – it’s just about as down-to-earth as you can get.

Here's a distance shot: house, store building, small barn and big barn.

Cheese, anyone?  While the blue is my favorite, all of them are good - and the prices can't be beat!

Dry beans, rice, popcorn - and various bouillons and salad dressings.

Jams and jellies, including strawberry-rhubarb and pumpkin butter!

One of my favorite aisles: bulk herbs and spices!  

A close-up of the barn:

Our egg suppliers (literally)!

Front porch of the store:

Here are a couple of calves grazing out front - in the same pasture with two donkeys, a miniature pony, and several llamas.  Notice the shaggy coat on these two?  The owner says this breed grows such a thick coat in the winter that they don't need to put on fat to stay warm - hence, leaner meat at slaughtering time!

Small Things

The older I get the more I value small things.   A stranger’s wave.  A shaft of sunlight streaming through the window. A busy chickadee flitting to and from the feeder. A  moment of utter solitude and reflection.  A neighbor’s friendly greeting. A child lost in creative play.  A silvery moon. A deer leaping gracefully  across a cornfield beside the road.  A soft breeze. A glass of iced mint tea.  A soft pillow. A spoken word of affirmation. A flamingo-pink sunset.  A surprise note in the mail.  A tart, crunchy apple.  A hug.  A discovery of something lost, but now found.

Small things can often lead to big insights.  You can tell something about the state of a person’s soul by the glint in his or her eye – or not.