tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77226136604543942162024-02-18T23:57:39.989-06:00The Interloper ArtistDonna Roberts, a mixed-media artist in the midwest, creates a diverse collection of art. Her interests run from spiritual storytelling art to faux cupcakes and fabric-covered letters cut with a scroll saw. Every day is an adventure. Come be an Interloper in the art world.Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.comBlogger113125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-39230838056259636122017-04-10T12:13:00.005-05:002017-04-10T12:13:53.652-05:00Living<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even Frankie can wait a little longer for morning...</td></tr>
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Think back.<br />
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Can you remember when you were little enough that going to sleep was your enemy?<br />
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Can you remember lying in bed, holding your breath so you could hear better, and listening to see if anyone was stirring in the house? If you could just hear someone -- anyone -- it was your green light to jump out of bed and start your day!<br />
<br />
<br />
Can you remember not being tired?<br />
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Can you remember not dreading Monday? and Tuesday?<br />
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Can you remember not wishing for this or that to just be "over and done with?"<br />
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Can you remember excitement at the thought of the future? Joy in the dawning of a new day? Opportunity in the presentation of something new?<br />
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These days, the sheer speed of our lives seems to preempt any excitement about new things.<br />
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A new day is more often than not met with "What? A week has already passed again? A month? Oh my goodness, I'm so far behind!"<br />
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Everyone is tired. Many people might not be sick but no one feels really good. Most of us dread upcoming events, even if it's something we would normally enjoy.<br />
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How often I would like to pull the covers back over my head and be finished with the day... the week... the month... before its even begun. So much effort and tedium seems to be involved in everything we do.<br />
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I changed the sign at the shop (a long time ago! Needs changed badly again!!!) to say:<br />
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<i><b>DECIDE NOW TO LOVE WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO</b></i><br />
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That was a reminder for me and my bad attitude.<br />
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I've heard repeatedly that it's been a reminder to our dear friends who come into this shop too.<br />
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Decide now.<br />
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Love what you have to do.<br />
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I didn't have room on the sign to put "anyway" although that is certainly the sentiment.<br />
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Oh, to wake in the morning and feel something besides fatigue, dread, boredom, anxiety.<br />
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Oh, to be living your life instead of just being alive.Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-43286420152474277862017-04-06T17:39:00.000-05:002017-04-06T17:39:24.954-05:00Game Playing<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ekMf_y5k1IOKt7_vm5Je9fGs0T4ByGi-SDTVQQOWan_Gk6K0zhIr6g_po8UQzk0lnMYCIxVX-wmBnq9nozim_iXCuKAO1dwLJ7eNT4G702TCKtTLDMczdUq2M_MgnUNKtVyYyBwuXMZZ/s1600/Monopoly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ekMf_y5k1IOKt7_vm5Je9fGs0T4ByGi-SDTVQQOWan_Gk6K0zhIr6g_po8UQzk0lnMYCIxVX-wmBnq9nozim_iXCuKAO1dwLJ7eNT4G702TCKtTLDMczdUq2M_MgnUNKtVyYyBwuXMZZ/s640/Monopoly.jpg" width="532" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Rolla version of Monopoly. We framed this for one of our local banks recently.</td></tr>
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My oldest grandson loves playing board games and begs everyone to play with him. He's learned the very difficult skill of being a good loser, but the harder skill to master may be the art of graciously accepting everyone else's decisions that it's time to put the games away and do something else. Micah's always crushed when game time is over and although he really doesn't pout, his disappointment is palpable.<br />
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Today it occurred to me that I have had more than my share of relationships with people who, while willing to occasionally accept defeat in the game, never really stop playing. There seems to be something that compels some people to always be sizing up a situation in order to claim a victory -- or at least something they seem to identify as a victory -- even when no one else is interested in their antics. Think Charlie Sheen and his "winning." This makes for tiresome relationships. But what do you do when you're in a long-term relationship with someone like this?<br />
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What, really, is winning in these sorts of games? Getting your way? Achieving some sort of secret vengeance that has been set as the prize? Maybe winning is staying in the midst of turmoil and keeping others from moving on without your input? Is it control? Is it having the most of whatever "more" you're wanting? Is winning merely ensuring that others lose? What in the world is winning?<br />
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When I was young I loved playing relationship games. I liked doing some unexpected thing to see what kind of response I would get and then doing something else that I would dream up almost as a dare to myself to see what would happen next. It's possible that many children and adolescents behave this way. I played these games into my early-to-mid-twenties or so then grew tired of it. People's reactions aren't really all that surprising after all. Most people just trudge along the best that they can. Watching to see how someone will cope with your craziness becomes tedious.<br />
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Sometimes it was fun though.<br />
<br />
When I was driving crazy and speeding and was inevitably pulled over, if I jumped out of the car and strutted around as a feisty nineteen year old, would I get a ticket?<br />
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When I was driving crazy and speeding and was inevitably pulled over, if I sat in the car and cried in such a way that I could barely see to retrieve my license, would I get a ticket?<br />
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When I was driving crazy and speeding and was inevitably pulled over, if I pretended I had no idea I had been going so fast but thought I had been pulled over, instead, for having a burned-out tail-light, would I get a ticket?<br />
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Looking back, things like that were incredibly stupid. I don't remember doing too many things that would have actually harmed someone, and I don't remember doing too many things that were just outright mean to others, but I imagine there was sometimes some collateral damage along the way that I was completely and utterly oblivious to.<br />
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As we move through our lives, we sometimes come to the realization that we are indeed the product of long-term collateral damage by the game players in our lives. Sometimes, its so continuous that it doesn't even occur to us how strange these ongoing situations really are. We just keep showing up and, even though we don't want to, we play the game. Everyone knows about the game. Everyone is forced to play. And no one knows how to end the game.<br />
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Sometimes my grandson will decide to repeat every word I say, despite my insistence that he knock it off.<br />
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"Stop it, Micah," I will say.<br />
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"Stop it, Micah," he will mock.<br />
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"I mean it, Micah," I say<br />
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"I mean it, Micah," he says.<br />
<br />
"Micah!"<br />
<br />
"Micah!"<br />
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Micah is playing a game and I can't make him stop.<br />
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Of course, he's a little boy and that game is right on target for a kid his age.<br />
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But what do we do when we are mocked by others in our lives in a continuous game that never ends? Mocked. Criticized. Undermined. Condemned. Taken advantage of. Lied to. Lied about. All part of their game... their lifelong game... Their lifelong strategy in their efforts to be "winning."<br />
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Maybe, like in Monopoly, we can arrange to finish the game. Maybe we begin by giving up what's yours so they can take it. You mortgage your properties one by one. You turn over your assets and stop worrying about recovering them. You give up things you might once have cared about because playing such a game for such a long time eventually steals everything of value. Any price would be worth it if you could only end the tediousness of the game. Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-61338303040136493682017-03-28T19:11:00.001-05:002017-03-28T19:11:47.963-05:00The Stink Eye<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rhoda, sporting a scarf around her head similar to those my Grandmother used to wear, communicates her disapproval and displeasure...</td></tr>
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One of my granddaughters, Rhoda, has a look about her that is hauntingly reminiscent of my late Grandmother. With Grandma, that look likely meant she was listening intently on the multiple-party telephone line to see who was telling who what and she urgently needed me to be still so she could hear. With our Rhoda, that look doesn't seem to imply intense concentration. Sadly, it simply translates into a big old Stink Eye.<br />
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Rhoda likes to object to things. Her dear mother tells me various reasons for Rhoda's displeasure and while I love being an agreeable sort, I sometimes respond with contrary opinions and point out that Rhoda is pretty bratty. Once Rhoda's five-year-old brother interjected his opinion into one of those conversations and he had concluded that Rhoda was "SPOILT" (t-and all).<br />
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Yesterday, Alicia brought three of her four children to Rolla and they stayed at the shop with me for several wonderful hours. The kids were incredibly good (even Rho-Rho) and played like troopers while Alicia and I worked on one past-due project after another. Rhoda discovered some Christmas decorations that hadn't been properly stored and entertained herself with all the shiny little baubles.<br />
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"Whatcha got there Rho-Rho?" I would say.<br />
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Rhoda would look suspiciously at me, not offering for a second to show me her prize, but instead she seemed to be concentrating with all her might in keeping a level Stink Eye on me. As the day went by, though she faltered more and more. For each time I queried, "Whatcha got there Rho-Rho?", she would turn to me and purse her lips together in a little line to keep herself from breaking into a smile. Sometimes, before she could squelch it, a toothy grin would briefly erupt.<br />
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With so many grand kids and less time now than ever to spend with them, I haven't gotten to know Rhoda the same way I did the older grandchildren. It's a sad thing for me in a lot of ways but life has to be lived right where you are when it comes along and it just is what it is. But I wonder with Rhoda what our relationship will one day be. Will she always be reserved? Will she always reign it in when we are together? Will I never know her as well as I do the older kids?<br />
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Interpersonal relationships are often mystifying and exhausting. They are also the only thing in life that really has any value. Being a friendly introvert, I am often mistaken by casual friends or coworkers as an outgoing person but really, I'd almost always rather stay home in the easy company of my family than venture into any social setting at all. <br />
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When I see Rhoda and her Stink Eye, I actually think I understand her and although I like to tease Alicia about her little brat, I don't think that really has too much to do with her disposition.<br />
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I've mentioned to Alicia before that it would just feel wonderful to be able to just squall out in a big old loud holler anytime you felt like it like little children do. All of life would be better. And I think maybe this is the same with the Stink Eye. Wouldn't it be wonderful just to pout all up in a big old ugly face anytime you felt like it like little children do? All of life would be better.<br />
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But speaking your mind and grumbling at others at any and every provocation... Immediately showing your displeasure and letting others know your petty opinion by giving snotty looks to people... These are not the behaviors we are called to live.<br />
<br />
My precious little Grandmother that Rhoda resembles so often had a goodness and kindness in her that shone through every action she took and every word she ever said to me. She was gentle, loving, patient, generous and had all the time in the world for the ones she loved. She didn't think or speak ill of others. She didn't boast about herself and wasn't prideful or haughty. She quietly and day-by-day manifested the fruit of the Spirit.<br />
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My precious little introverted Rhoda Raindrop. She has a goodness and kindness in her that will shine through every action she takes and every word she ever says to me. She will be gentle, loving, patient, generous and have all the time in the world for the ones she loves. She will not think or speak ill of others. She will not boast about herself or be prideful or haughty. She will quietly and day-by-day manifest the fruit of the Spirit.<br />
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She might not do all these things today. Or this week or this year. She might not outgrow that Stink Eye until she's twenty-five and learns through heartbreak that you don't look at people in a mean way. She might not outgrow being SPOILT until she's forty and learns that having your own way is really something only the lonely and the lost think they want.<br />
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But she will be all these things and more-more-more. We have that Promise.<br />
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This is a a child who is loved. She is protected and defended by prayer. Her life is being built on a solid foundation that can withstand every storm.<br />
<br />
What a faithful God who gives us such promises and hope. With them, we <i>are </i>able to laugh at The Stink Eye, and at all of the days to come, knowing that there will be plenty of time for all of us to grow into the beautiful works of art that God knew we would be before He even spoke the world into existence.<br />
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And also,there will plenty of time to really get to know my Rhoda Raindrop. All of eternity, as a matter of fact.<br />
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<i>"Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it." Proverbs 22:6</i>Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-12256815760208960952017-02-23T18:14:00.002-06:002017-02-23T18:23:11.310-06:00Donnarella<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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In the back room at The Frame Shop where I spend the majority of my day at work, I decorated the walls with a collection of Scott Gustafson's fairy tale prints much to the chagrin of the other girls. They are way too young for someone my age. I need to pretend they are for my granddaughters. But no. They are mine. And I love them.</div>
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One of them (above) features Cinderella doing all the work while the birds come and visit her. I once imagined I could be like her. You know. Me, doing all the work and being real pitiful in my martyrdom. And some beautiful birds, inspired by my humility, coming to help me and stuff. And then, one day, BAM! I was indeed like her. Well, I was my sorry-self version of her.</div>
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<i><b>Once Upon a Time in a Far Away Land, </b></i>on a snowy day, while I was feeling sorry for myself at work, I lamented that if I was home, at least there would be something decent to look at out the window.</div>
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Within an hour or two, Dave Roberts, husband-who-likes-me-to-be-at-work, had bought no less than 100 pounds of bird seed and a big metal can to keep it in, as well as a couple feeders. I clapped my hands in delight and spun around the room to soaring music as the sun streamed purple and red from behind a white cloud shaped like a heart. </div>
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After that, the next thing I did was go out there in that snow and rig up this complicated mess for the smaller feeder to hang directly outside the window above the work-table where I spend most of my time. I invented what I thought was a spectacularly clever pulley system so my feeder could easily be lowered every single day to refill it because I was just sure I would have a million a birds.</div>
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Two or three weeks went by and I was still doing every single bit of the work and still waiting for a bird or two to show up.<br />
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One evening, I showed my bird-watching setup to my dear friend Mark Long. Mark is an exceptionally handsome and polite man who fits right in to my fairy tale, so when he said, "Oh. You want to see them really close, don't you?" I looked up at him and we both burst out laughing. Yes. I had interpreted him correctly.<br />
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The next day I bought a shepherd's hook and moved my bird feeders about a dozen feet into the yard past the window. Within a few days after that, the birds began to arrive. So did the squirrels.<br />
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During the day the birds would eat politely while the squirrels and I developed an increasingly hostile relationship. I'd bang on that window and carry on as long as no one was in the shop, but those squirrels couldn't be routed. I was acting a fool running off squirrels all day... well, running them off a few yards... but each night they would climb that shepherd pole and empty all my feeders. My 100 pounds of bird feed was disappearing quickly.<br />
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After our 17-year-old wiener dog, Lucy, passed away in the fall of the same year we put out the feeders, our other wiener dog, Frankie, was so lonely that he started coming to work with me each day. As soon as his new companion was ready to come home with us, we started bringing both dogs to work with us.<br />
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This new dog, The Wheeler Byrd, was a wonderful thing. He and Frankie would patrol our back yard here at the shop and keep those squirrels on the run. Our birds didn't mind them much (although the doves who feed on the ground didn't care for them). It was a great system.<br />
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Then, when The Byrd was about six months old, I saw him out in the yard with something in his mouth. I ran out to see what he'd gotten. Save us all, it was a bunny rabbit. Later he killed a snake. And after that, another snake.<br />
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The Byrd was a killer.<br />
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I sense that my fairy tale has derailed. And for the life of me, I can find no moral in this story. <br />
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But that's how our tales seems to go. We think we're going in one direction, only to find we're way way way down the road someplace we never even wanted to go.<br />
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When I was a little girl, I loved so much all the fairy tales in our collection of Childcraft books. I wanted mostly to be Sleeping Beauty, but even then I understood that that wouldn't be possible for the likes of me. Goldilocks was probably a more likely scenario or maybe even Little Red Riding Hood.<br />
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All these decades later... do we really change that much? Don't we still want adventure with safety? Don't we still want goodness to be rewarded and recognized and evil to be either repented of or soundly defeated?<br />
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Oh, the grandeur of our dreams when we are young.<br />
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And oh, the grandeur of our dreams when we are old.<br />
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And oh! For handsome princes who stick around and grow old with us and small little wiener dogs who pull us around by their leashes instead of beautiful white stallions who pull us in a chariot... isn't it a wonderful, magical, beautiful and mysterious world? And oh! For those roads we didn't intend to go down... didn't even know about... what a journey, a magnificent and fabulous journey filled with wonder and awe, prepared for each and every one of us in advance by a loving Father who has his eye even on the sparrow.<br />
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<i>"See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!" 1 John 3:1a</i><br />
<br />Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-40077511772108704032016-08-12T13:31:00.001-05:002016-08-12T13:38:12.491-05:00The Criminal Treatment<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A REAL criminal sketch from local media -- bet this guy was recognized immediately!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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A few years ago, the picture above actually ran on local media to help the public identify and capture a desperate criminal. While I freely admit that I never saw who was ultimately fingered as a result of this artist's rendition (maybe he looked exactly like this -- who could say?), I still like to fetch it and take a look at it sometimes as it never fails to make me burst into laughter.<br />
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It can be funny to see someone who is incompetent in their work, especially when what they are doing becomes a public spectacle like this poor slob's artwork. <br />
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Incompetence on the job can be funny. Although, really that's not true, because it's not too funny when it's impacting you on a regular basis. Sometimes incompetent people are a little passive-aggressive -- just incompetent enough for everyone else to have to pitch in and carry their load. That's not only tiresome, it's boring.<br />
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For the criminal above, I hope he didn't do anything too serious and I also hope he's now paid his debt to society and is as free as a bird. My ultimate secret hope for him is this: one day a meek and mild shifty-eyed man will come into the shop... I'll be a little leery of him and wonder if I should mace him, but I won't of course, because my wiener dogs will like him and he'll be carrying a newspaper article that looks like something he wants to frame. He'll say, "how much to frame this, ma'am?" I'll look at this newspaper and a big smile will form on my wary fat face. "Not less than a hundred dollars," I'll announce loudly. He'll say, "Let's do it." And I'll frame up his portrait as fine as anything I've ever done... this yellowed rendering from The Rolla Daily News that has been my special funny treasure for years. He'll give me a fake name: "Joseph Bloseph." And I'll say, "Is this picture of you, Joseph?" He will say, "No, ma'am," but his ears will be all small and his jaw will be all square and his mouth will be all tight and his bangs will be all perfect and his eyes will be all shifty and I'll be in on his secret. From that day on, he and I will be best of friends.<br />
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Me and my friend Joseph Bloseph.<br />
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Yes. We all have our secret dreams, don't we? Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-72815135228966277352016-07-25T15:39:00.003-05:002016-07-25T15:43:10.152-05:00Fifteen Years Ago (FYA) and NOW<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZFu3WlaluvaaQLSy8Hz1jYTdpiXKbBXvgE9OGdCMK2FRJD1qmWtiUJLLlYPLvuO2lrziMY9GvFYFYceXIfBlLtuk2cS7m6GQ_-khZxEsjaQJ4Rl1QF41Huk4wJF3vjaMDRWimfQ-agwOK/s1600/then-now01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZFu3WlaluvaaQLSy8Hz1jYTdpiXKbBXvgE9OGdCMK2FRJD1qmWtiUJLLlYPLvuO2lrziMY9GvFYFYceXIfBlLtuk2cS7m6GQ_-khZxEsjaQJ4Rl1QF41Huk4wJF3vjaMDRWimfQ-agwOK/s400/then-now01.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdBr4xYNJM38ChHnZIBTTTA4AfJANNGeOmRuHOvL2qAPi3thLVBw1mpd-SwmqdsqNDVbqixOJjc-SCxcfg7sn-ilXN-XLHGIECWRZsqs3clL66M8ZZ4MaXutS9mK1EoniFscuUmgpaHEPj/s1600/then-now.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdBr4xYNJM38ChHnZIBTTTA4AfJANNGeOmRuHOvL2qAPi3thLVBw1mpd-SwmqdsqNDVbqixOJjc-SCxcfg7sn-ilXN-XLHGIECWRZsqs3clL66M8ZZ4MaXutS9mK1EoniFscuUmgpaHEPj/s400/then-now.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left: Fifteen years ago when we first came to The Frame Shop and Right: Today.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<ol>
<li>Fifteen Years Ago (FYA): In our thirties. <br />NOW: Can't remember our thirties.</li>
<li>FYA: 9/11 can't be imagined. <br />NOW: Imagining life in America without 9/11 -- how sad the permanent losses of freedom and innocence and hope.</li>
<li>FYA: Raising teenage daughters. <br />NOW: Raving about eight magnificent grandchildren.</li>
<li>FYA: Snickers, our mighty Australian Shepherd, still patrols Veto Road. <br />NOW: Stray cats of all sorts patrol Veto Road and Snickers bosses lesser dogs (which is almost all dogs) in Heaven.</li>
<li>FYA: A new Grand Prix. <br />NOW: That new Grand Prix has almost 300,000 miles.</li>
<li>FYA: All our precious parents are living. <br />NOW: Only our precious mothers are living.</li>
<li>FYA: I can do flips on the trampoline. <br />NOW: Trampoline is broken. Me too.</li>
<li>FYA: New to wiener dogs, our Lucy is still sort of a puppy. <br />NOW: Lucy follows Snickers around in Heaven while, down here on earth, Frankie is almost twelve and The Wheeler Byrd is our new puppy. </li>
<li>FYA: Looking for a property to one day move The Frame Shop into. <br />NOW: Working in that spectacular new Frame Shop location.</li>
<li>FYA: New to frame-making. <br />NOW: Thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands-upon-thousands of our frames hang in homes and businesses throughout the Midwest.</li>
<li>FYA: Dave Roberts works full-time at <i>The Rolla Daily News </i>and full-time at The Frame Shop.<br /> NOW: Dave Roberts works full-time at <i>The Rolla Daily News </i>and full-time at The Frame Shop. </li>
<li>FYA: Find looking into the future a decade from now to be impossible. <br />NOW: Find looking into the future a decade from now to be impossible. </li>
</ol>
Love to all and thank you for the last fifteen years. See you soon. Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-54769196500691397942016-07-12T18:20:00.000-05:002016-07-12T18:26:53.825-05:00"I told you so."<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh34l3igg1dCR0oBar9K6NWKwVFzcQTNKrvS82xJ8dY2TQado9fT94c_59BTn1ZET_Kr3R68HfzDh8tiTuHBY1p64govpR8KPsoibis0CKQlaGnbgAVo2Kgy30LqSrU5RBXF2R2bG953Tl/s1600/IMG_6181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh34l3igg1dCR0oBar9K6NWKwVFzcQTNKrvS82xJ8dY2TQado9fT94c_59BTn1ZET_Kr3R68HfzDh8tiTuHBY1p64govpR8KPsoibis0CKQlaGnbgAVo2Kgy30LqSrU5RBXF2R2bG953Tl/s640/IMG_6181.JPG" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep. This is the life of your local custom framer! Husband Dave and I have been framing together for fifteen years.</td></tr>
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After 34 years together (and fifteen years working together at The Frame Shop), my husband, Dave, doesn't offer much of an opinion once I've decided to do something. He was a boy when I married him right out of high school and it's not an exaggeration to realize that we grew into adulthood together instead of coming together as adults. I learned decades ago that he's not normally going to chime in his approval for any of my big ideas. He also doesn't criticize. Most difficult of all, he also doesn't say, "I told you so." As I believe he actually loves to utter those words when given any opportunity at all, I have to say, I appreciate his restraint.<br />
<br />
Over these hundreds of years that we've been together, I have tried zillions of things. Coming up with some big idea is the most wonderful thing to do in this world. Beginning on a new brilliant project is also one of the greatest things in life. Getting just far enough into it that you realize it's way more complicated and difficult than you ever dreamed... well, that isn't quite so thrilling.<br />
<br />
That's when a person who knew all along that another person would flop at whatever she was trying to do would delight in pointing out the obvious by lifting a brow and sniffling a well-timed: "well, I tried to tell you but you wouldn't listen."<br />
<br />
Recently, I dragged old Dave Roberts on a few hours drive to go pick up an ancient piece of framing equipment from a shop that was going out of business because I wanted to be able to easily cut oval glass. Our investment was merely fifty bucks for this old dinosaur-cutter but I knew it would be an awesome gadget to have. Good custom frame shops have a lot of gadgets because we do everything ourselves. So, even though we rarely-rarely-rarely frame with ovals (ovals go in-and-out of vogue... so they'll come back around...) I know I'll eventually think we were clever for getting this equipment on the cheap.<br />
<br />
We dragged this old cutter home to the shop and I cleaned it, set it up, then started cutting. The mats cut easily enough on it (though I still have to go in and tighten it up and calibrate the settings), but alas, it doesn't have the glass-cutting head.<br />
<br />
"I can cut it just as easily by hand," said Dave Roberts when I told him what I'd discovered.<br />
<br />
"I know you can," I said. "But I wanted to do it on this cutter."<br />
<br />
This is when he should have said, "Well, I told you we didn't need it."<br />
<br />
But you see, he didn't say anything of the sort. Instead, he said, "You said you could get parts for it. Keep looking for the part. You'll find it."<br />
<br />
And then he said something else that encompasses most of our life experiences. He said, "We've wasted a lot more than fifty bucks on things that didn't work."<br />
<br />
Having a small business is hard in almost every way. You have to have nerves of steel (which I do not have), you have to juggle dozens of priorities (which I don't know how to do), you have to know how to do everything passably well (which who knows how to do everything or even wants to do everything?), you have to weather good- and terrible-times (and in the last decade there have been more than enough terrible-times for small businesses), and you have to never give up (which I dearly love to do).<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBX7Mx74FJPId8dhHU3AyxlUzZ8PJKvYRfJPVfIePOdPzbtvYNyL7EfQQKVx_NgJj8mqycm7_U-aunQwPqWPhbNfUEzOrxJUkr8F7MWHg49BcCFZ8IQp04FeuS2telgEJI1XxL9753XIC/s1600/IMG_1891.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBX7Mx74FJPId8dhHU3AyxlUzZ8PJKvYRfJPVfIePOdPzbtvYNyL7EfQQKVx_NgJj8mqycm7_U-aunQwPqWPhbNfUEzOrxJUkr8F7MWHg49BcCFZ8IQp04FeuS2telgEJI1XxL9753XIC/s400/IMG_1891.JPG" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's Dave, delighted to see me, as always.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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This afternoon, after I showed him my latest big deal I'm making for the gallery ceiling, I watched while Dave Roberts quietly puttied several frames so I could fit them and get them out the door. It's a job I can do, but hate. So he does it. This week (and it's only Tuesday), while I piddled around figuring out how to use that oval-cutter and how to design my big fantastic idea for the gallery ceiling, he's also:<br />
<br />
mowed the yard<br />
<br />
emptied all my trash and taken the dumpsters to the curb and back again<br />
<br />
brought me lunch every day<br />
<br />
put away all the new mouldings<br />
<br />
cut frames<br />
<br />
cut glass<br />
<br />
helped the Larson driver unload the truck<br />
<br />
helped me relocate the crazy oval-cutter I bought<br />
<br />
continued trenching a huge perimeter around our back-yard so we can bury an invisible fence that will allow our wiener dogs to return to the shop (our puppy keeps getting out even though we have a fence in the back and so we are adding another barrier)...<br />
<br />
Each evening when I leave work (unless I'm mad at him for some reason) I call and ask what he's doing. He's always working at his real job and it's not usually a convenient time for me to call. After I ask when he's getting home I always ask him this, "What can I eat for supper?" And he tells me what we have or that he will be home in time to fix something.<br />
<br />
Isn't it strange, isn't it strange, isn't it strange... our lives become so co-mingled over our lifetimes. How often I know this man would love to say, "Good grief! What were you thinking?" or more likely, "Good night! What in the world are you doing now?" Or best of all, "I told you that wouldn't work!" But instead, he does all the things a man does and lives in a quiet and fine way while I carry on to him about whatever great big harebrained thing I've dreamed up at any given time.<br />
<br />
So isn't it strange? <br />
<br />
And you know what?<br />
<br />
For those who thought we were too young, too immature, too poor, too silly to make it all those decades ago: YOU WERE RIGHT! But, with God's help, we have. And, well, I told you so.Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-401442867331801042015-10-21T17:21:00.000-05:002015-10-21T17:31:32.185-05:00Frankie and The Wheeler Byrd<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDH9YMS5x1maNiq02lJOOSChM1FUYSpN7cB6JIJCBkqfGYw7GD0mYMqP-hpBPZLjG8fPZvQIxXi19Nd87w7Hvp507W8-ZkwU2mKEiBxU8YiBry7UtJ8KuDo8DT_tr8o9yDVxhtgqBEguj9/s1600/Wheeler03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDH9YMS5x1maNiq02lJOOSChM1FUYSpN7cB6JIJCBkqfGYw7GD0mYMqP-hpBPZLjG8fPZvQIxXi19Nd87w7Hvp507W8-ZkwU2mKEiBxU8YiBry7UtJ8KuDo8DT_tr8o9yDVxhtgqBEguj9/s320/Wheeler03.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Wheeler Byrd</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
My daughter Alicia and I visited this awesome shop in Joplin this past weekend and as we browsed through the magnificent displays we noticed that someone had left a door open to a small utility room. I stopped immediately, no longer interested in any of the beautiful wares they were selling, but instead found myself snooping as unobtrusively as I could at what lay behind that open door. I didn't go in, of course, but both Alicia and I peeked inside. There was a ridiculously big water heater and a few plastic shelves with odds-and-ends cleaning supplies. That's all. Why, we asked one another, was that so interesting?</div>
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I don't know the answer. But I've been a snooper of private places in stores anytime I've had the chance since I was a little girl. Back then, people bought their groceries at either Kroger or Hillcrest Big Star. Today, decades and decades later, I can perfectly visualize their stock rooms because you had to go through them to access the bathrooms. As a kid, I thought those areas were fascinating. I liked running as quickly and silently as I could on the sleek concrete floors in those long cool stock rooms and exiting out a different door than the one I had entered. I was never caught... or more likely, no one really cared what I was doing... but I felt adventurous and wild and free back there in that forbidden place.</div>
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These days, here at The Frame Shop, we have more space as private work area than we have as gallery. It just seems to me that it takes a dadgum lot of space to make a frame -- but I love it so much. Now that we've moved to our own little building our work space is pretty personal and organized to how we like to work and to what we like to do. </div>
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The back room where I spend a lot of my time is decorated with green walls and pink curtains, magnificently framed fairy tale book pages, a rocker-lounger (for when I'm near death but still have to work!), a little television for my grandchildren, and two little dog beds.</div>
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</div>
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Yes. Two little dog beds.</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Frankie and Lucy, my little wiener dogs, have come to work with me at various times for several years and while Lucy always behaved better than Frankie, she finally became so frail and disoriented that she couldn't come anymore. We lost our little Lucy a month-and-a-half ago at age 16 years and 9 months. She was beloved and is dearly missed.</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
After we lost Lucy, our Frankie was really distressed and sad. We decided he should just come to work with me every day and he did. His behavior while he was at work was fairly good (although he really likes to bark at the neighborhood -- I'm so sorry, dear neighbors) and he would be pretty happy all day, but as soon as we'd get home, his ears would go flat and he would be sad again. He missed Lucy.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnQZSOhcnrY1g0vhet46n6-akYHeh8opPn5PT7ChafGvo7f5ABVtSMYDAuENM1wNYJsReyjw-DkOCVzplDWB8YCbK-cxvOl0hG0snP6cr-BRgv_jJ-8ieHhZpQguAqaXBdTJD_EAlOEyMm/s1600/Wheeler02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnQZSOhcnrY1g0vhet46n6-akYHeh8opPn5PT7ChafGvo7f5ABVtSMYDAuENM1wNYJsReyjw-DkOCVzplDWB8YCbK-cxvOl0hG0snP6cr-BRgv_jJ-8ieHhZpQguAqaXBdTJD_EAlOEyMm/s400/Wheeler02.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wheeler, interrupting work (again)</td></tr>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So here came The Wheeler Byrd. </div>
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And what is The Wheeler Byrd, you might ask?</div>
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</div>
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This is The Wheeler Byrd.</div>
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He's just a little past six weeks and he is Frankie's new wiener dog puppy.</div>
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Now, bringing The Wheeler Byrd to work everyday along with Frankie has been an adventure. He's really little but I can already tell he's going to be a porker if something doesn't change. This wiener dog eats, runs all over the back yard chasing Frankie as he makes his rounds and searches for squirrels and rabbits, then he collapses alongside Frankie into their little beds where they sleep like there's no tomorrow. An hour or so later, they repeat the cycle.</div>
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Frankie has his morning routine down so well that when I leave for work at The Frame Shop now it's really difficult to leave the house without him. He is excellent company, but this Wheeler Byrd...</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
When I got Lucy all those hundreds of years ago, I was still working at Rolla Public Schools as the Board Secretary. Sometimes, after a board meeting, I would stay home the following day in order to complete the minutes from the meeting in as timely a manner as possible. I would sit at our old wooden school teacher's desk and write but before I ever started, I would prop up the girls' bean bag chairs one on top of the other then lift Lucy into the little trough they formed, right beside me. She would snooze there. Excellent, excellent company.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZdcIsd7eeHaMozOYrrOsno_FgKLpPu_nqnFWuXWFwxbMGo34C_fMMLo5QR5JFHQgDish1D0t2XL9FxrKnDfuLCLsB1WU9ivhzl9jVtkGnQAh52jp7JshWj2abHBjl71suRqcs3jT5fDmr/s1600/Wheeler01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZdcIsd7eeHaMozOYrrOsno_FgKLpPu_nqnFWuXWFwxbMGo34C_fMMLo5QR5JFHQgDish1D0t2XL9FxrKnDfuLCLsB1WU9ivhzl9jVtkGnQAh52jp7JshWj2abHBjl71suRqcs3jT5fDmr/s400/Wheeler01.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Wheeler Byrd doing wiener dog work</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
We see all kinds of people in this little shop. Sometimes they are lonely. Sometimes they are stressed beyond what they can bear up under. Sometimes they are filled with worry about many things. Sometimes they are bringing things for me to frame that is a wound to their hearts because they have endured unimaginable loss.</div>
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Of course, having a little dog as a companion doesn't solve any of their problems. But when these customers leave, I sometimes come to this back room and see Frankie and Wheeler doing whatever doggy-things they are doing and I think maybe they know something we haven't learned. </div>
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Although they may feel sad sometimes like Frankie did at the loss of his companion, Lucy... and although I know they feel afraid sometimes like Wheeler does when he hears someone operate a chainsaw or I shatter a piece of old glass so it will fit into the trash bin... and although I know they feel stressed sometimes (like when I'm eating a bologna sandwich and not giving any to them)... they also know how to recover and live in the moment. I don't know how to do that. When I can't get my work done, I worry and sometimes can't even figure out what I need to do first because I'm too busy acting like a fool because I have too much to do. If I encounter someone who is a little rude or terse, I can't stop thinking about it and sort of -- and this doesn't even make sense -- worrying about it. Why am I dumber than a dog?</div>
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These little wiener dogs are innocent, I suppose. Although I don't know that humans will ever be restored to an innocent state as Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Eden (I'm thinking that ship sailed and we can't undo the partaking of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil), I believe God will make all things new and relieve us of the anxiety, worry, care, stress and sadness that plagues this life. While our precious little animals still have to endure these emotions because they do live in this fallen world with us, they are still innocent and so they aren't tormented by these emotions like we are.</div>
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I think we weren't really designed to live like this or in this type of day-in and day-out stressful world. We were designed to be awesome in an awesome place. But until then, I would recommend everyone consider getting their own versions of a Frankie and a Wheeler Byrd. Because it gives a person perspective. It gives a person laughter. It gives a person a really cool looking dog. And most of all, it gives a person hope.</div>
<br />Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-77545459598343284192015-05-09T10:04:00.001-05:002015-05-09T10:04:02.071-05:00Old, Hard, Stiff, Uncompromising Clay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9IXz3UsohTEjWkhwPTIOgkYjCIuCcxPH1SQJFkUH2VwPU_sjGP4Obf-r3EHP1E2ednuH7525Nr7-pfAF_zGxhsmDSTAulgQSyORuK2Uf1umw_5Ws1nUaJIMsEX10PAMBPew5t51WaMRio/s1600/Wings01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9IXz3UsohTEjWkhwPTIOgkYjCIuCcxPH1SQJFkUH2VwPU_sjGP4Obf-r3EHP1E2ednuH7525Nr7-pfAF_zGxhsmDSTAulgQSyORuK2Uf1umw_5Ws1nUaJIMsEX10PAMBPew5t51WaMRio/s400/Wings01.jpg" width="308" /></a></div>
Late in the afternoon on Thursday of this week, we were still so covered up in projects at the shop that I was just an overwhelmed wreck. So, with a less than stellar attitude, I made an abrupt decision that there wasn't enough time left in the day to either finish a project or begin a new one. After tidying the fit table I opened the closet (where precious Martha has graciously organized row after row of supplies) and after a few indecisive moments, pulled out some clay.<br />
<br />
But that stupid shameless clay... it was old and harder than granite. The last time it had been used was when my daughter Ashley made a rabbit and gave it to my Father -- probably six or seven years ago. And naturally, all my clay tools and the mechanical roller used for kneading were at home...<br />
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So, with no tools except two rough and cut-up hands I started smashing and crushing that clay. It crumbled. I rolled it and squished it with a tiny wooden dowel rod. It stayed as hard as ever. I took an old Altoid box and clobbered it over and over and over and over. It became too thin in some areas while still rock hard in others and it stuck to the marble I was using as a work surface. I got mad at it and threw it at the floor but it just rolled around picking up dust. Finally, since it wouldn't relax and soften, I plied some of it apart and began working on it in sections. I rolled it. Tweaked it. Patted it. Pulled it. Stretched it. Tiny part by tiny part. And it softened. It yielded.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh77jTJP5P5tQD9oYkTOFSNyKXcNC7TXxBzUFx_5i75Yrj4-dAWa4tHZUj3iUzwond9aTAkqePDCk2g5_PI1VzZk1f-0IWQ714Nn17KZe5ahwlJkf8v2gBwgLqk7nTabObMmYTDYWVxyCiy/s1600/Wings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh77jTJP5P5tQD9oYkTOFSNyKXcNC7TXxBzUFx_5i75Yrj4-dAWa4tHZUj3iUzwond9aTAkqePDCk2g5_PI1VzZk1f-0IWQ714Nn17KZe5ahwlJkf8v2gBwgLqk7nTabObMmYTDYWVxyCiy/s400/Wings.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Oh my goodness. With it ripped into small and manageable sections, pretty quickly it was ready and I could put it all together into one lump and work it. What had been as hard as a rock was now pliable and easy to knead.<br />
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These little wings were fashioned in just a few minutes. What took the time was the preparation of the clay. Once it was ready for use, forming the tiny wings and laying out how they were to be sculpted was so simple. The work was in the preparation, not the sculpting.<br />
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Old. Hard. Stiff. Uncompromising.<br />
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All ripped and torn and crushed and smashed and dropped and then kneaded back together soft and useful.<br />
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Then quickly fashioned in the way I knew they'd be before I even retrieved the clay from the cabinet. So easy once the clay was willing.<br />
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Oh, to be willing clay. Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-10377154964423535472015-01-28T21:26:00.002-06:002015-01-28T21:26:42.992-06:00All Kinds of Paperwork<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBRJVkClOt7lz1ltnIbb_2etna8_eEBiXBQzAvgcQv_TGmv2QcHNsm73Rx3mgMDvWdXrq6S67TZG9oyuvtAWvfep3X7KMjZa-yiR3N3FfSOyXGu4Tp4gTYhPiccJfZWCdGYT6kMqVK5oMU/s1600/IMG_4073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBRJVkClOt7lz1ltnIbb_2etna8_eEBiXBQzAvgcQv_TGmv2QcHNsm73Rx3mgMDvWdXrq6S67TZG9oyuvtAWvfep3X7KMjZa-yiR3N3FfSOyXGu4Tp4gTYhPiccJfZWCdGYT6kMqVK5oMU/s1600/IMG_4073.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
Paperwork.<br />
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Today was spent doing all kinds of paperwork that didn't involve artistic creativity in any way. The paperwork consisted of tax reporting and W2 forms and bank ledgers and invoices and then reworking our embarrassingly out of date website.<br />
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After gathering what was needed and moving from my disaster-of-a-desk in the office at the shop, I moved into the back workroom. On that large and spotless table (normally used for fitting projects) I had plenty of space for two laptops as well as all the stacks of papers I needed. At the end of the day, everything was more-or-less finished, but the entire landscape looked like an elementary student's desk. Geez.<br />
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I did paperwork of that sort and similar other tasks for almost two decades when I worked as a secretary years ago. I used to write the minutes of Board meetings and before that I kept track of how millions of dollars were spent dollar-by-dollar for the city department I worked for... and I was happy enough in those jobs. But these days, the only paperwork I really want to do is paperwork involving painting and cutting and pasting.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jQYTU9z6ZPYdKN3bKjSF4HS10TiE7nSrG4Jl_tEjXSLVqubTUCtAyLAy_puAhtyBk4BI4VS3A8ZDRsFkVKMh471GNXBR9J00ERIPZKtbHRyJpo1q9JUtDSznQRnBCKT8bCnAbaF3PTfw/s1600/IMG_4088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jQYTU9z6ZPYdKN3bKjSF4HS10TiE7nSrG4Jl_tEjXSLVqubTUCtAyLAy_puAhtyBk4BI4VS3A8ZDRsFkVKMh471GNXBR9J00ERIPZKtbHRyJpo1q9JUtDSznQRnBCKT8bCnAbaF3PTfw/s1600/IMG_4088.JPG" height="149" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A few of the "wings" centerpieces. </span></td></tr>
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This past fall, my major paperwork consisted of creating several small and one large three-dimensional "wings" sculptures to be used as centerpieces on tables for a group one of my daughter's is involved with. After those were completed, I thought it had been successful enough to begin a more challenging wings project and decided to create a set that is over five feet tall and sturdy. I got a fairly reasonable start on them, but then the shop got too busy for me to devote any time on them.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUJaarDMFm2Gv7nkEGB2fT2-WOrWSI2zvwp_b1csEbpUSzochR7PtseLeoyvBh6TyZgSAjoLadPNJBK9UsHryDdG_uwL3AyhpnF4PWsStNZDQt0R0vR3Y975lnowJq5T3dv-5WpwuGZMX/s1600/IMG_4102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUJaarDMFm2Gv7nkEGB2fT2-WOrWSI2zvwp_b1csEbpUSzochR7PtseLeoyvBh6TyZgSAjoLadPNJBK9UsHryDdG_uwL3AyhpnF4PWsStNZDQt0R0vR3Y975lnowJq5T3dv-5WpwuGZMX/s1600/IMG_4102.JPG" height="148" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of the small "wings" centerpieces.</span></td></tr>
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It's incredibly challenging to take up an abandoned project -- and the reason for that abandonment makes no difference. It seems there's always something new I'm wanting to do (and probably never finish either.) It's one of the worst traits many artsy-fartsy people share. We are super at starting. We are frail at finishing. It's a terribly immature, destructive, wasteful and lazy trait.<br />
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This spring, we'll see how lazy and immature and wasteful I am... oh, how I hate being accountable! But my daughter Alicia... she'll be asking about them. God bless Alicia. God bless all her pointed little comments to her beloved Mother-Sweet-Mother!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjuPK0aFoIanFWSuSs88UyKrhRLkvn3eONMg7UGROy6wlY6e1yRr3IwmvNU4JQAHiFQ4jC-mlx3BqjZ2RF454Mz_7ISWj4UQHmvBslLo88uiGZYpSSvkp193xj0SAfcVjA00udoumXUvAW/s1600/IMG_4188.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjuPK0aFoIanFWSuSs88UyKrhRLkvn3eONMg7UGROy6wlY6e1yRr3IwmvNU4JQAHiFQ4jC-mlx3BqjZ2RF454Mz_7ISWj4UQHmvBslLo88uiGZYpSSvkp193xj0SAfcVjA00udoumXUvAW/s1600/IMG_4188.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;">I started by cutting out the basic shape of the wings and sanding each piece. I've been trying to improve on my poor circular saw skills. My dad used to tell me that I was going to cut off a leg because I was careless and didn't use good judgement about how I set up a cut. To combat this proclivity for recklessness, I've tried to behave slightly more like a human instead of a monkey when I'm cutting. But I still love power tools so much it's hard for me to settle down and behave.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2TWoqqATlvLwMZ5TmUddOXqd68uqgUByYyc7hatDpRfMRxMYrFaS3UVLnvpqOPhrgC-v9yvUeKK1-NNl7wlcFf2jGsVAPmRPNynqi7KHjewCd4bBc2BKopFB93Nm5dLdaH9ATkMFECqF/s1600/IMG_4182.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2TWoqqATlvLwMZ5TmUddOXqd68uqgUByYyc7hatDpRfMRxMYrFaS3UVLnvpqOPhrgC-v9yvUeKK1-NNl7wlcFf2jGsVAPmRPNynqi7KHjewCd4bBc2BKopFB93Nm5dLdaH9ATkMFECqF/s1600/IMG_4182.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;">After the boards were cut, it was on to figuring out how they would actually look. Unfortunately, I made a mistake right at the beginning and started forming the left wing from the right cut-out and the right wing from the left cut-out so my original sketch of what they were supposed to look like was messed up. Another GEEZ!</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXPB405Hh_DIDRc_9nTLA60Z9l0iPTpYrWC2V8v_109nJBMkzuOYG2IMRAoz721VRDpzqTIG5amQ8l-0JC6QbqOdgdcglcp5HqAsLZpvhq5hxjwYVEonadSvosL6Qfd__WZw4sdGF0Zfq/s1600/IMG_4199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXPB405Hh_DIDRc_9nTLA60Z9l0iPTpYrWC2V8v_109nJBMkzuOYG2IMRAoz721VRDpzqTIG5amQ8l-0JC6QbqOdgdcglcp5HqAsLZpvhq5hxjwYVEonadSvosL6Qfd__WZw4sdGF0Zfq/s1600/IMG_4199.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;">I made extensions to flesh out the support out of foam core and screwed them to the base. They seemed sturdy enough to withstand the process but I really wasn't confident about how well they'd hold up when they were drenched with water.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnTjqqfTxHv7EavqVojEY72FqIo3ILTsrcyPWVJHOyjNdO8WgBHRtyzU9a1Swmi3VpUjvi6bG9J6xHAXdc7rmO6ErxhhLhiyoXjkgLLKBlRkHJz-Oo1D4GUEjR-GA-H9mz3C6akOO2-EeI/s1600/IMG_4201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnTjqqfTxHv7EavqVojEY72FqIo3ILTsrcyPWVJHOyjNdO8WgBHRtyzU9a1Swmi3VpUjvi6bG9J6xHAXdc7rmO6ErxhhLhiyoXjkgLLKBlRkHJz-Oo1D4GUEjR-GA-H9mz3C6akOO2-EeI/s1600/IMG_4201.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;">The bases made, I noticed they looked more like giant ears than anything else. I'm still bummed that I messed up the original design, but think they'll work. They are folded wings, after all. </span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsJ3L_iL9WWtS202FWXimOSsNKp_dr7k0-it-ZN1Emw_uM_fzcDu12eh7lsixcH6BQqX2y7JpFoz6VogIaOpzsvTI3FFXeGbuZzxGwvJjO8pBUwnmdQc54R0r1lXyVAfDcYNFLCDqSPiWE/s1600/IMG_4207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsJ3L_iL9WWtS202FWXimOSsNKp_dr7k0-it-ZN1Emw_uM_fzcDu12eh7lsixcH6BQqX2y7JpFoz6VogIaOpzsvTI3FFXeGbuZzxGwvJjO8pBUwnmdQc54R0r1lXyVAfDcYNFLCDqSPiWE/s1600/IMG_4207.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;">Next came the foundation for the "feathers." It's just water-logged paper soaked in flour. I'm always amazed at how well this elementary school trick works. Thank you, Mrs. Stormes (my grade-school art teacher!) for this tip as well as the millions of others you shared with us. God bless you.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRR1swzY1_8BrJ1Pv7yrW3b2kXGkntv4Ir4Ra-6UoZlpIfSeLgrXI6EjT8tL377lKBQolnhiufbi9y_vkwChAflTUrElXfQGW58Tvn58zhsIS-Tae0fjnKpKr_pG1Vh3FzfYceyBh10-1M/s1600/IMG_4251.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRR1swzY1_8BrJ1Pv7yrW3b2kXGkntv4Ir4Ra-6UoZlpIfSeLgrXI6EjT8tL377lKBQolnhiufbi9y_vkwChAflTUrElXfQGW58Tvn58zhsIS-Tae0fjnKpKr_pG1Vh3FzfYceyBh10-1M/s1600/IMG_4251.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;">It took so long for the wing-folds to dry, I started to become wonder if it would even work. It was also hard to leave the folds alone and stop fiddling with their positioning. I was a little concerned with the possibility of mildew they were so big and so wet, but it dried a little each day and finally they were as stiff and sturdy as I could have hoped for.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnT_dUKvsrSEv06ykXpMOqIgQcmvalAfSJQwWoWJwZr0ENq46t34-X1H2StD4KPftLvQevsCpjmIE2TLSVpvFq2b6vG7T0Wtx65sSxSGRkS-iylHyKqh-HVIvJlfN7k3Xp-fti78_Y-llB/s1600/IMG_4217.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnT_dUKvsrSEv06ykXpMOqIgQcmvalAfSJQwWoWJwZr0ENq46t34-X1H2StD4KPftLvQevsCpjmIE2TLSVpvFq2b6vG7T0Wtx65sSxSGRkS-iylHyKqh-HVIvJlfN7k3Xp-fti78_Y-llB/s1600/IMG_4217.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;">They dried a little each day -- very little each day.</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRhuIXPS_N6P-G0SNd_fMefln4hlKxSWhyphenhyphenN0dy04iBV79YCHiAf5_jfejv1cticZtwiQRwDeq0tRvGYkuyF8aimplxFp6GiyyYbWbY-wRvo1L9rOC05koXZZ75eOHoBb2gbEyYiflWAMqc/s1600/IMG_4219.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb9I2_TibftIBk1oPGTnWq7cBpTGuLqvyOuNWdjcVKvqDxkjOQ1bpYlOLSSPR5rN0HVz0CVDc80yVk3elWZrP-ZMOvXtJgE7qu2Uzjjcv8bWvEnbnDACFbduj186aqHWe7BN3Pdk_EDWst/s1600/IMG_4246.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb9I2_TibftIBk1oPGTnWq7cBpTGuLqvyOuNWdjcVKvqDxkjOQ1bpYlOLSSPR5rN0HVz0CVDc80yVk3elWZrP-ZMOvXtJgE7qu2Uzjjcv8bWvEnbnDACFbduj186aqHWe7BN3Pdk_EDWst/s1600/IMG_4246.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;">I began to add the layers of "feathers" but didn't get far. We got so busy beginning in August that I haven't been able to work on them since. This winter I'm likely have a few days. Oh how I love a quiet snowy day in February and March! I'm anxious to take this project back up. They've been hanging in the mat-cutting room taunting me for months. I desperately want to finish the feather-work so I can begin the painting. That's the part I am most excited to do. NO! I'm most excited to hang the finished wings in the gallery!</span></td><td class="tr-caption"><br /></td></tr>
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Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-12368100352429567682014-08-29T16:44:00.000-05:002014-08-29T16:44:57.747-05:00Mary: the Mother of God<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiziMuO2X4ZIdqsXKkEEarYeTmjQ3Km2wjzYNWpqWWhVJPXtE9qj7qj3SIl8974AAZpbafm9_VLO-FS2LhYldGpGcIKw-Fz8r8_lE3kcMKk1uMM0yZZeHmuOOqBryvQixzMEJ-5i9LSlf_c/s1600/IMG_3132.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiziMuO2X4ZIdqsXKkEEarYeTmjQ3Km2wjzYNWpqWWhVJPXtE9qj7qj3SIl8974AAZpbafm9_VLO-FS2LhYldGpGcIKw-Fz8r8_lE3kcMKk1uMM0yZZeHmuOOqBryvQixzMEJ-5i9LSlf_c/s1600/IMG_3132.JPG" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
Wonder what sort of woman Mary was?<br />
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Did God select her as the earthly mother of his son because she was so holy? So gracious? So maternal? So wise beyond her years?<br />
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Was Jesus' mother a competent and worthy young woman? Was she masterful and talented at the things she tried to do? Was she accomplished? Well spoken? Smart? Graceful? Resourceful? Admired? Wise?<br />
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Was Mary a good cook? An excellent housekeeper? An able teacher and disciplinarian?<br />
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Was Mary a good wife and did she make Joseph happy and proud?<br />
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Was she pretty? Beautiful? Saintly?<br />
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I wonder? Was Mary sometimes a bewildered young mother uncertain of what her real role was and what God expected of her? Did the load ever feel just too too heavy? Certainly, there must have been times when she felt misunderstood and persecuted... the ridicule about Jesus being illegitimate was still happening decades after his birth.<br />
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Did Mary enjoy living in Nazareth -- a place derided by the more important folk of her day -- or did she long for something more exciting and fun? Did she ever wish for more than Joseph's humble means could provide? Did she bear patiently with her workload and the heat of the summer and cold of the winter seasons or did she sometimes complain and grumble and feel impatient and put upon?<br />
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Mary was chosen among all women of all time to be Jesus' mother. God could have chosen any of us -- any of us at all -- to be his mother. It's not anything Mary asked for or hoped for or longed for. It was just something that, well, for lack of a better word -- HAPPENED to her. It just one day, out of the complete blue, happened to her.<br />
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If we had been choosing Jesus' mother, would we have chosen a young, poor, uneducated, simple woman to be his mother? More likely,we would have given him every advantage to ensure a prosperous and successful homelife and upbringing and it would have included not only a stable and well-to-do home, but also a stable and well-to-do community in which to live and learn.<br />
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The way God does things so often seems counterproductive. He makes the wise foolish and the foolish wise. He makes the strong weak and the weak strong. He makes the proud humble and the humble proud and the first last and the last first.<br />
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Wonder what sort of woman Mary was? Young. Naive. Foolish. Weak. Humble. Poor. Unimportant. Overwhelmed. Confused. Last.<br />
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Why choose her?<br />
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Why Mary? Why? Why why why? What qualified her for such an honor?<br />
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I believe it was because of one thing: Mary was obedient.<br />
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She was humbly, confidently, foolishly, naively, dependently, patiently, decidedly obedient.<br />
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Obedience is something that, as Americans, we don't take too seriously. We like a rebel and an independent thinker who doesn't mind to stir it up. Obedience seems bland and boring and unintellectual. You don't have to be too bright to be obedient. You don't really have to be too good at anything. We don't really hold obedience in high regard. We even think it's sort of trite. We teach our children to question authority! We think respect has to always be earned (not given until lost) and we sometimes think obedience indicates weakness.<br />
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But to God, obedience is an honorable and important part of who he created us to be. The Israelites failed to attain all the blessings God had planned for them because they were disobedient. Does the same thing happen to us?<br />
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Wonder what sort of woman Mary was? Sometimes I think she understood a concept that is completely foreign to me. She was obedient.<br />
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<i><span class="text Isa-1-18" id="en-NIV-17673">“Come now, let us settle the matter,”</span> <span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"></span><span class="text Isa-1-18">says the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span>.</span></span> "<span class="text Isa-1-18">Though your sins are like scarlet,</span> <span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"></span><span class="text Isa-1-18">they shall be as white as snow;</span></span> <span class="text Isa-1-18">though they are red as crimson,</span> <span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"></span><span class="text Isa-1-18">they shall be like wool.</span></span> <span class="text Isa-1-19" id="en-NIV-17674"><sup class="versenum"></sup>If you are willing and obedient,</span> <span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"></span><span class="text Isa-1-19">you will eat the good things of the land;</span></span> <span class="text Isa-1-20" id="en-NIV-17675"><sup class="versenum"></sup>but if you resist and rebel,</span> <span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"></span><span class="text Isa-1-20">you will be devoured by the sword.”</span></span> <span class="right"><span class="text Isa-1-20">For the mouth of the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> has spoken. Isaiah 1:18-20</span></span> </i>Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-4128280074301922312014-08-09T12:03:00.000-05:002014-08-09T12:12:15.687-05:00Lydia's Boa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Our two-year-old granddaughter, Lydia, is positioned to set this world on fire.A diamond set between two hard-as-rock boys, this fearless little girl is as delicate and ladylike as an old fashioned Snow White (NOT the Snow White portrayed by that sulking vampire-lover) but also holds her own in every category.<br />
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One day when the kids were at work with us, my daughter Alicia and I struggled to put a giant air conditioner into a back window. While the boys watched Bambi on the DVD player, Lydia quietly observed her mother and me for quite a time before deciding the coast was clear. She stealthily swiped a screw driver and a screw from our little pile of tools and commenced to patiently installing the screws into a metal part laying on a shelf.<br />
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Lydia is a problem-solver. She accesses situations and determines how best to proceed. She arranges her toys to suit her even if it takes great effort. She pushes her baby carriages and shopping cart through mazes of toys and furniture and, if needed, lifts them over any and all obstacles. She almost always has a baby doll in tow -- she's an excellent mother, an excellent mother -- but still manages to handle all the other domestic issues that present themselves to her all while looking stylish and behaving like a lady.<br />
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She's bold. She's fearless. She funny. She's loving. She's spunky. She's ornery. She's bright. She's quick. She's sweet. She's bigger than life.<br />
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A couple weeks ago our church hosted a family reunion and had various small animals and reptiles brought in from a reptile farm somewhere around St. Louis. Lydia petted the alligators and iguanas and stroked the hedge hog and exclaimed about the tarantulas. Then, in her fluffy-cotton-candy dress, she tried on the boa, happily engaged with the handler and Princess the Python for about ten minutes.<br />
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How do we become who we are? Are we born a certain way or do the sum of our experiences -- and how we interpret them -- make us into the people we are?<br />
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Who will Lydia be in ten years? In twenty? In fifty?<br />
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She'll be the girl with the hat and the dress and the shoes and the boa, that's who.<br />
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And she will be magnificent. Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-54918448729385056832014-07-17T15:56:00.001-05:002014-07-17T15:56:19.387-05:00Longmire, Gloria, King George and Dad<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOTIB544Yt5Db2GfmXOS1N5jjadvjCD37mXUKp69_1giC5Ry9Ff4ks8lg2Drziq4E58yFF51j98BdPqua_8JEyW4CMOpMrXe5UGTv-BMeKNOCPlFhSFH7FXp1Hp-SiAF-ks6oDH4fSxsIS/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOTIB544Yt5Db2GfmXOS1N5jjadvjCD37mXUKp69_1giC5Ry9Ff4ks8lg2Drziq4E58yFF51j98BdPqua_8JEyW4CMOpMrXe5UGTv-BMeKNOCPlFhSFH7FXp1Hp-SiAF-ks6oDH4fSxsIS/s1600/download.jpg" height="400" width="333" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gloria and Longmire</td></tr>
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Last year, late in the summer and into the fall, was a sad and difficult time for us, filled with a variety of disappointments, disillusionment, and life-altering events. Many things had to be accomplished in a few short weeks -- almost all with insufficient resources -- and personal tragedies and dramas had to be relegated to the pile of problems we would think about when there was a spare moment and an ounce of energy. Often, it felt as though our loads couldn't get any heavier or we would simply collapse where we stood... and yet, the fountain was open and continued to gush difficulty and sadness.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our front entry at the shop -- my tribute.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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One evening I came home from another heat-festering and physically-demanding day at work, so tired I could barely stand to even stay alive. I was even too dirty to stay alive. Too tired. Too dirty. Too sweaty. Too discouraged. Too forgotten. Too mean.<br />
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Instead of going inside (where I'd immediately need to take fifteen minutes to care for our little wiener dogs who would accost me as I came into the door), I dragged over and sat on the old metal arbor with the intention of spending a little time feeling sorry for myself and my sad and difficult plight.<br />
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I was so tired I couldn't think. So tired I couldn't see. So tired I couldn't feel. I just sat and looked but when I looked out across the yard I wasn't seeing a thing. When Shoobydoo, one of our old ugly cats, came around to greet me by swishing her tail across my bare legs, it made me mad that even she wanted something from me when I had nothing else to give and so I huffed at her and turned the other direction on the arbor and looked out over the driveway.<br />
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There, past my filthy old red truck, were two peacocks, quietly picking their way through the gravel under the woodpile beyond. They moved stealthily into the yard and toward me as I looked on in utter astonishment. Shoobydoo walked over to them and greeted them as she'd greeted me and the peacocks seemed familiar with her. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrjeFl4WAkz2ccCzaDJPeQjdJ6ut8g5mNtzh7nOV1a-wECWW9b_GiuXiEY34n_rEz1egGDgcmAp-psZrE3gxALqVbGeX_JrmRNgWWc3UuSJg-QwWkQwWq8j2U1ZwrfhaRAfudBNsdPBZ4/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrjeFl4WAkz2ccCzaDJPeQjdJ6ut8g5mNtzh7nOV1a-wECWW9b_GiuXiEY34n_rEz1egGDgcmAp-psZrE3gxALqVbGeX_JrmRNgWWc3UuSJg-QwWkQwWq8j2U1ZwrfhaRAfudBNsdPBZ4/s1600/download.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and his old watches and knives.</td></tr>
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Gloria and Longmire, and even the big boy peacock we call King George (who has all his feathers) are still visiting a year later and each encounter is intriguing and wonderful. They belong to a neighbor who lives about a half mile away and the peacocks travels back and forth across our back field fairly regularly. We often hear them calling to one another. Actually, they seem to enjoy roosting on our roof and then screaming in their formidable peacock way.<br />
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But on that particular day last August, as I looked upon those beautiful and quiet birds at my feet, I was mystified once again by all that our lives encompass. The endless details that we seek to master but which often instead seem to conquer us are insignificant when compared to the very real and magnificent details God has prepared for us in this world: His endless, effortless details.<br />
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I told my dad about the peacocks and showed him the pictures I had taken. In his bed in the nursing home, he said he would like to see them but of course, he never would and he knew it and so did I.<br />
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We finished that time in our lives. We. Finished.<br />
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Oh, there's still tons of work to do at the shop and our resources are still lacking in a variety of areas and many of the changes that came upon us last summer are permanent. But we finished that season -- we finished -- and we won't ever have to repeat it again.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw6KIGicYicj0EgaKzu93aRExb1GAGj4RbPGZB2C2dxjtUwlwIyQ-apdtzpkn2kR05Yu8Y-OplSiVPAVDUxUEw6sZw4UrS__4mqSOAqBSuDlp4IxR9TkMWTjllNVQSXKahQaxdLdCPwRsO/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw6KIGicYicj0EgaKzu93aRExb1GAGj4RbPGZB2C2dxjtUwlwIyQ-apdtzpkn2kR05Yu8Y-OplSiVPAVDUxUEw6sZw4UrS__4mqSOAqBSuDlp4IxR9TkMWTjllNVQSXKahQaxdLdCPwRsO/s1600/download.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a>Sometimes a person will tell you that there is a reason why all the things that happen, happen. I know it must be true for them. But me. I don't seem to get any wiser or richer or more spiritual or Godly or learn a thing. I just stay dazed and confused and overwhelmed. So me. Well, I don't know why all the things that happen, happen.<br />
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What do I know after last year? Nothing. Not a blamed thing. <br />
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Those peacocks -- they were a mystery to me. My time with them was fleeting and I think about them and hope to see them again every day. When I do, it seems magical and enchanting and I love them. What a fine thing: those peacocks.<br />
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My father -- he was a mystery to me. My time with him was fleeting and I think about him and hope to see him again every day. When I do, it will be magical and enchanting because I love him. What a fine thing: my father.Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-75322171813399766412014-07-07T17:26:00.000-05:002014-07-07T17:26:31.084-05:00This Beautiful Light<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A wall in the gallery in the early evening light.</td></tr>
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I love the light.<br />
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I love the way it comes into your home or where you're working and transforms the colors in the room.<br />
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I love the patterns it layers onto the wall and onto the faces of those you love.<br />
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I love the late-day sun and the way it tousles the leaves when the wind stirs through the trees.<br />
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I love the light on water -- any water, not just important water -- the light on puddles and ditches and in the tiny sprinkles on a window.<br />
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I love the light sifting through the dust on our old dirt road after a car passes by. It's stirringly beautiful in a way that's not sensible unless you've seen it yourself or unless you have either an artist's soul or an humble soul or an old soul. <br />
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I love the low winter light and the light from the North best. <br />
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And I love the light behind big, dark billowing thunderclouds that turns the edges of them orange-yellow and disconcertingly threatening.<br />
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My younger daughter, Alicia, is consistently bothered because I prefer to have the lights off in a room and she doesn't see any reason to live life in the dark.<br />
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"It's not dark in here," I say even when it is.<br />
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"It's dark in here," she says. "I can't see anything." <br />
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So she turns off the darkness.<br />
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And turns on the light.<br />
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And when she does, we lose the real light -- the natural light -- God's light.<br />
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Sometimes, at night, when the moon is full and I've remembered to open the drapes, the light will awaken us when it reaches the far western sky. I like to open the windows then and watch the moonlight lay patterns on the curtains as they move in the breeze.<br />
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My older daughter told me once that the curtains in our bedroom are okay for me, but look like they belong to an old person. "But I like how they look in the light," I said and she reiterated that they were fine for me but that she wouldn't want such old-lady curtains.<br />
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Next time she's at my house when the moon is big, I'll open the windows and let the wind into the house and then wake her to show her how the light looks filtering through the ruffles on the Priscilla curtains and embroidery work on the drapes. I don't know what she'll think. Probably, she will not like it. Probably, she will wish I hadn't bothered her with the minutia of my life.<br />
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Wonder why the light makes freckles on our faces? It made freckles on my brother and sister's faces and my children's faces and mine too. My cousins have freckles.<br />
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It's taken me decades to decide I wasn't cheated because God decided to make me and those that I love the most with freckles. Actually, now, when I paint a portrait -- any portrait at all -- I always paint them with freckles because...<br />
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Freckles, maybe..? Yes, maybe. Maybe they affirm to us that God loves how we look in the light.<br />
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Yes.<br />
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Maybe so.Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-80358922726589227112014-03-28T20:11:00.000-05:002014-03-28T20:11:48.271-05:00Riding on the Clouds<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The window next to the design counter.</td></tr>
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Something happened this week at <a href="http://www.theframeshopgalleryonline.com/" target="_blank">the shop</a>.<br />
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We're almost six months in our new location now and it seems that during most of that time it's been a harsh and hopeless winter. We trudged through a lot of desperate days in February and even into this month as it's continued to dip into merciless temperatures day-in and day-out. But yesterday we opened our windows and let the wind inside.<br />
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You're right. It was still too cold to do that. But how can a person really live or breathe with the windows closed? My poor husband has put up with this ideology from me for 32 years because we sleep with the windows open almost every night in every season. (To do otherwise, obviously, would cause instant suffocation and relentless complaining and carrying on.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx2A6wSNVjfxjg_PljL5GKg9oebthXOtjmDyoZHhFtFSgWmlwa4kuR1kE7bciZUw27X5r0cTp7U6HAdxIVAtEVeeAE4PBdhr1BHoSMWCi3W1ey2zgd53ZJPLAzEZtbDJAR3WQgaU6cl74Z/s1600/FS08-03-2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx2A6wSNVjfxjg_PljL5GKg9oebthXOtjmDyoZHhFtFSgWmlwa4kuR1kE7bciZUw27X5r0cTp7U6HAdxIVAtEVeeAE4PBdhr1BHoSMWCi3W1ey2zgd53ZJPLAzEZtbDJAR3WQgaU6cl74Z/s1600/FS08-03-2014.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the front windows at the shop.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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So with wild abandon of common sense we opened our windows and the wind caressed our souls while we worked. We could smell the earth and the sky and the promise of the rain that was still miles away. And with that cool sweet wind permeating our afternoon we thought maybe it was possible that it would -- eventually -- be Spring. We thought maybe we might even survive this harsh and unfriendly winter to see it.<br />
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When I got home last night I immediately raised the bedroom window and sat on the edge of the bed, resting my chin on the window sill to watch the clouds boil into the sky and the bare black branches on the trees shiver and frenzy in anticipation. Frankie, our eight-year-old wiener dog, paced nervously back and forth on the bed, whining occasionally, as he always does as the thunder drew closer while Lucy, our fifteen-year-old wiener dog, stretched out under the blankets for her after-supper-sleep. Frankie simply couldn't be calmed or comforted. Lucy simply couldn't have been happier or more content.<br />
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It's been a hard winter in every single way. And all winter long I've stomped around like Frankie, incapable of receiving any comfort at all and whining more than occasionally. My goodness. It has been hard. But if I could have settled down... If I could have stopped stomping around, maybe I could have been happier and possibly even content. Like Lucy. Just cuddled in to rest. <br />
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I guess there's something Frankie doesn't know about storms. The Lord rides on the clouds. He rides on the clouds. Glorious glorious glorious.<br />
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<i>"Sing to God, sing in praise of his name, extol him who rides on the clouds; rejoice before him -- his name is the Lord." Psalm 68:4</i><br />
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Calm down, little Frankie. It's just a storm. Calm down, little sister. It's just a storm. When the rain comes, it'll wash the storm away. Meanwhile, ride on the wind. High on the wind, little sister, is the Lord. </div>
Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-24757249631279314852014-03-26T16:22:00.000-05:002014-03-26T16:32:36.877-05:00This Old Life<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisl3vWxJFrKjYLCJGf1mG7aqj0J30T2rf59d4iNDC3Is5PD2FbbT18OkUeWbq72SG8RxO-oDC0hqxiM_xBnRSSoEv4QKkT8GyEekB6hCunN51muytFZe0omBFeJQImNBajdawzuigNdwkg/s1600/Lydia01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisl3vWxJFrKjYLCJGf1mG7aqj0J30T2rf59d4iNDC3Is5PD2FbbT18OkUeWbq72SG8RxO-oDC0hqxiM_xBnRSSoEv4QKkT8GyEekB6hCunN51muytFZe0omBFeJQImNBajdawzuigNdwkg/s1600/Lydia01.jpg" height="400" width="366" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lydia reads Goldilocks and the Three Bears,<br />
having chosen the smallest chair in the house for herself for the task.<br />
That's our babydoll!<br />
Always ladylike and always completely and totally cool. <br />
As Micah often says, "Go, Lydia, Go!"</td></tr>
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As I sit on this old couch in this old house, I look out this old window and see the rugged black sculpture of the same old oak tree I've been looking at for decades against that old and tired Missouri-white sky. On my lap is an old afghan we received as a wedding present over thirty years ago and lying on my legs and feet beneath that cover are two old wiener dogs, one fifteen and snoring and the other eight and always alert in case I should happen to open a bag of potato chips.<br />
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Outside that old window are the now broken and partial wind chimes that have clinked around in the wind for years.When my daughters were little, we called them prayer bells and, imagining their sweet tones accompanied our prayers to heaven, hung them in branches all over the yard. They still ring. They still ring and ring and ring and can be heard throughout the house and into the fields and woods beyond. So many prayers. So many many prayers.<br />
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The old dirt road that rolls with dust just to the south of this old house was built in part by my grandfather when he was young and strong and beautiful and raising a family of his own a little more than a mile farther down this road. And the old oak tree that I see from this window? He planted that when my mother and father were still young and strong and beautiful and building their own little two-room house here on this little high hill when they married almost sixty years ago.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHtNwVE0ROTR4RlBmSFez3UmfEOV38NxVSmIxjRW0clggs6UVIAlsxH89DyUcVnGDn6bqReMo4Sk0zpJZlo-jRDvFcobGVT60xxenlVWvW2cO22bQSdzRnUh3yWpXYjKaq_Iz5eLUz70i8/s1600/sky-03-14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHtNwVE0ROTR4RlBmSFez3UmfEOV38NxVSmIxjRW0clggs6UVIAlsxH89DyUcVnGDn6bqReMo4Sk0zpJZlo-jRDvFcobGVT60xxenlVWvW2cO22bQSdzRnUh3yWpXYjKaq_Iz5eLUz70i8/s1600/sky-03-14.jpg" height="400" width="382" /></a></div>
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<br />
And now. Now. Now so many are gone. My father. My father-in-law. My grandparents. My brother. Aunts and uncles and cousins and friends and co-workers and so very many people we worshiped together with week after week.<br />
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What is loss? Just the passing of time? Is simple change equivalent to loss? Is loss something that happens or is loss merely the sum of how we interpret what happens? How often in these last several months have I asked aloud to an empty room, an empty house, an empty car, an empty office, an empty sky, "Dad? Where are you? Where did you go?"<br />
<br />
In this last year of often desperate and difficult times, I wrote a lengthy list of all the things I perceived as negative in my life. It replaced the lengthy list I had written eighteen months prior to that. One long night as I lay side-by-side in bed with my younger daughter (we spend the night with one another once in a while and never sleep... only talk of deep and wonderful or silly and wonderful things all through the dark hours), I recounted my bitterness and sadness and inability to see even the possibility of anything better.<br />
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"You can't say everything has been terrible," she said.<br />
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"It is! It is!" I wailed.<br />
<br />
"Three years?" She said softly. "In three years -- Micah, Lydia, Jonah, Raphael. In just three years."<br />
<br />
These little souls come into the world with such aplomb. We celebrate and look in wonder, mystified by how they change and grow each day. We love them joyfully and deeply and profoundly and fearfully and with complete abandon. We search their faces and their personal quirks and find our children in them. We see their difficulties and shortcomings and see ourselves and our spouses and our souls grieve for the difficulties we know they will endure because of them.<br />
<br />
After Alicia's answer to me in the dark, I felt no better. Instead, I said, "Great. Now I can't even feel sorry for myself. That's just great, Always gotta ruin my big pity-party."<br />
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I'm a forgetful and ungrateful soul. I long for the things that were... I forget the things that are... living day by day in a state of distraction and selfishness that prevents me from perceiving God's current and ongoing and overwhelming and overflowing blessings.<br />
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The floors in this old house sag lower with each passing season and the old oak at the edge of the yard sheds huge branches into the yard with each ice or thunder storm. I find that I grow older and more experienced, but not much wiser. But the prayer bells still ring. They accompany our prayers. If we will but humble ourselves and pray, their sweet soft song will accompany our prayers into the the very Throne Room of our gracious and forgiving Father in Heaven. And from this old home by this old road on this old hill beneath this old sky, they will carry the names of these new souls -- Micah, Lydia, Jonah, Raphael -- high and clear and precious in the sweet Spring wind.Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-42309821498693841672012-08-10T18:46:00.000-05:002012-08-11T07:23:39.336-05:00The Real Heaven...I just read my daughter<a href="http://gerrels-anotherblog.blogspot.com/2012/08/heaven.html" target="_blank"> Alicia's blog post about Heaven.</a><br />
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Like Alicia, I like to speculate about Heaven.</div>
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Old wonderment Joe Beam, a fabulous fast-talking wildly emotional yet conservative Christian minister recently released his second book about Heaven (pretty much a rip-off re-write of an earlier edition he wrote several years ago but I guess he needed the cash) but I am tending to sort of disagree with old Joe this time, much as I hate to do that. His vision of Heaven seems to me to be a really dumbed-down Heaven. It's just way too attainable... I don't mean getting there... I mean envisioning it.</div>
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I don't believe that Heaven is merely a spiffed-up version of what we've got now. I expect that more was compromised when we lost Eden than just perpetual sunshine and good crops. For one thing, Eve didn't think it strange when a serpent spoke to her. That leads me to conclude that the animals were not initially created to be incommunicado with man.(After all, God DID first seek companionship for Adam among the animals. That tells me they COULD indeed speak; just maybe none could speak with the charming authority of a woman and so, viola, God made a woman.)</div>
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If the koala bears and sheep and wiener dogs lost some of their special abilities, it seems possible that maybe we did too. Certainly we lost the right to do some things we were going to be aloud to do. One thing still making me mad is having to wear clothes, especially as I get older and fatter. All the day, I am less happy about wearing underwear for hours and hours at a go. Except for some unfortunate house pets, animals haven't been punished in this way and except for some really unfortunate dogs who have had a lot of puppies over their lives, none of them seem to have to live with this excessive amount of cleavage that I have born now for almost four decades. It's punishment for what stupid Eve did. I hate that stupid woman. When I meet her, I am rolling my eyes at her and I'm going to encourage all my big-breasted friends to do the same.</div>
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I'm just about doggone certain that one of the things God also took away from us was flight. And you know what I think he did with it? He gave it to the dadgum bumble bee. They say that fat slouch has no scientific business flying. That fat pig is flying around and does nothing with it -- doesn't make honey like a bee should -- instead flies around and will sting you quick if you get in its way. That's OUR flying that bumblebee is doing. I think God thinks that is funny and I think God is mean about it. Those are my wings that fat fuzzy freak is wearing. When we get to Heaven, that fat freak won't have those wings, we will get them as we rightly deserve and the bumble bee will have to slump along on the ground like the little troll it is... okay... we don't deserve the wings either... but Heaven's not about what WE deserve... it's about what Jesus deserves... so I want my freaking fuzzy wings!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiORWU_60gzkO7XBScWWAV4yyymJJ6apYOzzbfGt7AVj0mD3HCM_vfdzYpfwQ49tmE1Vrp8D7wPdD9ItWM1Grq3ij7Po7tfSdOSvYHNaHGQxgAfv0n587sW8QDd7hDmJ4Fw6dfPSfRDOh0A/s1600/island+castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiORWU_60gzkO7XBScWWAV4yyymJJ6apYOzzbfGt7AVj0mD3HCM_vfdzYpfwQ49tmE1Vrp8D7wPdD9ItWM1Grq3ij7Po7tfSdOSvYHNaHGQxgAfv0n587sW8QDd7hDmJ4Fw6dfPSfRDOh0A/s640/island+castle.jpg" width="414" /></a>The Apostle Paul says the mind can't conceive of what God has prepared for those who love him. In deference to Alicia, I'm all for her little treehouse and I think that's a lovely concept for Heaven (well, for a camping overnight in Heaven, lets get real here). In that regard, I chose an overnight stay place for me too (see funky island castle, left).</div>
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But if all Heaven is, is a cleaned-up, sanitized, refreshed, colorized version of what we've already got down here... man, I don't think I'm very excited about it. Joe Beam talks about playing golf -- GOLF! up in Heaven -- in his book... if that's all there is in Heaven...</div>
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I want to see my Savior's face! I want to hide away beneath the shadow of our Father's wings and fly through the heaven's, feeling the terror and glory of his holy presence. I want to feel the lightning pass over this magnificent creation and begin to have an understanding of the depths of His mind. I want to grasp what love really is; what grace is. I want to see with eyes that aren't polluted by sin and suffering and with a clear mind not tormented or haunted with sadness, disappointments and failings from the past.To have no memory of loss or sadness, no concept of it. I want to live in a sacred place, a holy place, free from shame, sin and depravity. I want to be clean and free and in complete safety. I want to trust fully. To see and hear and feel and touch and smell and taste completely and perfectly. To experience life without fatigue, without the physical burden of pain.I want to know and be known and understand and be understood. To laugh without a sense of bitter-sweetness. To feel all of living without a bleakness, an anxiety, a worry, a fear, a torment, a sadness, a regret, a sense of loss, a shame, a self-consciousness, an ache, a pain, a grief, a mourning... To feel joy and love and acceptance without restraint or limit. </div>
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I don't know what Heaven will look like and I don't know what we'll do. Of course, I can't wait to see my brother -- he's been gone so very very long now -- my grandma and grandpa. Other family members who have passed on, David's father, his grandparents... sweetest of friends like Donalie and Pat... we miss them all and wait in expectation for our reunion. But that reunion will come soon enough weather in fifty minutes or fifty years for all this life is fleeting.</div>
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It's a lovely evening. It's cooler than it's been in a million days. Blessings to all and may you dream of Heaven. </div>
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<i>And to you, Alicia, as you dream of Heaven... I can't wait to see you there among all our long-lost pets we've loved: Comet, Snickers, Butter-cats (of every second syllable), Jagger, Frannie Rose... the list is long (and I still think including Frannie Rose on that list is iffy). Thank you for your thought-provoking post. And, by the way, I DO NOT want some shabby treehouse up there... I kinda got that down here... I told you about the trees growing over the house again you know! Love, your mom.</i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">However, as it is written: “What </span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">no</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">eye</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">has</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">seen</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">, what </span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">no</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> ear </span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">has</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> heard, and what </span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">no</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> human mind </span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">has </b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">conceived” — the things God </span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">has</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> prepared for those who love him— Paul, I Corinthians 2:9 </span></div>
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<br /></div>Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-58394348230777662722012-05-25T01:23:00.003-05:002012-05-25T01:25:27.787-05:00The New Frame Shop Header - DOESN'T WORK!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWkuAK5gkXQP5HGVlHvXsBxxk-xefo_oRNMZ9vmQ9BGXi6xEnBeMhWmanjTB_lPPbHDjjeez202QvIzGCXxMv7tDwzplMeVnzNHvM1tySMo2z5VgRvwTiyCG-FAsH3A_wD5TJUnZb7wkT/s1600/FS-TOPsummer2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWkuAK5gkXQP5HGVlHvXsBxxk-xefo_oRNMZ9vmQ9BGXi6xEnBeMhWmanjTB_lPPbHDjjeez202QvIzGCXxMv7tDwzplMeVnzNHvM1tySMo2z5VgRvwTiyCG-FAsH3A_wD5TJUnZb7wkT/s640/FS-TOPsummer2012.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Man-dog. Talk about being aggravated.<br />
<br />
Here I am, still up at the crack of dawn (someplace... here it's 1:15 a.m., but that didn't sound as dramatic) and I am so ticked because I have wasted two-plus hours fiddling with a new header for our frame shop website and the dumb thing won't ftp correctly.<br />
<br />
I have been having trouble with our hosting company. Right now our Chocolate Panache site is down, our Frame Shop Gallery site is down, Davesports is down, and now The Frame Shop Gallery Online won't post updates.<br />
<br />
Makes me ticked.<br />
<br />
However, look at my little mother and my little grand-daughter.<br />
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That's lovely.<br />
<br />
So, extremely beautiful.<br />
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And who knows. I sent in a "help" ticket (oooooh, I hate to do that!), and they really are good about getting things fixed. But I wanted to see my mommy and my grammy-baby up there TONIGHT!<br />
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Poodles.<br />
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Love, d.<br />
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P.S. Now it's 1:23 a.m. See: crack of dawn someplace else by now!<br />
<br />Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-44554875828430066542012-05-24T10:44:00.000-05:002012-05-24T10:44:25.245-05:00How to Organize: 101<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUegYfSPsrKgGDzK9jisok335TRtQGwEEMTZ-36P0ftKOs80Igs8b5Lza6xKASsaQO0vpWhkHPkAWcP9DEYNyNcfSGszosoPBLO7mf67ceG8GjZZbPsM1voLfVwvezxX55vJPUaiFMd9j1/s1600/PICT0031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUegYfSPsrKgGDzK9jisok335TRtQGwEEMTZ-36P0ftKOs80Igs8b5Lza6xKASsaQO0vpWhkHPkAWcP9DEYNyNcfSGszosoPBLO7mf67ceG8GjZZbPsM1voLfVwvezxX55vJPUaiFMd9j1/s400/PICT0031.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
Oh my goodness, I love art books and magazines and they just pile up around here.<br />
<br />
This past week, when I was cleaning the ridiculous stack of books and magazines that seem to accumulate by the side of my bed, I ran across a couple of magazines that I didn't remember I had but, FUNNY-FUNNY-FUNNY, I also ran across two books about organizing.<br />
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Oh my goodness, that gets me to laughing.<br />
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I remember buying them now. I paid ONE PENNY for one of them (plus shipping, of course) and that's how much good it's done me. Not even a two-cents opinion.<br />
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The other book was about organizing home offices and stuff. I remember fanning through the pages of that and deciding it was a waste of time too. I paid about a dollar for that one.<br />
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You know what? The problem is not lack of organizational skills. I apparently am somewhat able to organize because I worked as a secretary for over 15 years and although they were probably pretty happy to get rid of me when I left, at least I wasn't fired for losing things.<br />
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The problem is... the crummy truth is... I am extremely lazy.<br />
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Lord, I must repent. But not quite yet. <br />
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I listened to a sermon by Alistair Begg recently about being lazy and I knew he had me pegged. I am extremely lazy. I am capable of organizing something, but I'd rather just take a nap or watch a Frazier rerun. I am lazy-lazy-lazy.<br />
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So what's the point?<br />
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Only point is this: both those books are thrown in the Salvation Army pile. If you want a couple good books about organizing, look at the Salvation Army. But you'll have to just keep looking and looking and looking, because who knows when I'll get around to dropping them by there. Meanwhile, you're welcome to shuffle through the growing pile of junk-books I don't want anymore (by the bookshelf by the front door so I'll remember to take them some day far-far-far into the future).<br />
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Love to all you workers out there... and to the lazy ones like me, even more love and lots and lots of ata-boys. d.<br />
<br />Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-55947212251721112982012-05-18T16:46:00.002-05:002012-05-19T15:40:46.923-05:00Trying to Move On: NOT Easy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmBNaq-Bz16cnv3wJLEFg18tkg6S5_uMAFHz1FRfZ8bSaDZbRbLBdHfZGQzEWYKrIK5HaC5PpUOnPIRWpm2iWXB2Manyma8bGzIlaivgiWoEF4GqIcihY2ORTLh2jFO-enRBcyTvsIiGv/s1600/IMG_0723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmBNaq-Bz16cnv3wJLEFg18tkg6S5_uMAFHz1FRfZ8bSaDZbRbLBdHfZGQzEWYKrIK5HaC5PpUOnPIRWpm2iWXB2Manyma8bGzIlaivgiWoEF4GqIcihY2ORTLh2jFO-enRBcyTvsIiGv/s640/IMG_0723.JPG" width="472" /></a></div>
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When I got home from work today, I asked my wiener dog, Frankie, I said, "Frankie, why is it that no matter how hard you try, you can't shake some people out of your life?"<br />
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Frankie didn't know how to answer.<br />
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Here's the only thing I know:<br />
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In the last year I've tried my best to shake three different people out of my life. But as soon as I think I can stop holding my breath and that it's finally over for good, here they come again. (Why oh why oh why???)<br />
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My daughter said Frankie chased a big old horse and its rider all the way up the hill to our neighbors' last night about a half mile away. He is just downright an attack dog, old Frankie Bean. He is fearless.<br />
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I wish I could be like Frankie when I don't like something and just raise my hackles and finally be DONE with these people. But I guess God has other ideas and that's why these, well, miserable associations keep popping up.<br />
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And I guess God agrees with me about Frankie too: he's perfection... and so he can chase those old horses' asses away! Far, far away. Never to return. Or Frankie will send them packing again.<br />
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Oh, what a wondrous delight that must be.<br />
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Love to my friends and family and all those who are not horses' asses. d.<br />
<br />Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-49974673318761941552012-05-17T18:06:00.000-05:002012-05-19T23:48:40.780-05:00What are you doing here, Elijah?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<i style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">(Below is a short video showing a series of photos of a new mixed-media project I finished last weekend called, "What are you doing here, Elijah?" I like looking at works in progress done by artists, so I tried to sort of do that here. It's clumsy, but it's the first one I've done and I'm tired of it, ha! Above is the finished painting. We are framing it at the shop now and when we get finished, I will take a picture of it if I can remember. It's off to its new home mid-week so I'll have to get with it quick or it'll be too late!)</i>
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<h3>
<b><i>Who wouldn't be wild for Elijah: </i></b></h3>
standing up to the wicked King Ahab and Queen Jezebel and tormenting all their prophets with his witty little diatribe about their fake gods.<br />
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But like so many of us, after the excitement of the moment was over and Elijah realized what he had done (and that Jezebel was after him to kill him dead), he simply just ran away.</div>
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Elijah, this man of tremendous faith and understanding, ran and ran and ran and ran. For forty days he peeled out across the desert. He didn't eat or drink unless the good Lord delivered it to him with the same convenience and panache a pizza in a box is delivered to our front door, except Elijah didn't even bother to mutter, "much obliged, Lord." Poor old Elijah. I've never done anything great -- not one thing, not even close -- in my life... but I am simple and selfish enough to have felt discouraged enough to run and run and run and run.
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Eventually, old human Elijah hid in a cave where he immersed himself in pity. That's when God presented himself to this incredible, faithful, frightened human. It's one of the most beautiful passages in the Bible.<br />
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<span class="text 1Kgs-19-9">The <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> Appears to Elijah</span></h3>
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<span class="text 1Kgs-19-9">And the word of the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> came to him: “What are you doing here, Elijah?”<sup class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-9397O" title="See cross-reference O">O</a>)"></sup></span></div>
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<span class="text 1Kgs-19-10" id="en-NIV-9398"><sup class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">10 </sup>He replied, “I have been very zealous <sup class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-9398P" title="See cross-reference P">P</a>)"></sup>for the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> God Almighty. The Israelites have rejected your covenant, <sup class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-9398Q" title="See cross-reference Q">Q</a>)"></sup>torn down your altars, <sup class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-9398R" title="See cross-reference R">R</a>)"></sup>and put your prophets to death with the sword. I am the only one left, <sup class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-9398S" title="See cross-reference S">S</a>)"></sup>and now they are trying to kill me too.”</span><br />
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<span class="text 1Kgs-19-11" id="en-NIV-9399"><sup class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">11 </sup>The <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> said, “Go out and stand on the mountain <sup class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-9399T" title="See cross-reference T">T</a>)"></sup>in the presence of the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span>, for the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> is about to pass by.”</span><br />
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<span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-11">Then a great and powerful wind <sup class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-9399V" title="See cross-reference V">V</a>)"></sup>tore the mountains apart and shattered <sup class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-9399W" title="See cross-reference W">W</a>)"></sup>the rocks before the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span>, but the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord </span>was not in the earthquake.</span></span></div>
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<span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-12" id="en-NIV-9400"><sup class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">12 </sup>After the earthquake came a fire, <sup class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-9400X" title="See cross-reference X">X</a>)"></sup>but the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-12"></span></span></span><br /><span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-12"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-13" id="en-NIV-9401"><sup class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">13 </sup>When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face <sup class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-9401Z" title="See cross-reference Z">Z</a>)"></sup>and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="text 1Kgs-19-11">Then a voice said to him, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”
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<span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">This mixed-media piece, "What are you doing here, Elijah?" was made for a drama group in Florissant, Missouri, to present to their director. Their play is about the unseen work of angels, who are active all around us... but we are largely unaware of their presence or the miracles they provide for us right under our turned-up little self-important noses. (Okay, I added the turned-up little self-important noses part. I have no idea how humans are portrayed in this play. I only know how stupid I, myself, act.)</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><b style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium;">"What are you doing here, Elijah?"..........</b></span></div>
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<span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">"What are you doing here, Donna?" ...........</span></span></span><br />
<span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"></span></span></span><br /><span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">I have no earthly idea, Lord. Not even a single tiny clue. And I am so thankful for your gentle calling.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span class="text 1Kgs-19-11"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Love, d.</span></span></span></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwzIP6P7LeZwWMYK0DaRicPZTTEHg2dXJxkMueVzz8qB7Yz9QQUTXqBNlqu4uBg9WZmNrVUKzolyt0r3PeusA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>The painting process:</i></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I started with just a </span><span style="font-size: small;"> quick-quick rough sketch of Elijah </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;"> </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">(If I spend too much time thinking </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">about what to do or how to begin, </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">what ends up on the canvas is </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">studied and stiff and self-conscious) </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">and working as maniacally as possible</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;"> with oil pastels and acrylics... </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">(oh the glory of oil pastels and gel medium </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">and paint-paint-paint!) </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">I tried to figure out what sort of expression </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">and feelings Elijah might have. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">Would Elijah simply be all </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">worried and discouraged? </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">That's kind of my default mode, </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">but Elijah was ELIJAH, after all! </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">not </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">some dopey dim middle-aged house-wife. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">Would he be defensive and sort of half-mad? </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">I mean, admit it, it's possible to feel that </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">way, even toward God.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">Would he feel betrayed and abandoned by God? I believe he did. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">Maybe he did and that's why God did </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">what he did. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">He understands that </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">stubborn, disquieting human nature so much better than we do.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">He would have certainly been overwhelmed. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">Perhaps he was so depressed and </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">exhausted that he simply </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;"> </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium; text-align: center;">felt </i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">nothing. I don't know. I just don't know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">I went ahead and started on the background. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">I wanted to give a feeling conveyed </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">by these powerful scriptures </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">without being terribly trite and literal </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">or worse, completely predictable. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">Within a couple hours, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;"> I had used so many paintbrushes </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">I had to stop and clean them... </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">and I've been collecting brushes for 30+ years... </span><i style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I have over 100 brushes! </span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">Painting the fire was tremendous fun. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">Oh my goodness, I mean, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">I wanted to </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">make that whole picture on fir</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">e </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">I loved it so much. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">Of course, maybe that's because I </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">had my ka-billions of brushes </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">all clean and ready to use again! </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">I was uneasy about the lightning; </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">how do you paint lightning </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">that doesn't look cartoonish...? </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">I've seen cartoonish lightning </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">in paintings </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">done by real artists. There's not even </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">a laughable, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">remote hope for </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">my dumb lightning. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">But Elijah had to have his </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">lightning. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">And so I hurried up and quickly quickly </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">quickly streaked it in there.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;">Hardest of all: </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; text-align: center;"> how to portray the Lord as a gentle whisper??? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">What in the world does that look like? </span><span style="font-size: small;">How in the world do I convey that feeling?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I set the painting on the easel and sat on the couch to look at it while I ate a snack. No ideas came to mind that seemed workable. I cleaned up my studio a little then went back to the couch and looked at Elijah again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I figured out what I thought </span><span style="font-size: small;">I might do after </span><span style="font-size: small;">I took a picture of </span><span style="font-size: small;">the painting with my flash on. </span><span style="font-size: small;">It illuminated </span><span style="font-size: small;">Elijah in a way that </span><span style="font-size: small;">seemed like a possible solution </span><span style="font-size: small;">to what I was hoping to render. </span><span style="font-size: small;">I thought maybe that was </span><span style="font-size: small;">how I could signify the Lord: </span><span style="font-size: small;">in a supernatural, pure, whispering breeze.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Once that was painted, </span><span style="font-size: small;">I felt slightly more confident </span><span style="font-size: small;">about </span><span style="font-size: small;">Elijah's expression... </span><span style="font-size: small;">a little bit better anyway... </span><span style="font-size: small;">(although I am not an adept</span><span style="font-size: small;"> enough artist to convey </span><span style="font-size: small;">all </span><span style="font-size: small;">the things I wish I could. I'm actually just pleased I sort of know the correct layout of a face! ha ha!):</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Renewed determination. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Utter and stupefying wonderment. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Devotion. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Security.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Certainty. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Even rest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Even peace, maybe? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>"What are you doing here, Elijah?"</i></b></span></div>
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</div>Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-34107845528865501682012-05-12T00:13:00.001-05:002012-05-12T00:30:32.711-05:00Tiny Houses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimlUdQb6IHbCHSw67q8oxealdAPK0bdG3IVzbaB_f5BKrWN-2QkgvIaIn7hsRdnK_uUI-ojHUJN0cE0iolOwSSeBXR2lgWw0ofoVexNUu0sWK9MWG9iQyWV8pfDSfmgnx29fBvjytEmySK/s1600/tinyhouse30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimlUdQb6IHbCHSw67q8oxealdAPK0bdG3IVzbaB_f5BKrWN-2QkgvIaIn7hsRdnK_uUI-ojHUJN0cE0iolOwSSeBXR2lgWw0ofoVexNUu0sWK9MWG9iQyWV8pfDSfmgnx29fBvjytEmySK/s400/tinyhouse30.jpg" width="288" /></a></div>
These little bitty houses are intriguing to me.<br />
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I've watched YouTube videos about little houses... downloaded lots of pictures of little houses... thought about how it'd be nice to simplify into a little bitty house... admired the little tiny house our friend Nick lived in before he joined the Navy. I just like those little houses and I like thinking about how luxurious you could make a small space simply because<i> it is small.</i><br />
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Today we took Ashley, my older daughter, her husband Matt, friends Martha and James and baby Olive, and my mother and mother-in-law to Moreland's Restaurant for an overdue dinner celebration of Ashley's birthday. Moreland's is on the Gasconade River, across from where the old Highway 63 North bridge (past Vichy, before Vienna) was blown to bits decades ago after they built the new highway. Down the cliff from Moreland's, is my father- and mother-in-law's little place on the river.<br />
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My father-in-law, Alton Roberts, was a man who knew how to live and he did just that, everyday of his life, whether he was healthy enough to or not!... he never wasted a minute. Sadly, he passed away in the late winter this year. After dinner this evening we toured, probably for the last time (my mother-in-law is selling it), Alton's little cabin -- his own tiny little home.<br />
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When I first knew Alton, over 30 years ago, I remember him talking about wanting a place on the river one day. Alton worked for everything he ever had; nothing was given to him. He was a hard-working, hard-living bulldog of a man and though it took years for him to achieve this dream, there was no doubt that he eventually would have his place: His cabin on the river.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaLrtVFZQ1JpIVaD4ZxZwxUMiNNDlj3GXrXxy67NAB6HyjchR8KElX5n2U3eUQcaZXJ_PJh6wXoTe_l02h0uYeHS1F8eOpFd4iERTrZDQhoFVfxjn-3jFKXLfmUCEpCwoo-jY3tg4qRM79/s1600/PICT0211.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaLrtVFZQ1JpIVaD4ZxZwxUMiNNDlj3GXrXxy67NAB6HyjchR8KElX5n2U3eUQcaZXJ_PJh6wXoTe_l02h0uYeHS1F8eOpFd4iERTrZDQhoFVfxjn-3jFKXLfmUCEpCwoo-jY3tg4qRM79/s320/PICT0211.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alton and Brenda with great-grandson Micah this past Christmas</td></tr>
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Including today, I can count on one hand the number of times I visited his place at the river. Our girls stayed there with their granddaddy and grandmama for fishing trips and camping when they were younger, but mostly the place was Alton's. It was his little private world of sorts, I think. He had his river-life and his river-friends and his river-schedule and his river-ways. He had his own river-family too... Alton was beloved by the people who knew him and the river people likely knew him best.<br />
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Alton's little cabin is a lovely, simple place. Quiet but not too isolated. I believe he mostly would do his living out doors there: the porch is as big as the cabin. My mother-in-law said they had to have the mattresses special made to fit into the tiny bedrooms (smaller than a full, larger than a twin). Yet, there is everything a person could need. Could even want.<br />
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A tiny house for this big bulldog of a man. This strong man. This good and decent and kind and honest man.<br />
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We miss you, Alton. We know you don't have a small house anymore. Oh, but what a fine, fine home you have now.<br />
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It was an honor to know you. I love you dearly and can't wait to see you again.<br />
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d.Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-34011853680976983432012-04-25T11:10:00.002-05:002012-05-12T00:18:04.893-05:00Waiting for Lydia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDLLb3PtbG1nLbQSRNpKG1_ZUG8-ymbNzVzADkOOx2Jlf-ArMHOo5f-s9ej-YE6cZrE7kbVlx2zXULOp9MqYq4jiLQlmzaivovrY8aPEdfBu-S9caUsIzq6weCSHHnTFpIFDQ4rRB2FhE/s1600/Lydia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDLLb3PtbG1nLbQSRNpKG1_ZUG8-ymbNzVzADkOOx2Jlf-ArMHOo5f-s9ej-YE6cZrE7kbVlx2zXULOp9MqYq4jiLQlmzaivovrY8aPEdfBu-S9caUsIzq6weCSHHnTFpIFDQ4rRB2FhE/s320/Lydia.jpg" width="168" /></a></div>
We're waiting on a woman.<br />
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I like that Brad Paisley song, especially the video with Andy Griffith, where he is waiting for his wife in the mall.<br />
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Alicia waited for her second child, Lydia, for nine months. Well, maybe you could say Alicia waited for Lydia for twenty-five years. I don't know.<br />
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Alicia and husband Josh are packing up Lydia to bring her home (she's two days old now). My husband, David and I, along with my mother-in-law, Brenda, are at Josh and Alicia's with new big brother Micah, all waiting for little sister's arrival.<br />
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These days are fleeting for Alicia and Josh. Micah will be a year old tomorrow. Lydia is already two days old, though we thought the day would never actually come. My own baby is twenty-five. My other baby turns twenty-seven next week.<br />
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Geez.<br />
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There's a bitter sweetness to holding Lydia that I didn't feel with Micah, I suppose because he is a boy. I look earnestly into Lydia's face searching for my own little daughter in the turn of her chin and in the glint of her eye. Of course, at this stage, we all just see whatever we want to see in her.<br />
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My memories of Alicia at this age are sketchy at best. As someone who (apparently) has a strange, visual memory of literally thousands of intricate details from my childhood and past, this is very odd for me. It's a gap in memory that haunts and saddens me.<br />
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I had left a horrible job and then started a brand new one just a week after giving birth. I had a two-year-old, a newborn baby, a home to take care of and seemingly endless amounts of work to do. I was twenty-three years old and exhausted beyond anything I've ever experienced since.<br />
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Yet, there was this little puddle of a baby with olive skin and beautiful, huge black eyes...<br />
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And a two-year-old that never stopped talking...<br />
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Those first months with Alicia barely exist in my mind except for a few isolated incidents and many of those are the negative experiences which, only God knows why, always seem to stay with us.<br />
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So, now, I look for my baby Alicia in baby Lydia and realize all over again that I can't remember my own Alicia very much.<br />
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Beautiful beautiful Lydia.<br />
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Beautiful beautiful Alicia.<br />
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Oh but it's a sad sad thing and it's a lovely thing, too.<br />
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And so it is.<br />
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With this little baby, I will remember these short days all the days of my life. This baby I will see clearly and strive to remember. I can't reclaim those lost days and weeks and months with Alicia, but I can remember this baby, this time, these days and these months. And so, Lord willing, I will.<br />
<br />Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-42811780948912202342012-03-29T19:32:00.001-05:002012-03-29T19:37:28.320-05:00The Old Fence Ladder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2JZnK4CY-2uc3I99fGQ0bkHso6XGi0CkR3r7Q-lkuIRLILf-qnjYIn6ilWjJ1NPDap4l7RelWo7yowC2dtepZumJ-0q7MGX1iEaAhiLLrfkws-zBQQAnkNjaseZaGJ2jzshhqm9xW32LR/s1600/Old-Ladder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2JZnK4CY-2uc3I99fGQ0bkHso6XGi0CkR3r7Q-lkuIRLILf-qnjYIn6ilWjJ1NPDap4l7RelWo7yowC2dtepZumJ-0q7MGX1iEaAhiLLrfkws-zBQQAnkNjaseZaGJ2jzshhqm9xW32LR/s400/Old-Ladder.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>For decades I've been taking pictures of this old ladder my Uncle Lloyd built over forty years ago for my cousins and all us neighborhood kids to climb over into his fields without breaking down his fence. He kept goats in that pasture that ate down the grass and shrubs. Once my brother ran down and caught a deer in that meadow while we all stood and watched him. He caught it because he could, I guess. He could do a lot of stuff, my brother.<br />
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I've taken pictures of this ladder in every season and I took many pictures of it with my children sitting on it when they were small. It's a historical landmark for us.<br />
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This old ladder was an access point to secret places way back when. To the old murky pond... to the itchy grasses all full of ticks and chiggers... to the animal dens hidden in the tangles of brush surrounding the lots-a-rain creek at the bottom of the hill. My sister and I remember a place we called only "Out There" that was, well, out there... but that was out there before the ladder was out there.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHairrs6-eaC3CA5jMcNEwuDJkV2ywTjlKuC8FlDoiWMeW5HnW4jd61tK8fC0iRgKminCiEALR4ZXA5LXP52FM467nnhnvNdLc9ij_I2YVHFIPewEztXlzQgFA7srJauto0m6NJy4PgV8j/s1600/Cows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHairrs6-eaC3CA5jMcNEwuDJkV2ywTjlKuC8FlDoiWMeW5HnW4jd61tK8fC0iRgKminCiEALR4ZXA5LXP52FM467nnhnvNdLc9ij_I2YVHFIPewEztXlzQgFA7srJauto0m6NJy4PgV8j/s400/Cows.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Now cattle keep watch in this same meadow that those goats cleared for them more than forty years ago. They totter past that same old ladder without any thought in their minds of what came before them and surely none of what will come after. Sometimes I'm not so sure how many of us are any wiser than those cows.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeo7Av7Sei5NXg0WHf1ajMZeUwLtAyambMhDtdcV0T_bOMlVHUVwRETWiSZw8Ef3FaOk4ypXUycwB-2sjNGEmjiJW97SuK8n-3M4dXzAACKKz2mvVthfvo4-UMevbSdledc9x2cSIhnKUm/s1600/Tree-in-Frence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeo7Av7Sei5NXg0WHf1ajMZeUwLtAyambMhDtdcV0T_bOMlVHUVwRETWiSZw8Ef3FaOk4ypXUycwB-2sjNGEmjiJW97SuK8n-3M4dXzAACKKz2mvVthfvo4-UMevbSdledc9x2cSIhnKUm/s400/Tree-in-Frence.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
Old cedars and scrubby useless trees shove their way through my Uncle Lloyd's fences... (these fences don't belong to him anymore... now they belong to my Uncle Lowell whose not really my Uncle at all, but is my mother's cousin. I don't know what that makes him to me. My cousin Harold would know... my cousin Harold whose not my cousin... but he would know what he is... Hi Harold!) These old trees are cut out of there and burned out of there and hacked out of there religiously but they always worm their way back in a season or two. Same thing happens in every area of my life, it seems. I hack something away only to find I've let it seep right back in. Aggravates to no end. Messes up the landscape. Ruins things. And it adds character too.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_lfck6l6oe0ifBmn8ZA76AKnddyMb8PqErdFyqO1m8m_eXYDXMmaGUQnk6DgIsrxfWIh7sSg819WRRjp6mUGrA1xkyXxNgE_z4VyVxuk7OBwEPg9HKy_at2Hf5HWDzRkFuPdS3ZHivlt/s1600/Peach-Tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="365" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_lfck6l6oe0ifBmn8ZA76AKnddyMb8PqErdFyqO1m8m_eXYDXMmaGUQnk6DgIsrxfWIh7sSg819WRRjp6mUGrA1xkyXxNgE_z4VyVxuk7OBwEPg9HKy_at2Hf5HWDzRkFuPdS3ZHivlt/s400/Peach-Tree.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Across the way is another ancient bystander. This old peach tree's doom is predicted every summer. And each spring it thrills us by blooming anew. It's older than the ladder. Older than me. My father planted peach trees here almost 55 years ago.... ? Last year, this old tree which has been beaten by every assortment of blight and torment produced a beautiful crop of peaches. "Likewise, every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. Thus, by their fruit you will recognize them." Matthew 7:19-20 That's a good tree. That's a good fruit-bearing tree.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2nVyot9B05KaQO3wnrlVDn8hL3CbukGlAdq4p24z-gvoAvUeW-CEEiQDwsDIWwfHmsLQM5iKaVK5FlPkXAlbaTzCdbMmV82gXtB2-znESwBsM6ZmZ085GsHmNG-e3u31lRc2ajlO8ZOVW/s1600/Lilac-Butterfly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2nVyot9B05KaQO3wnrlVDn8hL3CbukGlAdq4p24z-gvoAvUeW-CEEiQDwsDIWwfHmsLQM5iKaVK5FlPkXAlbaTzCdbMmV82gXtB2-znESwBsM6ZmZ085GsHmNG-e3u31lRc2ajlO8ZOVW/s400/Lilac-Butterfly.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The old lilac bush is ancient too. It's filled with blooms this year because the Lord has been so kind. Each spring it is filled with butterflies but this year, it bloomed so early, we were three full days in bloom before the butterflies arrived... then they arrived en mass along with the big burly bumblebees. It was magnificent! Glorious! Dangerous to take these pictures because of falling into the ditches when you're not watching what you're doing and bumblebees looking up close at you while you're trying to get your close up of them! How I'd love to get a picture of a bumblebee but, as you can tell, it's more than I can do to take even a poor shot of one of the much larger and much slower butterflies.<br />
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It's been a long day. I failed to complete something that was due for work today but at least I made progress on something that has stumped me for several weeks. I knocked down a roadblock anyway but it took hours and hours longer than I thought and I'm tired and discouraged and sick of it all.<br />
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Above is the sunset from last night... tonight's is not so vibrant. The sun is setting again and the house is quiet except for the fan blowing the dust of a passing motorcycle and several small gnats in through the screen.<br />
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Old Tickles, our one million year old cat, is stretched onto the rocker on the porch and when he sees me see him he twitches his tail. Over the winter, he destroyed the rocker with his stretching and clawing. I suppose it's his now.<br />
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At my feet Lucy, our million year old wiener dog, is snoring. If I move my feet too much she will wake and and lick my toe.<br />
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Out the window, I just saw a big redbone hound trot up the road. Frankie, our other wiener dog, must have not seen him or he would be acting all hysterical and brave and his awesome hackles would be standing on end like a new Navy recruit's hair (hey, Nick! thinking about you! We love you, son! We're praying for you, son! We're laughing about your plight, son!)<br />
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Oh! Here's Frankie now! He's in here at my feet too! That's HIM licking my toes! Thought that was kind of unusual for Lucy! That lazy fat dog! How can I depend on him to be a guard dog when he lets a great big redbone hound trot by without even a small yip.<br />
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Hope you get to see a redbone today too. If you do, say a prayer for it to live a long, happy life. I did.<br />
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Love you all so much. d.Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7722613660454394216.post-3023800035652653282012-03-17T20:52:00.000-05:002012-03-17T20:52:39.662-05:00These glorious spring storms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh160GUbz6XOBbgko7nlxcoW_6lW1Ttss6sMS2a4NXPOiIE5QE8wGA0f301D-GYsV2Ig8txMA1wupJaHuUJSWLTL9zMO4r3H726hPFleBD8NWtxWPLxZQ7BGRktRQmp7TNPl0-BGOQf0FQ/s1600/03-17-12-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh160GUbz6XOBbgko7nlxcoW_6lW1Ttss6sMS2a4NXPOiIE5QE8wGA0f301D-GYsV2Ig8txMA1wupJaHuUJSWLTL9zMO4r3H726hPFleBD8NWtxWPLxZQ7BGRktRQmp7TNPl0-BGOQf0FQ/s400/03-17-12-01.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Why anyone would ever want to move to some boring temperate zone is beyond me. I love these wild weather changes.<br />
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This morning was all glorious sunshine and breezes. I did three loads of laundry before I even should have been out of bed on a Saturday morning and had them all hanging on the line to dry. It was just blankets and old towels airing out and looking beautiful as the sun bleached the winter from their folds. <br />
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Before my fourth load had finished it was pouring and I stood at the back door watching it puddle onto the patio. The Forsythia is in bloom already and I could smell the Lilac from the front yard.<br />
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When the next load finished it wasn't raining anymore so I hung those blankets and sheets out as well.<br />
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It hailed on that load, along with the others. Pea-sized. Dime-sized. I watched that from the back door too. Hailed quite a while.<br />
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The laundry's still out on the line and it's dark now. Every thing's sopping wet.<br />
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I walked into the yard and looked at the clothes line; nothing was on the ground. I can remember my mom's clothes on the line in the rain when I was a kid... I would run my face through it and smell...<br />
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Far to the east, lightning filled the sky, but try as I might I couldn't capture it in a picture. It's so beautiful and destructive and powerful and illusive and I used over thirty shots but got nothing but out of focus shots of the trees.<br />
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Coming back into the house with nothing in my basket and nothing on my camera, I stopped short for a final picture.<br />
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There's something lonely about being outside your home when it's getting dark. It's always an interesting perspective to me and sometimes I go outside at night just to look into my windows and see what I can see. But I always just end up feeling excluded... I can see the light but I'm excluded from that light.<br />
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Thank you, God, that you will take us Home where we will never be excluded. And thank you for this tremendous weather experiment today!Donna Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888588950390574747noreply@blogger.com1