Posted on December 24, 2012
My second language is American Sign Language (ASL). No, I’m not deaf. I fell in love with the language of the deaf through one of my best friends in high school whose parents were deaf.
Christmas carols and songs are such fun in sign language. Today I wanted to share via that language.
Join along with the Deaf Direct in Worcester, signing a familiar Christmas carol:
And lastly, my wish for you on this Christmas Eve:
Posted on December 22, 2012
Okay, I know today is Saturday, but I didn’t remember yesterday was Friday! I know CW Sara has loyal Miller Farm Friday readers and that’s why I’m posting her email blog. I do apologize and promise to pay more attention to the calendar and not just the clock in the future.
Back in the Blog
The chickens must have heard the rumors that they were being replaced in the blog by clothing/craft stories so they provided the following material this morning:
I noticed while observing our young roosters that male and female of every species share characteristics.
Our roosters have reached what I guess is the equivalent of adolescence and have started fighting. I used to believe that people trained roosters for cockfights, but I promise ours fight on their own. YesterdayI was convinced that two were fighting to the death.
Even Whitey – one of the hens – tried to break it up (just like a momma).
Finally, Samson, the chief rooster, based on seniority not on size as he is a bantam, “explained” to them how things were going to be. They stopped fighting.
Well this morning, I let the chickens out and, as usual, the roosters started their morning boxing bouts. They puff their chests out and bump up against each other kind of like men do at sporting events. Other times they fly towards each other and bump chests as well.
As I was feeding and watering the birds, I discovered one young rooster was on the wrong side of the fence. I guess he had been “bumped” over.
Fortunately, the only dog outside at the time was Marv, our old mixed breed, and he was more interested in the stale hamburger buns in the shed than in the rooster in the yard.
Poor rooster was very confused so I was able to grab him easily.
He did protest as I tossed him back into the chicken yard. I have the scratch on my arm and the mud on my shirt to show for it.
I asked my son Matthew if I needed to change shirts before I took him to school. (Remember he warned me to stay in the car when I was wearing my special sweatshirt.) He decided that rooster footprints were not as tacky as a sweatshirt with handprints.
However, since I was taking breakfast to Beekeeper Brian at his school, I decided to put on a clean shirt. Embarrassing kids is one thing but husbands are off limits.
YOUR TURN: What do you think are sports bumps and cockfights alike?
Posted on December 17, 2012
How do we find motivation after Friday’s act of darkness? I don’t know about you, but I’m having a hard time.
Bob Mayer’s FB status on Friday suggested: “Just mourn. No politics, agendas, rants. Losing a child is an exclusive club you do not want to be a part of. Trust me on that.”
This is not going to be a rant or a political statement. I don’t have an agenda.
What I have is a hurting heart.
My family lived near Newtown at one time. I have an undergraduate degree from Western Connecticut State in Danbury. One of my daughters graduated from New Fairfield High School. Our other daughter took piano lessons from a teacher in Newtown. Somehow, these connections made what happened more real.
I’ve been restless, perplexed, sidetracked by tears of anger and sadness all weekend. How do we make sense out of senseless?
I’m wondering how God can let things like the massacres in Newtown and Aurora , the rampage in Tucson and Virginia Tech happen?
Seeking answers I emailed my son, a minister with a Ph.D. in Theology. I share his thoughts with his permission.
It is in times like these that our faith meets sight. It is easy to walk by faith when things make sense. It is when our reality is rocked by some inexplicable and incomprehensible event that faith must really kick in.
Because I believe that God has revealed Himself to us in His written Word, the Bible, and because I believe the Bible contains everything we need for life, my mind turns to Scripture to seek an answer.
The crux of the matter in cases like this comes down to “how/why does God allow evil?”
It is really a question of sovereignty versus free will. If I could solve that, I would be famous indeed.
By its very nature, the sovereignty/free will issue is an antinomy—something that cannot be explained in human terms, to human satisfaction. Scripture reminds us in Isaiah 40:13-14 that God’s knowledge is unique to Him. And Proverbs 21:30 confirms that there is no wisdom, or counsel or understanding higher than His.
So we are left to trust Him and Him alone as knowing what is best.
For many people, this approach to the question of evil in the world is inadequate and trite. I understand.
That’s why eschatology is not just a hobby or whimsy of mine. It is the key cog in my worldview. I could not survive in a world where everyone is under the sway of the wicked one (1 John 5:19) if I did not believe that God wins in the end.
When I see things like what happened in Newtown I get angry and crave God’s divine intervention more than ever. I, too, question why does He wait to claim victory?
But I take comfort in knowing that ultimately, God will intervene. A better day is coming. A day of complete justice when Satan and all of his human and demonic envoys will be judged once and for all. It is that promise of Scripture that allows me to keep going when things don’t make sense in the present world.
So, to summarize: The unspeakable events of Friday are incomprehensible apart from a biblical worldview that promises (1) God is in control even when evil seems to triumph; (2) All evil will be recompensed; (3) Justice will prevail; (4) God wins.
I believe, like my son, God wins the final victory. But until that THE END happens, I will hug my children more, tell teachers I appreciate them more often, and offer prayers of comfort for the families and victims of these tragedies.
And most important, as a writer, I will write.
So should you.
I love Emma D. Dryden’s suggestions in her blog.
Create something precious for the world that might help to replace the precious the world’s lost. Write, paint, sing, dance, walk in nature, breathe deeply, and love fiercely. As we reach out to friends, to family, to others, so too must we reach inside to be gentle with ourselves. And we must remind ourselves we do carry the light necessary to light the dark corners, vanquishing one shadow at a time.
Posted on December 14, 2012
We interrupt our regularly scheduled Chicken Wrangler emails for today’s seasonal email titled
Don We Now our Gay Apparel
Exactly nineteen years ago, my parents gave me a Christmas sweater. It was something they knew I would never buy for myself but would love. They were absolutely right. I wore that sweater for many years. In fact, I wore it in our Christmas picture for our daughters first Christmas.
This very same daughter, nineteen years later, has borrowed this sweater not once but twice to enter in “tacky Christmas sweater” contests.
I would be offended except for two years running, it has won.This year, she wasn’t even the one wearing it.
I think I deserve at least some kind of prize for having held on to that sweater long enough for college kids to think it is tacky.
Today was the first really cold day of the season so I pulled out my Christmas sweatshirt. It is even older than my tacky sweater.
I got it from my music class after my first Christmas program (which was several years before our first daughter was born). It has the name of the Christmas musical – “The Town Hall Christmas Tree” – on the front and all the kids’ handprints in red and green on the back and down the arms.
This morning my son looked at me as I was putting on my shoes over my Christmas socks so I could take him to school and said, “I’m glad you are not getting out of the car.”
I almost got out and gave him a big hug just for spite.
Later I was at the doctor for my annual check -up and as I stepped on the scale (a frightful thing in and of itself) the nurse said, “What a cute sweatshirt. Are those the handprints of your grandkids.”
I texted my son later and said “Maybe I should have stayed in the car.”
I laughed and laughed when I received this email from Chicken Wrangler Sara. What fun to remember all the times like she described when she or her teenaged siblings asked me to wait in the car or wouldn’t let me out of the house because what I had on didn’t suit them. We call her sister Stef the fashion police even today!
I love Christmas and have multiple Christmas sweaters. Depending on the occasion, I select which one to wear. And, like an actress take on different persona depending on which I’m wearing.
For fun, casual parties and gatherings, especially those with sweater contests I wear this one. btw, it was purchased at the same time we bought CW Sara’s in 1993.
For more glitzy affairs when I need bling and swing, I choose this one:
And for conservative affairs, my Ralph Lauren angora. With a long skirt or jeans with high boots, I’m styling.
But the most fun comes from wearing the homemade variety. My girls will probably kill me for this one, but I loved the year I made us all red sweatsuits with appliqued Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer. The suits are long gone, but oh what fun Christmas memories!
CW Sara has carried on the tradition of creating crafty Christmas garments.
We have wreaths with children’s finger and handprints, wall hangings of hand prints/foot prints, and one years she managed to collect ALL eleven grandkids for a handprint Christmas table cloth. Unfortunately, due to the tipping point decision, that tablecloth is packed in storage awaiting our move to Colorado so I can’t show a picture.
YOUR TURN: Do you have any special handcrafted Christmas items?
Posted on December 7, 2012
Bella was staring intently into the small chicken yard this afternoon. I figured she was just willing one of the smaller chickens to come out and “play.”
When I went out to check eggs, I saw what had her mesmerized.
A quail was eating from the chicken feeder. I thought to myself “That looks like one of our quail. What’s he doing in the chickenyard?”
So I turned to look at the long quail cage and discovered I had left the door open when I fed the quail earlier.
Now if I were in charge, I would fire me. Unfortunately, I’m not sure I could find a replacement.
After a quick inventory of the quail still in the cage, I realized the one eating from the feeder was not the only escapee. There were five or six others missing.
I debated briefly about simply closing the cage and letting those outside retain their freedom.
Then I recalled we’d paid money for these quail so I probably should attempt to recapture our investment.
I set the egg basket down and began creeping up on the quail roaming the chickenyard. They weren’t that hard to catch as they did not have much flying experience.
I did learn that I can only hold one at a time as they are wriggly little critters.
I managed to catch all I could find on our side of the fence. One had escaped into the neighbor’s yard, but I chose not to go retrieve it.
Remember, the neighbors already think we are strange after seeing me in my bee bonnet. In their backyard, in my bee bonnet, rounding up quail might prove grounds for a call for the patty wagon!
I suppose “quail wrangler” can now be added to my “chicken wrangler” title making me Sara Chicken/Quail Wrangler Extraordinaire.
I wonder. CW Sara may have chased down some quail, but is that the same as daily wrangling chickens? Enough to earn her a new title?
What do you think?
Posted on December 4, 2012
I may have lied in my first phase Tipping Point blog. This is HARD!
If you read that blog, then you know we decided to simplify our lives, which meant tossing and turning loose of our stuff.
Since my last post, we’ve sorted. Tons and tons of emotions whirled as we weeded through treasures.
We are not hoarders. Yet we found ourselves with so much.
Partly because as you age you simply accumulate stuff. That and we got lazy about cleaning out the stuff.
Mostly because we’ve lived here so long. Previously, we’d rarely stayed in a home more than five years. To be here in one place thirty years meant lots and lots of STUFF.
Fellow WANA Tribe blogger Sherry Isaac has also been in what I call the TP (tipping point) mode. In her blog Shedding & Shredding the Stuff, she shared a hilarious observational comedy video by George Carlin.
If you’re not familiar with Carlin (I wasn’t), think Seinfeld. Btw, the definition of observational comedy is humor based on commonplace aspects of everyday life. Carlin’s routine STUFF fits perfectly what happened to us.
For a full two weeks, we organized. We gave away. Passed to children and family. Shredded.
And, yes, we kept things. Some treasures we just couldn’t part with and some furniture we’ll use in our new place.
Finally, we held our garage sale. What fun talking with all the folks who stopped by.
We heard some great stories. (You’ll find parts of some of those stories in future Judythe Morgan manuscripts.) I loved the smiles on the faces of those who took away our treasures and made them theirs. Our stuff had found happy homes.
The house is mostly empty now. The rooms echo. The walls are bare.
The woodwork and floors clean and polished. I can’t praise Liquid Gold enough. Windows glisten thanks to Windex. Easy Off turned our originally installed ovens into shiny clean.
I am feeling like a heavy burden has been lifted, but the process involved lots of physical labor and emotional drain.
Onto the next phase now. The house is up for sale.
We’re waiting for the perfect person to buy the home we’ve loved and cherished.
Next time I’ll share how this new phase of our transition progresses.
Posted on November 30, 2012
Before the school year started, I alphabetized my books in my classroom to make it easier to find what I wanted for each class.
Imagine my consternation when I went to pull “Six Little Ducks” and it was not nestled right next to “Silent Night” in the “s” section. I thought perhaps I had loaned it out and would need to track it down.
I chose another duck book, “Little White Duck,” and went on with my teaching.
Well yesterday, I wanted to read “Ten Little Indians.” It was time to start my Thanksgiving songs. It was also missing!
My first thought was “Now I’ve lost six little ducks and ten little Indians and the craziness of the holiday season has not even began. Not a good sign!”
I had to walk away from the bookshelf to collect myself.
Upon returning and carefully searching through the entire alphabet of books, I discovered that “Ten Little Indians” was actually titled “One Little Indian.”
Very relieved, I looked once again for “Six Little Ducks.”
I discovered the title of that book is actually “Five Little Ducks,” and it was right shelved right where it was supposed to be – after “Fire Truck.”
I slept much better last night knowing that every book and everything was in their proper spot.
Including the black hen in the chicken yard who apparently still has flashbacks to the possum episode and tries to sleep on top of the quail cage.
Have a great weekend.
Before anyone gets excited over CW (Chicken Wrangler) Sara using Ten Little Indians to kickstart Thanksgiving, I have to tell you that she grew up where Mama (me) made sure the “real” Thanksgiving celebration wasn’t forgotten.
The first Thanksgiving feast was to thank the Indians for their contribution to the Pilgrims’ survival.
To reinforce the concept, I wore an Indian squaw dress custom-made for me by an Apache seamstress on the White River Arizona Reservation.
I’m sure CW Sara told her young students all about a Mama’s custom.
I do wonder if she tells her classes about how I embellished the Five Little Duck story by having the Mama Duck (NOT the Daddy Duck) call the duckies back in the song’s punch line.
I’d tell her and her siblings that disobedience to Mama Duck meant the five little duckies might not have a happy ending.
On second thought, CW Sara probably doesn’t tell that story. That would be like the black hen’s flashbacks of the possum episode—recalling unpleasant memories.
YOUR TURN TO SHARE:
Any Thanksgiving traditions?
Or unpleasant possum memories?