From the Mouth of Hope

Rarely do I write about classroom experiences for one simple reason...

I would surely offend someone.

This particular moment in time, however, demands attention and for that reason, I'm going to break one of my self-imposed rules and write about a class I was honored to lead on Friday. Every year, if the eleventh of September happens to fall on a weekday, I venture away from my lesson plans and focus on the events of that fateful Tuesday now fourteen years ago. I begin each class period by allowing about five minutes for students to write about what they already know (or think they know) regarding 9/11. While they are writing, I write September 11, 2001, in the middle of a clean white board. I then ask for students to begin describing that day using only one or two words. Invariably, this train starts off slow and then picks up so much speed that I have a hard time keeping up with it. As words are called out, I write them on the board in various places with the goal being to connect everything to the date of September 11th.

It works out much cooler than my lame attempt to describe it.

At any rate, the expected words come pretty quick.

Twin Towers.
Planes.
Fire.
Hijackers.

Then I start asking for specifics.

Bin Laden.
New York.
Pentagon.
Pennsylvania.

In between all these, I will hear other words that I may not have expected.

Depressing.
Overwhelming.
Confusing.
Despair.

During one afternoon class, though, I heard a word that stopped me still in my tracks. I was facing the board, marker poised to write, when I just had to lower my head and thank the good Lord in Heaven for allowing me to be right where I was at that moment.

The word?

HOMEGOING.

Homegoing. Even now it's a word that my spell check keeps underlining in a red squiggly line. It doesn't sound right. It doesn't seem like it should be right.

But it is so right.

You see, this student understood that as tragic as the events of that day were for those of us left standing on this side, September 11, 2001, was a day of celebration for those who stepped to the other side in faith on that fateful Tuesday morning. It was, in fact, a homegoing. Out of all my years, I've never witnessed such a positive outlook and attitude.

May we always be reminded that we know not what each new day might bring. It may be just another ordinary day out of what often seems to be a neverending week, or it may be the very day that we rejoice in an eternal life while the rest of the world looks on in terror that can often come from this life.

I hope this crazy made some kind of sense.

The note I was handed the morning of September 11, 2001.

I Will Not Go Quietly. Will You?

My focus should be on creating exams and writing papers and possibly (just possibly) folding the clothes in the basket of clean laundry that sits beside me. I could run the dishwasher or go for a walk or (slight gasp) actually read a book non-school related.

Bake a cake.
Call my mom.

Finish that scrapbook from 2012.

Instead of the many, many things that I could be doing, I find my mind wandering between World War II questions and the current world situation. I eat a bowl of cereal and think about our boy and instantly feel sick. My emotions have run amok.

This boy of ours. About to join the ranks of those defending our freedom. Adamant that he wants no big to-do about his departure. Willing to quietly slip away and conquer a dream he's had for quite some time.

While his mother, on the other hand, wants to scream from the rooftops just to see if anyone's listening. Wants to grab the local idiot and shake them by the neck and say,

This life is not about you.

Running your mouth screaming freedom of speech.
    Destroying property claiming freedom of expression.
        Taking God out of my country citing freedom of religion.

All while we idly stand by and overdose on reality television.

I have no time for celebrity foolishness or talk show opinions. I don't share political propaganda via social media. I am by no means perfect, but may heaven help me if I bury my head in the sand.

The words of Dwight D. Eisenhower ring loudly in my ears. Speaking to those soldiers who were about to embark on the greatest military invasion the world has ever known, he said (in part*),

Your task will not be an easy one.

 Your enemy is well trained, well equipped, and battle-hardened.

 He will fight savagely.

I have full confidence in your courage,

 devotion to duty, and skill in battle. 

We will accept nothing less than full victory. 

Good Luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God

 upon this great and noble undertaking. 

I cannot help but reflect on how those words still ring true today. June 6, 1944, may be well behind us, but the battle is ever before us. Let us not wait until Memorial Day or Independence Day or Veteran's Day to support a country, a flag, a cause for which much blood was shed.

Vietnam Wall. Photo by me. Sacrifice by many.

I am tired of making excuses, tired of worrying whom I might offend, and tired of the media giving valuable air time to fools making a mockery of their freedom.

Period.



*You can read or listen to Eisenhower's full speech HERE.

Things That Make Me Happy

Showing a video to two separate eighth grade classes...

and hearing not a peep as it played.



May we never forget.
May we always honor.



May we continue to teach.

For Love Of Country

I'm a little ashamed of myself.

How in the world have I been blogging this long and yet not have one entry on Veterans Day?

Memorial Day. Check.
Independence Day. Check.
Labor Day. Check.

Heck, I've even got a well-written entry (I am my biggest fan, after all) on what I like to call "It Stinks To Be Single Day." Birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas... covered. Anniversaries? Been there.

But Veterans Day?

Shockingly silent.

I have got to be missing something.

Even so, allow me to share with you my thoughts on tomorrow. I am so looking forward to it. Not only do I get to watch a parade that will take place right outside my classroom window, but I also get to kick off first period with a invigorating lesson on the signing of the Declaration of Independence. In my world, life in middle school doesn't get much better than that.

Veterans Day.

Armistice Day.

November 11, 1918.

The eleventh day of the eleventh month at the eleventh hour.

The day the world would record as the end of "the war to end all wars."

As history has taught us, however, the decades would tick by and we would come to accept that, in fact, The Great War was not the war to end all wars. As a result, our country would shift the focus of Armistice Day to a day of honoring the veterans of America for "their patriotism, love of country, and willingness to serve and sacrifice for the common good."

I especially appreciate that part about love of country. Why else would the citizens of a nation voluntarily (setting aside the mandatory draft, of course) raise their right hand and swear an oath to support and defend the Constitution of the United States? Medical benefits and a decent pension plan can only account for so much of that dedication, you know.

At any rate, by all means, thank a vet tomorrow and every day.

And if you're in the neighborhood, swing by my class around 8:05 in the morning. I'll be the one up front singing the praises of the patriots and trying my best to help a room full of teenagers appreciate the risk that fifty-six men took when they dipped their quills to the inkwell and signed a document so profound it ignited a riot in New York City that ultimately destroyed a nearby statue of King George III (which interestingly enough, would later be melted down and molded into over 40,000 musket balls for the American army).

You gotta love history.




*quoted material courtesy of http://www.va.gov/opa/vetsday/vetdayhistory.asp

Having The Queen Over For Coffee

My dreams have been rather twisted lately, something that tends to happen when I immerse myself in places other than reality. I've spent the better part of this weekend in Elizabethan England and as a result, Queen Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley have invaded my dreams. I'm pretty sure that Sir Francis Drake was a student of mine last night and somewhere in the midst of the dream-like confusion, I think I was giving a pep talk to Fanny Price of Mansfield Park (as dreams tend to do, I skipped a few centuries without giving it a second thought). Anyway, this is what happens when I have one too many lattes and spend too much time with PBS on Netflix.

Happy Labor Day To Me.

(And to you, too, of course. May your grill be hot, your feet propped up, and your pajamas still on).



Bring on the fall!

Labor Pains

The buzzing of my phone woke me up about ten minutes ago. I was in the midst of a dream- a very good, afternoon nap kind of dream. Now I am trying to keep my eyes propped open with the help of a Starbucks (k-cup style) and the glow of this laptop.

Happy Fourth of July.

I actually went to sleep about an hour ago thinking about the Fourth and the marketing ploys of all things patriotic. I love the military. I was in the military. I believe in the military... but Independence Day is for all Americans, not just those who wear the uniform; and like Memorial Day, it's a chance to teach our children that we are not celebrating the invention of the hot dog. I look at it as a time to reflect upon the history of this great nation. A time when ordinary people- civilians and soldiers alike- stood up and fought for the dream of freedom.  A time to remember how we came to be and to reflect on how far we've come. Look at it as a mother reflecting on the labor pains she endured to give birth. We've all heard those stories (and even told a few of our own) as birthdays come and go. Let's give America a chance to retell those stories.

Patrick Henry* was considered a radical during the revolutionary years and remains one of my all-time favorite men of history. He was not a soldier and by most accounts, was pretty darn lazy until he found something he was passionate about... America. His speeches prior to 1776 were considered treasonous against Great Britain, but nonetheless packed a powerful punch. Even today, in my moments of private frustration, I often find myself reciting his words:

...we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations; and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave.... Gentlemen may cry, Peace! Peace! but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!

How cool is that?

Nathan Hale is remembered for his dying words, "I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country." He was a teacher turned spy in 1776 and if you read the CIA's report on him (seriously), you'll see that they considered his espionage skills as "lacking."** Really? I suppose that any spy captured and killed might be considered lacking in something, but... sheesh. Let's give it up for those school teachers.

I could keep going, but I have a feeling I might have lost some of you at that remark about the military. Remember, I'm all for honoring those who serve and have served our country; I'd just also like to see equal time given to our past.

The cause. The revolution. The victory. 

I'd like to see patriotism taught as something more than buying paper plates and swim trunks bearing the image of the American flag. I'm not positive how I feel about that as it is... but that's a story for another day. 

As for today,

George Washington, Nathanael Greene, Thomas Paine.
Paul Revere, Ethan Allen, John Adams- the father and the son.
Benjamin Franklin, Samuel Adams, and even ole Benedict Arnold.

Hey, every good party needs somebody to talk about.



Happy Birthday, America.





*http://www.ushistory.org/declaration/related/henry.htm
http://www.history.org/almanack/life/politics/giveme.cfm

**https://www.cia.gov/news-information/featured-story-archive/2007-featured-story-archive/nathan-hale.html

You May Not Think This Is Pretty, But I Sure Feel Better

May I ramble on for a bit?

...and if you know me in the real-life-kind-of-way, please don't bother making a mental note to ask me tonight or tomorrow or the next day what in the world this is all about...

Just let me ramble.

~*~*~Sheesh.  I've already deleted what I thought I wanted to write at least three times.~*~*

Let me try a different tactic.

My weekend was awesome. I love rainy days and March Madness and a husband who likes to look at shoes. I'll be the first to admit that I don't know much about this modern world or pop culture or what irks nineteen-year old boys, but I do know what I like (emphasis on the I).

And maybe I just now understood what it is I want to write.

Boy, this is gonna be selfish. Brace yourself.

I did not incur a massive student loan debt to please other people. Crazy, but true. I knew exactly what I was doing. I started out seeking a degree in elementary education when I mentioned to my husband about one semester in, "You know, I really don't want to do this psycho-questioning-how-a-state-thinks-you-ought-to-teach madness for four years."

"So do what you love," the man of the house answered back.

"I love to teach."  "So what do you love to teach?"  "History."  "So teach history."

I listened. I prayed. End of my life-changing discussion.

Off toward a history degree I went. That diploma now hangs on my wall. A job (in that field) is yet to be found.

How can that be?

How can I have such a burning desire to teach history, to talk about history, to do anything that has to do with history, and still be sitting here bemoaning the fact that as of right now, that diploma is absolutely useless to me?

Well, unless you count the fact that it was a MAJOR ACCOMPLISHMENT...

Anyway.

I am frustrated.

But I'm still proud.

I have mentioned before (on this blog) that graduating college is on my list of  25 Things To Do Before I Die. Apparently I should have added a number twenty-six: Gain employment that actually uses said degree.

I'm somewhat sorry you've been subjected to this ramble, especially if you were looking for something uplifting or comical. You might want to check out some of the other blogs listed on my page for content a little less me-related.

Lord, can I move back home yet? Just take me back ten years and let's go at this thing from another angle.

Seriously.

I am so not getting this plan of Yours.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

neither are your ways my ways, says the Lord.*

And there He goes again, reminding me of whose life this is anyhow.

Not mine. All His. Wait I will. I love when it He talks me out of my whining.

(Just please don't let Kansas make it to the Final Four. Please?)

And Amen.

*Isaiah 55:8-9

Worth The Read (the book; not this post)

I have spent the last few days drifting between the couch and my bed, with the inevitable stop of the kitchen in between. The husband may think he didn't give me much for my birthday, but the truth is, he gave me a lot.

A whole lot of what I didn't want.

His cold.

Oh well. Seems like I can count on a couple of severe colds throughout the year anyway. I don't think I caught them nearly as easy when I was spending every weekday in a classroom.. must have been all those kids increasing my resistance or something. I ran out of kleenex earlier in the week and resorted to carrying around a roll of toilet paper. Thankfully, the daughter presented me with a three-pack of tissues yesterday. Surely this nonsense of not feeling well is on its way out the door.

I would be lost without a book to read, especially when I'm confined indoors. If you haven't heard of this one, I cannot recommend it enough:

Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand

I'm nearing the end of the story and I've had to slow down my pace; it's one of those books that I just hate to see come to an end and I can see myself re-reading it many times to come. Personally, I think this one should be required reading of every high school history class. It would take Veteran's Day to a whole new level, I can tell you that.

I do know it's been the perfect companion for this week.

A whole lot more better than the nose spray.

The Kittens Have A Home (And It's Not Mine)

Well, I expected today to be a better day, and it did not disappoint.

Three hours were spent in blissful solitude as I sat tucked away in the old curator's office of the museum. My postcard assignment continues and for the most of the morning, I read through fragments of a pre-World War I era. I've said it before and I'll say it again... this is right up my alley. If only a volunteer position could miraculously transform into a paid position, all would be perfect in my world. The husband keeps telling me I should pursue a master's in museum studies and I keep telling him, "If only I were twenty years younger." I don't know. I might apply for entrance into our local university that offers such a program. I might. Things like more loans and oral exams (for acceptance) scare the heck out of me, to tell you the truth.

If only I had a job.

But then again, I was thanking the Lord this morning that I am available to take the kids to school and pick them up; that I'm available to take to them to appointments and not stress about how we're going to get them here or there; and that I look forward (for the most part) to planning meals and cleaning house and doing other mundane daily tasks.

This is the occasional pep talk that always works.

At any rate, I topped off the day with my pre-planned pumpkin spice latte and sat outside in a sticky, ninety-plus degree kind of southern, September day. I thoroughly enjoyed it. At home, my girl sat with me as I sorted through my dresser drawers and closet space (bonding time, she called it) and later served up supper to three teenage boys (of which only one belonged to me). The husband left to get parts for our tired van and I fixed a cup of decaf.

Like I said, a definitely better day.

And, lest I forget, remember our kitten dilemma from a few weeks ago? It turns out that the mama cat-  the cat that we thought was a stray all summer long and ruined our screens and filled our shed with fleas, actually belongs to our neighbor.

Doesn't take a genius to figure out where the kittens are tonight, does it?

I Could Die Happy

After I dropped the kids off at school this morning (the first day!), I headed to our local history museum to begin volunteer work. I figured that as long as I'm not working, I might as well break up the week by doing something that I enjoy and may I say,

I absolutely loved it.

Granted it was three hours of sitting in an isolated office by myself behind a computer screen, but hey... that is right up my alley. The project assigned to me, at least for today, dealt with a massive postcard collection. As I scanned pictures and entered data, I read the backs of cards I could somewhat decipher. The earliest card I saw had a postmark of 1906 and several were stamped during the world war years. Because our area has a military post, I read more than one that went along the lines of Don't bother to write me back because I will have already shipped out or I sure hope I get to see you one more time before I leave. I'm telling you, it's that kind of stuff that floats my boat. As I was finishing up (just for today; this project will take months), I found one from the 1960s that went something like the white people here are horrible which made me chuckle a bit. I'm guessing that person had a particularly bad day.

What struck me, though, was the thought that we all leave something behind. Like the 1906 card... over a hundred years old! Just think, somebody took the time to drop a line (and this one ended with Be a good girl) and there it was, in my hands, today! I still sit here and shake my head at that. There are times when I feel so insignificant or so whatever, and something as simple as a very outdated postcard causes me to pause and remind myself that even the littlest things can mean something later on. I don't know if that does much for you, but it sure inspired my morning.

Gosh, I love old stuff.

History Rocks.

I Got My Red Poppy Today... Did You?

In Flanders Fields John McCrae, 1915.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

This poem was written in 1915 after the author possibly witnessed the death of his fellow soldier and friend. Often found written on worn out pieces of paper in the pockets of fatally wounded soldiers, In Flanders Fields is what inspired the red poppy-pins that are sold (or given for donations) during most Memorial Day Weekends.

ALWAYS one of my favorite poems.

Banana Bread For Bed

I gotta say, I love evenings like this one. It's a little drizzly out (if that's even a word), it's been dark for a while now, and I'm already in my pajamas. We had a fend-for-yourself night for supper, but I redeemed myself by baking a couple of loaves of banana bread. I do believe that's the only reason my family likes bananas anyway... they wait for them to turn dark and mushy and for me to say, Well, if you're not going to eat those things I guess I'm going to have to bake bread. I swear it's a conspiracy.

The oldest is watching a documentary on the War of 1812. I love it when the kids watch this stuff not thinking much about it and then share later how much they remembered from it in history class or while taking a quiz or test. The best way to make a kid to learn is to not let them know they are learning. Seriously, though, history is fascinating when presented right. Speaking of which... I start the first of my three final classes next week and, joy of all joys, there is no textbook required. Whew. I'll take that book money and go buy me some new cowboy boots.

Or pay the electric bill. Rats. No boots for me.

The oldest just looked at me and smiled. Pretty fascinating, huh? I ask, referring to the television. He nods his head, totally engrossed in the story. I'm telling you...burning cities, death in the streets, savage amputations... I know he'll end his night with a video game marathon, but truth is always more fascinating than fiction. Tuesday night entertainment at its finest. And now Francis Scott Key is watching the Battle of Ft. McHenry. I might have to jump up in song. We did just hang a new flag outside today, you know. Wonder what the family would think if I told them to join me in the National Anthem.

Yeah. That would be a resounding No!
But it would be fun just to see the look on their faces.
I oughta get something for baking that bread.

The Old Guy Had It Right

If I had money to spare and could buy a few things at Hobby Lobby to hang on my living room wall, the choice would be easy: two separate, beautifully framed copies of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. Right above where I am sitting at this very moment is blank wall space that has been reserved for such items...  if I ever have the funds to spare or somebody decides to contribute to the cause. I'd also like to have a framed copy of the South Carolina Ordinance of Secession to hang on my left and a copy of an 1806 A Compendious Dictionary of the English Language to adorn my bookshelf.

Yep. Some women dream of handbags and shoes and tropical vacations.
I'm good with copies of originals of things that have historical significance.
No wonder my husband loves me the way he does.

To mark the occasion of the our country's independence, I've spent the better part of the morning re-reading Common Sense by Thomas Paine. He's a name that even late elementary students should recognize, but I doubt few have taken the time to read his work. Yeah, he's got that old English style way of talking and the spelling is definitely old school, but his words ring just as true today as they did when this particular essay was published in January 1776. I thought of including some of my favorite lines (and even did have most of them typed out)... suffice it to say that he was all about God being the king of America, watching out for leaders who might swiftly step in and bully their way to to the top by manipulating the people, and losing the political titles that keep us from referring to one another as "a good citizen; an open and resolute friend; and a virtuous supporter of the rights of mankind."

Like I said, relevant information and a good reminder for today, no matter how old of a guy he may seem. And with that, I'm gonna close up my books and turn on the radio. I've got a cake to bake, a cat to feed, and our own little celebration to get to later today.

Happy Independence Day.

Hello World!

To fully understand the path my brain is on right now, you really should back up

 and read (or re-read) the post  I've got linked below.

Maybe then you'll get where I'm coming from. =)

You know, I really don't have a problem admitting when I'm wrong. Sometimes the things I dread the most are the things I end up loving the most. Take, for instance, this post I wrote approximately eight weeks ago. I really thought my free time was over and a season of torture had begun. In one way, I was right. My free time was over. I really did return the book about Laura Bush, I haven't visited with Mitch Rapp since then, and Kathie Lee and Hoda just haven't fit into my schedule.

The season of torture, though? Well, I may have been wrong on that one. Russian history just may have found a place in my heart right next to American history. I really think I've fallen in love with that mysterious, great, and oh-so-troubled land. The textbook that I wanted to toss out the window is now well-worn and ear-marked and covered with pink and purple highlights. I really think I learned something. I can't wait to teach somebody something.

Go figure.

And now my academic pace slows down a bit. I'm going from three to four papers a week to just one or two. I do believe I'm on the downhill slide. The next time I'm at the library, I'm gonna see if I can find Laura on a shelf; if not, I can always find Mitch Rapp on my nook no matter what time of day or night (and believe me, Vince Flynn is an author I don't mind paying for... we've all got our favorites). Heck, I might even visit Kathie Lee and Hoda once or twice a week.

The point is, I think I found my free time again.
Yep, I'm laughing right along with you.
We all know that anything free won't last for long.

Decoration Day: More Than A Three-Day Weekend

I've been reading about plans people have for this weekend and listening to traffic updates on the radio. It seems as if most everyone is heading to the beach or neighborhood pool or just the backyard. I have to admit that I'm planning our own little cook-out on Monday afternoon and it's guaranteed to sport red, white, and blue decorations along with burgers and watermelon (to be repeated on July 4th). I don't suppose there's ever a bad time to grill some beef and hang out with friends.

But in honor of Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day and first observed on May 30, 1868, here is one of my favorite poems and one my former students are sure to remember:

In Flanders Fields John McCrae, 1915.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

And in case you need a little history lesson, this poem was written in 1915 after the author possibly witnessed the death of his fellow soldier and friend. This poem was thereafter often found in the pockets of soldiers and is what inspired the red poppy-pins that are sold during most Memorial Days (I'll be curious to see if anybody is at our local stores selling these pins this weekend). Anyway, it's worth taking the time to think and reflect and remember why we fly the American flag outside our home.

It really is more than burgers and watermelon and homemade ice-cream.
Not that I'm opposed to any of that. Any day is a good day to eat.
But in the midst of it all, take the time and honor those who have made it possible.

And fly your flag proudly.

Goodbye, World

Goodbye, Laura Bush. I'm just not going to be able to finish your book which I love. You all just made it to the White House (the first time) and you were talking about gowns, I believe. I get a little teary-eyed knowing that I won't be visiting with you anytime soon, but back to the library you must go.

Goodbye, Mitch Rapp. You are my all-time favorite spy, even if you're not real. Book number four was next in line after Laura. It's just not gonna happen. I'm going to hide my nook in the closet so I won't be tempted. Don't worry, you are forever in my dreams.

Goodbye, Kathie Lee and Hoda. You're my favorite mid-morning pleasure, but you're going to have to go, too. I get too easily distracted with your talk of weekend travel and white wines and celebrity gossip. It's best if I just leave the television off.

Goodbye, Facebook.

Nevermind that one. No sense in going overboard here, but the farm may very well have to go into the dormant mode for now. Heavy, heavy sigh.

Just when I thought I might be getting a handle on this middle eastern nonsense that I've been trying to learn (no offense to my middle eastern friends, mind you)... but just when I was getting caught up on the reading and writing and somewhat understanding, I started a new class today.

Traditional Russia.
Fourteen initial chapters to read.
One hefty assignment to kick things off.

This in addition to my assigned four chapters regarding the middle east and war.
And two assignments to go with that.
All due by Sunday.

I love history.

Good thing I also love coffee.
You all pray for me, okay?
This too shall pass.

Henry The Eighth I Am!

For King Henry the Eighth,

if all the Patterns and Pictures of a merciless Prince

 were lost in the world, they might all again be

painted to the life, out of the story of this King.

 Sir Walter Raleigh

Forgive me while I go all academic here. I've been working on a pretty in-depth powerpoint project of the Tudor Monarchs of England this week and today has been devoted to the six wives of Henry VIII.

Good grief.

I remember learning in a history class many, many years ago this rhyme to remember the sequence of events that befell his many wives:

Divorced, beheaded, died;

Divorced, beheaded, survived.

Don't you know the wife at the end was the lucky one? She about got busted, too, due to some evidence that had surfaced that would have clearly shown her differences in opinion (from Henry's) regarding religion. Somebody in her court caught wind that the axe (no pun intended) was about to fall and she was able to sweet talk (my opinion only) Henry into believing that she only questioned him so she could learn from him. Quick thinking. Lucky for her he died before she could mess anything else up.

And then there's his first wife. She was married to his brother and future King of England, Arthur, for only six months before he died. Since she was young enough to remarry (lucky her!) and because she was the daughter of the King and Queen of Spain, the powers that be decided it would be good for her to marry Henry, and when his dad died (you keeping up here?) they were both crowned King and Queen of England during the same coronation ceremony.

Oh, to be a queen.

Of course, as history tells it, Catherine had a little problem in not producing a (living) male heir (and we all know it's the woman's fault, right?). Around this time another pretty young thing had caught Henry's eye so he did what any self-serving, egotistical man would do... he sought a divorce. Catherine had her title of Queen stripped from her and spent the remainder of her life in not-so-fancy castles probably wishing she could have lived her life as a peasant girl baking bread for the village blacksmith.

Wonder what she thought when she heard the axe had literally fallen on that pretty young thing's head?

Okay. I'll stop with that. It's not that I'm bored (although you might be). Trust me, I could go on and on for quite a while. History truly is better than fiction. No... I have to go because it's time to pick up my own little scholars from school. I hope they enjoyed their academic day as much as I did.

(Yeah, I can hear their snickering in the background, too).

Giving Myself A Pep Talk

Allow me a moment to convince myself all is well.

Do not let your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.

 Stop allowing yourselves to be agitated and disturbed;

and do not permit yourselves to be fearful

 and intimidated and cowardly and unsettled.

 (John 14: 27, last part, Amplified Bible)

Me thinks I'm going crazy.

Maybe crazy is too strong of a word.

But for right now it fits.

My morning was all set for a round of papers regarding the Spanish and French colonization of the Americas, something that, next to the American Revolution and the Civil War, is one of my favorite subjects (not a Roman emperor involved!). I went grocery shopping early, thoroughly enjoyed my Starbucks Via and fried egg-n-cheese sandwich, and got a kick out of watching Hoda and Kathie Lee throw a beach party in the dead of winter. Satisfied that I had gotten my fill of the outside world, I fired up the computer and got ready to do some serious writing.

And that's when I saw the email.

And the craziness started.

And so did the prayer.

Actually, the prayer had already been taken care of; in fact, the last person I prayed for this morning was the very person the email was about. God works in mysterious ways. Nevertheless, a little more prayer never did hurt.

I'll go ahead and apologize for giving you this teaser and then not actually going into detail. Can we just say teenager and leave it at that? I suppose it's about time for this next round. It's been relatively quiet around here for a few days.

And so I've been mumbling to myself for the last hour or so. The Spanish and French are taking a backseat for a bit while I sort things out in my head. I mumbled while I threw in a load of laundry. Mumbled when I went out to get the mail. Mumbled as I puttered around the kitchen. In all of this incoherent nonsense, I've been trying to remember my teenage years.

It's all a strange blur.

Junior high only comes back in bits and pieces. I remember two girls at volleyball or basketball practice who made fun of a t-shirt my dad had given me. I am painfully aware of the day a boy thought it would funny to tuck toilet paper into the back pocket of my Jordache jeans. I remember the nasty water fountain that reeked of rust. I remember hating pre-algebra.

High school memories are a little happier. I remember having a job and a boyfriend and thinking that was all I needed to survive (hysterical laughter in the background of my mind). I remember mixed chorus and DECA and practicing for graduation. I remember hating Algebra I, flunking Algebra II, and only mildly disliking geometry.

Blurred memory or not, I guess I turned out all right. This too shall pass. Today's email was no world-stopper; just a medium-sized speed bump in the role of raising teenagers. Compared to the jumbo size we've seen before, I think we'll weather this one just fine.

You see how this works? I pray, I think, I write. I am perfectly calm.

At least until school gets out.

Antique Shops, Poo Paper, and Boys That Won't Help

I have a son who is all about technology. You have a question, he's got the answer. The only trick is to catch him in a mood to help. Unfortunately, that can indeed be a tricky thing. Trying to find the right time between any particular game level and an incoming text from his girlfriend can be an almost impossible task. He's on my mind because I have asked him repeatedly to help me with a computer issue. Yesterday I asked him once again. I'm getting the feeling I'm being ignored.

I have these awesome pictures on my phone I would like to transfer to my laptop. I know there's a way. I know there's something around this house to download. I know this because I've seen it. Knowing, though, isn't exactly the same thing as doing. And that is where I get stuck.

I took some pictures of our Saturday. Pictures that were going to go along with the tale I wanted to tell. Pictures that aren't going to happen right now.

For instance, I took some photos of a downtown antique store. There is one particular section that I always get lost in and it has everything to do with the Civil War. I practically drooled over the facsimile copies of the Ordinance of Secession for South Carolina. And yes, I really do stand and read all that. I take the time to look at each signature. I think about the thoughts that must have been going through a man's mind when he took the ink to paper to sign his name. The same holds true for the Declaration of Independence, but we are in the South here. For the time being, it's all about states' rights.

I looked at a large, framed picture of Robert E. Lee and asked my husband what he thought about hanging that in our home. He offered to install special lighting for it. I looked at battle maps and books on generals. I wrote down the titles of diaries I would like to search for. I fondly held buttons from Union and Confederate jackets in my hand. I presented next year's Christmas wish list to anyone who would listen. I genuinely fell in love.

I suppose all this sounds special until you consider the fact this was not the first time I had been to that store. I'll feel the same way the next time I go back. There are just some places that make you feel good.

At another shop I looked at the vintage paintings and photographs. I noticed they were all of women and wondered about each one. We then wandered into a quaint little store full of overpriced purses and scarves. Another store was all about homemade goodies baked especially for pampered pets. One cafe was found dedicated to coffee, another to breweries, another to ice cream. You just gotta love a thriving downtown.

We found an art gallery with paintings available for purchase. I snapped several photos in here. One was of our talented son standing in shock over the price tags on the pieces. That boy could so out-do any of those artists. He was mentally calculating the money he could make. We laughed together over the display of paper products made from recycled horse manure. I definitely took a picture of that. It's just too bad you can't see any of them.

Maybe I'll ask techno-boy again tomorrow for help or maybe I won't. Actually, I should probably wait until he's wanting to do something. It's at those times, I've noticed, that he is most attentive to me. He'll start hanging around acting like he's all interested in the towels I'm folding or the carrots I'm chopping. I'll wait until then to make my move. Hey, do you think you've got time to install that Bluetooth for me?

I'm betting he'll have the time.

Then I'll have my pictures of antique stores and vintage paintings.
High dollar purses and doggie treats.
Teenage boys in art galleries and strange concoctions called poo paper.

Of course, by then none of that will matter.
But at least I'll be prepared for the next outing.
It's all about the timing.

Nuclear War (Not Your Usual Blog)

I've been studying the Cold War this week and much like the Civil War (or any kind of war, for that matter), I see things played out in my mind on a chess board. Interesting picture considering the fact that I don't play chess. My husband and boys do, though, and watching them sit at a board quietly contemplating what next move might be their last is a unique form of entertainment. Tensions are always high until finally somebody wins and somebody loses. Then they laugh and slap each other on the back and promise revenge the next round.

That's how I see the Cold War. The two players are the US and the USSR, and their game pieces on the board are their various allies. They jockey them around trying to show each other who's the boss and at the end of the game, they shake hands while secretly plotting revenge. Meanwhile, kids like me grow up watching movies about nuclear destruction (The Day After, Wargames, even Red Dawn with its Communist invasion of the US) and wonder if our end might come with a giant mushroom cloud and an incinerating heat blast or the slow, flesh-rotting effects of fallout.

I'm laughing at myself at this point considering the many stern looks I've given my middle child over his zombie fascination. Wonder where he gets that from?

At any rate, it is rather sobering to consider the devastation that man can bring about simply at the thrill of winning a game. I suppose that is the core of my fascination with history. You see that game played out so many times throughout the centuries... the only thing that evolves is the methods used to destroy. The hope is not in the game itself or even the main players, for that matter. The hope is in a people that look to a God watching a different sort of game being played out.

And that's a whole other story in itself.

Surely I am coming quickly. (Revelation 22:20)