Goodwill Running

I got to the trail-head last week for a jog and realized I had worn flip-flops.  Deciding what to do, I spilled the contents of my water bottle onto the floor of the car.  I then happily remembered I left my running shoes in the trunk.  I debated if I should crawl back in bed because of my bad fortune all before 9am.  If you take advirsity as a sign, then you will never exercise.  So, I hit the trail for a long run.

At mile 2.5 I passed two ladies who I knew were retired teachers.  One, the principal of my elementary school.  I passed them saying "Good morning, teachers!  Thanks for teaching me to read!".  I surprised them with my greeting, and sped by them.

When I turned back I knew I would see them again, so I stopped to properly greet them.  What happened next was entirely unexpected, and I was glad I didn't give up on my run.

I told the teachers that it was more precisely Mrs. U who taught me to read with Dick and Jane.  I then told them that I did learn to read, and also what it felt like to have my nose in the corner.  Mrs. U made me put my nose in the corner when I was six.  I am a tender sweet person, and I always have been.  I wanted Mrs. U to like me, so I was good.  That is about all I remember of her, and the drawings of Dick,Jane, and Spot.

I have lived a charmed life, and have mostly been treated with kindness.  Mrs. U was the exception.  I didn't realize how tender I was about it, until the retired principal, Carol Judd, was apologizing.  She apologized for not being able to protect me from my teacher's cruelty.

I told her it was fine, and I made it through.  She told me again, that she was sorry and that it was not my fault.  I did nothing to deserve shaming as a six year old.  I then told her that it worked out just fine.  She then told me that it wasn't fine, and that she had a bad feeling about my teacher.  She was never able to do anything, and she was sorry.  She did not apologize for my teacher, but for herself.  It was personal.

Really, in comparison, to the atrocities that so many people survive, being shamed in the corner is negligible.  Though, with her persuasion, I had to give in.  The sky above me opened up, and some white light shined in a dark place.  It wasn't my fault!  She was there the whole time hoping to look after me, just like my mom and dad, just like the teacher next door in room 7.

I felt as if the issue was taken care of before my run.  Both my children have been in room 6 for a total of four school years.  The teacher in that room now, has recaptured the space for me.  Mrs. Judd asked me if I had 'saged' the room, and I thought I had.  I think the real sage was Mrs. Judd, 30 years later.

I had two and a half miles back to my car to think about what she said, which for me is a long time.  When I was in my early 20's, I saw Good Will Hunting.  I think every generation has a coming-of-age story that is meaningful for their time (The Graduate, Garden State, etc.).  For me, it was Good Will Hunting.  It touched me, and I knew people like Will Hunting.  It was like saying I know people who are like the Prodigal Son.

Running back, I realized the story of Good Will, though less so, is about me too (which is why it is so good).  I am bit liberated from the trials of growing up.  Everyone, no matter the magnitude, needs redemption.

Thank you Mrs. Judd!  How do you like them apples?!?!?

Caution! 

 This clip has that 4 letter word that is used so often now, it nearly isn't a bad word, except I can't say it very well.  

Be warned.  

Also, it wasn't so dramatic for me, which is why I didn't win an Academy Award.

Growing Up Norman

Perfect apples on a perfect day.

Growing up Norman

My dad picks up after shaking the tree
(also my finger, isn't it a cute finger?)

Silas picks next to a bird's nest.

When I was small my parents designed and built a passive solar (which is active now) house, and planted an orchard nearly all themselves (I picked up wayward nails).  Today we six picked a bounty of apples, pears, grapes and plumbs.  I'd like to thank my Papa and Mom for feeding us kids and grandkids for more than 30 years.  

Now we I have a lot of work ahead.  I think we will cook some, and press some.  Next week I rented an apple press so that we can make cider, hard and sweet!  

Cows and the Chevy Nova

Just through these doors are two milk cows.

I can remember few events from when I was very small.  One is when my 2nd sister was born when I was three, and I remember a trip to the dairy farm my uncle Herb managed near Fresno, California.

My Grandma Foth took me in her green Chevy Nova.   At least, that is the kind of car it was in my memory.  The kind that had 2 doors and a triangle window too high to see out of if you are a pre-schooler in the back.

This is where the story gets a bit gruesome and why it is memorable for me.  I stretched up to see the farm as we pulled in.  Before I saw the milking barn, or a cow, I saw a man carrying a dead, newborn cow.  He walked with it to a pile of more dead baby cows and dropped it.  They were black and white.  We then visited my uncle and saw the milking barn and my memory fades after that for about six years.

In my mind all the colors were clear, the green car, the black and white cow, the color of the dirt road.  I wasn't scared.  I wasn't repulsed.  I think because I was so little, I remember how I feel, and it was more than a feeling.  The world was so big to me, and confusing.  I saw that there is something mysterious about death, and birth, and a farm.  I don't think developmentally I was able to judge the event.  It just was, but it was formative.

As an adult, when I see cows, and surprisingly enough I see them, that day at the beginning of my story has shaped how I think about cows.  I know it is silly.  I have no profound feelings or thoughts about cats, dogs, deer or raccoon, all of which I have seen dead by the roadside.  With cows, I see how nearly soul-less, soft and dim they are, and it touches me.

This summer in the Czech Republic, we went to get milk for the week.  We walked to the edge of town and met a Czech woman, selling milk.  Her milk tasted like milk.  If you buy milk at the grocery store, and that is the only milk you have had, then you do not know what milk tastes like.

The kids enjoyed seeing something new, and the woman was proud to show us her farm.  It was clean and the smell reminded me of the story I just told you.

Sibling Rivalry Reprieve

For about five minutes last week my kids forgot they are brother and sister, and were friends.  I had a camera.  It reminds me that they will not be bickering in the back seat of the car forever, just about 5 more years.

Czech Foodies

Everyone loves corn on the cob.

I have two friend in the Czech Republic who, as you can see, are very much in love.  They love each other in a way that is bigger than themselves.  They love each other in a way that makes people wish they were loved as much as Petr and Ida love each other.  I have had the pleasure of knowing both of them before they were in love, and watching their love and faith grow.  Just last month they welcomed a baby girl into their family.  More love to go around.  This story, though,  is not about love as much as it is about food.

Petr & Ida

So much culture revolves around food as well as language.  We have to eat and we love to eat together.  It was around a table with my husband Silas and friend P.R., that Ida told a story about food.  I'll tell the story using my best language skills. 

Ida, who is Czech and speaks wonderful English as a second language, was telling an embarrassing story, in English.   A few days before, at a table full of people, she began to touch Petr's food.  She had been missing touching his food because we had been at camp for several days.  She had not been able to touch his food while at camp. (At this point in the story my mind is going crazy.  Is it a difference in culture that touching other's food is a sign of marital bliss?  Is this a language problem?  Does she mean she likes to cook his food?  I just sat at the table listening as if the story made perfect sense, but it didn't)  

While eating dinner the other night, she began to touch what she thought was Petr's food.  Finally after a while of this "food-touching" another man at the table questions, "who is touching my food?" (at this point I was able to eliminate some of my previous questions, okay, all of my questions.   I was on the wrong track completely, the story made no sense at all, and people in the Czech Republic have the quirkiest traditions)

She went on to explain how embarrassed she was to be touching someone's food, which was not her husband's.  I imagined her hands covered with universal brown sauce from the plate to her right, when she meant to be dipping her fingers in the sause and meat to the left.  Whoops?!  

Being confused is something you have to get used to while visiting a place where their language isn't your language.  We just listened to the story, like it was no big deal. 

After her story would have been the time for us to sympathise with her utter embarrassment.  We didn't.   No one nervously laughed with compassion.  I was both completely embarrassed for her and her story and completely confused. 

Finally someone poked a bit farther into the story to make some sense of it.  It was a language problem, or, it was an accent problem.  While we thought Ida was saying "food" the whole story, she was actually saying "FOOT"!!!!!  Ah-ha!!!  As the reader, you probably saw that coming the whole time you were reading.  After a week of exhausting youth camp, and jet lag, and the story being told near mid-night, all I heard was "food".  

I think it is a way better story if you use the word "food", but Ida was touching Petr's foot, not his food.  I think she does touch his food when she cooks it, but it is not a Czech custom to finger your spouse's goulash.  

  

Unconditional

Sometimes it is better to show than to tell:

Sometimes it is better to listen than to speak:



 A blog to remind myself.

Sweets from a Sweet

Our girl had $6 burning a hole in her pocket.  Last night she tried to buy everyone a scoop of ice cream with it after we played tennis.  It was in her pocket at school today because she wore the same shorts (yes it's okay) and because we didn't let her buy the ice cream, we bought it.

Today when I picked her up, she was full of, well, whatever it is that makes her radiate.  She told me that she found her $6 in her pocket and also saw the farm stand was open at her school.  During recess, she picked out all the veggies she thought I might like and put them into her backpack (you know mom, that purple one).  She then donated $6 to the collection.  

She wanted to show me the food while we were driving home, which really just turned out to be a life lesson for her: never put ripe tomatoes in your backpack with an eggplant (don't worry I had a towel).

I felt proud that my girl would want to buy me vegetables, I felt known by my daughter.  I also felt mad at myself.  Last night I assumed that she wanted to spend her money so that she could have something sweet.  Really, she wanted to spend her money to be sweet.

Grocery Story

While we were away, our car was parked in the Bay Area.  The Bay Area around San Francisco can be a very very nice place, and it can be dodgy.  I don't think my sister parked the car in a dodgy area, but some punk took the time to scrape the tags off of my car.  It is clearly vandalism.  Anyone can see that they have been scraped away, and clearly I am not the person who would sabotage myself (okay, sometimes I do, but not deliberately).  I need to fix the problem before the authorities see it, and with me, they always do.

I need to take the time to go to the DMV and tell them the story, and probably pay some fine.  I also will have to endure the inhumane treatment that we all have become accustomed to at the DMV (with rare exception).

That's the setup.  I really want to tell you something that you may not know about the Czech Republic.  It isn't some scandal about a pen stealing leader (see the video below), or an old ghost story from a tower in a castle, but about the grocery.

When you stay in a country for 5 weeks you have to eat, and I went to all kinds of groceries: big city groceries, mall groceries, airport groceries, closet groceries, green groceries, bio groceries, super markets, and small village shops.  In the Czech Republic, there are groceries EVERYWHERE!! The big Czech secret is that the workers from the DMV in the United States, and the grocery clerks in Czech Republic must be genetically linked.

At first I thought it might be a language barrier problem, and after staying a while, I realized they just hate their jobs.  They look down, they mumble numbers (which doesn't help in a foreign language) and they certainly don't smile.  They also are sitting down, which only adds to the pathetic ambiance.  I attempted to give my 'American Smile', as that is all I can do without knowing how to speak Czech, but I only tried twice.  It made me feel even more foolish.  The astonishing part of the 'checker attitude', is that it is my experience that nearly every Czech person is as friendly and fabulous as you could meet, even if all you can say is 'hello'.

I asked around to see if this was usual, and it is.  No one thinks that the lady ringing them up might smile, or look at them, or ask about their kid.  I almost felt like I was in trouble buying cheese and bread.  Is this the wrong kind of cheese?  The only place I ever feel that way, is the place I need to go.  I'm already feeling guilty and ashamed that someone else defaced my licensee plate, and I haven't set foot in the numbered line yet.  At least I don't have to go there very often.

I Don't Speak Czech

Flier for our English courses.
Morning sessions for children and evening sessions for adults.   I could tell you what this flier says,
but I don't speak Czech.

My beginner students.
The board in the background is a chalk board.  Remember those?  The other class had a smart board, luckies!  

English teacher and helpers.
You can't tell by photo how much I love these folks.

I love blogging and writing.  I haven't posted in a long time, because all my creative energy and all my time has been used up these past two weeks.  I used up the time on people, so it wasn't a waste of time.

I taught for a week in Jablonne, Czech Republic.  It was amazing.  It was grueling.  It was amazing.  I'm only repeating myself for emphasis, and because I am still delirious from jet lag.


It was an opportunity that I did not take for granted.  In the morning I taught three sessions of English for beginners.  The challenge for me with them was the language barrier, and that I am not used to classroom management for such small people.  It is hard to manage 7 energetic students when you can not talk to them.  I did have a helper, and she, I think, was mostly teaching the class.  I really just sat in the corner and watched (okay, no I didn't, but Simka was a life-saver).

I also went class to class to talk and sing to the other sections of English.  Then, we would eat, go home for 2 hours, or to the lake or for a run, and then back to school.  In the evening we taught 2 sessions of adults.  Two of those evenings we had presentations and music provided by me.  I had never ever taught anything to adults, and it turns out to be FUN!!!!

I felt on display in this small town all week.  I am not that person, though I am putting it out there by blogging, I get that.  If you are reading this, you probably won't make me a cake, or take my photo, or ask me about the economy, geography of the United States or for some music.  By the end of the week, the hours of teaching and conversation had used me up.  It used me up in a good way, just in time to get on a train, get to Prague to get to an airplane and sit with my squirrelly kids for 11 hours in the air and watch 3 bad movies.  Boy was I beat.

I'm back.  The kids are in school.  My mind is clearing from the fog.  I am nearly happily un-busy.  I am reluctantly unpacking.

Labyrith

The labyrinth from the center overlook.

We visited a labyrinth last week as for a day trip.   Labyrinths are confusing with a purpose.  Labyrinths are known to have a spiritual, physical and mental purpose. This place helped me make sense and be accountable for myself for all three, while we are in the Czech Republic (and beyond).  

It is fun here, for sure.  It has been an amazing experience to stay in a place so long.  Also, it has been challenging.  Not too challenging, but there are many things that I am sure are unknowingly confounding me.   There are cultural differences, language barriers, sleep deprivation, transportation issues, and personal preferences that contribute to the culture shock for me.  Though it is not the driving factor while we are here, it is something we have to work with.  It is like this Labyrinth.  It has been a mental, physical and spiritual challenge for me.

When we navigated this labyrinth at Brandys nad Orlici, we did it together.  We gave ourselves time, and we asked for help from people who have managed to get to the center before us.  When we arrived at the center, we were able to climb some steps to be able to see over the whole of the maze, and yet not give away our position to the others, still wandering.

I can not look over our entire experience here yet, as I have not arrived at the center, and climbed the steps.  I am sure that will come with some time at home.  I'm heading to bed, and ready to round a hedge more tomorrow.

Hard to Say Goodbye

It is hard to say goodbye.  I am just terrible at it.  I was watching a TED talk about the power of being vulnerable and the strength you have in following your impulse (there is more to it than that, so check it out below).  It was a light in a dark part of my heart.    The woman's talk made me realize why I hate saying good bye.  I hate it because it exposes me.  It is saying, I love you, I'll miss you, you have a place in my heart that can only be filled by you.  

My usual mechanism when saying goodbye, is to skip it.  It turns out, that is quite rude, and points out what a chicken I am.  I have been trying to skip out on goodbyes for ages.  This year visiting the Czech Republic, I have been trying to say goodbye, without fear.  Even though it is hard.  I spent the morning saying goodbye.  I said goodbye to many folks who, years ago, I thought I might never see again.  Now they are a part of my life.  I had to say goodbye to my husband.  The whole time, I was telling myself, if I could just keep it up for a count of five, I could keep it up.  It is like a sporting event, if you just keep running, you can keep running.

Saying goodbye is important. It reminds me how much I love my friends, and that I want them in my life.

Hobu Hunting

Yesterday I went gathering wild mushrooms. Okay, Valerie found them, and I carried the basket. I didn't find one good one, Valerie found them all. It's okay I got skunked, as the setting was enchanting, the conversation was superb, and I had a new experience.
I usually am quite competitive with myself to get it right the first time and succeed. I am trying to have more patience with myself doing new or difficult things, and just enjoy participating.
I didn't have a choice but to enjoy gathering mushrooms, though I didn't find any myself. One reason is that if you get a bad mushroom, just to get one, you might poison yourself. Rushing is actually dangerous. Also, the good mushrooms are not the flashy ones. They are harder to find. I had to let my eyes relax, and look for the mushrooms that were blending in. Val has been hunting them 48 years longer than I have. I can't really be hard on myself that I was no good at it. Valerie didn't mind, and even made them for dinner for me, though I was not a mushroom contributer. She really is a teacher and a friend.

So there are some life lessons from hobu hunting. I would also like to add an addendum, which is, do not try this at home. I know most of you in drier climates don't have the option, but for those of you who have mushrooms in the forest near your house, you should take my Czech friend Val with you, just to be safe. We ate all the mushrooms last night for dinner, and no one died or hallucinated.

Safety First

Silas and Martin have a beer in the middle of the busy street at night!

This is my fifth visit the Czech Republic.  Every time I am here I learn more about myself and about this culture and my own.  Now that I have been here several weeks I am learning about safety.  

At the giant grocery store, like a Wal-Mart, called Tesco, they have some very unsafe kiosks.  The one I am thinking of is the bread slicer, in the bread section.  Could you imagine being able to slice your own bread at the grocery?  The first idea I had, was to put a small dachshund into the machine, then I imagined putting my hand into it, then I imagined my kids doing that.  I am now thankful that you have to pass your bread over the counter for the lady in the bakery section to cut.  If she gets cut, she is covered by her union dues.  Here I am covered by no one, yet if I get hurt I can afford medical care.  Scout hurt her leg, and had x-rays, and a cast in the emergency room for $60.

There are many liabilities that I see here.  One I have noticed is railings and walkways.  Right now, I could walk right onto the train tracks, or right off of the balcony, or right into the river.  At the zoo I could have been very injured by the paths, as they were difficult to maneuver, if I were in a wheel chair.

Here you can walk around with open containers of alcohol, and people do.  Silas did it last night.  He waited with our friend Harry, until the road was clear, and then sipped a beer for the photo.  I'm sure he felt rebellious, or maybe he didn't.  Maybe he just felt like a person (who could be hit by a car any moment in the dark).

For the most part, I am all for rules that keep people safe.  What I am realizing is that we are only as strong as our weakest members.  Some folks will put their hands in a bread slicer,  let their kid tumble off a train platforms, or drink beer in glass containers while walking home in the street.  Those people must have troubles.  Here is the Czech Republic, those troubles are your own.  In the US, those troubles are everyones!

I'm going to talk on the phone while I drive.

Enchanted Forest

We hiked yesterday with our friends Harry and Lucie, and all our kids, and Steve and Sarah Kuhlman, and their short people.  We finally ended up at this awesome labrinth of sand stone.  The stone is soft enough that it has erroded a bunch, and some stones are 40 feet high, and then hallways between.  As you can see, it was cold, but we had warm tea and good friends, so it didn't seem so bad.  The kids got to pick blueberries, which to me is a highlight to any day. 
Picking black berries just isn't the same as blue berries, though I'm guessing if we had blue berries wild in California, I'd like black berries better.  Justus couln't stop imagining.  Between the forests and the castles, he is in imagination heaven!  We have been enjoying his ideas, until it gets about 10pm.
Our friend Harry is a budding photographer, and he took all these fun snaps.  Hope you enjoy them.

Silas was asked to share what was the most meaninful part of Engish Camp this year. I didn't know he was asked to share at church, so I felt panic for him when I heard his name in Czech. Fortunately he didn't have to improvise, as I would have. This photo is of him sharing, and our friend Petr interpreting.

You know he is sharing about Mother Theresa in this photo. About how she did a lot of small things that added up over a lifetime. Silas said that there was nothing more important at camp than the small things we did with great love. I agree. I was in such agreement, I was a bit tear-y when he got back to our pew.

I thought it was a good photo to share today.

It's a Brick House

Here is Justus near Wenceslaus Square in Praugue. He and Scout painted a brick that will be used to build a house for people here with special needs. We paid for the bricks, painted them, and they will be used to build a real house.
Scout was disappointed not to be able to bring the brick back with us to California. I was not disappointed.

Eleven!

Today is the anniversary of my life truly getting interesting.  Amazing and adventurous things are always happening to/for me, but the human experience of having a child, has been divine intervention.  I see folks post that their kid is having a birthday on Facebook, and quickly move to the next post.  Actually it is a very profound thing, celebrating the birth of a person.  I realize that when it is my baby.

Today something is changing beyond that.  It seems the more I am a mom, the less my kids' lives have to do with me.  I am reminded: that is the point of it!

Eleven!  Eleven is when we meet Harry Potter, and Anne Shirley of Green Gables.  Eleven seems to be the age where our adventure starts to have more to do with us, and less to do with who our mom and dad are.

It is my wish for my boy on his 11th birthday, that his adventure will be full of wonder, adventure, redemption, creation and magic!

Happy Birthday to my sweet boy!

Don't Stop!

I'll stop for you.

Today I stopped for a woman whose car was broken, the hood up, at an intersection.  I had to wait for several cars to go around her.  As I pulled behind her, I notice the tops of car seats in her back seat.  As I pulled around her car, I noticed her.  She was my age, standing in the shade, looking worried.

I stopped.  I asked her how I could help her.  It was an easy help, which involved moving her small boys into my car in the shade, and pushing her car out of the intersection.

I guess the surprising thing was how many people drove around her before I got to her.  I know there are times when people do stop for one anther, and also am surprised by how often I am the first to stop.  There was nothing ominous or sketchy about this woman on her way to drop off her boys at vacation Bible school.

I know doomsday is coming where thieves are hoarding the last tins of tuna in their broken down car.   The last ten men on earth lure you to their broken car (counting on the milk of human kindness during an atomic winter), and ultimately process your remains into tins labeling them "tuna".  We have all seen that movie.

I think that people pass by others in need for reasons besides fear, though mostly it is fear.  Another reason might be selfishness, and thinking he has nothing to offer.  As it turns out, the only reasons to pass by a person in need, are bad (except self preservation, I don't stop for the grungy man in a broken conversion van, or if I feel the situation is dangerous in any way).

Here is why I stop, and it is not because I am good.  I am just as fearful, selfish and insecure as anyone else.

I don't want to miss anything.  If you don't stop, you will miss something, something good, something adventurous, something life changing, which isn't to say that it might be hard.  Think of all the times you've stopped, and something unexpected happened.  For me, it is immeasurable, as this blog is a testament to.

Several years ago, I stopped when I saw a boy, maybe 5 years old, in the culvert on the side of a busy road. I am sure I was not the first person to see this small person alone in a dangerous spot.  I parked my car to guard him from traffic, turned on my flashers, and called 911.  I sat with him until the police and his mother came, and there was something different about the boy.  No one stopped, until the police were there.  The boy was very autistic, and wandered out of his house and around the corner several blocks.  His mom was CRAZY with worry and guilt for losing him for 40 minutes.  Either the drivers of the 50 cars that didn't stop before I got to him didn't see him (scary) or didn't think they could help (scary).  I felt like that day I actually helped someone, just like I felt this morning as I pushed a Jeep Wrangler to the side of the road.

If I had passed by, I would have missed it.  I am sure if you are the kind of person to read this, you are the kind of person who will stop.  How many times have I been on an adventure because I took the time to pay attention?  I can't know.

DIY Hula Hoop Tutorial

It is officially summer vacation and is officially beautiful outside.  It is my intention to stay outside as much as possible, and only inside to cook, sleep and other necessary tasks.
In celebration, we went to our local hardware store to get the items required for super-awesome hula hoops.  Here is how we did it, step-by-step.  It is so easy even kids can do it!!

Basic materials: 1 inch irrigation tubing 100-150 thickness, cut to a length so that the hoop hits you in the lower-ribs.
(I sweet-talked the nice guy working at the yard to cut them for us with his sharp knife.  Smile and bat your eyelashes)
1 inch couplings
Sand paper
not shown:soap, hot water, black duck tape (you know what those look like)

We sanded the tube so that it will be a bit sticky.

We then washed the lumber yard off the tubes.

After heating some water, we soaked the ends in warm water to make them more pliable.

These are the 1" couplings and dish soap.  I put some dish soap on each end, so that they were slick.

After the tubing is soft, and the coupling is slick, the whole mess slides together easily, making these:

This is our finished project.
One for mom, son, and daughter.  Maybe the kids will do this, instead of bickering.
Maybe I will do this instead of losing my mind with bickering.

Here are the happy kids.
 They had a competition to see who could do it the longest, then they tried some fancy moves.

It only took us about 30 minutes to make them, and $10.  I had purchased some flimsy ones for them for $5 each, but they seem useless compared to these.  Now, we can spend the rest of the summer by the pool, reading, gardening and hula hooping (it is too cold to swim in, for an adult, but it sure looks nice)

You Can Never Go Home

"You can never go home" is a paradox.  It is how I try to think about each day.  I try to live in this moment.  It is more true, if you move away from your hometown, as an adult.  I, however, deliberately moved back to my hometown after several years away.  I don't know what I was expecting, and for sure I wasn't stupidly thinking I was coming home to the same place I left.  I came back with kids, 10 years of marriage, and a university degree.

Now that I have been back for several years.  My hometown not only shaped me as a child, but is my home again.  I struggle with how sentimental I should be about my story, so far, and my stuff.  Sometimes I am very sentimental, and then I move and throw/give all my stuff away.  We are in a lean time for stuff, and a rich time for people.

At my church, my sister, mom and I set a table for a tea.  Tea is my thing, but tea settings aren't so much.  Rules and etiquette make me feel rebellious.  Groups of women make me feel shifty.

Like I said, I got rid of all my stuff (or never had any), so I don't have tea settings, which is fine with me.  We set the table with my grandparents tea service from the 50's.  I cut flowers from the yard to decorate, and I didn't compare how homespun our table was to the fancy tables nearby.

As my sister and I were sitting at a table full of contented ladies, I unexpectedly felt very sentimental.  All these people were enjoying one another partly because of my grandmother's stuff.  We could have been eating from plates made in india, sold at Ikea for $2, but we weren't.  It was an unusual, and mysterious feeling for me.  It felt like home.