The Light Fight

According to people like James Dobson, normal couples clash over where to set the thermostat.  He's always hot; she's always cold.  Or vise versa.

We have the occasional difference, especially when camping, where it's a matter of covers rather than setting the thermostat.

Paul slides into a sleeping bag wearing minimal garments and slumbers happily all night long.

I wear a hooded sweatshirt, sweatpants, socks, layers, and garments.  And I pick the thickest sleeping bag, with a mat underneath, and I shiver and turn all night long.

But he always feels sorry for me in the morning, and gets the fire going to make tea, so it's not like we really clash over this.

Here's where we really differ: over light.

Maybe it's my genes from my Amish grandma, who waited to light the gas lamps until the sun had set and the lingering dusk had turned to darkness and we almost had to stab around with the fork to find the last bite of pie on our plates.

Light is good, but there's no need to overdo it.  That's my philosophy.

Especially in the morning.  In the morning, in a perfect world, I would slowly, slowly adjust my eyes to the dawn, shades drawn, and not switch on a light until I have that first cup of tea in hand some 15 minutes after I get up, and then only a pretty little 25-watt lamp back in the corner of the counter.

Not so my husband.

It's leap out of bed, march into the bathroom, and click click click everything is lit up like the OR at Sacred Heart about to host an open-heart surgery, Autzen Stadium hosting a night game, the old East German border back when a hapless escapee triggered the wrong wire and turned on the floodlights.  Brilliant light blazing everywhere is how he likes it, and he happily bangs and slams and flushes, then gets dressed and leaves the bathroom lights on and cheerfully marches on to the kitchen, where a single click lights the scene like a Broadway stage on opening night.

We note here that when we remodeled both the kitchen and the bathroom, he made sure we had light fixtures featuring numerous light bulb sockets--two hanging arrangements of multiple bulbs each in the kitchen; a row of bulbs all around the big bathroom mirror, plus a viciously bright heat lamp in the bathroom.

He just likes lots of light.

Meanwhile, I am still in bed, the covers over my head.  But I know I have to get up.

I squinch my eyes shut and force myself to stumble into the bathroom, missing the edge of the door if I'm lucky, and the blast of light assaults me like a physical force.  With one arm over my eyes I grope with the other--swatting desperately until I hit that switch and the floodlights switch off.  Blessed relief.

I slowly take care of the morning ablutions in semi-darkness, which is all anyone needs if you ask me, and then it's off to the kitchen to face the second assault of wattage coming at me like the Rough Riders charging up San Juan Hill.

I surrender.

We have never found common ground in this little battle of preferences.

Paul, wanting to do me a favor because of my winter depression, installed bright daylight-spectrum light bulbs in the office and sewing room.  The problem is, you don't need an overhead light when you're working on the computer.  The computer lights up, you know.

So I'll be working on the computer and he comes in and switches on the light, sighing, "I don't see why you sit there in darkness if you struggle with SAD all winter."

The truth is, it doesn't cross my mind to turn on the light.  The light from the computer is perfectly adequate for any computer work, obviously, and there's enough window light to do paperwork.

Thankfully, Paul has at least learned not to turn on the overhead light while I'm trying to sleep. I've learned to switch on the bright lights for him when I'm brushing my teeth and he's trying to shave.

We would both love to own the moral high ground on this but have to admit it's not exactly a moral issue.  But I have to admit that he has more Scripture on his side than I do, what with, "Men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil," and all the verses about the perpetual light shining in Heaven.

But I am counting on God to give me a more light-tolerant set of eyes when I get there.

I don't want to go around Heaven with one arm over my eyes, walking into doors.

Quote of the Day:
"What if SHE doesn't like HIM??  That would be so awkward.  If her DAD didn't like it, they could just have a Romeo and Juliet.  Without the dying."
--Jenny, who likes to share her opinion on the various young courting (or potentially courting) couples in her life

Crunching Leaves, Skunks, and Such

We are having a long and dry and astonishingly sunny late summer and fall.  I mean, one sunny day after another, on and on--the kind of weather we desperately prayed for in June and July, and now here it is in abundance.

The leaves are starting to fall and they crunch underfoot.  Oregon people are not used to autumn leaves crunching underfoot.  It is fun.

*     *     *
So today Jenny was telling me how she argued with the Sunday school teacher last Sunday, enough so that he went home and talked about it with his family over Sunday dinner.

I sighed and said cynically, "We can't let those Sunday school teachers get by with false doctrine, now can we?"

Jenny said, emphatically, "No we can't!"

Why is it always my children who argue with the Sunday school teacher?  From the least to the greatest--well, maybe the middle boys are a bit less confrontational--but otherwise it's always been MY children who argue with the teacher while everyone else sits quietly with their quarterlies in their laps.

And some teachers are more amenable to this than others, shall we say.

I get blamed for a lot but I can assure you that this gene does not come from me.  I am not the sort who argues with teachers.

[As we speak, Emily is across the table eating an apple and reminiscing about the year she scared off one Sunday school teacher after another.  She doesn't remember how many.  She just remembers it seemed like new people all the time, teaching the class and "I didn't have any clue at the time I was chasing them off."]

[Except for this one teacher.  "Then later when he came and talked to Dad I just felt betrayed.  I just got this idea that he really valued my opinions and then to have him just GO TO DAD!  It's like a friend that's friendly to your face and goes to your other friend and says you're a big fat meany."]

Not my genes. I repeat.  Not mine.
*     *     *
 
 Hard to believe this sweet little baker would argue with anyone.
*     *     *

Speaking of getting talked about over Sunday dinner:

A certain young man from Holmes County, no less, that bastion of fancy Mennonites, is suddenly dating a certain young Smucker lady who ventured east for Music Camp.

He was in church on Sunday, we all met him, and we discussed him over Sunday dinner.

There is no surer way to get yourself thoroughly dissected and analyzed than to start dating a young Smucker lady and come to church with her.

We dissect kindly and lovingly, you know that.  But also thoroughly.

*     *     *
We have skunks on the porch.  They started coming and eating the cat food. Last night there were three of them.

So tonight we brought the cat food inside and, following a friend's advice, I set out mothballs to repel the skunks.

Five minutes later, two skunks clambered up the steps and snuffled all around the porch.

Emily said, "FAIL!"

That seems to be what young people say when things don't work.  Sometimes they say, "Epic Fail."

*     *     *
Jenny and I went and bought a twin-size hide-a-bed couch at the neighbors' garage sale.  We said we'd come pick it up in the van.  They said that last week they sold one just like it to three college guys who were fixing up their apartment.  They had come in a little Honda.  The three of them hoisted the couch to the roof of the car, then one of the guys climbed up and sat on the couch, and they drove off.  They had three miles to go.  Mrs. Garage Sale shook her head and said, "If their mothers had seen them. . ."

She also said they had taken a picture.  I told her to post it online.  It would go viral overnight, I'm sure.

*     *     *
Recently Jenny had a slumber party with the same two girls featured in my column four years ago that ended up appearing in...which book was it?  My new one, I guess.  Dear me, that one's been a long time in coming.

Anyway:
9 year old girls at a slumber party:
Are all about being the same: hair, backpacks, etc.
Play with American Girl dolls.
Play American Girl cd's.
Talk about falling in love.
Eat a lot.
Stay up late and get up early, and they keep the parents awake.
Behave terribly the next day.

13 year old girls at a slumber party:
Like to be unique, to a point.
Like to dress up.  Not in like, Mom's bin of costumes in the attic.  Duh.  In, like, OUTFITS.
Like to take 435 pictures of each other in said outfits.
Listen to cool music.  Not like Katy Perry, but still cool.
Talk about boys.
Eat a lot.
Stay up late and get up early, but let the parents sleep.
Behave terribly the next day.



A slumber party photograph.

*     *     *
My old friends Mary and Marie came to visit me.  I would have loved to have hours more with them, but they had a tight schedule.  We have a long history, and it was wonderful to see them again.


*     *     *
Emily has been into cooking and baking.  She was teaching a little first grader and kept reviewing the "a-sound" flash card all week, which featured a big pink layer cake, which made her so hungry for a big pink layer cake that she made one on the weekend.

 Emily also made a batch of salsa which involved chopping some potent onions.  She said, "You're taking pictures??  Well, if you post them be sure and specify that this snorkel is SEWED on so I couldn't take it off."

"Ok," I said.

*     *     *
Jenny likes to cook suppers.  One evening a hot dog rolled under the stove.

*     *     *
This is as profound as my life gets these days.  Which is ok.

*     *     *
I miss my Kids Away from Home.
Like Amy, for instance, who worked at Grocery Depot all summer and brought me Provolone cheese and bargain dressings.

Quote of the Day:
"If you're gonna forget your lunch, hot lunch day is a good day to do it."
--Jenny

October's LFH

Today's Letter from Harrisburg is about our day at the state prison.

Click here.

Help Wanted: Blog Tour Hosts

[Note--Many thanks to the bloggers who volunteered to help with this.  I think I have enough although I would have a hard time saying no to any more who show up.  I'll leave the post up in case any "tour hosts" want to check back on the rules.  Or if any of you have ideas on how it could be done differently/better.]

I have a new book coming out.  (The Lord Willing, I should add, since the files have gotten lost twice, once for me and once for the graphic designer.  I wouldn't think this book is of such importance that Sinister Forces would want to sabotage it, but you never know.)

Anyway.

The title is Tea and Trouble Brewing.

It’s my fourth collection of Register-Guard columns and is at the printer as we speak.  I hope to have the books in hand by the end of October.

This book is similar to the other three in content but is not being published by Good Books.  I’m self-publishing, which I did nine years ago and which is easier now on a number of levels—technology, support available, resources online, etc.

Not to mention a friend-of-a-friend graphic designer who designed the cover and pages, and arranged everything with the printer.

But this aspect remains: if you self-publish, you do your own publicity.

This still isn’t easy for the Amish girl in me, but I think it’ll be much easier than it was nine years ago, with being better known locally and with the internet to help me spread the word.

I also have people in my life like my sisters and Ellen Gerig who are happy to do publicity for me while I keep quiet.  I just love them.

I’d like to try something new this time: a blog tour, starting around the middle of November.

This is how it works:

YOU: have a blog and email me with your generous willingness to get involved.

I: assign you a date to post a review and giveaway.

and

I: send you three copies of my new book.

And

I: tell you which day to post your review/giveaway.

YOU: read the book (or enough of it to write a review, which is really only a few chapters).

If you wish:

YOU: email me a few questions about the book or anything else.

I: post the blog tour schedule, with links.

Then on the appointed day,

YOU: post the review/interview/giveaway.

And then

YOU: decide how to select a winner and mail them a book.

And

YOU: give away the third copy that I sent you to someone you know who needs encouragement.  We’ll do this instead of the annual Christmas book giveaway.

And then

I: thank God for people like YOU who are helpful and generous.

 

Here’s my email: dorcassmucker@gmail.com

You can also email me any suggestions you have, since this is my first experience with arranging a blog tour.

Wall Words for People Like Us

If you are not living under a rock and decorating your house with moss and acorns, then you know that Wall Words are all the rage.

"BELIEVE," you are instructed in vinyl letters in a bold script above a bookshelf as you step inside the front door.
"Be kind, be silly, be honest" waltzes down the wall of the hallway.
"Create joy" says the sewing room.

If you automatically do everything you're told your whole life, like me, it can be a bit overwhelming.

I have been just a bit sniffy about wall words, mostly because when you have no talent for decorating or being up on the trends, you can kind of salve your ego by being lofty and superior.  "Well.  THAT will soon show up at garage sales next to the ceramic geese with blue bows."

But then someone gave me a wall plaque with SMUCKER in the background overlaid with "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord," and I really liked it.  It is hanging in the kitchen.

I am considering buying some wall words, especially since someone is selling them as a fundraiser for a mutual friend.

So I have been going through the online catalog, and oh dear, I am getting sniffy again.

A lot of the words are about families.

They are beautiful words, in dreamy arrangements, balanced and flowing and artistic, in appropriate script.

And to me they seem to apply to dreamy, balanced, appropriate families.  Not to us.

"In this home we are family, we give hugs, we do love."

"The love of a family makes life beautiful."

"Family memories are treasured heirlooms."

Don't get me wrong.  We are a family, we love each other, but somehow we do not do dreamy and mushy and follow our example to get it right and wander arm-in-arm across the meadow picking daisies.

I give you, as an example, a bit of today's supper-dishes conversation:

Jenny: If you can't think of things to do at my funeral, quote this line from Walk Two Moons.  It's in the book at least twice.  You can alter it if you need to.  It's really sad: [soft mournful dramatic voice] "It can't be dead.  It was alive a minute ago."
Steven: I'll remember that.  I'll remember to call you an 'it.'
Jenny: I SAID you can CHANGE it to fit the OCCASION!!!


Maybe I need to design some wall words just for us.

In this home

we are family

(even those who lag behind so no one will think they belong)

We do snark.

We do glares.

we do hugs and hugs and HUGS until

we say GAAAAHHH!! Knock it off!  I'm feeling trapped!

We hijack facebook accounts

and send wacky texts on sisters' phones

and eavesdrop from the porch roof.

We interrupt

We yell

We tell how it ought to have been done

and how it really was

(not like THAT, believe me)

We dawdle.

We honk.

We go to church mad now and then.

We laugh a lot.

And in our own way

(flawed but uniquely us)

We do love.

Intriguing Insights

I don't normally write about political issues but lately a question has been on my mind.

"Why do they do that?"

And its corollary:  "I just don't get it."

I'm talking about the wild eruptions in the Middle East over the (dumb) (little) film on YouTube.

And I'm sure many of you share my confusion.

We think, Ok, these are human beings, like us.  They get up in the morning and go to work.  They like a good meal.  They worry about money.  They want the best for their children.  They hope for a good night's sleep.  And obviously we are different cultures but still, maybe not that different deep down.

But the wild over-the-top anger over a film.  We just. don't. get. it.

Today as I often do I talked with my sister who is in my opinion an expert on the Middle East, being fluent in Arabic and having lived there for years.

I asked her about this.

She had some intriguing insights which I will paraphrase here that might give us all a bit more clarity.

Keep in mind, she said, that:

1. We are all subject to the mob effect, but Westerners are somewhat less so because we've been taught all our lives to think for ourselves.  In the Middle Eastern culture, it's important to think and act like the group, and children aren't usually taught to evaluate and analyze and stand alone, so they're more likely to get caught up in a group display of anger/violence without quite understanding why.

2. Remember that what looks like a big crowd on TV may not be a very big percentage of the population.  Maybe 2000 young men demonstrated in Sanaa over the film.  Sanaa is a big city.  Most people, young men included, were minding their own business and studying for tests, cooking dinner, taking temperatures, picking fruit, or driving a taxi instead of demonstrating.

Maybe kind of like the Occupy movement in the U.S.

3. The demonstrators tend to be the angry, unemployed, and disenfranchised rather than the polite, connected, mature, and responsible.

Again, possible parallels to many American demonstrations.

4. People in power are only too happy to manipulate the young and angry for their own purposes, like to divert attention from unethical political maneuverings.  Also, if you want to pull people together, America is an easy target.  You can take a lot of differing factions and unite them under the "Wrath to America" banner, a great strategy if fifteen different groups are about to rise up against the government for fifteen different reasons.

And of course the various media would never dream of exploiting or encouraging the demonstrators for their own purposes.  Surely not.

5. The Arab/Muslim culture is all about shame and honor.  You're expected to fight for the honor of your family or religion.  So if someone insults or shames either one, you're expected to do some yelling and I don't know, maybe break a few things, to show that you're doing your duty of fighting for the honor of things that matter.


I found that interesting.

Novel and Castes and Kids Leaving

Recently I was very happy to discover a new author/novel.

Backstory: Emily and I were in BigLots a while back and in the book section she found this funny-looking book in pink and orange called The Marriage Bureau for Rich People, by Farahad Zama.

I should buy it, she said, and I was suspicious because any of you with children know this strategy, like "WE" really need this a.k.a. "I" really need/want this but I will earnestly try to convince you the FAMILY needs it so you'll pay for it.

Five dollars.  I said no.

I forgot all about this and a few months later gradually became aware of this book as one that has a similar tone to the #1 Lady Detective Agency books which I am crazy about.

So I ordered a used copy on Amazon.

For about $5.

It's all about this guy in India who arranges marriages and all the colorful little stories that weave in and out of that plot.

I devoured it.

I was fascinated with many of the cultural things, especially how the different castes are so important.  Brahmin, Vishnu, and various others, with various sub-castes and this complex system of whether and when it's ok to marry outside of your caste.  Education and income are important too, but everyone was always most relieved when they were the same caste and compatible sub-castes.

The American in me said, "How silly, unenlightened, and foreign."

But then the Mennonite in me tapped me on the shoulder.

The Indian people have nothing on us.

Let me list a few castes of ours and if you have any Mennonite in your blood at all you'll have a good idea right off if people from one group could or absolutely could not marry someone from another:

Pacific Coast Conference, Swartzentruber Amish, Western Fellowship, Nationwide, Charity*, Beachy Amish, Conservative Conference, BMA, Keystone, Southeastern, New Order Amish, Holdeman, Eastern, Wenger, Wisler, Old Order Amish, Fellowship, and Mid-Atlantic.

*Except they say they aren't Mennonite, but we know they really are.

Novels are actually a nice distraction from the fact that three of my children have moved off to new adventures in the East in the last two weeks.

Half of them, at once!

I miss them a lot.

Quote of the Day:
"You look like you're trying to look young.  Keyword: Trying."
--Jenny, when I combed my hair without a poof the other day

Today's Awful Moment and the Amazing Rescue

First of all, you need to know that edits are the literary equivalent of your least favorite chore.  Maybe cleaning the oven or wiping cat barf off the floor.

Also, I can use a computer but it still scares me.  I have my faithful little cow paths that I tread, but if anything rustles in the bushes beside me I freak out.

And Matt the faithful rescuer was leaving his place in Corvallis this morning for a new job in Washington, D.C.

So, I am working on a new book--yet another collection of my Register-Guard columns.  I'm self-publishing this one with the help of a graphic designer who works for the RG.  I told him I'd have the proof-read manuscript to him by noon today.

So I have been keeping my nose to the laptop, making sure every clause is properly comma'ed, every capital letter and hyphen and semi-colon is in its place, every story says what I want it to say, every Scripture reference is duly noted on the small-print page, every fact is factual, and everyone who might not like to be written about gets their name changed or even deleted.

It's like going through a 50-acre cornfield and pulling all the thistles and timothy and cockleburrs, down to the tiniest little sprouts.

I hired an editor to make sure everything was in Chicago Manual of Style, but I wasn't sure how to work with her finished product which was full of little markings and colored speech balloons in the sidebar.

So I figured out how to have the original manuscript I'd sent her on the left of the screen, and her edits on the right.  Then I went through the left half and made all the changes she'd suggested, plus a lot more.

I kept saving as I went, anxiously, having lost work in the past.

This morning I was at it by 6:30 and at 10:00 I added the last period to the dedication and I was done.

Whew.

I went to get a cup of coffee and then sat down to send the finished product to the page-designer guy.

It was gone.

I am serious, it was GONE.

I clicked on Word, and there were three other things I had worked on today but not the manuscript.

I went all over that laptop screen, clicking on everything.  I dug through the Recycle folder and the Recently Changed, through Works and Word and Adobe, through pictures and files of gibberish.

It was nowhere to be found.

I panicked.  I prayed.  I promised to give God the glory if he rescued me.

I broke down in desperate tears.

It was just GONE.

What what WHAT was I going to do?

I would have to do all those horrible fiddly little edits all over again.

It was too much, so I cried some more.

Finally, I called Matt, who has rescued me countless times, knowing he might be halfway to Idaho and even if he wasn't, this was probably beyond him.

He had just left Corvallis.

He delayed his going and came to help me.

I explained.

He looked cautious but with a little gleam of hope.

While I watched, tied in knots inside, Matt Googled something mysterious and then went digging in the basement of the computer, deeper than he had ever gone before, past rats' nests and wine cellars and forgotten subway lines, on and on, to a file marked TEMP.  There in a long list of meaningless letters I saw it--oh, glory, could it, could it be?

He opened it up.

There it was.

My new introduction, all my careful edits, even the dot behind the dedication that I had added last.

Perhaps we should draw the curtain of charity over my reaction except to say it was noisy and heartfelt.

I was saved.

Matt sauntered out to his packed-full car, grinning, and took off.

I sent the precious manuscript on its way, glorifying and praising God for all that I had heard and seen.

I want my children to be like Jesus in kindness and love and humility, but Matt is also like Jesus in one other area.

He can work miracles.

Quote of the Day:
"Ok, I've got Dad on a smartphone and Mom on 5-hour energy drinks.  My work here is done."
--Matt

[Ok, this is what I did wrong.  To start working, I opened my email to the editor lady and opened the attachment I had sent her.  I should have saved it in my documents before I ever started working on it.  Since I didn't, when I exited out of it, all my carefully saved changes disappeared and it went back to how it was when I sent the original email.

Believe me, I won't do that again.

What saved me was that the computer had backed it up in that hidden TEMP file, who knows why or how.]

Goals and Goings-On

If you've tried to explain something to me in the last few days and I've seemed a bit distracted, it might be because in the last week I did most of the legwork for taking 8 people camping, sent my middle son off to New York (and then Toronto after that, for a year of voluntary service) (weep), made some big decisions regarding a forthcoming book, found and hired an editor for said book, got the school people off to the first day of school, situated plans for Christmas and a women's retreat in January, sewed two dresses for Amy, gave advice for some major decisions, plus all the normal routine, and a few things that are not for the world to see at this point.

So life hasn't slowed down yet, but somehow I keep expecting it to.

After 50 years of it not doing this, I somehow still expect life to slow down and let me catch my breath.

I had 253 goals for July and August.  Since I am very ADD and forget anything that's not right in front of my nose, I printed them all off and taped them on the cupboard doors.

So you don't see this decor featured on Pinterest.  Well, this is the lovely thing about being queen of your own kitchen.  You can do what you want.

Well-- "Goals."  Maybe more like "things to do."

Anyway, I met 156 of them which is pretty good for an ADD woman who has a hard time finishing anything.

Now I'm starting a new list for September to December.

We note that one of the goals was "Go to John Day."  We got this done one weekend in July, driving some 5 hours to a lovely spot where the John Day Mennonite Church had their annual church camp.  Paul was the speaker which meant we got the little cabin, truly a "Little cabin in the wood," homey and beautiful, but not exactly, "Little man by the window stood, little rabbit hopping by, knocking at the door."

More like, tall man, bent over his laptop, getting ready for his next talk, and running out of power and unable to recharge, with no electricity.

Even with no running water or electricity, we did not suffer discomfort.  They had provided a big tank of potable water, and had fridges powered by propane to cool the food and stoves to cook it.

One special thing was the hayride, and a very special aspect of the hayride was the old tractor, now sold and refurbished, that used to belong to my SIL Geneva's dad who had several acres of luscious produce and a stand to sell it at.


A less-special but still memorable part of the weekend was the little green caterpillars that came dangling down from the pine trees on invisible threads like those tissue paper balls you see all over Pinterest, hanging over cribs and parties and such.

Intrepid little girls collected the caterpillars in paper cups and let them crawl on chunks of wood.

Good times were had, and we felt honored to be invited.

Jenny, reading this over my shoulder, says, "What about all the other goals??"  You don't want to read about all 253, trust me, especially "Attack boys' room/pray for wisdom" and "Aus misht lamb shed."


 Quote of the Day:
"Well, if you cut off Steven's arms, he might turn out like that."
--Jenny, when we were discussing the amazing Matt Stutzman, the Inspirational Archer who just won a silver medal at the Paralympic Games.

LFH: The Wedding

Naturally, I wrote about Janet's wedding.

Here it is.