The Goodie Bag Rant

 Paul taught the 5th graders in Vacation Bible School the other week.  The day before it was over, or maybe the day of, he informed me that he was just informed that he is supposed to give each of his students a treat or gift on the last night of Bible school.  And, of course, he would really like me to gather these gifts for him.

Oh GREAT.

Gift giving is not my gift, or Paul's either.  Well, we both get a big thrill out of filling a specific need, like if we can give a struggling teacher a little grocery money or send chocolate chips to a missionary.  But we are especially bad at the sort of gift giving that involves filling little bags with sugar and plastic in bright colors oriented to the age and gender of students.

But did I REALLY have to?  I asked Jenny: "So I'm supposed to get gifts for your dad's VBS students?"
Jenny said, "Yes.  Everybody does."
Me: Like...candy bars?  Goodie bags??  Picasso paintings???
Jenny: Yeah.  [Me: YEAH??]  Or like, books.  Or Jesus junk.
Me: JESUS JUNK??!!
Jenny: You know.  Those flashlights that talk about letting your light shine that break after two days.

Fellow Christians who work with kids:  May I suggest we have a problem or two?

1. Children expect a bag of goodies for every occasion.  Parties, programs, picnics, and much more.  I think, ok, you were honored with an invitation, the place was decorated pretty, you got to have fun with friends, you stuffed yourself with amazing food, and you got a free ride to and from.  And you need a bag of stuff to take home yet and to fight with your sister over and to drop half-sucked into the crack of the van seat and to mourn with a great lament when the skinny little rubber band breaks the third time you hit the little ball with the paddle?

2. We who say that every knee shall bow and give honor to Jesus as the King of Kings plaster cheesy Christian words and symbols on dreadful little worthless objects such as the abovementioned flashlights.  Or pencils that say "Smile, God loves you" and that, I am told, you can NEVER sharpen right.  The lead ALWAYS breaks.  Or little compasses that say "One way to Heaven" but they don't compass north which is kind of a bad omen.

I will grant that some of this is just me and not everyone is obligated to be like me.  I have friends who love to shop for and assemble yummy and cute little somethings into inviting little bags to give to the little kids in their care.  Everyone is happy.

Well, everyone except me, the teacher two doors down who feels obligated to do the same.  I asked Jenny the expert kid what would happen if I said, "Well, that teacher decided to give gifts but I decided not to."

She said something like, "The kids would all think you were really lame.  Even now, kids compare teachers and who gives the best stuff and they're like, Ha ha, I get to be in 'Linda's' class and she gives really good treats and you're in "Grace's" and she just gives a homemade bookmark."

[You might guess that "Grace" is a euphemism for "Dorcas."]

I have no idea where the balance is, with goodie bags and a lot of other things.

On the one hand, while our kids are in the back seat breaking the cheap kaleidoscope on the way home from Vacation Bible School, little kids in Africa are walking a mile to fetch drinking water from a stagnant pond.  It seems Jesus might be a little concerned about this situation, seeing as how he said,  “You still lack one thing. Sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”

On the other hand, there was that lady who poured perfume on Jesus' head, and the disciples got all snippy and said, "We could have sold it and given the money to the poor," and Jesus said, “Why are you bothering this woman? She has done a beautiful thing to me. The poor you will always have with you, but you will not always have me."

I don't know what the answer is, for me or anyone else.  I will continue to stuff goodie bags when the occasion calls for it, I'm sure, to prevent kids from feeling like I don't love them, but from here on I refuse to buy and give Jesus junk.

The end.

Quote of the Day:
On our way to the neighborhood garage sale in Harrisburg:
Jenny: Thank you for not wearing a fanny pack.
Me: You're welcome, but I don't see why it matters so much.
Jenny: It's like Pride and Prejudice.  How you act determines whether or not I'll get married.

My New Video Game

Who knew you could have such fun with mail orders?

First there was the book order that I mailed that morphed midway into prescription medicine.

Then recently I ordered a light bulb for my stove hood off of Amazon.  I got the light bulb.  I also got a separate envelope with a video game dvd called Rise of Nations/Rise of Legends that--need I clarify?--I hadn't ordered.  The invoice said it was for an Evan Johnson from Columbus, Ohio.

I got into Amazon and hunted for the seller and told them what had happened.  I offered to mail it to Mr. Johnson if they wanted me to.

They said they would email me a shipping label.

I waited.

Today I got an email from them.  

Dear Dorcas,
We would like you to use the Rise of Legends DVD ( Free of Cost) as we have shipped one to Evan directly.
We really appreciate your offer of sending the DVD to Evan.
Thanks once again.
Feel2Good

I am feeling so rewarded for my efforts and honesty.  A free video game!!  That I have absolutely no use for!!

Except to make me laugh at life.

Quote of the Day:
Me: Did you want this skirt?
Amy: No. It doesn't fit.
Me: So, you must acquit.

She didn't get this. Makes me feel old.

Today's Letter from Harrisburg

It's about why, despite the disasters, it's worth teaching my children how to work around the house.

Click here.

On Welcoming Babies

My friend Rita just had her seventh child.

And her sixth boy.

At age 43.

I found it inspiring how she and her family welcomed this baby.  True, it took a bit of time to get used to the idea, but they adjusted to the surprise and now they love that baby to pieces.

The church threw a shower for little Adrian, and Rita's mom, Juanita, told us that Rita is following in the family tradition.  Rita, Juanita, and Juanita's mom all had their seventh baby at age 43.

That was the point where Rita turned to her newly-engaged daughter, Kayla, and said, "Watch out!"

We all laughed.

What a legacy.

I was my mom's fifth baby, and sometimes I think of how amazing it is how she always made me feel like I was a welcomed child.

I didn't think about this until I was an adult and did the math.  Mom had married at the age of 34 and then had three boys, one girl (my older sister, Rebecca), and one miscarriage in 7 years.

Mom had lots of reasons to not want more children just then.  She was past 40, they were poor, she was incredibly busy.

But three months after Rebecca was born, she was pregnant with me.

That Christmas, she used to tell me, she and Dad hosted the family Christmas gathering.  After the dishes were done she had a little tea party with her sister Vina, her mom, and the sisters-in-law.  Under every saucer, Mom put a little paper on which she had written:

"Yes, it's true.
Baby Yoder due
1962."

Mom always looked happy when she told this story.  Like Rita's little Adrian, I am blessed.

The Lady Writers Meet

It was my friend Mary Hake's idea.  Two of her writer friends were in the Valley for harvest, another was coming for a teachers' institute, and some of us already live here.  So let's get together.

Laura, my sister-in-law, author of Strands of Gold and another, almost-published, book, offered to host everyone for a potluck dinner on a Monday evening.

Tuesday was the deadline for my Letter from Harrisburg column, so I decided I'd spend the day writing on Monday--since I always wait until the last minute--and reward myself with an evening with fellow writers.

Monday morning I found out Laura was sick with the unspeakable stomach flu that hit her whole family, one by one.

I knew I should offer to host.  So I did.

Monday morning I started working on the column.

By noon I was feeling like I might be getting Laura's flu, so I went to bed and slept for a couple of hours and got up feeling mercifully better.

Too many fresh blackberries, maybe.

I swept floors and set up tables on the porch and moved sprinklers and cleaned the bathroom.  Amy made chickenetti and a blackberry coffee cake.

I knew that about seven writer ladies had been invited, but I had no idea how many husbands and children would come.

Vacation Bible School started that evening.  Paul, Amy, and Emily, who were all teaching, and Jenny, who was a student, rushed out the door just as the first guests arrived.

Carol (author of Because They Cared) and her husband Amos from Wisconsin arrived, along with a granddaughter.  Sharilyn (The Night the Angel Came; The Hand That Rocks the Cradle) and her husband James and their five children plus a niece.  Yvonne (Budget scribe and Sunday school papers) and Henry from Harrisburg.

They all brought food.

I put Sharilyn's daughters to work setting more plates on the table and putting ice in the glasses.

Jon (Bible study on Joseph) and Jane (children's book and Sunday school papers) and their three children came.  Luci (young adult novel in progress) from Wisconsin.  Ted and Mary (devotionals, Brownsville Times articles, science textbook).  Aunt Orpha (CLE curriculum in Spanish) from down the road.

Some 25 people in all.  We all missed Laura and her family.

Jon brought out lawn chairs and folding chairs and turned off the sprinklers I'd forgotten.  With loaded plates we jostled around each other on the crowded porch.  We displayed our books on a table off to the side.

And we talked.  Authors are intense talkers, I've found.  We talked about publishers and conferences, about high numbers and low numbers, about editors and authors.  About works in progress and self publishing, about Good Books and CLP and Carlisle Press and CAM's publishing arm, whatever it's called.  About e-books and a Baptist printer in Canada who did Jane's wonderful children's book under the single condition that the Bible verses be in KJV.

 

Luci wondered about submitting her novel to "XYZ."  So of course I had to tell about two authors I know who were reduced to tears by XYZ's editors who completely destroyed their voices.  But have things changed in the last ten years?  Carol and Sharilyn said yes.  Their editors at XYZ were wonderful; their stories retained their own flavor.  I was very happy to hear that.

 

We bought and signed each other's books, and Mary handed out postcards about the Oregon Christian Writers conference next week.

And we talked about the Writers Workshops by Mail that were started by Verda Glick, and which groups we were in, and who was in them with us.  Verda has been a Beachy-Amish missionary in El Salvador for many years, and nobody has done as much to inspire Amish and conservative Mennonite writers as Verda Glick.  Years ago she started a "workshop-by-mail," a group of half a dozen writers who sent their work in a big envelope from one member to the next, adding their critiques to the others' work and including a new piece of their own with each round.

That group grew too large and another was begun, and another and  another.  I don't know how many groups have been formed or how many people have been part of them, but it's a lot, and Verda added her gentle but insightful voice to each of them.  I was part of two groups about 15 years ago and dropped out, regretfully, when I began writing for the newspaper, because one deadline was all I could handle.

I believe all but one of our group is, or has been, in one of Verda's Writers Workshops.  God bless her.

We took a group picture and kept talking and finally people left before we felt finished.  Let's do this next year.  Yes.  Let's.

Me, Sharilyn Martin, Orpha Smucker, Carol Kauffman, Melodi Martin, Mary Hake, Yvonne Bender, Luci Miller, Jane Kropf

And then I went back to my computer and worked on my column for another hour, pulling word after reluctant word out of my brain, down through my arms, and into the keyboard.  This morning I finished and sent it off, barely making the deadline, like always.

Interesting People. And Bigfoot.

Perhaps I mentioned that I was at the fair yesterday which involved an average of one book sale every two hours.  This dreadful business was redeemed by the fact that I spent the hours with other authors.  We see each other only at book sales and always have fun comparing stories and catching up.

I sat beside the lively Shirley Tallman who always encourages me as a mom, since she is a red-headed Irish Catholic who birthed six children and adopted two, and as a writer, making me feel like I have something to say even though I've written about 1/7 as many books as she.

Somehow Shirley has kept her love of life and amazing humor despite the terrible sorrow of losing three of her children, one as an infant, one to cancer, and one to a tragic accident.

We were sitting off to the side of a huge room full of displays of the kinds of things that get judged at the county fair.  Quilts, decorated cakes, jellies, canned tomatoes, photos, paintings, and much much more.  The entries were divided by age--adults' over here and children's over there.  We sat close to the adults' food entries, so the signs said "ADULT JELLIES," "ADULT DRIED HERBS," "ADULT CANNED FRUIT" and so on.

After about three hours of chatting, not selling books, and staring at jars of food, Shirley suddenly turned to me and said, "What IS it with all this ADULT stuff??  I mean, ADULT DRIED HERBS.  What IS that--marijuana??"

I told her the entries were divided by age, and the children's entries were in a different part of the building.

We laughed and laughed.

Shirley said, "My husband says I'm so naive."

I do love people who could intimidate me if they wanted to

but instead make me feel normal.

After Shirley left we had a couple of hours with only three of us at the tables--me, Bill Sullivan the hiking expert, and Joe Blakely the historian.

On the left: Shirley and Joe

This is important to know here: Joe is a nice, normal guy who is not flamboyant in any way.  He is, I believe, a husband, dad, and grandpa.  He meticulously researches his books, such as the ones he wrote on the building of the Oregon Coast Highway, the Tall Firs basketball team, and the old baseball stadium in town.  While he is friendly, he isn't overly talkative.

Somehow the three of us got to talking about Bigfoot.

I turned to Joe and said, "Did you ever see Bigfoot?"

And he said, just that quickly, "Well, I saw something.  I was driving on a dirt road out toward Alsea, early in the morning, to go plant pine trees on some property I had, and something crossed the road in front of me about 40 yards away.  It was not a bear.  It strolled like a man, but with much bigger strides than a man.  It was hairy, but not as hairy as that old picture that everyone's seen that turned out to be a hoax, and it was more erect.  It didn't have clothes on.  It wasn't a person and it wasn't a bear."

I stared at him.

He shrugged.  All he knows is what he saw.  He doesn't tell the story often because people will think he's a kook.

Well, I said, he's definitely not a kook.

There really wasn't any more to the story.  He didn't stop and look around; he went on to his property and planted trees.  The story is what it is.  He wouldn't have told it if I hadn't asked.

This led to Bill telling a story about a conversation he had with a poet lady who came by to look at his books.  I thought it was the sort of conversation that would happen only in Oregon.

Poet Lady: You've hiked 20,000 miles of trails in Oregon.  Have you seen Bigfoot?
Bill: No, I haven't.
[Pause]
Poet Lady: Well, that makes sense.  She doesn't reveal herself to just anyone.

After my long day of chatting but not selling books I went to buy gas and a lanky young man pumped it for me.  "How has your evening gone so far?" he asked, like he wanted to know.

I decided to tell him about the disappointing sales at the fair.  He was sympathetic.

There were other customers, and when he returned to finish up and give me my receipt, he said, "I just had an epiphany!  You should have a dunk tank!  It was such a hot day, so people would be glad to pay to try to dunk you, and you could have them pay for that, and then give out your books as prizes!"

How often do you hear a gas station attendant use the word "epiphany"??

I told him he is overqualified for his job.

Yeah, well, but he needs a job and he's hoping to get into the U of O's CAD program this fall.

I wished him well and said I'm sure he'll go far.

The Stuck Writers

I have met two people whom I think of as Stuck Writers.

One is a woman I've known for some time who came to me for advice.  While taking GED classes she found that she enjoyed writing, and her teacher encouraged her.

An episode from some time before, when she distinctly felt God's protection on a trip by train, kept coming to her mind.  She decided to write it up and offer it to the CLP Sunday school papers.

I looked it over, at her request.  I suggested a few changes, which she was happy to make.  She sent it off with that wild high-risk I-can't-believe-I'm-doing-this feeling of sending off That First Submission.

And then of course she waited tensely for a response, imagining the best and worst.

The letter came.  Her story was rejected.

So was she, it seemed, somewhere down deep where the words and the imagination and the hope sprang forth.  A solid plug was pushed into that well, and it has never brought forth water since.

It has been years.  Every time I talk to her, we talk about Writing.  She follows my attempts and successes with great interest.  I always, ask, hesitantly, "Have you been able to write anything?"  And always the answer is no.  She cannot get anything out, in any form or way.

I always wonder, what would it take to uncork that well and bring the words forth?

Yesterday I was at the county fair, as I am every year.  I sat there for six hours, dressed for the 97 degrees in a glassy atrium without A/C that I was expecting, and instead we were in another area that was so hyper-A/Ced that I had goose bumps and my asthma went crazy.

And I only sold 3 books, so maybe the less said about those six hours, the better.

Except I had some fascinating conversations, including one with a fan who came by who turned out to be another Stuck Writer.  This lady was obviously an astute reader, analyzing various authors and what she likes or dislikes about each.  She dreams at night of plot lines and possible characters.

But she doesn't write.  Back in high school she rather enjoyed writing.  One day her English teacher told them to write a story.  She had happened to read a story around that time and thought, "You know what, that just follows a formula.  I could do that."  So she used the same formula but wrote her own story.

The teacher read her story and said it was so good she must have copied it somewhere and she was guilty of plagiarism.

The student showed the teacher the original story and told her what she'd done.  The teacher finally believed her and said that was perfectly ethical and she had done very well.

But something about the trauma of being accused in this way capped her well, and she hasn't written since.  She just can't, not even in the privacy of her own notebook, for her own enjoyment.

So terribly sad.

For both of these women, this is far more than "writers block" which is temporary and which many writers say doesn't exist--it's just laziness.  This is far deeper.

I'm wondering:
1. What would it take to get these women to start writing again?
2. Have I, God forbid, by an offhand criticism, ever capped the well for a beginning writer?

Quote of the Day:
"You look younger than I thought you would."
--several people at the fair.  Somehow I never tire of hearing this.  It compensated a little bit for the poor sales.

Chickens and Changes

Remember the chickens?

Hen: What are you DOING??  Rooster: I just read this new book by Sheryl Sandberg that says you should lean in.  Hen: That's for HENS!  Rooster: Oh. Sorry.

They are off to a new home!  After I posted about them, a lady from Mississippi messaged me:

I'm an antique person and we are moving our milk and egg business out to the old milk house on the farm. We have a retail market room that we have in a dumpy room at the end of our carport but we want to move it out sooner rather than later. I've been collecting ideas and things to use so as soon as we're able, presto, I can put my stuff up. chickens were on my list but I didn't know where to get them. I thought maybe I'd have to pay and arm and leg for large ceramic ones I've seen in catalogs.

Wunderbar!  She has a niece here in Brownsville.  I dropped the chickens off there on Sunday, since the niece is willing to get them to her one way or another.

We are all happy, chickens included.

Today Shelley the lovely niece was here with her little daughter, Charlotte, and we sat on the porch with Amy and Jenny and talked and had tea.  Shelley asked how long I've been blogging and we figured out it's been over eight years.

Amy inserted, with a bit of amusement in her eyes, that I've had the same layout and background all those eight years.

Well, yes, I have.

I said I'm afraid to change it because I have this fear that, if I change it, the whole blog will disappear along with the 1425 posts I've written over the years.

Shelley said with a bit of amusement in her eyes that that is something that I could get someone to do for me, if I'm not comfortable doing it myself.

See, I'm just doing what all the writer websites say you have to do to succeed in today's market: create a brand and stick with it.

Meanwhile, after all my years of hand-wringing both online and off, one of my children has changed his relationship status on Facebook.  Ben is dating a lovely young lady named Amanda.

Of course my children would not follow any usual patterns, so my fourth child is the first to date.* 

And, we already got to meet her.  Without Ben being there.  In Thailand, of all places.

She had flown over to accompany a friend who was going to be working at a different organization in the same city.  So first Amanda and I met over iced coffee, and then she went up the mountain with all of us, the time we were warned about the possibility of a king cobra.

Amanda and I sat on the round pillows in this lovely little pavilion to sip our iced coffees. We had no trouble filling up the hour with conversation.  My cousin's helpful daughter had brought her over on a motorbike, hence the helmet there on the right.

Amanda was undaunted by both the king cobra possibility and meeting Ben's family without him being there as a buffer.

She's a brave girl.

*i.e. using the Mennonite definition and implication(s) here.

Quote of the Day:

"The main lesson in Amelia Bedelia books is that you can get by with anything if you're a good cook."

--Amy

Averages, Statistics, and Exceptions

 

I realized something recently: I always assume that I am not like other Americans and that statistics and averages do not apply to me, but I’m not sure my children have absorbed the same mentality.

Maybe it started back in about 8^th grade when Mrs. Plut had us do some kind of study of economics and took a raised-hands poll of how many of us owned which items that technically weren’t necessities.

TV?  Everyone but me raised their hands.

Radio?  Ditto.

Musical instrument? Ditto.

Up to this point she was counting the raised hands and writing down the total.  She switched gears and said to raise your hand if you DON’T have this item in your home.

Sports Equipment?  I was the only one raising my hand.

Snowmobile?  Ditto.

Jewelry?  Same.

She had a very long list.  It got to be very awkward and embarrassing for me and Mrs. Plut in particular but also for the others, who giggled either mockingly or sympathetically with each question.

When the ordeal was over I was left with a very distinct impression: I am not like normal, average American people.  At all.

Ever since, I read statistics and assume they don’t apply to me.

“The average American eats 22.5 teaspoons of sugar a day."  Pffffftt.

“The average American wedding cost $28,400 last year.”   You have got to be kidding.

“The average American family has 1.8 children.”   Chuckle.

“The average cost of raising a child is $222,360.”  Ha ha ha ha ha!!!!

“98% of American households own a television set.”  This one brings to mind the unfortunate telemarketer who called us and had Ben holler at him, “Well, we don’t have a TV and there’s only 2% of American households that don’t have a TV so bye!!”

“80% of Americans owe more than they own.”  Yikes.  That’s pretty scary and thankfully we have stayed in that elusive 20%.

The “typical” behavior of Americans overseas?  God forbid that that applies to us.

“The average American reads only five books per year.”  Which means our family reads as much as an entire town or at least a large neighborhood.

Our son Matt likes to talk about a lot of things, including demographic trends, statistics and girls.  He attributes much of the difficulty of finding a good woman to patterns in modern society, such as the high number of women who want a career before marriage, pushing the average age of marriage to 27 for women, and the shocking statistic that 60% of college girls are into hooking up rather than real relationships.  Then there’s the fact that 75% of divorces are instigated by women and the statistic of how often men lose their children and a lot of money in a divorce, and you have yet another trend of men avoiding marriage.

My reaction to this is usually, “But we are different.  Statistics don’t apply to us.  All you have to do is be an exception and find the one right exception for you.”

Except in his case, working in the middle of Washington, D.C., the statistics kind of apply after all, surrounded as he is by young women who are all about careers and obligation-free weekends together rather than commitment, marriage, permanence, children, and so on.

It makes me realize what a sheltered life we lead, rural and religious and out of the mainstream.

I don’t think we can conclude that no one should leave the farm to go to Paree.  I just hope Matt can manage to defy the averages, always swimming upstream, even if it’s much harder to do so in the big city, away from the cultural and geographical setting he grew up in.

And of course, I hope he can someday find that one nice female fish who is swimming the same direction and they can raise a nice family with lots of little fishies who buy Goodwill clothes and don’t eat much sugar and read books instead of watching TV.

Because in this culture, to raise a child well is automatically to teach him or her to be an exception, even if everyone else in 8^th grade laughs.

Riding on the Combine

It's grass-seed harvest time in Oregon.
 
Emily got a job driving combine for a farmer a few miles away.  Today I went out and rode with her for a while.

When it comes to farming, we are not in Kansas any more.  So to speak.

Bear in mind that I used to work out in the fields on a Farmall M with a molded metal seat with holes in it for ventilation, and with very manual gears and clutches that had to be strong-armed into submission and who would snap back and hit a bare ankle occasionally, just for fun.

Emily sits on a padded seat in an lovely, airy little room at the front of a combine that is just. huge.  I am fumbling for comparisons here.  You could live comfortably in a house with that many cubic feet.  I Googled "How big is a New Holland combine?" hoping for actual dimensions, but all I got were glossy pdf ads for combines featuring 45-foot headers and this:

 Threshing cylinder

The New Holland

29.5-inch-diame-

ter (750 mm) threshing drum

is the

largest-diameter drum in the industry

.

Using ten rasp bars to feed crop to the

concave area, this heavy cylinder acts

as a flywheel, generating high inertia to

smooth out peak loads. You can adjust

drum speed from 305 to 905 rpm from

the cab depending on the crop and

conditions.

Yes.  Well.  So here we have our daughter, who gets frustrated with her physical weakness, operating this behemoth, and it obeys her meekly and submissively.Everything is automated, responding to a gentle touch on a lever.  Gentle beeps remind her of anything she's forgetting.




A computer screen shows her speed, pounds per acre, moisture level, and a lot more information that is not useful to her but is to the farmer, I'm sure.
 
And yet, old-fashioned or modern, farming is farming.  Big fields in the hot sun, anxious farmers, windrows waiting, dust blowing, and the seed falling into the hopper.



 

 

A phrase from the Bible kept running through my mind, so when I came home I looked it up.

Psalm 126:5,6 They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.