Summer heat lingers

The days are still very hot here in the San Joaquin Valley. Remember, this is the time for raisins to dry and cotton bolls to open. We need lots of sunshine for those crops that provide much of this area’s economy. 100 degree days, with no rain in sight, is a good thing.

The temperatures are cooler overnight, that’s when the wine grapes are picked and transported. Again, big cash crop here. Tomato harvesters run overnight, too, so that the canning factories can run the next day, putting all those red orbs into cans for use during the winter months. Just this last week, two trucks, one with wine grapes, one with tomatoes, crashed overnight in different places in the valley, leaving terrible sticky messes to be cleaned up.

Our mornings are glorious. I go out in the yards to run the sprinklers and find myself standing, enjoying the cool temperature, watching the sun come over the rooftops. Sunrise is much later now that summer is ending. The yards are so cool, with the trees shading the ground and providing a play of light and shadow. I have a variety of places I can sit and watch the wildlife enjoying the early morning. The squirrels are out, checking to see if I’ve brought them any nuts and seeds. The hummingbirds are also enjoying the cool air and the moisture from the sprinklers. The red geraniums are coming back to life, too.

Sunset comes earlier, but I’m rarely outside to catch any of that scene. Maybe in a couple of weeks, when the evening temperatures are cooler…probably not, though, as I’m tired by 5 p.m. If I sit on the porch, I will see more walkers in the early evening. Right now it’s still too warm to go walking before 9 p.m. Last night, when I locked up at 8, the temperature was still 90 degrees.

 

I just need staff

I think I’ve written that sentence before. If I had staff, probably like Ruth Bader Ginsburg has, I could get a whole lot more done! However, no staff around here, so I’m grateful for what I can accomplish, all on my own.

This morning, after that very early, very busy day yesterday, I slept in until close to 6:30. The cats wanted to be fed, and like I said, there is no cat-care staff. But, after feeding the cats, letting them in, out, in, out…I was able to be lazy as I had unloaded the dishwasher last night before going to bed.

I wandered around the backyard for awhile, enjoying the cool of the morning (we’ve had days over 100 all week), and then reading social media. Finally, by 7:30 I had brewed a pot of coffee and made toast for breakfast. No staff to provide the labor, but I’m grateful for the ability to do those tasks quickly and efficiently on my own, in my own kitchen. The dirty dishes will all go into the dishwasher (for which I am most grateful as there is no other scullery staff).

My hairdresser is also a makeup artist, and she has clients she sees almost every morning to do their makeup and hair. She goes to their homes to provide this service. Again, no such staff here. I will put on my makeup, comb my hair and go out to purchase groceries.

Now, that’s where I could have staff. I could order my groceries online and have a driver deliver it all to my door. But I enjoy picking out my own food, because I am the cook and want to purchase items that will make appealing dishes. Terry and I rarely eat out, but we have talked about going to a special place today for lunch. The staff there will cook and clean up for us.

 

More stamina would be good

All those years of teaching, I was up at 5 a.m. Sometimes earlier for field trips or department chair meetings, or even the time we were on the morning news and  I had to be at school at 4 a.m. to let the news crew into my room. I did it, every weekday morning. Then I retired, and I could sleep in. Today, the alarm went off at 5:30, which would really be sleeping in if I was still teaching, and I could hardly move!

Terry had a full day scheduled and needed an early start, and because I too had a morning meeting, and chores to do before leaving, I was agreeable to the alarm. Until it sounded. At 5:30. Aaack. What happened to that girl who rolled out of bed five days a week at 5 a.m., left the house by 7,  and was on her feet all day? The girl who handled students, teachers, and business partners? The girl who could go from classroom to classroom, teaching four different subjects during the day? To 130 students?

Well, I’ll tell you what happened. Age! She is out of shape and moving slower. I needed all three hours this morning to do my usual chores and be ready to leave the house just past 8:30. I arrived at my meeting place early because I needed to pull books and pick up supplies for my coaching assignment. Then a three hour meeting to work on a new coloring book for first graders. We produced one last year but many of us felt it was over the heads of our youngsters so want something simpler. We have gotten a good start. There are seven of us on the committee to do this.

Home to have lunch and do laundry. When teaching, this would have been around 4:30 when I got home and I would still have the laundry to do and dinner to fix. Today, I did the three loads of laundry and laid down to take a nap. I do have to make dinner in a bit when Terry gets home because he has a meeting at church that will run until after 9 p.m. He has been gone all day. Meetings and cardio rehab. I doubt if he will get a nap before leaving at 6:30 p.m.

I think of people like Ruth Bader Ginsburg who is not only years older than me, has a very demanding job, and a major health issue, and still keeps all of her engagements. I am highly impressed. Her stamina far exceeds mine.

A day to eat potato salad

Even if I lived by myself I would make a big bowl of potato salad now and then. I make the best potato salad I have ever eaten. Terry likes it, too, so I make it every  couple of months. Today was one of those days.

I came home from Columbia, where I read to sixth grade and  kindergarten classes, and realized I was hungry for something savory. I had bought Yukon gold potatoes at the grocery yesterday so put them in a pot of water, boiled them for a few minutes, and after leaving them to cool for awhile, came back and chopped the veggies–sweet pickles, red onion, and celery–along with the potatoes. I mix up my own dressing and stir it all together–potatoes, veggies, and dressing–while the potatoes retain a bit of warmth. I love to eat it right then.

Of course, there are leftovers of this salad. Enough to last a couple of days. But, it’s best when freshly made. The flavors do meld as the salad cools and the potatoes firm up, and I will gladly eat more as a snack. The funny thing about this salad, even though it is so delicious, I never make it to share. Most people want hardboiled eggs in their potato salad. Terry and I despise hardboiled eggs in any way, shape, or form, and cannot stand them in potato salad. I quit trying to explain our distaste for eggs in potato salad a long time ago. We just pass up the potato salad at potlucks and barbecues, leaving it for those who love hardboiled eggs to gobble up the eggy concoction. And when there is a sign-up sheet for dishes to bring, I always bypass the potato salad request.

You never know who you might meet at a wedding

Three years ago, while attending the wedding of a young woman whom we have known since before she was born, Terry and I met a couple with whom we struck up an immediate kinship. For one thing, the woman has the same hair color and similar cut to mine. The gentleman has a seeing-eye dog. They definitely stand out from the crowd. Because of the hair, I immediately gravitated to Debbie and started a conversation. We exchanged references as to how we knew the wedding couple. It was an easy conversation. We all enjoyed one another’s company.

Fast forward a year or so and I run into the woman again at a store in a neighboring small town. It’s a delightful store where I love to shop for unique items and gifts when I visit the small town. She works there. We chat. We catch up. We again enjoy one another’s company, and somehow, through the store’s Facebook site, we connect on Facebook, too.

We had realized when we first met, at the wedding, that we had a connection through the church we attended. Although Terry and I attend the very formal Presbyterian congregation, there is a another worshipping community that meets on the same grounds, less formal, and that is where this couple attended. Because of the Facebook connection, we have been able to stay in touch these past three years, watching the various shifts and changes in our lives.

Debbie contacted me last week, after meeting with the pastor of the her church who suggested me as a way to connect to the larger congregation of which I’m a member. Debbie is planning a major mission trip, or perhaps I should say lifestyle, and will need funding. Our church helps with such mission funding. Could we meet and discuss what she is doing and how I might be able to facilitate the connection?

As they say, the rest is history. Her plan is to live in Thailand for two  years and continue to work with a women’s cooperative she has already visited over the past seven years. She knows the city of Chiang Mai well and is excited to really be “boots on the ground” to work with this cooperative, making more of an impact than previously.

When she told me the city, I laughed. I have a friend who lived there for 20 years or so and directed an organization that got women out of slavery and taught them trades so they could make a living without selling their bodies. My friend is now a world-renown human trafficking consultant. Connection made.

On Sunday I saw the elder in charge of missions and told him about Debbie’s plan. He said it’s a good time to talk as plans are being made as to how to spend money. Then I saw Debbie’s pastor, the one who initially suggested we meet, and told him what the elder had said. Another connection.

My friend will be in Fresno next week and I’m hoping she can meet with Debbie and give her tips. Another connection in the making.

I am always excited when I see how God works in the lives of His servants. From two redheads reaching out to each other at a wedding, to a circle of friends connecting to do God’s work around the world. It makes me laugh.

New title, same task

Changes. Life is full of them. For five years I put on a uniform from the police department for my school chaplain position. Yesterday I turned in that shirt and will be be getting a new one next week with new logos and a new name. School chaplain title is being changed to resiliency coach. All the signage, clothing, and labels are being redone.

I’m glad I didn’t order, and pay for with my own money, a heavy jacket last year. There is some talk about getting new tags to cover the out-of-date- ones now, but again it will be done at one’s own cost. The shirt was all the police department had paid for and that’s the only thing being replaced, at no cost. The new shirt, though, from what I’ve seen, is not as heavy duty as the previous one. Just hope it holds up well for five years like the old one.

This change has come about  due to an organization, Freedom From Religion in Schools, that seemed to think we were clerics being planted in public schools. They sent a complaint to the school district, but after carefully looking into the history and curriculum of the program, the district said, “we want you in our schools, just change your name.” There is no proselytizing. There is a lot of resiliency building though, so that’s the reason for the new name.

Some of us who have been doing this for a few years were laughing that we probably didn’t even need to wear a uniform any more. The students and staff know us so well. What we do won’t change, just the clothing we wear.

 

The chaplain returns for year 6

The pace is quickening. On Tuesday I put on my chaplain’s uniform and headed out to Columbia to check in with staff and students.

Two weeks ago I had popped by to see the teachers for a brief moment during their planning session and let them know I was making plans for the new school year, just like they were. There would be two new first grade teachers. One of last year’s first grade teachers had moved to second grade. One of the long time kindergarten teachers again asked, as he does every year, if I could come to his class. The second grade teachers encouraged me to come to their rooms again.

I wanted to make plans with the first grade teachers for the exact day and times I will come to their classrooms so that was my main purpose for Tuesday’s visit. I also had a bag of full of clothes to drop off at the front office for kids who might have accidents. The home liaison who usually handles that is out on maternity leave and the woman filling in for her happens to be someone with whom I worked with at Fresno High. We had a good time catching up and reminiscing. I also had chocolate bars to hand out to the office staff.

Off to the cafeteria to see the kids. The new first graders don’t know me, but the second graders do and they all cheered and called out my name when I walked in. I don’t think I made any points with the new vice principal who was trying to maintain order. I had a chocolate bar for her, too, which helped a little.

Two of the first graders are returning from last year. Both had some hard times so I wasn’t surprised by their repeat performance. I sat with one who had been required to stay in, missing recess. I don’t think this is the answer for problem children, but I can only go along with the rules. He and I chatted about his father who had a brain tumor and is now blind. He told me his dad is currently in the hospital. I hugged him and gave him a puzzle page that I had copied in the office before heading out.

The copying machine is another story. When I went into the workroom, the repair man for the laminating machine was there. Although I said good morning, he didn’t speak, just kept his head in the machine. I set up the copier but it stopped midway with a light telling me it needed paper. This happens to me a lot. I muttered my lament, “why me!,” and got out a ream of paper to reload the machine but continued to grumble that this might not work. I said my prayer over the machine and hit the reset button. It worked! I gave a shout of joy and a “thank you, Lord,” noticing that the laminating repairman was continuing his work and shaking his head at the same time. I thought perhaps he needed some prayer, too!

After checking in with teachers around campus, I have a game plan and will return next week with schedules and supplies. There will undoubtedly be more chocolate, stickers, and pencils to hand out, too.

 

Making grape juice

Late August means the grape harvest is upon us here in the San Joaquin Valley. Table grapes, wine grapes, and grapes for raisins are all ready. Table grapes are cut by hand and usually packed in boxes right out in the fields. Wine grapes are picked at night, by mechanical harvesters, and carried to the wineries in big dumpsters for the crush. Raisins may still be harvested by hand, but the “trays” on which the grapes dry are now put down by machine, one long, continuous roll of paper. The hot days of August and September will quickly turn those grapes to dried fruit.

Our pastor’s wife had put a plea on Facebook for people to come get the grapes from their backyard vine. It has produced a large quantity this year, more than they could consume. Even her office mates were tired of the fruit. I had a tray of grapes from Fresno State on my dining room table when she made the offer so dismissed it. A few days later, though, it occurred to me that we could juice the grapes and use the juice for communion!

I told her my idea on Sunday, sort of laughing about it. She still had bags of grapes in the refrigerator and she was leaving the next day for Alaska. If I was willing to juice the grapes they were mine for the taking. Although small in size, and some not ripe enough to “crush,” the grapes produced about a half quart of juice. I took a picture and sent it to her to share with the pastor and tell him about my hair-brained scheme. I put the jar in the freezer and will give it to them when they return from their Alaska vacation.

The juice is quite sweet, and if there are again plenty of grapes next year, I suggested we try our hand at grape jelly. I’ll probably have more interest in that product than communion grape juice!

The ties that bind, or don’t

What keeps some relationships going for decades and others fall away? I don’t think it’s distance. I know people in other cities with whom I am closer than those who live in my own town. I don’t think familial relationship makes a difference either. I am closer to many friends than to my cousins. Which brings another topic to mind–death and relationships. My oldest cousin died a couple of weeks ago. She lived in the town where I grew up, about 25 miles from where I live today. Yet, I haven’t seen her since my mother died almost 19 years ago. I decided to not attend my cousin’s funeral as there was really no connection any more except that of dna.

Guess that’s why I’m not interested in things like genealogy and all those sites where you can find relatives. I know where they are but have no interest in their life and they have none in mine. It’s the same feeling I have about those with whom I went to school.  I’ve not kept in contact with my classmates. We’ve all gone different directions, and I feel no connection beyond the school we attended for a few years. And, the older I get, those school years get farther and farther away.

Two of my oldest and longest friends have died. My sister with whom I had a strong relationship has died. I really have no one I can just call, out of the blue, and chat about all sorts of things. My two friends and my sister were so in tune with me. We knew each other so well. Even those who I now consider good friends do not have the same connection, the same history. Those friends with whom I worked for over 20 years remain close, but a few have disappeared. It seems that only work bound us together and once that ended, so did the friendship. One has moved far away and removed all contacts. Another lives close by but has cut ties. Neither have told me why. They just disappeared from my life.

In looking at all these relationships, I cannot pick out a reason why some have remained strong over the years and others have not. There does not appear to be a common thread that pulls lose and causes the relationship to unravel.

Remembering a life well lived

Today is my father’s 111th birthday. He died before his 60th birthday. shortly before my 16th birthday, so I didn’t know him for very long. His life was a long lesson of tenacity and hard work that I still continue to study. The lessons are more poignant in hindsight, and I better appreciate what he did to support his family.

My dad worked the day he died, irrigating his beloved cotton fields right up to the point of collapsing after getting the water turned off. The one thing he would be unpleased about was that it was mid-growing season and he would not see the final picking. He always saw a job through to the end. I remember that when I take on a task. He was consistent in all he did. He did not suffer fools gladly and was highly critical of other farmers who did not measure up to his high standards. He picked his friends carefully and was always there for them.

One of his friends, Mr. Price, was African-American, or as my parents would say, Negro. When the local feed and seed store would not give Mr. Price a credit account so he could get the supplies he needed to bring in a crop. Farmers work on credit, paying their bills after the crop comes in. Mr. Price would not be able to have a crop without that credit. My dad told the store owner to put it on his account, he would be responsible. However, when it came time to deliver the seed or fertilizer, the company would only deliver to the address on the account. Everything was delivered to our farm and then Mr. Price, who only had one arm, and my dad would reload it onto my dad’s truck and take it a couple more miles to Mr. Price’s farm.

My dad paid better wages to his farm workers, but they had to meet his exacting standards. Everyone wanted to work in his fields. My mother provided water, the workers got breaks, and there was an outhouse on the farm that they could use. All of this happened in the 1950s. And I watched.

I wish I would have had more time with my dad, but I don’t know if I would have learned any more. I am glad he got to do what he loved right up to his death. He never spent one day in a hospital. Fifty years later my sister died in a similar manner, at the end of a productive day, doing what she loved, shopping for her great grandchildren. She came home, took off her shoes, made a cup of coffee, and collapsed. Like our father, she would be happy to know that she finished the day, finished the tasks she had set out for herself. I would hope my life could end in the same manner.