I Left ...

I'm over at WordPress now

 http://patblumer.wordpress.com/

Why do I feel like I'm cheating or something :/ ?

Maybe I'll come back ...

WordPress ... So far I'm not feeling the love

... but it's early yet.

It was a mutual decision between my husband and me - to quit talking and take action. Point of clarification needed right out of the gate ... we're still talking but we've agreed to take action in regard to all the talking.

He is a Presbyterian minister.

Our long-time chatter has been that he needs to assimilate all his writing, teaching and sermonizing into one place. A place where everything he has ever uttered can be archived for future reference.

A book maybe? (He's got a couple of "Everything Series" books under his belt but we don't count those because they have to do with auto repair and how-to-play golf and all he really did was interview experts and put their knowledge into readable format. Not much original thinking there.)
How could he carve out the time to write a book?
How would he choose a topic? Lord knows, after being in the church business for 30 years there are plenty of "topics" to choose from.
And then there is the all-important argument - Who would publish it? Unfortunately he's been to enough snobby writers' conferences that he is convinced that self-publishing is simply "not an option" and only losers self-publish.  Hello!! Welcome to the 21st century! Ever heard of an e-book? Even if we could get past this issue we would still have the issues of time and topic.

So, I learned about WordPress. Just enough to be dangerous.

It sounded like the perfect place to upload years of sermons and stories and teaching. There is even the option of uploading audio and video. Not to mention social media! Awesome! Now he can connect with his congregation and not just on Sunday mornings! An answer to prayer! (irony - haha)

Sure, its easy enough to set up. It's affordable, initially. It's easy to post a blog. But that's about it. All that other cool stuff takes something called a "plug-in".

Oh ... no ...

Want to upload a sermon? Takes a "plug-in".
Want to socially connect with your congregation? Takes a "plug-in"
Want to configure content? Takes a "plug-in"
What in the world is a plug-in and how in the heck do you install it?

I found some dudes in Florida who offer help with the social plug-ins. They could get me up and running in no time! My preacher husband would be able to reach out to his congregation using social media! Woo-hoo! These guys have just helped me leap over a major hurdle! I'm so happy!
They started ... I waited ... they had some tech issues to solve ... I waited ... they keep me updated ... they're working on it ... I continue to wait.

Yes, any non-geek can set up a WordPress site in 20 minutes or less. But that's about the extent of it. I drank the kool-aide. And I'm still waiting.

Sonny

Habitat Charlotte - newsletter     

      The life journey of Sonny Townsend reads like something out of a made-for-TV movie - the jaws of addiction jerking a young man from a stable, loving family and tossing him around like a chew toy until he’s thrown in a heap at death’s door. Four years ago Sonny was in that heap but made one last phone call.  The phone call put into motion a string of events that led him to Charlotte to beat the demon of addiction that had claimed his life for 33 years.  In Charlotte he found help and created his own network of health professionals, counselors and supporters.

      Today, Sonny is a walking, talking testimony of a life turned around by turning a life over to God.  He is a homeowner now, something he never dreamed of becoming when most of his nights were spent in an unventilated trailer in SC., surrounded by the debris of addiction.  Habitat Charlotte found an existing home for Sonny in the Windy Ridge neighborhood, northwest of Charlotte.  He worked side by side with Habitat contractors, cleaning, caulking and painting, before moving in on December 17, 2010.       

      He firmly believes sweat equity and Habitat training for home ownership are vital components of successful Habitat stories. 

      It’s easy to spot Sonny’s house when driving into his neighborhood; it’s the prettiest bungalow on the block.  A fenced backyard provides a perfect place for homegrown tomatoes; at the front door hot pink rose bushes great visitors.  The curb appeal of his home is a true reflection of the person who lives within.  Sonny has a sunny personality and a humble and grateful heart. He has been surrounded by people, friends now, who care about him.  He still finds his life story it a bit overwhelming, but he’s found perspective ... and peace.

"Is the Pudding Done?" - published Dec. 2006

       "Over the river and through the woods" takes on a whole new meaning when "grandmother's house" is 389 miles away. It also takes on a new meaning when the "grandmother" is no longer around and another generation of "grands" takes her place. The "sleigh" has to be rerouted and the "horse" often flies into a fit of road rage should the "white and drifting snow" prove to be too formidable an opponent for the sleigh's all-wheel drive capacity.
       Who is the sung-about grandmother anymore?
       My grandmothers are both now long-time residents of Beulah land and are, no doubt, presiding over their new digs in grand fashion. The holiday song could have been written for either one of them as they both fit precisely into the stereotypical image of a grandmother - apron tied over a dress, never pants ... blue gray hair ... busty up top and girdled elsewhere ... flour up to their elbows with their hands in biscuit dough.
       Time passes and things change and many of my contemporaries are abruptly finding themselves assuming the grandmother role. They probably don't own an apron and blue/gray hair is just not an option, not to even mention a girdle.
       I find myself pining for "grandmother's house." The real grandmother. The one in the song.
       Where she kept the fried chicken and potato salad on top of the stove all day long and we never got food poisoning; the notion of botulism never entered our minds.
       Where she dominated the conversation, the room, the house, the family.
       Where her daughters-in-law called her "Miss Elsie" and stayed out of her way.
       Where she always had a Kleenex tucked in her bosom and a glass of iced tea in her hand. "Don't throw away my glass," she intoned should someone else be washing dishes in the plastic dish pan set down in her old-timey, single sink.
       Where she hugged hard and long, and yes, it hurt, and you tried to get away without a fractured shoulder blade or a crushed cheekbone. That upper body of hers was indeed mighty, and though it rivaled the proportions of any respectable pro-wrestler, properly corseted it provided a pillowy perch for infants and toddlers.
       Come to think of it, both my grandmothers were magnificently endowed. Such endowments required harnesses of great resiliency. To hold one of these articles of clothing up to scrutiny was to absolutely stand in awe of the genius and engineering that is the science of women's foundation garments. The weight of the thing alone was staggering and there is no telling what kind of circa 1950's space-age elastic materials along with old standbys like pieces of whale bone comprised the contraption. And the size ...lord have mercy ... from the looks of it, it could harness a couple of mules on its day off.
       My mother is the current grandmother and the holiday "sleigh" will park outside her house this year. Eventually, I suppose ... okay, I hope ... I'll be the grandmother. Neither of us inherited the bounteous and enviable endowment. She got her mother's quiet but strong gentility and grace and carries it, admittedly, on a boney upper body.
       I got my paternal grandmother's outrageous "hand-me-my-iced tea" take-charge persona but received not bodacious endowment to accompany said persona. And when a chick finds herself with a "now listen here" attitude and no ramrods to lead with, she's at an immediate disadvantage should a "situation" present itself. Miss Elsie is reincarnated in the form of a meek-of-chest, bottle blond whom she would hardly recognize today. A Kleenex inserted in my blouse wouldn't stay there and so is inserted into the pocket of my blue jeans; dungarees that, at retail, to her horror I'm sure, could have fed her family for a month or two.
       I can't cook fried chicken like she could but I try to pray like she did - without ceasing. Several times everyday she could be heard imploring, "Lord, help me to be a good worman." Her mutilation of the kings English was hilarious, but land sakes, she was sincere. And I'd give anything to spend another holiday with her.
       Even a crushed cheekbone.

Deer ate my hostas ... venison for supper

DOING ART AS FAST AS I CAN

“The world doesn't make sense,
so why should I paint pictures that do?”
Pablo Picasso

This is Summer Camp?

My husband reads the Wall Street Journal in about an hour, most days. I peruse it in a nanosecond, most days. But when something catches my eye I settle in for some good content. Recently a blurb about a rite of passage, summer camp, caught my eye. "Parents scrutinize photos for clues." I read on.

According to this article, many camps nowadays have a photo gallery where parents can log-in to watch their kids. Some parents even tell their kids ahead of time to give signals such as a thumbs-up when photographers are hovering so they'll know their child is "alright."  And if little Suzie wasn’t chosen to be the captain of the kickball team or is wearing the flip-flops of someone else, parents can send "polite" emails to counselors in order to rectify such situations. Some parents set their alarms for the middle of the night to check the "updated gallery".

Surely this is a hoax. Have I been in some time warp and it’s really April and not August and the WSJ is making some not-funny joke about this beloved institution? This just sounds so wrong to me on so many levels! (The least of which is how utterly Orwellian it is!) Shouldn’t children know that at least somewhere on the planet their every move isn’t going to be scrutinized by someone? Wouldn’t summer camp be the perfect place to let a kid just be … a kid?

Attending GA Camp was the pinnacle of my summertime fun as a child. GA is Baptist-talk for "Girls Auxiliary." If you were a little girl Baptist you were a GA and went to GA camp. If you were a little boy Baptist, you were a "Royal Ambassador" and went to RA Camp. The camp I attended was located somewhere north of Greenville, SC, in an area lush and woodsy. It smelled green. At the time it didn't matter that woodsy meant tick-infested. Or that lush meant slippery moss. Or that green meant poison ivy. Nobody died.

Days spent at GA camp were simple and carefree. Upon arrival girls were assigned cabins and the most critical event of the week happened in the first 5 minutes - whether or not you landed a top bunk. After that it was a breeze. Revelry woke us up and taps put us to sleep. In between were hours of pure bliss. There was a happy routine of craft time, play time, skit time, slipping and sliding in-the-creek time with a good dose of chapel thrown in to satisfy all the Baptists back at home. Accommodations were crudely built cabins with slamming screen doors as the only ventilation. It was hot as hades and we loved it. The stuff our parents had packed for us mostly stayed packed. We could wear a favorite shirt and shorts "set" five days in a row and nobody cared. Topics of conversation were endless but always came back to boys. It was a week of living-in-the-moment with not a thought for anything or anyone other than the next skit or who might be called on to pray before the next meal. The last thing on our minds was what was happening back at home. We were free; supervised, yes; but in our little minds, we were free.

But now, according to the news article, those days are gone. Camps have sold out to the man, er ... the mama.

As I finished reading and was tsk, tsking about these helicopter parents, I popped over to Facebook to get other news from the not-so-esoteric side of the current events spectrum. There was a post by a friend. Nothing surprising there but she had posted a picture of her son who was away ... at camp! In the photograph he was shirtless and sitting on a rock; he looked fit and healthy. She said he looked like he missed his mama. I said if looks could kill that camp would’ve had a dead photographer on their hands.

Parenting trends come and go.

Social media touches us daily and for the most part, it's good, I think.

But summer camp!  Ah ... that's something better left untouched.

I Don't Want to Bother God

I don't want to bother God. I figure He has enough on his plate.

I generally ask God to be on the lookout for the safety and happiness of my sons, the joy and contentment of my husband and calm and peace for my aging parents. But rarely do I bother God about me, the possibility of personal growth and what I might want. I'm content just knowing the people closest to me are happy and well.

As for the rest of the world and its inhabitants, boy, does God have a lot to keep him busy. Why should I be one more voice adding to the pandemonium? The nuts in the Middle East alone would be enough for Him to tear his hair out. Of course, He was responsible for starting that whole ball of wax to begin with. I wonder if He ever imagined that those two brats born to Abraham would spin off countries that continue to despise each other 4000 years later.

And then there are victims of famine and poverty through no fault of their own other than having been born. And victims of malicious governments. And victims of natural disaster. And victims of disease and addiction. And victims of their own undoing. Not to mention people out there who are just truly evil.

With all the pain and suffering in the world I just hate to bother God about me. It seems selfish. After all, I'm doing just fine. I thank Him ceaselessly for family and job security and a thousand other things, but I don't feel right asking for anything - any thing or any situation that I think might make me happier. I'm pretty happy.

But it occurred to me that God might want me to ask him for stuff. Lord knows (ha!) I don't want anymore stuff. But I guess I mean stuff in the figurative sense. I have some gifts that probably need to be cultivated a little more. God given gifts. So if God has gifted me these gifts and I'm not totally sure on how to use these gifts, maybe I should bother God and ask him.

This notion I have of not bothering God, maybe, is not rational thinking. Or maybe it's too much thinking. This God who created the universe and the world and all its creatures has single-handedly handled time as we know it, and infinity before that. Maybe he can handle me and it wouldn't be an imposition.

Maybe it's wrong not to bother God. He's put us where we are for a limited length of time, for some reason. The first question in the children's catechism within the protestant denomination is, "What is the chief end of man?" The answer that's been stamped onto little brains can be regurgitated back with a roll of the eyes and in one long breath, "The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy him forever."

So, am I glorifying God by not bothering him?  Am I glorifying God by not asking him to help me out with those gifts he gave me? Do I really feel he has enough on his plate?

I guess I have underestimated God. I doubt he is enjoying that.

10 Day Challenge - A Look Back

I did it.
I challenged myself to pick a thing, anything ... just something, and do it for 10 days in a row.
I picked cake.

In the middle of my 10 day challenge my mother called. She has a pattern - if I haven't called her in 5 -7 business days she will call me.

"Just want to check in ... see how y'all are doing ... Daddy and I are fine ..."
Then, "What have you been up to?"
She knows I've been up to something because I haven't called her lately.

pause ... "I've been baking pound cakes "
silence ... then, "Ok ... why are you doing this?"

Rather than even begin to attempt to explain the search for my missing mojo to my 80 year old mother I tell her I'm taking them to shut-ins.

 ... pause ... she's thinking ...

"Well, Pat, I just think that is so nice!"

Suddenly its a-ok that I haven't called! I'm doing something worthy! 
The cloud of guilt I felt suddenly parted and there appeared not only sunshine but a great big rainbow!! I can hear her explaining to my daddy, "She hasn't "not called". She's been busy!"

She called again a couple of days later. "I just think it is so nice, Pat, that you are making those pound cakes for shut-ins."

Truth be told, I don't know many shut-ins. But I did bake pound cakes and I did give them away. I gave myself a challenge and I proved to be up to it.
And in the meantime it made my mother very happy.

Why Do We Share?

I'm more active on social media these days and I wonder why. Up til now I've been timid of activity on facebook. Most folks don't give a flying fig about the comings and goings of their facebook friends. My friends, for the most part, are, like me, voyeurs - rarely posting but always looking. My sudden surge in social media activity could be related to the fact that the sun hasn't shone all summer for more than 3 days in a row (my husband is counting) or I've had more than a week or two at my own home and am not needed elsewhere.

So, after days in the house, alone, I reach for the laptop. And as I reach for the laptop, I realize I am ... reaching out. I feel a disconnect. I want to reconnect. So ... (deep breath) ...  I begin to share. Thus far nothing I've posted has brought ruin to my household or disdain to my family, so I'm breathing easier now.

In kindergarden sharing was one of the first lessons we were taught. We learned that sharing is taking the high road on the trip toward the greater good; accusations of being selfish would bring a tot to tears. We practiced this lesson; albeit some of us more than others.

Years ago upon moving to a new town and a new cul-de-sac, I watched my young son giving away his pixie stixs to neighborhood children who had appeared to check out the new kids on the block. His careful one-by-one doling out of his beloved confections to one grubby hand after another is forever branded in my brain and heart. He had lived all of four years on this planet, most of the time as a pure-tee hellion, but had learned that to get along in the cul-de-sac, a kid would be wise to share.

His sharing continued and we continued to wonder. This kid was compelled to share. On awards day in kindergarden he received a ribbon for a small-tyke athletic achievement. A classmate and on-the-playground competitor of his was devastated that he did not win the award. My son, five years old by that time, and deeply feeling the heartbreak of this other brat child, simply walked over to the child and gave him the ribbon. No thought, no hesitation, no remembrance of playground bullying - he just shared. His generosity apparently blew away the teachers and the principal, as at a later date he was given a better, superior citizenship award extolling the virtues of being a nice guy.

So why do we share?  Do we feel elevated by sharing? Does it make us feel better about ourselves? Or is it that we really do care about the person or persons on the receiving end of our sharing?

My grandmother, well into her 80's and living entirely on her social security check of $585 a month, continually practiced care and sharing for "old, poor people". She never realized the irony of this. She didn't have material goods to share but she more than made up for it in sharing her care - in the form of a chocolate pie or a pan of biscuits. She also shared her opinions and pity her preacher or children or grandchildren who were on the receiving end of those opinions. But all the sharing was doled out with genuine care for others.

            Sharing nowadays in this social media centered world has a different connotation than the types of sharing of my young son and my grandmother, but I think it's all for the same reason.  We're not egotistical maniacs when we share what we had for breakfast or pictures of a family vacation. We want to be connected to others. We care about others enough to share with them.