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 ...
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Monday, September 9, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
"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.
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.
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