Getting Well

I still see him sitting there in the same spot day after day on that street in La Ceiba, his ankle and foot extended for all to see, deep purple and grotesquely swollen.  His cup lay close by to catch the coins and occasional bills from those who gave either out of compassion or pity.  No matter.  The important thing was to get it filled.  That's how he lived.  Or better put, how he survived.

I don't know a lot about medicine, but from pictures I've seen, I believe the gentleman probably had a really bad case of the gout, a form of arthritis and very painful.  I've no doubt, it hurt to even look at it.  Nor do I pretend to know how debilitating it might have been, I've not lived with it.  But that beggar sat on that same street with his cup the entire time I lived in Honduras, always with his leg protruding outwards, everyday drawing the passersbys' attention to it, to him.  I wonder if he ever wished that his life was different, if there was ever a time he wanted to be well.  Or did he prefer this life on the street that drew on the sympathies of others and guaranteed an income, as little as it might have been.

I've been reflecting on this getting well quite a bit lately, in part because there are so many people in my life who aren't. Jesus once confronted a lame man at the pool of Bethsaida.  Supposedly it was believed that at certain times the waters had supernatural powers to heal, but the man came up with some excuse about nobody ever being there to help him.  I find that odd.  He'd been crippled for 38 years, many of which I'm sure he had spent in that very spot.  So in all that time no one ever offered to help him get into the water?  Hard to believe.  And then comes the clincher, the all-important quesiton.  Jesus has the audacity to ask him, "Do you want to be well?"

Seems like a no-brainer doesn't it.  Of course he wants to be well!  But no one understands the human mind better than the Creator and His question was legitimate.  Did the lame man really want to be well or did he prefer the security of knowing that his condition would at least get him a little sympathy and something to eat? But something changed when he met the Son of God.  Strength came back into his limbs and he walked away from that place, no longer a beggar. 

I see the ugly, purple swelling in some lives and I want to shake them and say, "Just go for it!  You can do this! You can be well!"  But the drive, the motivation to be free of their sickness just isn't there.  With some it's bodies that have been neglected or abused.  Sometimes it's food or alcohol or drugs that has a hold of them.  And they know what they should do, they'll even acknowledge it, then constantly berate themselves when they don't.

Sometimes it's emotional, hanging on to things of the past, harboring stuff like anger and resentments and unforgiveness.  This is the sickness that concerns me most of all, because it eats away like a cancer at the spirit.  I know a woman who is so bitter towards everyone, I suspect there will be a great sigh of relief when they close the cover of her casket and lower her into the ground.  That is if anyone is there to see it.  How tragic to live a life with so much vitriol, despising and hating everyone who has ever offended you.  I read a true story recently about a circus pony that was retired and sent to live out the rest of its years in a lovely pasture.  But the animal refused to venture out into the lush, verdant field.  All it would do was stay in one small area of that pasture and walk in circles.  The analogy is simple.  Hanging on to the past prevents us from enjoying the freedom of kicking up our heels and enjoying the pleasures that God has in abundance for us. 

Jesus asked, "Do you want to be well?"  There was a time in my life that I wouldn't have thought to ask that question of someone.  But I'm so tired of knowing way too many people who are sick and have simply resigned themselves to the fact.  I see them in my neighborhood, among my friends, in the churches we've pastored, in my own family.  So now I'm asking,  Do you really want to be well?  Or does the hurt and resentment and refusal to forgive supersede your desire to be free of it all?  To be truly well, free to explore and enjoy all that God has for you.  Or maybe you just don't feel strong enough to fight the things that are controlling the body that God made under certain specifications, uniquely for you and intended for your enjoyment.  And please don't use the excuse that there's no one out there to help you.  The man at the pool used that excuse too.  But that fell flat when he was confronted by the all-powerful Son of God who can do anything in a life. 

Jessica Hicks is a young mom with a couple of children.  She was recently diagnosed with Non- Hodgkins Marginal Zone Lymphoma.  Sounds scary, huh?   It is.  She is still early in her journey towards wellness.  But recently she posted a passage from Isaiah 40 on her facebook page. This is just a portion of it: "He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.  Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.  They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."   If you were to look her up, you'd find her profile picture has her in a headscarf, her young daughter next to her, her head covered with one to match.  Jessica is beautiful, radiant, her countenance revealing a strength that comes from Someone beyond herself.  There's no doubt here.  She will do what it takes to be well again.

Beautiful Jessica

The Parking Ticket

I saw it as soon as I walked out of Angela's apartment,  the piece of paper secured beneath one of the windshield wipers on my green minivan.  Oh no!  I had been in there no more than ten minutes, just enough time to help her finish getting the kids ready for school and to grab them a quick breakfast to eat on the way.  I had never parked in that spot in all the years she'd lived there, even though it was directly in front of her place.  But I'd been in a hurry that morning and when pulling in hadn't thought much of the blue lines that set this particular parking space apart.  I just knew it was close and I was running  late. All these years without a ticket, and it had to be now.  I read the charge and then the amount I was going to have to fork over.  Eighty dollars.

It had been a difficult few months.  I had flown to New York in February to see my father who was not well,  never dreaming he'd die while I was there visiting.  During this same time Larry had become very sick and was losing a great deal of weight, becoming weaker by the day.  He was seeing several doctors and having every kind of procedure imaginable, even being tested for cancer.  But up til now we were still without answers.  On top of all this, we were going through some personal problems with a couple of our  kids.  One situation was especially serious, involving money and the courts.  I was worn out, frazzled.   And now I had this stupid ticket.  I knew that paying the fee wasn't going to break us, but it was the last of an accumulation, the proverbial straw that was about to break the camel's back. 

I mulled over that ticket for several days and finally determined that I was going to City Hall to fight the charge.  Sure, I had parked illegally. One time. But my record was stellar, and hopefully they would see that.  I'd go to that office that handled all the court fees,  promising it wouldn't happen again,  and ask if they would consider letting this one go.  So on Wednesday, the only day one could contest a ticket, I headed to town after finishing up my morning music classes, swinging by the church first, asking my ailing husband if he'd go with me for moral support.  He did.

As we approached the office, I was surprised to see such a large number of people already there, sitting on benches, standing in the hall or waiting near the window for their turn.  I looked at Larry disappointed, we were going to be here for a long time.  Suddenly, out of the office door came a young, slender, dark-skinned woman holding some papers. "I've been waiting for you," she exclaimed.  Then without warning she reached over and snatched the ticket out of my hand.  "This has been taken care of," and without another word quickly turned and went back through the door, closing it behind her.   

Stunned,  Larry and I walked silently back down the hallway and through the outer doors.  It wasn't until we were outside that we turned and looked at each other. "What just happened here?"  he asked.  I shook my head, bewildered. And then I started to cry.  God had taken care of my ticket!  And in that moment He spoke these words to my heart.  "If I can take care of your parking ticket, don't you think I can take care of these other things, things of much more importance.  Like your husband and your children?"

There were still several difficult and challenging months ahead for us.  Eventually Larry would find out that the infusions he'd been receiving for his Rheumatoid Arthritis had caused a horrible, almost lethal reaction in his body.  With a change of medication, his strength and weight came back.  And somehow I got through the rest of the stuff as well.  Yes, it was hard, even painful at times. But I was never again overwhelmed by the events that were happening in my life.  How could I be?

There are still times when hard things happen, scary things.   Like when the disciples were terrified of the storm, of drowning, even though Jesus was there with them, sleeping in the hold of the boat.  They woke him up and asked him if he cared.  Seriously?  So he asked them right back why they were so afraid.  They had just seen him do some amazing things, like feeding thousands of people with a couple of fish and a few rolls.  Geesh!  And then he asked them why even after all that, they still didn't have faith, how they could forget so quickly what they had seen and experienced.  But I probably shouldn't be so hard on those guys.  I do the same thing at times, especially when I am afraid.  Then God scolds me and reminds me of what He's done before, and asks if I trust Him to do those things again. 

By the way.  I'll never know for sure if that young woman who took care of me was an angel or not.  Larry had been at that office several times over the years and says he never saw her until that day and never saw her again.  But that isn't the most important part of this story anyways.  What does matter is that my Heavenly Father was concerned for me then and still is today.  And that means that whatever storms may come,  He still whispers, "If I can take care of a parking ticket, won't you trust me with the rest?"

Rena's Sweaters

I was in a bit of a panic.  I had read for the lead in a community theater production and the director called the next day to tell me I'd won the part.  I felt honored and flattered that she thought me good enough to take on the role. But to be honest, that wasn't the character I had hoped to play when I went to audition.  I had really wanted another role, a crazy lady with some of the best lines and far fewer than what they were asking me to learn.  But it wasn't just about memorizing the extra pages of script.  This particular character was a knitter, a skill required for the part, and something that I had never attempted to do or was even slightly interested in.  It was later that summer while on vacation in New York that Larry's mom and sister put a pair of  knitting needles in my hands and slowly and patiently instructed me on the basics,  enough so that I could pull off the character and convince the audience that I knew what I was doing.  But if I hadn't been careful to hold what appeared to be a scarf-like object close to my lap as I flashed those needles,  it would have been seen with all its dropped stitches and gaping holes.  I knew just enough to fake it and to have a brand new appreciation for those who are much more adept at this than I am. 

Like Charlene for example.  She knits the nicest gloves and hats and donates them to organizations in the area who help the poor.  Lisa likes to do afghans and gives them away as gifts.  I have been one of her beneficiaries as has every young child in our toddler church of which she is the director.  And then there's Faith. She likes to do scarves, and yes, she gives them away too.  That seems to be why the ones I know do what they do.  They love to bless others with their creations.    
 

Rena VanAmburg

And then there's Rena.  I haven't known her all that long, she started coming to the church a little over a year ago with her daughter and son-in-law. She twinkles, so naturally I liked her immediately.  It wasn't too long after, that Larry and I decided it was time to pay a visit to her little house on Sherman,  just a few streets over from us.  We found her in her easy chair knitting. "I knit sweaters," she informed us.  I probed a bit, asking who they were for.  She set her project aside and looked directly at me.  I could see her eyes sparkling behind her glasses, as if she had a wonderful secret that she was eager to share with someone."  I send them to World Vision." she answered.   I know World Vision, one of the best-known and most effective Christian relief organizations in the world.

I called Rena one afternoon this week and asked if it'd be a good time to stop by.  I wanted to know more about her sweaters, her story.  I grabbed my camera as I headed out the door.  I found her knitting a small pink one.  I felt the yarn, it was particularly soft, perfect for a baby.  "How long have you been doing this?"  I wanted to know.  And she began her story.  Her husband was ill and pretty much confined to his home.  "He'd sit right here, in this chair where I am now," she said.  "I didn't dare leave him but needed something to do.  So I started making these sweaters."  It had been around five years or so that she'd been at it.  She handed me a small stack of yellow notebook pages, folded and clipped together with a pen.  I opened them to find a list numbering each sweater and its color.  My eyes went to the bottom of the last page.  The number 425 was written there and a description of her last completed sweater.   "You can take the pen and write in number 426 for me," she said.  I did and then wrote in the color.  Pink.

Rena holding number 425

Did I mention that Rena is eighty-eight years old?  I'm pretty sure she's on a limited income, but somehow she always has enough yarn to do another sweater.  Her first supply came from a rummage sale at the Ronald McDonald House in Rochester, New York.  A friend got it for her and it provided enough yarn to get her through the first couple of years.   In fact, all the yarn for her sweaters has come from rummage and yard sales.  And because everything she does is for children,  there's always enough on a spool for one size or another.   

But she does have some concerns.  Her fingers are getting numb and she doesn't know how much longer she'll be able to keep at it.  "But I'll be knitting until I can get my garden in, and that won't be until Decoration Day."  She had earlier pointed out the little pepper plants on the window sill in the kitchen that she had started.  Gardening is as big and as enjoyable a project for this remarkable lady as is her knitting. But that's a subject for another day.   I silently calculated.   Decoration Day, now called Memorial Day.  That would give her almost three more months of knitting.  That adds up to several more sweaters helping to clothe and warm even more children.  Being touched by a woman who finds great joy and purpose in her life even at eighty-eight.  And it simply doesn't get any better than that.

A box of Rena's sweaters ready to be shipped to World Vision 

A Post Script:
If you'd like to know more about this project that sends sweaters to children around the world, check it out at www.knitforkids.org.

Mary's Mattress (And Other Bedtime Stories)

I've been having some trouble sleeping lately.  Dozing off isn't the problem,  but all night long I dream crazy dreams and wake up tired.  Actually, it's not that I mind the dreams so much:  Queen Elizabeth and her entourage recently showed up for church, Denzel and Pauletta Washington came for dinner one night and Howie Mandel helped put extensions in my hair.  I've been meeting some pretty interesting people as of late!  But I'm also waking up with an ache in my lower back, not fun, and that makes the mattress suspect.  Periodically we flip it over, and this last time I got stuck with a pretty large indentation on my side from Larry's two-hundred pound body.  When I strip off the sheets in a couple of days, we'll turn it in another direction to see if that helps.

I've always liked a firm bed, in part because I like my space when I sleep.  We have a king;  I don't want anybody else's body heat as I generate enough of my own.  And I'm not a snuggler,  I occasionally will give Larry two or three minutes to make him happy or to get my feet warm, but then I'm back to my edge.  And as far as I'm concerned, there's nothing worse than meeting your spouse in the middle of a bed because of a sagging mattress.  I would rather that be of my own prerogative. 

When we were first married,  Larry's folks had the guest room right next to theirs.  It held a metal-framed bed with an old mattress that sunk in the middle.  Whenever we visited, I did everything I could to stay out of the center and get to the edge.  But not only was it quite uncomfortable,  it squeaked.  Terribly.  I never slept well in that bed.  Either I was trying to crawl out of the abyss in the middle or waking up every time a slight movement caused the frame to creak.   And being the newlywed I was,  it was a bit awkward sleeping in that noisy bed with the in-laws on the other side of the wall.  Sigh.  I was never quite sure what they thought and was too embarrassed to ask.   

When we packed our barrels for Central America, we enclosed a water bed mattress.  We thought it'd be easier and possibly less expensive than tracking down a large mattress set when we got there.  So shortly after we arrived in Honduras, we had a frame built and filled up the large bladder-like thing with water.  We loved it, using it the entire six years we lived there.  The only problem was that when we had to lift the bed for any reason at all, it was a pain to move and lots of work.

The first time was one afternoon when the kids were in school and Autumn was taking her afternoon nap.  I had spent two or three hours working in the kitchen when I heard her stirring in her crib.  As I walked into the bedroom to get her up, I was met by several inches of water creeping up the walls and the sound of water pouring out of the sink that sat outside our bathroom door.  I had been washing brushes and had carelessly forgotten to turn the water off when the kids had left for their afternoon classes.  Larry arrived home not too long afterwards to find Autumn happily scooting down the river in the hallway in her walker while I tried to mop up what I could   The hardest part was emptying the mattress so that the frame could be raised to dry out.   But all in all,  the bed worked well for us during our years in Central America.  And when it was emptied, the kids never tired of rolling over it to squeeze out the excess water, or when it was filled, to roll over it to get the bubbles out.

Hanging out with the kids on the waterbed in Honduras

We liked the water bed so much as a matter of fact that we went back to using one after returning to the States.  But after Larry was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis, it became increasingly difficult for him to get out of the low-framed bed.  He needed something much higher and firmer.  So we gave the bed away and went back to what we now have, a large king-sized set of the regular variety, though with a nice soft pillow top.  Which unfortunately is beginning to settle.

That does, however, remind me of one more mattress.   Back in the Seventies,  Gene Barrett was a pastor, a late-night host on a Christian radio station out of Buffalo and chaplain to the Buffalo Bills. He was also a good friend.  We had worked together at Circle C Ranch in Western New York, and after I became engaged,  I asked if he would officiate at my wedding,  which he did.  His wife Mary had been ill for several years and was bed-ridden.  But while sick, rather than simply wait to die, she ministered to people from her bed, encouraging and praying for them over the telephone.  A few months after we married we got the news that she was gone.  When we arrived at our first pastorate in Bradford County, we had no furniture except for a dining room table sans chairs.  Gene contacted us, asking if we could use Mary's bed, mattress included.  Those first couple of years in Pennsylvania we slept in that bed, on that mattress with the slope in the center where Mary had lain.  And prayed.  And encouraged.  And for some reason, I always slept just fine.

Missing Karl

My brother Karl would have turned fifty-seven this month.  It's been almost six years since he left us, not too long after his birthday.  I had gone to Montgomery that afternoon to rent chairs for Fawn's outdoor wedding.  Funny how you never forget details like that when something traumatic, life-changing happens.  We got back to the church and found a note taped to the door.   I was to call home immediately.  There had been an accident. 

No one was more laid back than my brother.  One time he went into a burning barn to retrieve a bike that he'd stored there, a gift for his son's birthday.  It was a crazy thing to do, especially considering that the barn was full of explosives. I asked him afterwards if he had considered the possibility of the building exploding with him still in it.  He just kinda shrugged it off, even when I probed him about the risks that came with his job.   Karl had always loved fireworks, he and my brother Rex were always setting off the small stuff when they were kids.  So when he was all grown up and the chance came around to make the big stuff, he didn't even hesitate.  And doing the big shows, well, for him that was just icing on the cake.

Speaking of cake, the only time I remember being really angry with Karl involved one that I had made from scratch.  I had turned it upside down on a tray and covered the entire thing with a thick layer of frosting.  But a few hours later I found my lovely concoction drastically changed.  Someone had run their fingers around the edges, eating every bit of frosting off the sides.   It took no time at all to find out who had gotten into it, Karl.  I think it was my youngest sister Beth who squealed. I was livid.  So angry in fact that I wrote a note to my brother and propped it up by the cake. I need to insert a bit about my family here.  We were the God-fearing, church-going, no drinking, no smoking,  no cursing or bad talking Marvin family.  Therefore,  some of the language I used so shocked my brothers and sisters, that even today, decades later, the story still comes up at family gatherings.

The last time I was with Karl on his birthday.  This was his 49th.   

But Karl was so likable that no one could ever stay mad at him for long.  And he was kind.  The Allegany would sometimes overflow its banks and empty into the Mill Pond.  One particular summer the river had overflowed more than usual and deposited hundreds of good-sized carp into the marsh.  As the water receded, the fish found themselves trapped in just a few inches of water.  Karl gathered up some buckets and sloshing through several inches of muck spent hours filling them with the fish and hauling them back to the river.  It wasn't until his memorial service, however, that I heard the rest of the story, as Paul Harvey would say.  I had spoken and ended with the account of Karl hauling all those carp back to the river in a couple of  buckets when his friend Mike took the podium, looked at me and said, "And did you know that after he got tired of carrying pails, he got a twenty-two and shot the rest of them in the head?"  Nope, I didn't know that.  But I'm pretty sure that he was simply putting them out of their misery.  

Along with his big heart, he also had a good-sized stomach.  He enjoyed frog legs and didn't mind hunting the things and cutting off their appendages for a lip-smacking meal.  One time, however, he wasn't able to perform the amputations until later,  so he took them home and threw them into the bathtub.  They were obviously feeling pretty feisty, because when my sister-in-law went in to use the john, a stretch of green suddenly lunged from the tub and flew into her lap.  My parents had been invited to dinner that night, totally unaware that on the other side of the wall was a bathtub full of amphibians having an evening swim.  But even if they'd known, something tells me they wouldn't have been all that surprised.

Karl knew how to make an adventure out of about anything.  My sister Dawn tells a story about when our cousin Paul was up from North Carolina, the three of them went driving the back roads in Karl's bronco.  The frogs were out that night, so every time Karl would see one in the headlights, he'd brake while Paul jumped out to grab it,  then would stuff it in the glove compartment.  The car was soon filled with the sound of an amphibious chorus coming out of the dashboard.  And no, there were no frog legs on the menu that night.  Karl let them go after the concert. 

Karl would have rather been outside than anywhere else.  He'd thought of going into conservation, working in the park service.  He never got there, but he could name and tell you about most any plant.  And the trees, he especially loved the trees.  We had a line of tall pines that ran along the canal next to our home.  As soon as his legs were long enough, he started climbing those pine, all the way to the top.  At first it scared me, I was the oldest, probably the most protective.  But over time I began to relax, realizing that he wasn't going to fall.  He was at home up there.

I was the oldest, therefore the Protector. Karl is at the center.

Material things meant little to Karl.  His clothes were usually mismatched, and even when he dressed up for church or a special occasion, he usually looked a bit rumpled. His house was always in need of repair, and it seemed that his vehicles were often on the verge of breaking down. But on the other hand, he was always available whenever someone else had a need.  After my mom's cancer had progressed, he called Alabama asking if I needed money to get home.  And as Dad got older, Karl was always the one to stop by and see if he needed help with anything.   Then after dad was gone and my sister Beth took over the house, Karl was the one she called on if she had a question or problem.  He'd always be there.  That's just who he was.

The worst dream I ever had involved Karl when we were both young.  A large machine had dug a large, very deep hole down the street in a neighbor's yard, tied him up and placed him there, teetering on the edge.  It frightened me so badly that I remember getting up in the night and peeking into his bedroom to make sure he was still there.  For nights afterwards I dreaded going to bed because that dream played over and over again in my mind.   Finally I went to my mother and asked her if I would ever be able to forget the horrible nightmare. She shook her head.  Probably not, she said.  But the day would come, she assured me, when it wouldn't bother me anymore.   And she was right.   Though I never forgot the dream, the fear of losing my brother Karl eventually went away.

I thought about that dream many times over the years, wondering why it affected me so profoundly when I was young.   I know now that  I was grappling with the reality of death, understanding for the first time that it could take away those I love.  But when word came that this same brother was teetering, not on the edge of a hole as in my dream, but on the brink of eternity,  I wasn't afraid for him.  I knew where he was going, that he had prepared for this day a long time ago. When the paramedics arrived, though covered with burns from the explosion, Karl was still conscious and insisted that they take care of his young coworker Andy first.  "Don't worry about me," he said.  "I'm ready." 

I won't say I don't miss him, I do.  In fact, it seems the more time that passes, greater the longing to see him again. I wish I could be with him one more time. If that were granted me,  I would sit at the piano,  him standing behind me and Beth would join us.  And we would sing, praying that time would show us favor and stop for awhile.  But on this side of eternity, unfortunately, there are clocks with hands that move all too quickly, and with that come the inevitable goodbyes.   But he can't leave without one more song, one that we always sing when we're together and it seems especially appropriate now.  The harmony is pure as Karl's wonderful baritone carries the tenor while Beth covers the alto and I take the melody. "Some glad morning when this life is o'er," we sing, "I'll fly away.  To a home on God's celestial shore, I'll fly away.  I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away.  When I die, hallelujah, by and by, I'll fly away." And as we repeat the chorus I hear only the two parts and know he is gone.  

Karl two years before the accident, the last picture I ever took of him.    

Cockroach Cookies

There are only a few shows that I record, a couple for Larry and a couple for me.  But there's one that I set for the both of us, "Hoarders."   That's because we are intrigued by these people who live lives  so foreign to our own, surrounded by such a mountain of stuff that they can't use their kitchens or sit on their furniture or even sleep in their own beds.

We were a family of seven, so naturally there was a bit of clutter in our home.  It didn't seem to bother my mother much, but that didn't deter from her insistence on having a clean house.  She liked a freshly-scrubbed floor and would get down on her hands and knees to make sure it was done right.  Sparkling windows were important as well, she'd have us wipe them down with newspapers to get rid of the streaks after they'd been sprayed with ammonia water.   As for the bedding, our sheets were washed regularly and hung outside, even in the winter.  After she had taken them down off the line,  I remember her holding them up to her nose and then to mine, wanting me to take in the wonderful fragrance of the outdoors.  Smells were important too, and I don't remember our home ever being filled with anything but pleasant aromas.

That's why I found one particular episode especially disturbing.  The house was not only piled with junk, it was filthy beyond belief.  I don't get it. People living with the smell of animal poop and urine in their noses is bad enough, but the worst, most offensive part was the bugs, specifically the roaches. Everywhere.  In fact, when the pest control guys came, they said they had never seen anything like it, estimating not just thousands but possibly millions in that home.  The vermin were on and in everything, even the refrigerator and freezer were full of them.  As for getting a good night's sleep, forget it.  The son complained he couldn't get one because the things would crawl all over him during the night.

I didn't know what a roach was until I went to college.  I think I read that they can be found anywhere in the world except for Antarctica but I had never seen one up close and personal until I lived in a college dorm in South Carolina.  My roomies and I were the closest to the trash shoot that ran from the third floor down to the first, and for some reason those nasty little critters weren't content to stay there.  They decided it was much more fun to hang out in room 216.  They would go scurrying across the floor when the light was turned on, hide in our drawers and drop out of our shoes.  I emptied what was left in a coke bottle one night and a drowned roach went down the sink with the contents.  I almost gagged at the thought that just moments before I had considered swigging down those last few gulps of soda.  One night I was lying in one of the lower bunks and suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched.  I lifted my head and found myself looking into the face of a large roach sitting on my pillow, its little antennae twitching malevolently.   I had had it!  I got up, turned on the light and proceeded to move all my bedding to the top of the three-tiered bunk where I slept for the rest of the year.

I don't have a clue as to why the school's so-called exterminator could not eliminate our roach problem.  Supposedly he tried, or so they said, but nothing worked.  One night we were so fed up that the four of us armed ourselves with every aerosol can we could find, including our spray deodorants, and went after the varmints.  We took out every drawer, went into every closet, pulled everything off every shelf and started shooting.  It felt good to be on the offensive for a change, we had killed dozens of the enemy that night. But we also knew what we were up against, that for every roach down there were dozens in hiding just waiting for us to leave or to turn off the lights.  And then it would be party time all over again.

It would be a lot of years before I went to war with the roaches again.  This time I would be living in La Ceiba, Honduras where I was sometimes seeing cucarachas the size of army tanks.  I didn't know what to do.  "Make cockroach cookies," I was told by another missionary.  "It works every time."  She gave me the recipe listing a few common kitchen ingredients along with the killer.  Boric acid.  "Mix well and then form into small patties," it said.  Well, that was easy enough.  I then proceeded to place the sweet delectables in every little hidden space I could find all through the house.  And it wasn't long before I realized that it had indeed worked, the enemy troops were slowly disappearing. 

During our first furlough I was speaking at a small rural church one Sunday morning while Larry spoke in another.  I happened to mention the bug problem I'd had and being taught how to make the cockroach cookies.  Larry later joined us for a potluck at the church where I had spoken when a gentleman sitting across the table from him cleared his throat, leaned forward and asked in all seriousness, "So what do they taste like?"  "What do what taste like?"  The man looked a bit uncomfortable.  "The cookies, the cockroach cookies.  Your wife said that she makes cockroach cookies.  I was just wondering what they taste like?"  And then it dawned on my husband  that the poor guy thought that I was adding them to my cookie batter like I would chocolate chips!  "What exactly did you say?" he asked me later.  I shrugged.  I had spoken on numerous occasions before that and often mentioned making cockroach cookies.  I just figured everyone knew what I was talking about.  Maybe they hadn't after all.  No wonder we had received such great financial support.  People thought we poor missionaries had resorted to eating bugs.  Ah well, whatever worked!

The Mill Pond

Larry and I were in Bradford County a few weeks ago to visit some friends.  With farm country comes ponds, lots of them.  It was a pretty cold day,  and looking out the van window  I could see a thin layer of ice on the surface of those we passed.  I remarked that with three or four more days just like that one, the ice skating would be perfect. That is, as long as the snow held off. 

I never minded winter as a kid.  There were lots of children on Chestnut Street so we never had to look far for someone to play with. We sculptured snow into various shapes, built formidable forts with plenty of ammo piled high behind the walls and during quiet moments made perfect snow angels where the snow was still untouched.  The Reese kids who lived across the canal had a nice little tobogganing hill as did the Putt girls who lived on the other side of the street.  Ahhh, life was good in Weston's Mills during the winter months.  

But as wonderful as the snow was, there were times I would hold my breath, hoping and praying that the skies would stay clear. You see, there was a pond that had been a part of the lumber mill owned by the Westons' brothers who had logged the area decades earlier.  During the summer it was nothing but a mosquito-breeding swamp, and unless you wanted to spend those months covered in pink Calamine, it was best to avoid the place.  But it was altogether different in the winter.  That's because just a short distance away through the trees ran the Allegany River which managed to overflow its banks each winter, just enough to fill the Mill Pond and turn it into a wonderful skating rink. 

We would start checking the ice after the first cold snap.  It wasn't far from the house, just across the street and through the field where we picked wild strawberries in June and early July. If snow was in the air, we knew we'd probably find slush which would eventually make for a bumpy, less than desirable surface.  But if the sky was clear, no snow in the forecast,  we could anticipate a smooth area for the first skate of the year. 

The pond was never ready at first check.  Water and bubbles were still visible beneath the thin layer of ice, and we were smart enough to stay off of it.  It's not that we were concerned about falling in, it wasn't that deep.  We simply didn't want to chance ruining the surface.  So during the week, we'd take turns trudging through the field to the pond, eventually venturing off the bank and away from the edge to see how well it held up under our weight.  And then finally the day would come.  I still hear my brother Karl calling out as he pushed through the kitchen door. "It's ready, it's ready!" His voice always seemed to go to a higher pitch when he was excited.  "I'm getting my skates!" 

I don't know how word spread as fast as it did throughout the neighborhood, but in just a matter of minutes the pond was filling up with kids of all ages.  There were a few like my brother Rex who didn't skate, but they were there as well, running and sliding in their black vinyl boots.  And when there was snow to be shoveled, most took their turn at clearing the ice, no matter what they were wearing.

It's funny.  Though I remember my dad skating with us once or twice, rarely were there adults present. Yet I don't remember any fighting or bickering or bullying.  And though some were better skaters, it didn't matter.  If someone was learning, others patiently helped them along.  On the ice there was a camaraderie among us, no matter the degree of skill.  And though we raced to see who could go the fastest and admired those who could do the most spins, there was never a sense of trying to outdo each other.  We were community.

Eventually a light was put up at the Mill Pond allowing for night skates.  I still remember the thunderous booms coming from the ice settling on the dark river that ran just beyond the trees.  I always shivered at the sound, seeming all the more eerie because of the quiet that comes with the night, the moon's reflection being our only company. Karl was often with me as he loved to skate, no matter the time of day.  When I go back to that place and time, he is always there.  I wonder if there's a place that he's able to skate in Heaven?  I hope so. 

The Mill Pond is gone now.  Several years ago the river was dammed off to keep the water away.  Thus, no more swamp and no more mosquitoes.  That's nice for the people of Weston's Mills.  I guess.  I'm told there's a nice rink over in Olean, just a few miles away.  I'll  bet they don't have problems with slush either, always  nice and smooth.  But if I could go back in time and relive one thing over again,  I would return to the Mill pond.  And I would skate all day and then well into the night with my family, gliding among the trees.  And I would savor every moment.  Grateful.

Shoveling the  Mill Pond

The Packer Tree

Our First Packer Tree--2012

This Packer Tree  (2013)  no longer sits by the 22 inch TV.  That died, replaced by a 40 incher! 

 I packed up our Packer Tree this morning.  The team is done, for this year at least, and I feel like I'm ready to move on to other things.  Oh, I'll watch the Super Bowl of course, perhaps not with the same passion I might have felt with Aaron Rodgers controlling the ball, but I'll be cheering on Eli Manning and his Giants while eating chicken wings and pizza along with the rest of America.  Tom Brady is much too pretty and the Patriots are way too cocky, so I'm really hoping New York will put them in their place.  But not that I'm thinking too much about it.  I decided this week that there will be no more football consuming my thoughts and taking up my time.  Taking the tree down should bring some closure to what was an exciting and emotional season.



A gift from a fellow Packer fan in Elmira.   We are everywhere!

The Packer tree went up after Christmas. As soon as the big one came down, we set the little guy up on the entertainment unit right above the old 22-inch television set that carried the games.  Larry found the topper to an artificial tree in the attic at the church and strung it with little green and yellow lights.   Then we proceeded to decorate it with all the Packer ornaments that we'd received over the past months, using a Packer towel for a tree skirt and a hat for the topper.  Beneath the branches,  surrounded by more Packer paraphernalia, sat a picture of Aaron Rodgers.  It was taken six or seven years ago when my brother Rex was in Green Bay visiting Zac who would eventually become our son-in-law.  Some who came to see the Packer tree called it our shrine.  When I told Fawn about it,  she merely laughed and said that her father and I were more consumed with this football stuff than she was.  Perhaps.  Nevertheless, we had resolved it would stay until the Packers were finished for the season.  Naturally, I had hoped it would come down in February.

Aaron Rodgers as a bobble-head, a gift for Larry's 60th birthday

Zac,  Rex and Aaron  

I had a dream last night about Tim Tebow.  So much for football no longer consuming my thoughts, huh?  With all the ESPN highlights I've watched over the past five months, I've seen lots of the Denver quarterback.  And though I'm not a big Broncos fan,  I really like this guy.  So in this dream, I'm hanging out with this person who looks and sounds just like the real Tim Tebow.  But as usually happens in dreams, he is suddenly gone, and I wish that I had thought to grab my camera and get a picture with him.  Ahhh, a sad reminder that I never asked to have a picture taken with a certain Mister Rodgers at my daughter's wedding.  And that was real life.

This one was captured by a friend with  "the claw" at a local convenience store

I never understood why some people go into a slump after the football season wraps up, surviving only by counting the months, weeks, days until it starts all over again. I mean, it is only a game.  Speaking of football, I've been thinking that our little Packer Tree should go up a bit earlier next year.  Before Christmas rather than after might be better, and we could enjoy it longer that way.  Or maybe earlier yet, like halfway through the season, say in early November.  On second thought,  perhaps we should just go ahead and put it up in September when the season starts. That would make more sense.  Better yet,  if it was up during the preseason,  everybody would know how serious we are about our team.  Let's see, that's only six months, a week and six days after the Super Bowl is over.  But then, who's counting?  

Fawn and Zac sent this one to us--from the Pro Shop at Lambeau Field

Charles Woodson as a Hallmark ornament

Carrot Cake Connection

So Fawn texts me two days day before Christmas on her way to the grocery store.  "Mom, don't kill me but I need ingredients for carrot cake again!!!"  Just a few weeks earlier she had called and asked me for the recipe, that time for Thanksgiving.  The same thing happened last year and I think the year before.  To tell you the truth, I'm not sure how many times I've given it to her, I've lost count.  But I can't fuss at her too much.

Being that my dad had been a meat cutter, I would call him from Alabama every year a few weeks before Christmas and ask him about a particular cut of meat that I was preparing for a special dinner.  I used the same kind of roast and prepared it exactly the same way every year, but I always wanted to make sure that I got it right.    "Dad, how long am I supposed to cook this if it's a four-pound eye of round?" I would ask.  And every year he would patiently go over it with me again.  The first year after he died, I felt a sense of loss as I prepared the meat to go into the oven.  I had long mastered the recipe, but I missed the sound of his voice on the other end of the line, a thousand miles away in New York. I think the call I made from my kitchen each year on that particular occasion was something he had come to expect and looked forward to, simply one thing of many that connected us.

I do the same thing with my sister Beth.  There is a fruit salad carried down from my father's family that requires a certain amount of jello, and every year I call to ask her how much I should use.  It doesn't matter that I've made the stuff for most of my life.  I call every year and ask her what to do.  Except for this year.  She's been working a lot so I decided to go it alone.  She called a couple of days ago.  "So how much jello did you put in the fruit salad?" she asked.  I told her.  "You should have put in another pack," she informed me.  Sigh.  I told her I was afraid of putting in too much, I did that once and it wasn't as good.  "I thought it tasted pretty good this year," I continued, "but maybe I should have put in one more pack."  Like I said, we go through this every Christmas.  And in spite the fact that she makes me wonder if I'll ever get it right, somehow it seems to draw us closer together.

So I'm thinking that maybe when Fawn calls from Green Bay and asks for that carrot cake recipe again or Angela texts from El Paso for the umpteenth time asking how much soup she needs for her favorite chicken recipe, they might be using it as a way to connect, to be closer to their mom who is so far away in New York.  Maybe?  But then there's Autumn down in Birmingham.  She sent me a message a few weeks back.  "Mom, need your pastry recipe."  I knew the one she was talking about, the one that came from her Grandma Burke.  I always made it for my kids on Christmas and New Year's mornings, one of their favorites.  But I didn't hear back from her after that, so a few days later I called and asked her if she still wanted the recipe.  "No thanks mom.  I found it." 

Ok,  so maybe my theory has some holes in it.  Perhaps they're more like their father, writing things down on little pieces of paper and then forgetting where they've put them.  It doesn't really matter.  They can ask me as often as they like, however they like.  It's all good as it helps keep them close in spite of the miles.  Connected.  And I need that. 

Mom's Old Henry Bars recipe

So back to the carrot cake recipe.  Each time Fawn calls I pull it out of the large zip lock bag where I keep my special recipes.  No neat little file box with pretty three by five cards for me.  If I did that, I'd have to recopy the ones my mom wrote down on whatever piece of paper she had close at hand.  It probably wouldn't be a bad idea.   Her "Chicken Every Sunday" recipe is especially vulnerable, written on the thinnest  of paper and in danger of disintegrating at any moment.  But it reminds me of her, so I treat it as if I were handling one of the Dead Sea Scrolls, not wanting to lose any of her hieroglyphics.  The "Old Henry Bars" recipe has faded some over the years, but she loved making them when she needed something quick and easy and yummy. I do the same.  And then there's the pastry recipe from my mother-in-law, her letters large and neat, much easier to read than my mother's.  A couple of the corners are ripped off and there are food stains on the front and back of the card. But I won't replace it, it's more valuable than ever now that she's gone.

Some years back one of my girls decided to take all the recipes out of the zip lock and organize and write them down into into a notebook.  She was well into her project when I realized that she'd been throwing away the originals, including the paper with my mother's carrot cake recipe.  That was the first one to be entered into the notebook, now titled "Marcy's Carrot Cake."  The remaining originals are now neatly packed into the front pocket of that same notebook of which I pulled a cake recipe a few weeks back and made a couple of times over the holidays.  I felt connected to the giver as I mixed the various ingredients, following the familiar handwriting.   And naturally there were the compliments.  "What a delicious cake," they would say.  And I would reply every single time,  "I'm glad you liked it."  And then I would smile. "That was my mother's recipe."

Singing By Christmas



The choir right before the Christmas cantata



It had been six months since I'd flown to New York for the botox injections that help me talk and my voice was still doing relatively well.  I had a bit of raspiness and occasionally a word would catch in my throat, but all in all, I didn't sound all that bad.  In fact, I probably could have held off the trip a bit longer and if I had, I would have seen the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center and the stores on Fifth Avenue all decorated for Christmas.  It would have been a new experience for me, visiting New York during the holidays.  But it wasn't December, it was the first Tuesday in November, and there was a reason for going when I did.  I had been calculating in my head not how long it would take for the botox to help me talk, but how long it would take to let me sing again.

Having a voice disorder, my inability to speak without forcing every word was hard enough, but losing my singing voice was especially devastating.  Over time I accepted the reality of how my life had changed because of Spasmodic Dysphonia, but that didn't change the longing I had to make music again.  That is until early last year after meeting with a new doctor in New York.  (See "Singing" November 8, 2010.)  For the next few months I was able to do what I hadn't done in four years, sing.  Unfortunately the injections are temporary, eventually the effects of the botox wear off.  Thus the spasms slowly returned and sadly the singing was the first to go.   I had wanted to sing for Christmas, but it wasn't going to happen.  At least not this time.

And that's why I flew to New York when I did.  As I sat in the chair waiting for the doctor to insert the needles into the muscles adjoining my vocal cords, I visited with his two assistants.  They looked at me and both commented on how remarkably strong my voice was, even after six months.  "You're the best voice we've heard today!" one of them said.  I said something about wanting to get it out of the way before the winter weather hit the city.  I remembered my first time there.  It was January and a frigid, biting wind swept mercilessly through the streets of Manhattan.  I had never been colder in my entire life, so in part it was the truth.  But there was more, the part that was harder to articulate.  If I had spoken my heart it would have gone something like this:  "Well actually, I've been figuring out how many weeks it takes to sing again.  I knew if I came now, I'd time it just right for Christmas!" 

Last Sunday evening I had the privilege of directing our Christmas cantata.  Not only did the choir watch my hands to bring them in and cut them off at the appropriate moments, they were watching my lips as well.  For you see, I sang along with them on every single song, every single note.  And Christmas Sunday morning, just a few days from now,  I'll be singing the carols along with everyone else.  It's all I really wanted, all I asked for this year.  I wanted to be singing by Christmas.  

Larry and I right before the cantata



Warming up with the choir before the cantata  

  

Dropping Needles--A Christmas Reflection

We have a real Christmas tree set up in the sanctuary.  A guy who attends here has a tree farm and asked if the church might like a live one this year.  It's big, about ten feet tall and a good seven or eight feet across. And it's nice, real nice, evoking quite a few oohs and aahs over the past few weeks.  There's only one problem.  It stopped drinking water a few days after it went up, and I'm afraid it might start dropping its needles.     

I like live trees, that's what Larry and I had always had in our families.  I still remember sitting on the couch in my piano teacher's living room waiting for my lesson, watching the colors change on her aluminum tree.  Even as a child I didn't quite understand the appeal of that.  But she lived in a neat little house without imperfect children or bothersome pets.  Looking back now, I suspect that she simply didn't want to deal with a dirty tree and those pesky pine needles.

That's the chance you take with the lives ones.  There's almost always a big sign on the lot advertising the trees as being fresh.  Hmmm.  I've learned you need to size em up, shake them around a bit and then watch the eyes of the sales person as you ask when they were brought in. And if they don't meet your gaze while talking,  you take your business somewhere else.  But no matter how hard you try, sometimes you get a bad one.   

Six or seven years ago while still living in Alabama,  I noticed the water wasn't going down in the tree stand.   We were barely into December and our lowly fir was already beginning to drop needles.  I went back to Lowes and approached a girl working in the garden center.  "We bought a tree here a week or so ago and already it's dropping needles," I explained. She looked at me rather suspiciously.  "Do you still have the receipt?"  she asked.  "Bring me the receipt along with the tree and we'll give you another one."  I suspect she didn't believe me, that I wouldn't really come back with a tree.  But a couple of hours later we pulled the poor half-naked tree out of our van and dragged it into the store, leaving a thick path of needles behind us.  She took one look.  "Oh, I guess it is dropping needles, isn't it.  Go head, get yourself another tree."  And she pointed in the direction from whence we had originally picked out our pathetic little pine.  "Could we get something a little pricier?"  I asked.  It was worth a try.  After all, we had gone to a lot of trouble to strip it of its lights and ornaments,  load it back into the van and drive it across town.  Plus I'd be vacuuming needles out of the car for weeks.  No sympathy from this lady however.  "Sure, you can get whatever you like as long as you pay the difference."  So much for Christmas spirit.

Finding a live tree was never a concern until we moved to Costa Rica for language school. It was 1985, our first time so far from home.  It was going to be hard enough as it was, and not having a proper tree would make it all the more difficult.  Therefore, when Larry said that he had seen some being sold on the street six or seven blocks from the house, I was ecstatic.  We rallied the kids and headed out in the direction where he had seen them.  Not only was it a longer walk than what we had anticipated, we discovered that the trees were actually set up in the center of three major boulevards on a small medium.  We managed to cross with all three kids in tow, ignoring the best we could the traffic whizzing all around us, and picked out a good- sized pine, remarkably similar to what we might have found in the States. Somehow we managed to get it back across the street to the sidewalk and started the long trek home, five gringos and a very cumbersome,  heavier than anticipated pine tree.  There were a few times during that year we could have really used a vehicle, this was one of them.

Angela, Joel and Fawn on Christmas morning in Costa Rica 

It wasn't too many days later that we discovered our treasure already dropping piles of needles.  On Christmas morning it looked so sad that I didn't even take a close-up shot of the tree with all three children sitting in front of it.  Instead we took a shot of them sitting on the steps leading down to the living room, the tree well out of view.  The best picture I have is one of our little chihuahua sitting underneath the lowest branches.  Even in that, it's pretty obvious that the arbol had nothing left of its former glory.  A few hours later we removed all the decorations and dragged it outside, the remaining needles trailing behind.

Chiqui under our very dry Christmas tree 

We had another reason for removing the remaining vestiges of Christmas that afternoon.  My sister Dawn had come to spend Christmas with us, and the next morning we were going to load up on a bus and head to the beach for a few days.  The tree might have been a disappointment, but the adventure of spending that memorable Christmas in Costa Rica was not.  In fact, it turned out to be one of our absolute favorites ever.  



Larry,  Marcy , Fawn, Joel and Angela at Caihuita in Costa Rica two days after Christmas



This will be our third year in this parsonage and three years with an artificial tree in the corner of our living room.  Fifty-seven live trees, fifty-eight if you want to count the lemon from Lowe's, and after all these years I buckle and resort to a fake.   But someone offered it, we're not putting money out for a new one every year and our kids aren't around to fuss and complain.  Besides, most people can't even tell it's not the real thing anyways.  But the best part of all, it manages to drop a few needles, just enough to remind me of those past places and times that have been such an important part of my life.  And in that remembering, I joy and I laugh.   

The Bride in the Watermelon Dress

I went to the most wonderful wedding last week.  It was on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of this eleventh year at the eleventh hour when the music began.  Each member of the wedding party came into the room dancing, including the bride's eighty-something-year-old grandfather who had been given the honor of accompanying  his granddaughter down the aisle at the eleventh minute.  There she was, her hand on his arm moving to the beat.  And the groom, who had just finished his own dance down the aisle, turned just in time to see his bride in the gown that had been kept hidden from him.  His smile said it all.  She was dressed in a lovely shade of watermelon pink.

I've been to lots of weddings.  It's one of those things that comes with being married to a pastor.  I suppose being a pianist has something to do with it as well,  I've played the Bridal March more times than I can count.   Most of them I've pretty much forgotten, especially the ones that went off without a hitch or the ten-minute ceremonies followed by a reception in the basement of a church where one gets to eat cake, mixed nuts and mints.

But there have been some unforgettables as well.  For example, the time the bridesmaid fainted is pretty memorable, and the fact that she was close to six-feet tall made the fall all the more dramatic.  Nor will I forget singing "Endless Love" while one particular bride shook uncontrollably and then couldn't stop giggling during her vows.  But I've seen men and boys shake from nerves too, grooms with their knees knocking together and a ring bearer who threw up just as the service was about to begin.  I was playing for a wedding in Montgomery, Alabama when the bride could not get down the aisle because of her hoop skirt, inspired no doubt by the lovely Scarlet O'Hara herself.  She finally had to tilt it upwards with one hand while clutching her father's arm with the other,  obviously not having taken the width of her dress into consideration when she booked the church.  I've also seen a veil catch on fire and a new bride grab and kiss her groom so long and hard that even the guests began to squirm a bit uncomfortably.  So when it comes to weddings, I've learned to expect anything.

Well maybe not everything.  There is a Hallmark commercial that features the brother of the bride who continually puts his foot in his mouth.  When he stands to toast his sister,  everyone suddenly becomes quite nervous, concerned at what he might say.  But he wisely pulls a greeting card from his lapel, reads the beautiful prose that Hallmark has already penned and everyone breathes a great sigh of relief and applauds.  Sigh.  I so wish a particular relative of ours had pulled a greeting card out of his lapel while toasting his brother at a wedding we attended this past summer.  But unlike the commercial, it was obvious from the first sentence that the best man was going to wing it.  Thus when he said,  "I probably shouldn't say this," he shouldn't have.  In retrospect, someone should have politely pulled him to the side and encouraged him to rethink what he was about to say, perhaps even better yet,  tackled him to the ground.  For as the video rolled,  he proceeded to tell all assembled there in that lovely setting that when his brother, the groom,  was especially nervous, he would go into the bathroom and....are you ready?....take a really big dump.  Oh my.  I was sitting across from my sister-in-law whose big brown eyes grew considerably larger.  The laughter he was anticipating never came, not even a ripple.  No one spoke or even cleared their throat.  Just silence.  Thud.

So back to the wedding with the bride in the watermelon dress.  Her name is Amie, and the decision to get married hadn't come easily for her.  Her parents had a troubled marriage, and she and her brother ended up being raised by their grandparents.  She had thought long and hard before agreeing to marry Jeremy, the man who would have waited forever if necessary.  She had told him she would marry when she was eighty.  "Then I will wait for you until you're eighty," he had said.  Now who wouldn't want to marry a man like that?   

Amie planned her wedding for two years, and it was clear from the moment the first of her wedding party danced down the center aisle, she was going to do it her way no matter what anyone else might think.  From the candy-filled centerpieces to the carnival-style photo booth complete with props,  it was clear how much she wanted everyone to enjoy this day with her. Food was plentiful with a breakfast bar in one corner and a dinner buffet in the other, and  I finished off my meal with a smoothie served in a fine china goblet.  She had simply thought of everything.

There was more of course.  The day had started with music and dance and it would end with it as well.  And though I've no doubt Amie enjoyed every part of her wedding on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of this eleventh year, I suspect her favorite part of all was the moment she stepped onto the dance floor.  You see, she had come prepared.  For poking out from under that lovely watermelon gown, she had worn the most comfortable of dancing shoes complete with laces, a pair of plaid sneakers.