Western Thanksgiving Wheel All Lit Up

 The girls got this idea from Pinterest.

They have to get lovely ideas for decor from Pinterest because they sure don't get such ideas from me!

Rose wound a string of clear Christmas lights around the wheel and spokes and then we placed the wheel behind the pumpkin we had, and set nearby a pair of old cowboy boots that a friend had brought us a couple days earlier. (The cowboy boots part was my idea--because the boots already happened to be sitting nearby and I thought they belonged in the decor.)

I loved it! We'll just change the decor a bit when Christmas comes, and have a Christmas wheel.

But for now, this is a winner.

About the only things we do to decorate anymore is adorn the top of the piano, and put a few little things on lampstands and a couple seasonal things on the wall. 

I don't have time to decorate when I struggle to even find time for music lessons. Last week, when I decided to give my daughter a piano lesson, I looked at the dates written by the last lessons, and to my horror, I hadn't given Hannah a piano lesson since last May. 

She's been learning ukulele instead, which is fine. But she needs to learn piano, too.

She tries to play by ear.
So she got a piano lesson last week.
Right in front of this reminder to count our blessings.

Maybe someday she will consider piano lessons from her mother a blessing instead of a bother.

Maybe someday I will find another piano teacher for her, which would be more fun for her,

instead of the same old mom, who reminds her of these old, worn-out, dried-up roses.

Still, there are uses for dried-up roses,
and even pine cones.
Don't you agree?

When My Dad, Airman First Class, Won the Trophy

There is one little story from my dad's service in South Korea that I have never forgotten. My dad could hardly believe it happened to him. While stationed in South Korea around 1955, Dad was involved in a contest with airmen who built and flew their own model airplanes. When it was Dad's turn to fly his own humble model airplane, not only did his airplane do nothing great, but the engine fell off as it came in to land! Dad knew he was certainly not going to win the trophy. Another airman's model plane in particular could do a stunning performance including flying figure 8's. Everyone knew that airman and his plane would win the trophy.  The airman with the amazing abilities then  flew his airplane which performed wonderfully until the end, when it suddenly crashed into the ground. The airman was so furious that he ran over to his plane and was about to stomp on it when Dad ran over.

  "Don't!" Dad cried. "It can be fixed! You can easily fix it and try again next time!"

Dad's intervention calmed the young airman, who decided to pick up his crashed plane instead of stomping on it. Soon the contest was over, and despite the crash landing, everyone knew that the airplane that did the figure 8's would surely win. No one else's model plane had come close to matching that one's performance. But imagine their surprise when, instead of calling that airman's name, the judges called the name of Brenton Morley as winner of the contest! To the judges, good sportsmanship and the ability to intervene and solve a difficult situation was more important than the ability to put on a good show.  To Dad's astonishment, even though his plane's engine had fallen off, he became, because of his quick thinking and helpfulness, the winner of a large, beautiful trophy!

So often in life, we find ourselves in a position where our poor little performance is simply not doing the trick. Someone else is always better. Another model is outperforming us by a long shot. And the judges and critics on the grandstands of our lives are looking for one thing--a good show. When we try to do our best, our engine falls off. It could hardly be worse, could it?

That is when we have to remember what really matters, like this little true story shows. In the end, even the best performer crashed into the ground. And then what mattered really counted. Would the lesser performer simply stand and gloat while the better one lost control and smashed his opportunities into smithereens? Or would he run to help, to gather up the broken pieces and remind the other that it could be mended and he could try again?

None of us in life deserve trophies. There is a Judge Who knows all our sins and faults and failures, all the times our engines fall off or we crash into the ground. But He is not a Judge that is all about performance. He is also about mercy--mercy which rejoices over judgment. And He loves to see broken pieces gathered up. He loves to see model airplanes--and hearts--mended, and trophies of grace given to undeserving but totally amazed people like you and me!

Strange Veteran- Homing Pigeon That Made History

Timmy occasionally works for an elderly vet who raises homing pigeons to rent out to weddings or funerals. Timmy has learned some interesting things from this vet about homing pigeons, including their use in the World Wars, whetting our appetite to learn more. We found a little book about one heroic homing pigeon in particular that saved many lives in World War I, and I assigned Timmy to write a summary of this pigeon's heroism that placed it in the Smithsonian Institute.

  Timmy wrote the following (I've edited it a bit) based on the story from the book Cher Ami:WWI Homing Pigeon, by Joeming Dunn.

      Cher Ami, which is French for “dear friend,” was a homing pigeon trained to deliver messages from different points during WWI. There were 600 other homing pigeons that were trained with him. Cher Ami was taken to Rampont, France where he was given to the Seventy-Seventh Division from New York. There were 500 soldiers in the first battalion.

      The First Battalion was supposed to drive the Germans from the Argonnen forest. They did well until they were blocked by German machine gunners after which the commanders decided to try flanking the Germans. They broke through part of the German line easily.  But when the German commander heard about the Americans breaking through, they thought that the Americans were a scout force for a larger American attack. So the Germans quickly moved all available forces to surround the Americans.

 

The commanders of the American forces could not notify the base of their situation because they had no access to telephone communications. If any man moved, they were shot at by the Germans. Whitley (which was one of the American commanders) continued sending pigeons out pleading for help, but none of the pigeons made it to the base.

      Finally the First Battalion spotted an American plane. However, the airplane mistook the Americans for Germans and started firing on them! Now the First Battalion was really discouraged. Cher Ami, the last pigeon they had access to, had a message attached to his leg and was to be sent out as the battalion's last hope. Unfortunately, Cher Ami sat stubbornly on a tree branch. The soldiers shook the branch and threw rocks at him to get him to take off. Finally he flew off, and the soldiers watched him carefully to see if he would make it past the Germans.

 They watched in suspense as Cher Ami was shot in the leg and through the breast, after which Cher Ami fell to the ground. The Americans knew they would probably die if Cher Ami couldn’t get through. To the soldiers’ shock, Cher Ami was able to take off again. Immediately Cher Ami mounted higher than the Germans could shoot. It flew twenty-five miles in twenty-five minutes and made it safely to the American base. When it got to its pen, it rang a bell for a messenger, as it had been trained.  Reinforcements were quickly sent out after receiving the plea for help.

     The First Battalion became known as the “Lost Battalion” after that and Cher Ami became famous for rescuing the Americans of the “Lost Battalion”. He was awarded the Croix de Guerre Medal among other rewards. After he died, he was preserved and is displayed at the Smithsonian Institution of American History in Washington D.C.

Honoring My Dad--Airman First Class--on Veteran's Day

It was so fun for Rose to be looking on Pinterest for cute ideas to share with her employer, a veteran, that I wished I could, too! So I did! I thought, "Hey, my own dad is a veteran!"

So as part of school assignments Friday, the children and I looked on Pinterest or came up with our own ideas. Hannah found and copied a prayer for Veterans, Timmy wrote a summary of a book he'd read about a World War I homing pigeon, and this card below was Danny's idea. He wanted the shape of a soldier that folded on the side.

So we found a clipart to print off, and Danny sewed a cross with red, white and blue thread. 

Inside, he and I wrote a poem of thanks.

When my dad joined the Air Force at eighteen years of age, the Korean War was barely over.  Boot camp for him was in the middle of winter near Syracuse, NY. One time Dad was so sick that he ended up in the infirmary, a barracks that bedded about 50 men. Dad had heard that a fellow recruit had just died there the day before, and when all the windows along both sides of the infirmary were open to the winter air, all hope that he would survive was banished. However, hopeless or not,  Dad survived, only to have another frightening experience when he was clobbered over the head for making a mistake with his rifle. Along with other recruits, Dad had to learn to shoot the M1 rifle. Before pulling the trigger, the instructions were given that if the rifle happened to not fire, the recruit must not hold the rifle up to see what on earth was the matter. It was a rule of safety. As things would go, Dad's rifle was one that did not shoot when he pulled the trigger. Promptly forgetting the instructions, Dad held the rifle up, wondering what was wrong. He didn't have long to wonder. The drill sergeant grabbed the rifle and clobbered Dad a good one right on the side of the head. Dad would never forget the clobber or the rules of gun safety!

From boot camp, Dad was transferred to Biloxi, Mississippi, from April through June, where he took three months of air traffic control training. From there, he was shipped directly to Taegu, South Korea, the one place in the world that Dad did not want to go since the war was barely over and tensions were still high there. Landing overnight in Japan, he noticed "lovely" smells which he later learned was sewer which donkey-pulled wagons, called "honey wagons," spread on the fields all around.

The officer in charge soon realized that Dad was not made out to direct air traffic, and Dad was soon delegated other duties, including guard duties or once directing traffic to a fire incident. Dad was permitted three or four R&R's during the one year he spent in South Korea. With the low pay airmen received, he did not have much money to spend, but he browsed downstreet in Tokyo, traversed around Mt. Fuji, and otherwise visited around Japan.

From South Korea, Dad was sent back to the States and was stationed at Loring Air Force Base in Caribou, Maine. This base was part of the Strategic Air Command that was preparing for possible war with Russia at that time. The base was at the very northern tip of a state where, in Dad's words "winter was winter, and summer was summer." There were no warm-cold or cold-warm spells. He loved the weather there as well as the rolling hills that reminded him of his home area in western Pennsylvania.

Dad's job as Airman First Class was an office job. When he arrived at the office, there were six men working there. One by one, the other men were transferred elsewhere until Dad was the only one working in that office. He had to make a folder and store personal information about each new recruit, keep tabs on what was happening at both Loring and Presque Isle Air Force  bases, report if an airman was sick, and otherwise keep up the daily report. Dad would have to travel to Presque Isle base at times to bring back necessary data.

Dad's office work required typing on an old fashioned typewriter and filling in forms. Only three mistakes were allowed per form, but Dad's goal was to try to have no mistakes at all.

Little by little Dad worked his way up, taking and passing courses to improve his office work. It was obvious that although Dad's nerves had not been able to stand directing air traffic in South Korea, he was well able to manage office work. Dad organized his time and duties so well that by the time he left the office, he was getting his work done in just two hours a day.

Besides his office work, Dad was the head of his barracks. Every month there was a competition between his barracks and five other barracks to see which one could be kept the neatest and cleanest. Dad himself buffed the floors of the halls of his barracks and encouraged the airmen under his charge to strive to win. After his barracks won the competition six months in a row, the other barracks were so upset about it that they quit the competition!

 On Saturdays, because there was nothing else to do, Dad would take walks of up to twenty miles. On Sundays, he walked ten miles to the Methodist church in Caribou where he sang in the choir. Then he would get a ride back to the base. There was only one time that Dad got invited to someone's home for Sunday dinner. That was when a man who had more than one eligible daughter invited Dad for dinner. Since the daughters were not the least interested, that was the last time he went anywhere besides the barracks for Sunday dinner!

Soon Dad was going to have the opportunity to take four more years of courses that would upgrade him from Airman First Class to Staff Sergeant. After that, his plan was to work until the end of twenty years and retire from the Air Force. But as Providence would have it, something happened that changed the course of his life.

Dad's life, like that of all the others on the air base, was boring enough that he found himself coming up with bright ideas such as the fateful idea to write a letter to his congressman asking that airmen at the base be allowed to make their barrack rooms more homey. A couple airmen were getting away with making their room more comfortable by painting the walls more colorfully than the drab paint of the rest of the barracks, laying a rug on the floor, and setting a coffee table in their room. Why couldn't the rest of the airmen be allowed the same choices?

Somehow, Dad's letter did not just sit on the desk of the congressman of Pennsylvania. News of it got back to the head of Dad's eastern district of Air Traffic Control. This general was furious that one of his airmen had dared to send such a letter, and he decided to visit the air base in person to deal with this terrible airman. Staff sergeants and master seargents who were friends of Dad got wind of the arrival of the general, as well as the man's purpose. To help protect Dad, they urged Dad to apply for two weeks of R and R right away. Most of the men at the barracks, as far as he knew, were as upset as Dad about issues at the barracks and hated to see Dad get in trouble for speaking up. With the general this mad, they were afraid Dad would be court martialed. Dad wisely listened to his friends and applied for the R and R.

Not knowing what to do during that time, Dad had heard that a person could pick up potatoes behind the potato harvesters at the potato farms nearby and could earn fifty cents for each big burlap bag filled. So for several days, Dad left the air base in the mornings and went to a farm where he filled bags with Aroostook potatoes, earning a few dollars a day.

Meanwhile, the furious general called a special meeting at the barracks. The whole battalion was required to gather in the auditorium.

"Who is this Brenton Morley?" the general demanded, apparently expecting someone by that name to stand up, shivering in his boots.

Strangely, Brenton Morley was away that day. Not one of the battalion seemed to know where he might happen to be. The general had to be content to merely investigate Brenton's room, which had nothing awry in it. Thus Dad escaped possible court martial by the skin of his teeth.
 

Dad had plans to go on with more training to work toward becoming Staff Sergeant after four more years, after which he hoped to fulfill his twenty years of service before retirement. But after this incident, it seemed to everyone around him that it would be better for him to simply take advantage of the opportunity for an early discharge which happened to present itself at that time.

"Will I lose my GI benefits if I take the early discharge?" Dad asked.

No, he was told. Those benefits would still be intact. So Dad accepted the terms and received an honorable discharge from the Air Force on the last day of October, 1958.  Arriving back in his room to pick up his No. 10 can of change he had been collecting, amounting to perhaps $100, Dad found that someone had stolen it! Nearly penniless, he shipped home a box of possessions and packed for his journey. Donning his hunting suit with a rain suit over it, he rode his motorcycle from Maine to Pennsylvania in the chilly November weather.

There a new life awaited him. For the next four years, Dad attended Slippery Rock State University where the GI bill covered his tuition as he majored in geography and minored in speech. It was while living in the third story of his mother's large house on Broad Street that he met the tall, slender young lady who was renting the apartment in the second story. Originally from Johnstown, Pennsylvania, Mom had graduated from Indiana State University and was teaching English to junior high students in an area school. Her choice to rent the second story apartment in Dad's mother's home would change both their lives forever.

And so the four-year story of Brenton Morley, Airman First Class, was laid to rest for a while--to be unearthed again by his daughter, Anna, in honor of Veterans Day, November 11, 2019.

Doughnut Balls--and When You Feel Fried

Last week Rose fried doughnut balls the evening after Sam left for Pennsylvania.

I thought she did it to make him wish he had stayed home, but no, she said. She did it to cheer ourselves up after he left!

It was a cold evening but cozy indoors.

Rose had also made taco soup for supper.

It was so good with shredded cheese on top.

There was maple frosting and peppermint frosting and whatever else on the doughnut balls.

Ever feel rather fried in the hot oil of the big pot called life?

I was so fried last week that when I went shopping, I found myself wandering up and down the Christmas aisles in Walmart because I found that it kind of helped me unwind. 

I didn't buy anything, just looked and admired.

I love the rustic type of decorations that is in vogue right now. 

And one-word decorations. 

Like "PEACE," and "JOY."

How much we need not just the words, but the reality of those two things.

There are at least two funerals that friends of ours are dealing with right now.

An invalid niece. Another who was just diagnosed with Lymes. The father of my sister-in-law was in an accident and cracked his ribs.

I hate to see the news about what our governor is doing or about the Mormon families who lost several mothers and children to the drug cartel earlier this week. 

It makes my life look like peaches and cream--and doughnut balls.

Jesus, when we feel fried, please remind us that You are making something beautiful

even in the middle of the heat.

On the Dark Streets of Kiev 25 Years Ago--and Can You Ever Trust Too Much?

I needed this reminder today.
"Can you ever trust too much?"

I was afraid I had done the wrong thing in Kiev just after my relationship started by letter with Jonathan.

Actually, our relationship had hardly started. 

All that had happened was that Jonathan had sent his first letter to me via our friends the Durfees, and after being encouraged by them to give him a chance, I had written him my first letter back--a letter he never received!

And two months later, not knowing what had happened, I still had not heard back from Jonathan. 

*****

Edited excerpt from my working edition of the story of our courtship

******

Heading to the Durfees, I told them about my despair. It had been two months since I had written Jonathan. I was afraid my letter hadn’t reached him. But I was also afraid that perhaps it had, and maybe I said something wrong, or turned him off somehow. Maybe I wrote too long a letter or should not have sent photos right away. The Durfees listened with such kindness. I told them that I had a second letter ready to post, just in case my first one had gotten lost.

    The Durfees were headed downtown and invited me to go with them, which I did, since I needed to send some letters for my coworker as well as mine to Jonathan. With a desperate little prayer, I slipped that letter into the slot for mail.
    The Durfees and I also visited a Russian print shop and bought some Russian Bible story books and a Ukrainian hymnal. Then just as I got home, our field director arrived, wanting us to go with him to pay another visit to Tatyana in the hospital since he had managed to find medicine for her.
    On the way back from the hospital, the subject of my second letter to Jonathan came up.
“What would you have advised about writing to Jonathan again since I haven’t heard back?” I wondered out loud to Greg.
    “I’d have said to wait another week,” he drawled. “In a few days,” he added, “you’re going to get a letter, and then you’ll be so embarrassed...”
    My heart sank as deep as the ocean floor. Our director was right. He was always right.  Of course, there would be a letter from Jonathan, and then I would indeed be so embarrassed. Our director knew me well enough to know that.
    I was so unnerved and upset that as we reached the elevator to our apartment, I disappeared. Leaving my coworkers without a word, I disappeared from their sight. I didn’t know where I was going or what I was doing. All I knew was that I was walking the streets of Kiev in a terrible, indescribable anguish. I did not care if someone mugged me. I did not care if I got knocked out and robbed and killed.
    In a few days, a letter was going to come from Jonathan, and I had been impatient, and he would think I was chasing him, and I was just boy crazy, and, as usual, I had ruined everything.

    I could not even pray. I had made a terrible, terrible mistake. I didn’t deserve for God to help me. I was just a mess.

    But a few weeks earlier at the Messianic Jewish meeting, when a lady had asked Bro. Durfee if you had to pray out loud for God to hear, he had said that a tear was a prayer. A wish or a sigh was a prayer. You did not have to say words to pray.

    What if a girl could not even pray at all? Could not wish or cry or sigh? What if she had no words? What if that girl was just a mess and didn’t deserve a thing because she was always making mistakes and doing stupid things? Would God hear something as deep as a wordless agony?

    I was bone weary, and I knew I really should not be haunting the streets of Kiev alone after dark. So finally I turned homeward, walking through the gathering darkness as the dim lights of apartments gleamed through high, dirty windows.  

    I climbed the cold, dark stairs, opened our apartment door and slipped quickly into my room. My coworkers were in the kitchen apparently making something to eat. In anguish, I drew a notebook from my desk drawer and picked up a pen. Sometimes, when I could not pray, I could at least write. But what would I write?

    “God,” I gasped inwardly. “Can You forgive me? What can You do with my foolish mistake?”

    And the God who hears wordless prayers, and sees silent tears, and feels a girl’s hidden agonies, spoke. It was just one quiet answer.

    “Trust Me.”

    But I couldn’t. I didn’t deserve to trust Him. I was too stupid and crazy and dumb and boy crazy. I could trust Him when I had been wise and done right things, but not when I did something dumb.     Nevertheless, I began to write.

   

        “Trust Me,” said God.

           “Yes, Lord,” said I.

        “I’ll trust You with my heart.

           ‘Tis my reply.”

        “Trust Me for more,” said God.

           “Yes, Lord,” I said.

        “I trust You with my life. Not mine,

           It’s Yours instead.”

        “Trust Me for more,” said God.

           I said in prayer,

        “I’ll come to You and trust You

           With my care.”

        “Trust Me for more,” said God.

           “But there’s no more,” said I.

        “Besides my heart and life and cares.”

           Came gently His reply,

        “Can you trust Me, child Mine own,

           With your worst heartaches?

        Can you trust Me with your own

           Foolish mistakes?”

       

        “Can I trust You, O my God,

           Even with such?

        Is it not, O gracious God,

           Asking too much?”

        “Too much?” God Himself bent down,

           Whispered low this word:

        “Can you ever trust too much?”

            Was what I heard.

***********************************

It would be two more months before I would know what happened. My second letter took a month to get to Jonathan, and his response took another month to reach me.  And in the meantime,all I could do--besides despair, of course, was to trust. 

   
 

Sam Flies to PA--And When a Mother Has to Let Go

 Wednesday Sam was busy packing to make another flying trip to Pennsylvania for a few days.

I found his boots sitting neatly by the woodstove to stay warm until 2 a.m. when Sam was getting up to leave for the airport. 

The temperature was close to zero, and he left almost an hour early because of the snow and bad roads. Then his plane was delayed two hours anyway. 

But he wasn't about to miss this plane.

He had a very special reason for going that involved one very special person,

and although he took along some nice things for his sister, 

this other special person was not his sister! :) :)

Several of us sent along a few things for Crystal.

Crystal has been homesick and busy and tired and overwhelmed at college and sick a lot.

So Rose and Hannah knitted baby booties for her!!! :) :)

Actually, the booties are for my newest and youngest baby niece, Eliana, Gabriel and Elizabeth's baby. Rose knitted the purple ones, and Hannah knitted the light green and pink ones.

I sent along a Christmas CD, a peach colored top to wear for autumn, and some decorations for a bulletin board, although she already did the required bulletin board for her teaching methods class, I think. She had to do a math-related bulletin board and also come up with 50 different ideas for teaching math for her Teaching Math class.

Rose also made a cute little homemade candle in a little glass jar.

After gathering our things to pack into Sam's suitcase, I found his boots, as I said, sitting by the woodstove.

I decided they needed some touching up, so I did that for him as he packed.

I watched him weigh his suitcase.

And I gave him a goodbye hug because I was not planning to get up at two in the morning when he left!

I watched father and son hug, too. 

I told him, "I wish I had lots of words of wisdom," but I didn't have very many--
just a couple advices, 
and at the last minute I was worrying about little things like did he take along socks that did not have holes in them?
Mothers are like that. 
Until Jonathan asked slyly, "Do you need to go along with him???"
Dads are like that.
Well, I wish I could have gone with him, but he is almost twenty-two years old, and this mother had to let go.

By now he is about 2000 miles away, and I must place Him in Other Loving Hands,

the Hands that Won't Let Him Go.