Goats

Never look a gift horse in the mouth (to tell it’s age), or a gift goat (to determine what part of the garden it’s been lunching on).
We have indeed been blessed by a gift-goat only yesterday. She got her little horns stuck in the gate within the first ten minutes, and was loose in another forty. She is a cute little thing though, fortunately small enough not to intimidate me. Her name is Bernice (no, I did not name her, she came christened).
I’ll admit my first experience with goats was less than favorable. When I was ten or elvenish, my dad was given a goat (isn’t it interesting....we’ve never bought a goat, they’ve just been bestowed upon us) with the name of Jennifer. She was big, a good deal bigger than I was, and mean! Ol’ Jennifer had an uncanny way of staring at me (or through me) which made me very uncomfortable. Goat’s eyes are ten times worse than cats eyes, such funny looking pupils, they give me the creeps.
One day we noticed that she seemed in great need of going on weight watchers, she had grown huge! Things were explained when she gave birth to twins that week (the previous owners never mentioned anything about this). Mean as she was, she turned downright wicked and refused to nurse her babies, and they died. Bad old goat!
It was my fate to carry leftovers to Jennifer, far from my favorite chore. She would look at me, and I would look at her: her eyes, her teeth, her swollen black belly, and sharp hooves. I would dump her meal on the ground, barely within reach of her chain, and take off running. I was never attacked, but she was always planning to do so, I KNOW she was.
Whatever became of Jennifer I never found out whether we gave her away or she died. Good riddance either way. After knowing her I haven’t had the least difficulty understanding why the ancients associated goats with the devil. Jennifer had one.
My auntie had a pygmy goat once, one I got along with famously. I forget her name, but she got herself a bad reputation after eating the handyman’s tobacco.
Last year we had a cute little white thing we named Blossom, but she met a sad end after overindulgence in grain.
So now the story continues, with Bernice. Should she become ever remotely similar to Jennifer, you may take my word on it that I will NOT be bringing her table scraps.

Chaos Pay Us A Visit in the Form of a Mouse

We just had a bit of an uproar here in the Clark household.
I was reading (the Brothers Karamazov) quite contentedly, when something other than words caught my
eye.
A large (subjectively speaking), fury creature darted across the room and under Nicole's bed.
I screamed.
I screamed again and added shouts for Mother.
Noise stirred below: Father peered in the doorway.
"A . . .mouse . . ." The words came, half-giggling: half-gasping.
More clamor below Soon the whole pack is trooping up the stairs.
I tuck my feet up warily, and lean back a little closer to the wall.
The girls, and vociferous little Gid. crowd the door.
"A mouse! A mouse!" The little girls laugh and chatter to one another, only to be interrupted by the young man, flailing his arms and screaming. "Mousie! Mousie!" His little body quaking with excitement.
Father wades through the riot, prostrates himself on the floor, and begins poking around beneath the bed.
The following moments were a portrait of chaos.
Gideon screaming at the "Mousie!". girls bouncing up and down, alternating shrieks and laughter: Mom and I shouting out orders (also participating in shrieks and giggles) to Father.
A flashlight in one hand, and a stick and a level somehow operated by the other. Father would see the mouse (or someone would shout its whereabouts), all would shriek. Father would valiantly attack, the mouse would hide, and would be found again, the process would repeal itself once more.
Finally, Father was able to chase it from beneath the bed. and Mother tackled it with a shoe (which just happened to be mine).
She missed.
The mouse jumped. The girls shrieked: everyone shrieked. The mouse ram we all trampled after. Through the hall and into Mother's closet the mouse ran. Mom and Father followed after, while us girls (and a frenzied boy ) hovered and buzzed about.
With use of a million-candle-power light, the culprit, was sighted.
Slowly stealthily. Father tried to cover it with a jar.
Then chaos hit in all her glory.
The mouse ran. All screamed. A broom (wielded by Mother) thwacked viciously A surprised cry from Father. More little girl, and lots of little boy, screams.
The phone rings: 1 answer. I laugh. 1 laugh so I can hardly speak, but somehow manage to formulate the words that Father would call back later.
A triumphant yell: the villain was caught!
A very disheveled Father rises from behind the bed, the mouse held fast in a sweater.
"Hon, that was me you hit with the broom!”

A Day With Murphy

(Note: The following took place July of last year)
This morning the cold bit me awake, and I mean it bit hard! You see, I was sleeping in a tent, and covered
only by a mere two blankets. Well, I tried hiding from the cold for about an hour by hiding beneath my
scant defense. The cold won.
So up I got.
Rushing, rushing. Combing hair. Trying not to wear my coffee. Grabbing things together...must be ready
in 20 minutes!
How is it that when we hurry, the only thing we forget is that which we need most? I think Murphy must
have something to do with it. . .
Rushing, rushing. Time to go . . .NOW!
OK, OK, relax will ya?!
"Yes, I have my driving permit here, some place (muttered under my breath). . .yes; I'm all ready to go. "
Good.
7 hours later. . .
.. .find me in a less harried state of mind. A few hours of computer, a perhaps a bit of reading have
occupied my time.
But now it is time to get ready to go to Today's Great Event—my driving lesson.
A sedate me contemplates the long journey to the next room, to gather my things for the Great Event.
"Ah me, I guess I'd better get my permit in my purse, it's a long dozen steps to get it, but it must be done
sometime."
"Sigh."
A reluctant me makes the pilgrimage.
Suddenly, my serene thoughts are shattered.
Clothes, books, make-up find themselves at my mercy, and indeed, I have none.
"WHERE IS MY PURSE????!!!!"
"Arrg!"
"Wait a second, calm down; think clearly now, where might it have got too? There's no sense in loosing
you cool. Now rationalize a bit here: very rare are the cases of walking purses, and the dogs would have
torn up any thieves that may have intruded the house. "
The little light bulb in my head flashed on for a brief moment.
"Hey! Maybe I left it someplace!"
"Ok, OK, ah, let me think here, where might that be? "
"Hmm. . ."
"Oh, maybe Dad's truck! "
So I call him. It wasn't there.
"AHHHHHHHH!!!"
Well, that only leaves one place . . .back where the cold nipped me this morning, at Joleen's house.
(At this point an incredible urge overcomes me to beat my head against the wall).
"Stupid, stupid, stupid!!"
"The ONE thing you need, the ONE thing you were actually questioned if you had, and what do you, my
pitifully small-brained creature do?"
'Sigh'
So much for my driving lesson, so much for the Great Event of the Day.
Aw, it wasn't all that important after all, and we all forget stuff. . .
Yeah. Right.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid . . .. "

Brownies and a Vaccum Cleaner Dilemma

We girls were at Grandma's house for the day, which was a special treat. I was, at the time, a whole decade old, and considered myself in the same category as Methuselah.
Now, a visit to Grandma invariably meant sweetmeats galore. Today was different in the sense that I, the Ancient One, was given the task of baker. I wanted chocolate.
Grandma had brownie mix in the cupboard. "Rachel's Super-Duper Brownie Delights, comin' right up!"
Brownie mix, ha! I was an expert in the field of the culinary arts. Why, I could make the best peanut butter-and-cream-cheese sandwiches under the sun! Brownie's were no problemo; this was going to be a cinch. By this time, one of my faithful admirers (a. k. a. my two year old sister Tessah) had come to observe. Well, why shouldn't she want to want to apprentice herself to so great a cook? I removed the plastic bag of brownie mix from its box. 'Hmmm.. .how to get this thing open...?'
No scissors were nearby, but I figured it would be just as easy to tear it open with my bare hands, like a bag of potato chips. "POOF!" Blink, blink. 'What on earth?'
'Why, the kitchen has been hit by a dust storm!' I looked at my hands. They were holding an empty plastic bag.
I looked at the counter, the floor, and me, and realized we were wearing the contents of the bag. I spun around and beheld Tessah. Blinking at me in a state of stupefaction, she was covered from head to toe in brownie mix. She bore remarkable resemblance to an antique doll that had been collecting years of attic dust
. 'Oh no!' what was I too do?
Should I laugh, or burst into tears. I decided tears might not be the best things to produce, because then the brownie mix would turn into brownie goo.
Then, I uttered the word; the one word I knew would bring aid to this tragic situation. "GRANDMA!"
In came the beckoned one. She looked at me; she looked at the kitchen, and she looked at the dusty doll. "What..." her voice trailed off. Instead of finishing her question, she went to the closet and brought out the needed antidote: the vacuum cleaner.
It was one of those gargantuan things that you can ride on, with the long, nasty hose that always twists the wrong way and tangles you in itself. Grandma switched the power button, and started on the floor. Almost instantaneously, the vacuum began coughing and spluttering.
'Why,' I thought,' it must be one of those raris avis (or, rather raris stultus) that dislike chocolate!' Grandma now vacuumed the countertop. The vacuum resisted yet more with discontented grumblings. 'No, no,' I continued, 'with all of the dust and nasty stuff it inhales all the time, it must surely enjoy something sweet for a change...'
Grandma now began on the powdered doll (and gradually recognized her granddaughter beneath the coating).
I continued to cogitate as the vacuum put up an even louder fuss. Now I laughed.
'Of course! It's indigestion! Anyone who eats a whole bag of brownie mix deserves to be sick!' Satisfied with this conclusion, I now suffered Grandma to use the disagreeable cleaner on me. The ailing vacuum was then returned to the closet. I sighed a long sigh. 'All that delicious brownie mix.. .gone. Squandered on an ungrateful machine.' A ravenous craving for chocolate took hold of me. I needed some, NOW!
This longing drove me to march to the cupboard and withdraw the remaining box of brownie mix. I was going to make those brownies, or die trying!
This time I used the scissors.

Thoughts With Dickens

“‘It must be a mixed motive, I think,’ said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his head and smiling incredulously.
‘A mixed fiddlestick!’ returned my aunt. ‘ You claim to have one plain motive in all you do yourself. You don’t suppose, I hope, that you are the only plain dealer in the world?’
‘Ay, but I have only one motive in life, Miss Trotwood,’ he rejoined, smiling. ‘Other people have dozens, scores, hundreds. I have only one. There’s the difference . . .’”
~From David Copperfield, chapter XV
Hopefully I will not shock anyone, but I am in my first time through Dickens’ “favorite child” David Copperfield. Ever since I picked up a worn copy of Oliver Twist (still among my favorites), years ago, I have been devoted to Dickens, but for some strange reason it is not until now that young Mr. Copperfield and I made acquaintance.
Enough of that. I wanted to comment on this little passage here, which I found interesting. That’s the wrong word, I meant to say “inspiring”. From a Christian point of view, shouldn’t this hold a great deal of truth for us?
Compare just a sampling of verses: Micah 6:8; 1Peter 3:15, 2:12; Philippians 1:20-21, 3:13; Mark 12:30; Luke 10:42; 1 Corinthians 10:31; and Psalms 27:4, 73:25.
One motive? Try the greatest commandment of loving God with all your being and seeking to glorify Him in all that you do, say, think, feel. When we have one motive and focus in life (if it is the proper one, that is) “all these things shall be added unto you”. Examining our motives (especially “right things done for the wrong reason”) ought to be a regular practice of all Believers. Sometimes very painful, because we have to look at ourselves for what we are, but what is that when we have peace with God?
As this is my first time through D.C., I will observe with interest what becomes of Mr. Wickfield’s one motive (which seems to be his daughter’s well-being). Isn’t Dickens grand?

Education 2005-2006

Should anyone happen to wonder what I’ll be doing education-wise this year, here follows a summary with appropriate links:
Mainly, I’ll be attending Pacific Baptist College with a missions major: www.pacificbaptist.edu
2nd year Greek, here I come! www.biblicalgreek.org
And 1 semester of Anglo-Saxon (delightful!) from: www.schola-tutorials.com
Though it dosen’t really “count” I’ll be studying ancient civilization/literature on my own using the Omnibus I textbook from www.vertaspress.com. You bet I’m excited!

welcome

Hello, salve, xaire, ciao, salutations and welcome to all!
How faithful a blogger I shall be, I do not know, but please enjoy, argue back, comment, etc. I'd love to hear from everyone.

on twins and fairy tales

My twin sisters, my young padawans, Tarrah andTess, are doing so well in their jeid (ok, bookworm) training that I have to brag on them for a minute. They are seven --almost eight years old, and promising readers. For this summer I established a contest for them, the first to read 1,000 pages would receive an item of their choice from dover press (see www.doverpublications.com ).They’ve taken on the challenge with vigor. It will be interesting to see who wins (and hopefully I won’t be on the unhappy-face list of the loser). Just as interesting is observing the reading habits and tastes of identical twins. Hint: they’re not identical. One has more initiative, and the other procrastinates, one seems to prefer fiction, and the other non-fiction. They have read a few of the same books, one was The Story of the Declaration of Independence. It looked simple enough, but I was proved wrong when the following dialogue occurred:
Me: Did you like the book, Tess?
Twin: Yeah, it wasn’t boring like I thought it would be.
Me: Can you tell me anything new you learned?
Twin: (Giggles and says “ummmm)
Me: What is the Declaration of Indepence?
Twin: (With puzzled look) I don’t know. They kept talking about that.
I tried to explain it to her a little, and I think she got the general idea, but since then I’ve been more selective in my choices and made sure they understand what they read, and not merely read it for speed.
Other than more difficult chapter books, I’ve tried to supply them with lots of fairy tales, even if that means 50 pages and only 50 sentences. Albert Einstein said something like “If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.” In talking with the twins I was surprised how few fairy stories they really knew (I must have driven Mother and my Grandparents insane when I was little, making them tell the stories over and over and over and...). This needed remedying, badly. So they have been reading Beauty and the Beast, Rapunzel, and such , with more on the way from the good ol’ library. Greek tales, Grimm Tales, Anderson, MacDonald, what wealth! Should anyone pay me a visit this summer, they will be likely to find me hidden away with a stack of them in a corner. I do have a terrible weakness for them, especially those with all the lovely illustrations.
Just this week I reread MacDonald’s Lilith, a MARVELOUS fairy story. One could read it a hundred times through and never understand all the allegory to be found. The “feel” one gets reading this book is absolutely beautiful, fantastic!!! I could go on forever in it’s praises. To be sure, I don’t agree with much of what is communicated (mainly that God will redeem all evil eventually), but there is so much to think about, it’s impossible for the brain to be inactive reading this book. The character of Mara held special interest for me this last read, particularly this passage:
. . . “you (speaking of Mara) are the voice that cried in the wilderness before ever the Baptist came! you are the shepherd whose wolves hunt the wandering sheep home ere the shadow rise and the night grow dark”
“My work will one day be over,” she said, “and then I shall be glad with the gladness of the great shepherd who sent me.”
Yes, God does indeed have control over evil, and does allow seemingly bad things to happen to us because He loves us so, and they work together for good to those that love Him and are the called according to His purpose.