ponder

• What is more important to cultivate-- a natural talent, or an acquired skill?
• Why must my neighbor constantly run heavy machinery in the wee hours of the morning? How does he manage to drive his bulldozer more backwards than he does forwards so that there is a constant beeping noise?
• Why can I not open a banana withouth turning the top into mush that oozes out the sides? Have I missed some secret?
• Is God sarcastic? Job 38-- or am I misinterpreting it grossly?
• The yogurt container in our fridge proudly announces that it contains 6 'live and active cultures'...not one, or four, but 6. A bold 6 with a sunburst behind it. Should this really make me want to eat it?
• Does it grate on anyone else's subconcious when you see someone walking around with a large red spot on the back of their calf because they have sat with their legs crossed for a really long period of time?
• Does my chin really quiver when I'm telling a lie?

and what have you done?

So, photography is not really my cup of tea, but sometimes it is easier for me to just show you something rather than attempting to describe it and completely messing it up...

I love my family... Merry Christmas everyone, and I hope yours is as wonderful as mine.

cranberries and drive-thrus mean thanksgiving

Dad insisted that I drive to my grandfather's house for Thanksgiving because he likes me to drive through Atlanta. I'm not really sure why he always insists on this and I'm not really sure why I always agree to it because A. I almost always rear end someone in Atlanta traffic B. I almost always go the wrong way and C. I always have to take my family through a drive-thru.

Not that I am normally a composed and systematic person but I cannot do anything right in a drive-thru. And really, it is not for lack of trying. Usually one of the following things happens:

A. I order. My family doesn't know what they want to order. And then suddenly they all know. At the same time. And then they start yelling it at me because everyone else is yelling and they want to be heard. I slowly sink down in the seat and wish to disappear into oblivion.

B. Ordering goes smoothly. I go forward and begin to pull out the required amount of cash, plus exact change. I love to give exact change. It is a bright spot in my life. Did you know that if you carry 4 pennies, 3 quarters, 2 nickels, and 1 dime then you have the least amount of coins that you can make exact change for anything with? I hand the coins out the window into the palm of the expectant cashier and proceed to drop half of them and then, while mumbling apologies, I climb out of the car and pick them up. When I finally do get them to the lady, she looks disgustedly at the small collection of coins in her hand. I feel like I should offer her hand-sanitizer or something. But I don't because that is just not something that you do. Society really does not have the correct appreciation for exact change.

C. Ordering goes smoothly. I proceed to the second window or whatever and don't get close enough to the window. I can't back up because there is a car behind me. So I smile sheepishly at the girl who is there to take my money and she looks down her nose at me, completely unamused, with her little visor perched imperiously atop her forehead, and rolls her eyes. I completely unbuckle and stretch about 5 feet, with my entire upper body out the window and hand her the money. I then hang suspended over the abyss while the girl takes her sweet time getting the receipt. It is really awkward.

There is an infinite amount of situations like this that I am forever getting caught in, so I won't elaborate any further. Anyhow...

An Excerpt from my Thanksgiving...
My little cousin Kelsey and I are sitting at the table stringing cranberries and popcorn to hang up on a tree so that my grandfather can watch the birds from his kitchen table. We have proceeded so far in relative peace and silence when suddenly I notice that Kelsey has stopped with her needle in midair and is regarding me thoughtfully. I scoot my chair away from her slightly because she is the kind of kid that might be entertaining notions of stabbing me with said needle to laugh at me or something. Then she speaks...
"Ashlyn, do you guys decorate for Halloween anymore?"
"No, it is a Satanic holiday."
Okay fine, I didn't actually say that-- for heaven's sake Kelsey is like 9-- but it still would have been funny.
So, I really said...
"No, we did when Grant, and Ans, and I were younger, but we just don't do that anymore."
"Oh." Kelsey looks slightly crestfallen at my admission. "Well we still do. But I do it for different reasons than Alyssa (her younger sister) because I have different beliefs than she does."
Kelsey says 'beliefs' in such a tone as to cause me to stop stringing popcorn completely and sit and stare at her.
"And what kind of beliefs do you have, Kelsey?" I unfreeze myself.
"Well, I believe in Vampires. I study superstitions like that. I have a whole book on vampires and werewolves."
I raise one eyebrow and concentrate very hard on stabbing through the center of my cranberry. "Really?"
"Yes. And in that book, there is this story about this ghost targeting a girl," at this point, Kelsey has put down her needle entirely and is gesturing expressively with her hands, "and the ghost killed her father," now she leans in closer to me conspiratorially and whispers, "and the ghost pulled the girl's hair." With this climactic bit of information off her chest, she sits back down and begins stringing cranberries.

Delightful child. We are going to have a talk.

this is not normal

Today, I am home alone. I don't get to be home by myself often, so it is rather lovely when I can be. I meander around the house in jeans and an oversized t-shirt and everything is quiet. Because I can think when it is quiet. I've been thinking a lot lately.

It is very disillusioning to realize that something that you have dreamed of since childhood, may not be part of the plan for your life. I love my horses, they are the thing I am passionate about-- honestly I can't think of many things I'd rather do than gallop Tom full out without a saddle down the trail. But sometimes I can think of things that I'd rather do. And it scares me. Because I know that I can't take a horse to college-- so, do I just lose that? I mean, that is something that I have let define who I am for so long...does that part of me just disappear? I have always been 'Ashlyn, the girl who rides horses'-- what am I without it?

(As you read this, please realize that I am not depressed-- I know this is way off my normal tone. After I write this, I'm not going to go into the kitchen and swallow a bunch of pills. Honestly. I'm just searching and thinking and I need to get this out of my head however incomprehensible it is.)

I know all these people who have known what they have wanted to do since like, 8th grade. And everyone leaves for school next year. And I don't know what I want to do. And I'm staying home to figure it out. This frustrates me badly-- something I've noticed about myself is that I can't stand not knowing the finish. I can't not have a goal. Like at cross country practice when Coach wouldn't tell us how much we were going to run...I hated the feeling of apathy, just running, and running endlessly and not knowing where the finish was and not being able to regulate my pace according to where I knew the finish was. Even that drives me up a wall, and now my life is like this? Good heavens.

Sometimes I think I know what I want to do. I think I have everything all figured out. I want to work at a national park, I want to have a medical career, and so on and so forth. And then I don't. And then God puts a new variable into my life and I stand there with my mouth open going, "Wait! I thought this was what I was supposed to do! What is this?" I've been learning lately that I just need to stop thinking that I know where God is going ("I know he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.") because my preconceptions can keep me from going where He really wants me.

So, the new variable is Africa. I didn't go over and expect to come back wondering if I felt a call or not. It just sort of happened. And so it gets thrown into the mix.

"Just pray about it." that is what everyone tells me. Dad said, "Just pray about it, Ash. He might not answer you immediately. He may just want you to persist in that prayer and to sit there and just bask in you talking to Him for awhile. He may want you to pray for a couple of months." All right, not what I wanted to hear, but Dad is wise and I love him and I know he's right. But it is not that easy for me always because I am not good at making time for God. There, I've said it. I procrastinate with God like I procrastinate with the rest of my life and it carries over from there to there. I'm not saying that apathetically like, "Oh, I'm just not good at it. That is the way it is. It can never change." I've really been trying lately. And I think God has been talking. Which has been good, because sometimes I felt like I could make up an imaginary friend and talk to it and have it be more real than God. I'm not trying to be sacrilegious, or funny-- that is really how I thought about it.

"Fine." I say, "Fine, fine, fine." You win. I will be obedient. Because You promised that if I seek you with all my heart that I would find you. (Jeremiah 29:13) Because it isn't a one part thing. It is a two part thing. I seek and you reveal. And somehow through all of this, I am reminded that I didn't choose you before you chose me.

I swore I would never do one of these confessional, long post things. But I have. I just really needed to describe all that. Even if no one reads it, but I felt like people needed to know. Not sure why. I just did.

impromptu adventure

So yesterday, in the space of about 30 minutes, I managed to do most of the things that my mother has spent my entire life warning me not to-- with the exception of getting pregnant.

It all started when I wanted a banana. As I was getting the banana, I looked out the window and my dog was looking down at the road in an odd manner and making these strange barking noises. So I went out onto the porch and dropped my banana in horror-- my three horses and the donkey were in the process of galloping full tilt up the road towards the really busy road...for those of you who do not have horses please understand that if you did have horses, then this would be your worst nightmare-- your horse can slip and break a leg on the asphalt, step on a nail, get caught in something, or get hit by a car. Basically, the life of a horse is one long suicide attempt.

So in this thirty minutes, here is what happened:

1. I leave home without telling my family-- I am sprinting up the road with a halter and a lead rope as my horses disappear over a hill.
2. I realize that I have no shoes on.
3. An elderly man stops to ask me if I need to call someone. I obviously look very desperate. He cannot remember any number that I ask him to dial and will not let me hold the phone because he is obviously afraid that I will take off sprinting up the road with it. "Never mind, sir."
4. I get in a car with three complete strangers and we completely break the speed limit to catch up with the horses.
5. While I am in the car, I borrow a cell phone and dial my home number and instruct Strange Woman #1 to leave a message explaining that I am running after our horses in a cemetery off the main road. She leaves a message on the machine, "Hello, this is Rhonda..."
6. The horses are heading diagonally across the cemetery, so I cut across and reach the main road before they do and proceed to stopping traffic both ways so that the horses wouldn't get hit (you gain a whole new appreciation for the natural stamina and athleticism of a horse when chasing one on foot-- much less chasing three of them). The expressions on the faces of drivers are priceless.
7. The horses gallop several hundred yards down the main road, miraculously escaping certain death and almost running over several workmen who try to catch them. They turn into a subdivision where we commence to ruining several yards and scaring an indignant-looking older woman and her poodle to death.
8. I become aware of the fact that there is now a small procession of strange people in their vehicles following me wherever I go.
9. I catch one horse and the other horses and the donkey continue running because they don't care about him seeing as he is not the alpha horse. They decide to run back up towards the main road. I talk to the horse that I am now dragging behind me as I run-- "See, Rocky, they don't care about you at all." Stupid equine pecking order.
10. Somehow, Rocky and I beat the other horses up to the main road. Apparently, traffic will stop much more quickly for a girl and a horse than it will for just a girl.
11. I catch up with the other two horses in the cemetery where they are generally doing a very wonderful job of defiling everything. I catch my horse, Tom, and then start trying to catch the third horse. I realize that I don't have anything to hold him with. A helpful bystander offers me his belt.
12. Another helpful bystander (not the man with the belt) produces a rope from the back of his truck and catches Frosty. He offers to help me take the horses back home and I accept. He obviously wants to have a conversation and starts it out like this: "Well, I know exactly how you feel, because sometimes my labs get loose..." I stifle the urge to scream.
13. My family shows up-- they have extra lead ropes. I am so happy and I cheerfully wave goodbye to Rhonda & Company and start home. The donkey follows the horses and trots happily along the center of the road as if this is all completely normal...

chinese shar pei

I have developed an aversion to these dogs. I do not like them. Not one bit.

I am talking about Chinese Shar-Peis, not green eggs and ham. Good heavens, look at it...Maybe I just don't like the idea of having a dog whose skin I could use to hide various small objects in. Useful? Maybe. Appealing? Nope. (Okay, just to go ahead and say this because if I don't someone is bound to-- yes, I am sure that these dogs have wonderful personalities. But I still do not like them.)

I don't have a thing against wrinkles. At least not normally. My great-grandmother had tons of wrinkles and she was one of the neatest people ever. She had this big button collection in a golden tin and she would let me take them out and sort them into piles by color and shape and I spent many afternoons of my young life laying on the carpet in the sun sorting buttons into rainbow piles. When Great Mama visited the hospital she was too weak to do anything on her own but threaten the medical staff ("I'm going to slap you good." "If you do that another time you won't see daylight again."), but then when you are ninety-something, you can basically do whatever you want. I am getting off track-- Great Mama had wrinkles, but they came from doing things like smiling, living through the Great Depression, having cows, and raising six children during World War II. Those dogs are just born with them. Maybe that is what causes them to be so repulsive to me. Anyhow, I digress.

I leave in 8 days. Someone asked me yesterday when I left and I said, "In 8 days-- I am so excited-- I can count the days on two hands now!" The person gave me a strange look out of the corner of her eye and changed the subject. Yes, I am painfully aware of the fact that I have only two hands, but now to count the days, I only have to use each hand once. That has always been something I do. So anyhow, I'm not so bothered about the flying part now-- I'm not going to say I'm thrilled about flying over the Atlantic Ocean, but I've really been given a sense of peace about it lately. I sort of made the decision to go in a spilt second and wondered if it was the right thing to do, but now after the team meeting last Wednesday I definitely think God has something big planned and I can't wait to see what it is.

On an entirely different closing note, I love the entire cross country team and I am so glad I am running with them this season. It is part of my handful of favorite things.

an airbus A320

I have tried repeatedly to squish the fear down inside me and ignore it. But I can't.

I have this consuming hatred of flying in planes.

It all starts when I go through security. I cannot do more than two things at once and HERE is THIS MAN and he is telling me--

A. "I need your photo i.d."
B. "And your boarding pass."
C. "Put your bag in this box,"
D. "Oh, and take out all electronic devices."
E. "And take off your shoes."
F. "Okay, now move forward."
G. "Wait, come back! We are going to have to dispose of this liquid because it is over 3 oz."

It makes me want to scream...

Don't you think it would make a wonderful board game? "No photo i.d.-- back to start!" "All liquids are under 3 oz. AND a quart sized Ziploc baggie-- MOVE 4 SPACES!" It could be a best seller...

Moving on from security.

I sit at the gate listening to music and nervously twisting my boarding pass. I am listening to "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" (I have this ridiculous appreciation for songs about ships and sailing, no matter how old). It does nothing for my nerves. I wonder why. My boarding pass has now assumed a cloth-like texture and most of the printing is ruined. The gate attendant glares at me as I present it to him. He is supposed to have the simple job of scanning pieces of paper and it is apparently people like me that ruin his day.

Finally we taxi down the runway. I am sitting between my dad and my brother. The dialogue that ensues is reminiscent of those movies where the person has an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other.

"Don't worry, Ash," Dad says, "it's safer than driving."
"Most accidents happen at take-off or landing." Grant reminds me gleefully, "Would you like me to tell you what our chances of death are?"He is a pilot-in-training, so I can't refute him. But I can tell him to shut up. So I do.

Eventually, we reach cruising altitude. The stereotypical screaming baby awakens in the row behind me. My mother and several other matronly-looking women swap sympathetic smiles with the parents. Half of me wants to smile too, but is afraid it would look more like a grimace. The other half of me wonders if the baby would stop crying if I shoved it in an overhead luggage compartment and closed the door.

This thought occupies me until we begin our descent which I really prefer not to discuss at all. At this point the predominant thought in my mind becomes, "Get off the plane as soon as is possible."

And of course, baggage claim is just loads of fun-- after walking off with suitcases that aren't mine several ties and apologizing profusely to the very angry rightful owners I get my suitcase and laugh on my way out at all the people who still don't have theirs.

The End. Or it would be if I never had to fly again. But, oh the irony, I leave on the longest flight of my life at the end of next month. Dear heavens. Maybe I'll make cards for the TSA employees or something. We'll see. But it will certainly be interesting.

emulation is the highest form of admiration (?)

If you listen faithfully to conversations, you start noticing the minute things...

It amuses me how people will change their inflection and tone of voice to mimic those around them-- I don't even think they do it conciously. It's like some weird subconscious way of paying homage to one person (if you listen, people tend to mimic one main person). Now that I see others doing this I catch myself doing it and it's like, "That is weird and semi-creepy and I am going to stop now."

Some people don't mimic the tone of voice and inflection, but the way people pair words together. Like, lots of people in TCC will pair words like this...instead of just saying, "That was horrifying." they say ,"That was vaguely horrifying." They take some adverb and just stick it in front of the verb and it is just so fun to say and it makes everything that much better. Okay, so lots of people do that because that is pretty much what adverbs are for, but anyhow. I guess I've had too much English.

What is incredibly fun to do is to listen to people on the phone and guess by their tone and word patterns, who their are talking to (okay, not like eavesdropping, but like being openly in earshot of someone else's phone conversation-- wait, it that eavesdropping?)If you listen to one person consistently on the phone you can tell who they are talking to by their tone of voice. Like when my mom answers the phone and it is my dad she says 'hello' in this completely unpretentious tone of voice. If my dad is talking to my next door neighbor, he magically gains an exaggerated Southern accent. If anyone answers the phone and they instantly begin answering questions about the weather then they are most likely talking to my Grandfather.

This all fascinates me to an unnecessary extent...

like dorothy hamill

I got a haircut yesterday.

I hate haircuts.

It's not that I mind actually having my hair cut, what I mind is a total stranger lopping off my hair as casually as if I were a topiary in someone's front lawn. And touching my head. It bothers me greatly. But, that's not my only reason for hating haircuts. My other experiences with barbershops haven't been so stellar either...

I was in third grade and I decided that I wanted my hair cut like Dorothy Hamill (an Olympic figureskater-- find a picture of her and see what her hair looked like). So, off we went to the little place by the Wal-Mart where I informed this indifferent looking woman how I wanted my hair, and for clarification I threw in, "You know short, like Dorothy Hamill's hair." At the end of the ordeal, it was entirely apparent that the lady either A. Had no idea who Dorothy Hamill was, or B. Thought that Dorothy Hamill was a little boy with a horrid looking bowl cut. I looked like a little boy with a horrid bowl cut.

Do you honestly think that I'm exaggerating? Okay, so not long after I got this haircut, a new family moved in next door to us. They had two boys, both of whom thought that I also was a boy for 3 months. 3 full months. They got a clue when I got a pink bike for my birthday. The older kid got this expression of horror and goes, "Wait, wait-- you're a girl?" Why yes, I do believe you've hit the nail on the head.

So I honestly have reasons for hating haircuts. So, understandibly, I was nervous when this woman with spiky black and red hair started toward my hair with a pair of scissors. She was also chewing gum-- seriously, what if she choked and spit it out into my hair? (I am slightly paranoid/overly imaginative-- call it what you will) And she constantly commented on how much hair I had. "There's just so much of it. It just kind of hangs." she said while picking up a strand of my hair and letting it fall back in place. Of course it hangs. It's hair. Would you rather it stand straight on end? (I was somewhat frustrated). Every time she cut off any of my hair, she would say, "Oh don't worry. It's fine. It's all right."

Finally, she was done and said,"Here look at it, do you like it?"

I was rather pleased (pleased meaning, I won't have to wear a hat for six months.)

But, hat or not, I am not about to start to start trusting random strangers with scissors.

merely shadows

Does anyone else have thoughts that run the lines of, "What would the world be like without..." (fill in the blank) and preoccupy yourself for long periods of time trying to figure out what the world would actually be like without that thing?

I do it all the time. Things like ball-point pens, computers, spiders (wonder out loud in front of lots of people what would happen if there were no spiders in the world. Someone unfailingly says, "We would be overrun by bugs, you idiot. What a stupid thing. A world without spiders." It bothers me so badly.)

Anyhow, I was wondering aimlessly the other day on the aforementioned, "What would the world be like without..." and I filled in the blank with 'shadows'. And I tried and I tried to imagine a world without shadows, but I can't. I'd look at things and it turns out that the smallest things I look at are affected by shadows. You can't even tell they're there unless you think about them. Like this picture: the shadows are there. You don't think about them. But when you do notice them, you still can't imagine the picture without them.

I don't even really know what a world without shadows would mean. Maybe one less dimension or no sun or something. It just interested me, but I am still absolutely clueless.

a dancing horse

Hate to do this, but this is an amazing video. It is Andreas Helgstrand's musical freestyle from the 2006 World Equestrian Games. The horse is Blue Hors Matine.
If you can get past the guy's weird pants, it really is an amazing freestyle. But I am slightly biased in this area.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=zKQgTiqhPbw

Make sure your volume is up.

For some reason these announcers make me laugh.

still learning

Some things I've learned:
(gleaned from personal experience and watching other people do stupid things)

1. Do not climb down tall ladders quickly.
2. Do not ever buy a hermit crab without your parents' permission. Don't even contemplate it.
3. If you are in a car, and decide to do something that would look cool, make sure you don't get distracted and run up on the curb. Then you just look like an idiot.
4. Don't place wake-up calls at 12:00 at night. Even if it is your birthday.
5. If you are at someone's funeral find something better to say about them than, "I have never seen her hair look so good." And if you must say this, do not say it repeatedly-- seriously, find something to say about their characer or something.
6. When you are mad at someone, pretending to jump off a balcony in order to get them to feel remorseful is not a good idea.
7. When you are little and ask your grandfather to play with you and he says, "Just as soon as this cloud goes over the house." he probably doesn't want to play with you.
8. If you are working as a waitress and you ask if you can clear away someone's dessert plate and he responds with, "If you so much as touch this plate, I will bite your hand off." let him keep his plate. And you keep your hand, too.
9. Cats should not be used as batons, or accordions, or wheelbarrows.
10. Toilet brushes are not the same thing as feather dusters, and should not be used in place of them.

the red swing

You know how everyone has one of those places that they go to think? I've noticed lately how they vary from person to person just due to individual preferences. I have friends that can think clearly in the middle of total chaos. I have friends that have to shut doors and have absolute silence to think clearly. You can tell a lot about a person by the place that he or she likes to think.

I have several conclusions about the environments that I think best in:
1. I cannot think well in places that are really loud. Like the kitchen. This is where I do all my school. I wonder if I would get more done if I moved to a different spot...
2. I cannot think well in really messy places-- messes distract me almost as much as noises. Guess what room is really messy? The kitchen.
3. I can think well in my room whether it is clean or messy. For some reason, it doesn't really matter.
4. Thinking in the car is very easy. I have the best conversations with myself in the car.
5. It is easier for me to think outside than it is inside.

I have lots of wonderful places to think, but by far, the best one is the red swing.

The red swing is always there when we go up to the mountains. It is between two trees on a hill, so when you swing on it, you are launched out over the hill and you can see everything. It is very peaceful. It doesn't matter whether you just sit on the swing, or whether you swing really high-- it is really easy to think with a cool breeze on your face and the sun on your back. I'm not sure what makes it so easy to think there, but I'm almost convinced that has a lot to do with the fact that the swing is red. A brown swing just doesn't seem to be as conducive to thinking...

ticonderoga

For years I have looked for the perfect pencil. I have found very good ones but never the perfect one. And all the time it was not the pencils but me. A pencil that is all right some days is no good another day. -- John Steinbeck

I have lately become aware that the world has this unspoken disdain of pencils. Honestly, when was the last time you were asked if you had a pen to be borrowed? Maybe yesterday. What about a pencil to be borrowed? Maybe in third grade.

When I was little, I used pencils all the time. I loved pencils. I loved to open a new box of pencils-- to see all of those clean pink erasers and all the unchipped yellow paint just waiting to be used. And then there was always the time right after I sharpened a brand new pencil for the first time-- for just a moment, I held the epitome of writing perfection in my hand. It was all slightly magical...

I even had a favorite kind of pencil-- Ticonderoga-- these pencils had lead that wrote smoothly, soft, velvety erasers, and their wood was hard and durable...all this as compared to Eagle pencils whose lead breaks at the slightest inclination, and whose erasers are hard. When your pencil has a hard eraser, it smears what you are trying to erase all over the page. You might as well get a large neon sign that says, 'Hey look-- I made a mistake right here!!' Soft erasers obliterate mistakes quickly and completely and are thus necessary to any good pencil experience.

So, I loved pencils. But then something awful happened. When I got to be a certain age, the school I was at made me start writing with these wretched, wretched things called pens. Pens are not submissive and useful like pencils. They have minds of their own. You can be taking a History test in pen, and on the essay question the pen will suddenly decide that it doesn't want to write anymore and will then simply quit. You cannot take it and sharpen it and begin again. You have to shake it, scribble with it, throw it. But nothing can induce the pen to change its mind. You are stuck. Pencils are so much better, you can erase things with them (rather than slashing through things and then making your error completely obvious with Wite-Out. ), you can re-sharpen them, they are more fun to draw with, and plus have you ever felt excited when opening a box of pens?

My love of pencils was forgotten, while I struggled write with pens. I put up with them for years, but just yesterday after my pen had quit in the middle of an essay question I walked into the supply closet for a replacement pen. I was looking for the box, and I knocked something off the shelf onto the floor. I stopped to pick it up. A box of Ticonderoga pencils. Unopened and slightly dusty. I opened the box and was greeted with a faint smell of cedar and two rows of pink erasers. Magical, I tell you.

I finished my essay question in pencil that day.

with silver bells and cockleshells...

Every year, around spring, Mom gets really excited. Because it is time to have a garden. We till the ground behind the house and then we head off to Lowe's. We only return from Lowe's when we have enough seeds to grow a small jungle (and when we are on a first name basis with most, if not all, of the employees).

Some years we grow tomatoes. Some years we have cantaloupe and cucumbers. But every year we grow weeds.

Mom tells people we have a garden, but when they come over, they wonder where it is. We point to the plot of ground behind our house that resembles an Amazonian rain forest. They don't believe us, so we take them over and point out the several cages of tomatoes. The tomatoes resemble raisins more than they do tomatoes, but the fact that there are cages out there usually convinces people.

I am tired of having to use what looks like a machete to weed the garden, so this year I have a solution. I will have my own garden. A small garden. I will grow sunflowers, wild flowers, and banana peppers (it is impossible to have a good garden without banana peppers). I am excited.



Hopefully, I will be better at gardening than I am at cooking.

a piece of history

It's funny how people you never knew, or people you hardly ever see, become inextricably entangled in your life because you think about them, or are reminded of them constantly.

Our house was built in 1903, and I find myself wondering about the families who once went about their everyday lives here. It's like everyday, I find different little things that clue me in about what their lives were like, and what they were like as individuals.

I wonder about the family who built this house, the Meisenheimers. I find their names carved in trees when I take walks. We have pictures of them. Their names are carved into the foundation of our house. I pass their headstones when I drive into town. They are gone, but they are still very much a part of my life. It's odd to think about this family going through their lives here 100 years ago in a style that is so different from the way I live mine here today.

The Meisenheimers lost this house in the early 30s, and it changed hands several times, before coming into the possession of a Mr. Brakefield. Mr. Brakefield did many things to the house. He placed interesting and beautiful stained glass windows throughout the house. He had an auto repair service in the garage. He built a beautiful stone wall outside and an equally beautiful stone fireplace in the front. He also did wondrously strange things such as building a fence out of iron headboards up the driveway, and shoving all of his garbage over the property line. But I see Mr. Brakefield's handiwork around me everyday-- he was a hard worker full of interesting ideas. He must have been quite the character.

Then there is the house itself...we cannot do anything in this house without being reminded that other people lived here first. Whether we are trying to repaint while peeling off years of other people's choices of wall paper, looking at the oddly patterned linoleum floors (they honestly resemble the inside of a kaleidoscope), or standing on the indoor-outdoor carpeting in the kitchen, it is entirely obvious that this house has been decorated with a century of styles, none of which are anything to be desired today, but all of which are incredibly interesting.

The Kaleidoscope Floor

I wonder if, 100 years from now, someone will peel off layers of wall paper and come upon a bright orange wall. I bet they'll wonder what sort of idiot would paint a room orange. It happens to be my favorite color, thank you very much...

sauerkraut

On Sunday night, my parents left me home alone. As they were walking out the door, Mom said, "Ashlyn, do you think do you think that you can cook this while we are gone?" There are two very bad ideas here:
1. Ashlyn cooking.
2. Ashlyn cooking when there is no one else at home.

It is not that I do not like to cook. I love to cook. But I'm terrible at it. No matter how hard I try to follow the directions, something always goes wrong. Always. Even with microwave popcorn. I will follow the directions on the bag and it still messes up. I will open the bag, and instead of being enveloped in warm, buttery steam, I choke on clouds of black smoke.

The fact that I cannot cook is only made even more terrible by the fact that the rest of my family can. And they're really good at it, too. Sometimes, I will get up, and there is my brother, standing over the stove making breakfast. Pancakes, eggs, and sausage. And it's not like Grant says, "Hey, want some pancakes?" and then reaches into the freezer and grabs out some frozen stuff and jams it in the toaster. Grant makes pancakes from scratch. Good pancakes. The fact that my brother can cook and I cannot bothers me.

So, here's how the whole 'cooking' thing turned out...

1. I preheat the oven to 325 degrees.
2. I try and measure out 1/2 a cup of mayonnaise. How in the world are you supposed to measure mayonnaise? I tried shaking the jar upside down. I tried scooping it out with various utensils. I tried sticking the measuring cup in the jar. Nothing works. And when I finally got it all in the measure, it wouldn't dump out into the bowl. It just stayed there. Someone please invent something special with which to measure mayonnaise...
3. I mix Thousand Island dressing and something else in a bowl. This goes incredibly well (meaning no one gets hurt, and I don't spill anything). I am thrilled.
4. The oven is preheating irksomely slow. I open it. Black smoke pours out. Inside is a smoking paper box, and several other things that shouldn't be in the oven. But they are. I panic and start looking for potholders. My family has taken all the potholders with them (they went to a potluck. They don't just do this). I settle for dishtowels. After I grab everything out of the oven, I throw open the door to let the smoke out. 4 cats run out. I don't care. We have 12, who's going to miss about, oh, a third of them?
5. I preheat the oven. Again.
6. The recipe calls for grated Swiss cheese. We only have a block of Swiss cheese. I look for the cheese grater. And look. And look some more.
7. I find the cheese grater. This was a small miracle, so I thought it deserved its own number.
8. Do you move the cheese or the grater when grating cheese?
9. I hate Switzerland. And its cheese.
10. The recipe calls for Sauerkraut that is "rinsed and drained". What is Sauerkraut and who knew you had to rinse and drain it?
11. The oven is finally preheated.
12. Sauerkraut feels like paper mache. I was really bad at paper mache.
13. I assemble everything in a pan and shove it in the oven.
14. 25 minutes later, I take out the pan. Whatever is inside it has become something that no rational being would touch, much less, put into its mouth. I seriously consider tossing it into the garbage and telling Mom I didn't make it.
15. Mom comes home to pick up the dish and take it with her to Bible study. I wonder if all those nice people will be mad at her if they get food poisoning...

I guess I'll never know.

Maybe I should just take a cooking class.

food lion

I went to the grocery store today.

Not like it was the highlight of my day or anything, because I just got back from the Convocation. Things like that are just better not written by me about because they are so enjoyable that I know that if I try to put them into words, I will only fail miserably, and they are thus better left untouched.

So anyhow. I went to the grocery store today.

Not like my entire family went out and 'took the grocery store by storm' (as some families I am acquainted with enjoy doing), but I said, "Hey, Mom, we need milk. Can I go get some?" "Sure. Go get some milk." Mom said. And off I went. Actually, it wasn't that easy. I had to have the 'parking lot' lecture ('park close', 'park under a light', 'walk with a purpose', and 'remember you have a knife in your purse if you need it', etc...), and I received a list, and then we went and did a 20-point inspection of the truck.

And then I went to the grocery store by myself for the first time.

It is very possible that I should not be so thrilled with this. But the grocery store is an entirely different place when you are by yourself. You hear screams and shattering glass several aisles over and realize that it isn't your siblings who are playing catch with a jar of salsa. You also have the entire shopping list to yourself, rather than clutching a third of it, while wondering what the rest looks like. Your siblings cannot insist on riding on the end of the buggy while they are at home. You have time to do more interesting things. Like watching the way that people push their buggies.

Some people push buggies just for the fun of pushing buggies. They have no idea what they are doing. They just know it is lots of fun. When they come to an empty aisle, they hop on the back of the buggy and careen down it. They have no idea where anything is. Except the beer. These people get lots of speeding tickets and lots of other things in real life. Such as DUIs.

There are people who are completely oblivious. They push their buggies on the wrong side of the aisle. They cause traffic jams by staring endlessly at a can of tomato soup while standing in the middle of the aisle-- people behind them clear their throats conspicuously. They still don't move. They also run into the back of you while you are looking for condensed milk. "Oh, I'm sorry," they say, " I didn't see you." "It's okay." you mutter while rubbing the back of your heel (it is beginning to swell). These same people make you consider using hand signals whenever you plan on stopping or turning. In real life, these people get shot because they incite road rage.

There are the older people. They move very slowly. They forget to look both ways before exiting an aisle. So they run into people frequently. They are always very polite and apologize though. Sometimes, they forget where they are. They ask you if you work there. You don't. Other times, they can't reach something and they will sit there and stare at it until you ask them if they need help. They do. You get the thing for them. Then you go to the check out lane.

I had no idea that grocery stores provided such diverse cultural experiences.

I probably need to get out more often...

of nuns and national parks

Well, we're back. None of us are scarred, broken, or horribly maimed. Dad sprained his ankle but that doesn't count.

My favorite part was getting to be back in Yellowstone (if you do not already know about my obsession with National Parks, do not ask). It is incredibly beautiful in a way that is different than anything I have ever seen. Words can't really do it justice, so I would post pictures but the camera was broken. That drives me crazy.

Because I don't have any pictures, I don't really have anything else to say about this trip except for the fact that it was wonderful. If you would like to know more about this trip, go see Lauren's wonderful post. I feel like a commercial. Maybe I should give a phone number and say something about it costing $19.95.

Oh well, since I don't have any pictures from this trip, I ran across some very interesting pictures from a previous trip.

We were in Mesa Verde National Park, hiking around some of the old ruins and cliff dwellings. And there were these nuns. In funny colored habits. They were behind us for the first part of the hike, and then they were with us for about five minutes before passing us. About 5 minutes later, we look up and the nuns are 20 minutes up the trail, scaling cliff dwellings, climbing ladders, and generally putting all of the other hikers to shame. They were older women in habits, hiking in the desert. It was odd.

At least I know that if I ever decide to be a nun, there is some order where I can wear a teal-and-white habit and hike in the desert.

a misconception

Recently, I realized that I have all these preconceived opinions of people in my family.
Somehow, when I think about their childhood, I imagine them as they are now rather than how they were. Like my grandmother. When I think about her childhood, I see her in a rocking chair, embroidering a shirt or something. I would never ever see her singing "Chattanooga Shoeshine Boy" in pig-Latin for her school talent show, and winning.

I can't see my Mom sneaking onto the top of a church bus so that when it started, she'd be up there to ride. I can't see my Dad amusing himself by dumping water off a hotel balcony onto the heads of pedestrians.

Recently I found out that my uncle is a potter. A good potter. It was slightly shocking because it just isn't something I would have expected him to do-- he is a 6'4" guy who looks like he played football or something. It shocked me because the picture of him in my mind was different than how it really was. I was talking with him while were visiting at their house and we were sitting at the dinner table waiting for everyone else and I said, "Hey Uncle Randall, did you make that bowl?" "Why, yes I did." "It's a very nice bowl." "Thank-you." I asked about everything on the table individually. He made all of it. He really makes very nice dinner sets.

What it all comes down to, I guess, is that the way the people are now, and the way they used to be, are the same person. Not like, exactly the same, but those characteristics are still there. It's still hard for me to make the connection in my mind, but every once in awhile I get a glimpse of that characteristic from childhood that's still hidden away and it all becomes clear.

an essay about the nana

I have a great-grandmother. We call her 'Nana'. Of course, this all sounds very ordinary and boring, but Nana is one of the furthest people from boring that I know. Some might go so far as to say that Nana is odd, but I have a word that I reserve for describing Nana. It is eccentric. Nana is the very embodiment of eccentricity...

Nana lives alone in a house on a hill with a cat named Penny. Penny has not had rabies shots in approximately 5 or 6 years, but Nana still insists that we play with her. Nana is a 'fling caution to the wind' kind of person.

When I was younger and would visit Nana with my grandfather, she would say, "Now, Ashlyn, I want to show you my horse." And of course, with all the naivete of a 7 year old, I would follow Nana to her garage where she would point to her Dodge Colt and say, "Yep, there she is." And then she would collapse into hysterical giggles. I was always quite disappointed. She played this joke on me numerous times before I figured out that there would never be a horse in that garage. Nana has a sense of humor.

One of my most vivid memories of Nana occurred several Christmases ago. Nana had just arrived at my grandparents' house. I was waiting for Nana to find me. She has this uncanny ability to find people. Somewhat like a heat-seeking missile. Dad came up to me and said, "Ashlyn, go find Nana and tell her hello. I know you think she is a little bit...um..." and at this moment, my father was cut off in mid-sentence by the Nana herself.

"Oh, Ashlyn, dear-- Merry Christmas!" Nana shouted. She kissed both of my cheeks, and shoved a small container into my hands. I looked down at it. It was a can of microwaveable Chef Boyardee Ravioli. Mission accomplished, Nana swept away leaving my father and me just staring at each other in her wake. My uncle put his hand on my shoulder and said quietly, "Don't feel bad, Ash, when I was your age, she gave me a square dancing kit." Nana is full of surprises.

Last Thanksgiving, Nana (ever the epitome of tact and discretion) visited with family for a full 10 minutes, and then seated herself in a recliner and began to sing (loudly and off-key)-- "I want to go home. I want to go ho-ho-home." Nana also wears bright red lipstick-- you know-- that oil-based kind that stays on you after the wearer kisses you. You will scrub and scrub at it, but you will take the top layer of your skin off before you remove that lipstick. And Nana kisses people on both cheeks. Nana is a bold and outspoken person.

Nana is a skilled oil painter. I don't know if she does it anymore, but we still have some of her pieces: a mountain lake, a pine bough. She also writes poetry. And plays the guitar. Nana is a person of varied talents.

Nana is like a bold colored quilt. When you look too closely, the individual colors seem to clash annoyingly, but when you took at the whole thing, the unique colors work together to create a beautiful quilt.

So yes, Nana has her eccentricities, but that it what has endeared her to me...

college mail

I think I'll go to this college, seeing as they took so much time to painstakingly spell my name out leaf by leaf.

I mean if they care enough about me to go through all that trouble, I bet they care about their actual students a whole lot more...

things that one should not attempt

Not long ago, there was a pulley in our barn. It was suspended from a rafter beneath the hayloft, several feet away from a ladder. It was furnished with a length of green nylon rope. You could tie the rope around your waist and hold the other end, climb up the ladder, and then jump off and launch yourself into space.

Grant and Ansley could amuse themselves for hours on the pulley. They had actual routines worked out. They would each tie an end of rope around their waists, Grant would climb up the ladder and Ansley would wait on the ground. Grant would jump out and drop like a rock and Ansley would rapidly shoot fifteen feet into the air. Once, I believe that they twisted around each other and got stuck. It was amusing to walk into the barn and to see both my brother and my sister hanging ten feet off of the ground, slowly swinging back and forth, and unable to get down.

Whenever my brother and sister had friends over, their friends wanted to try the pulley. I can only imagine what mothers thought when their children returned home with tales of jumping off of ladders, and leaping out of haylofts on our homemade zip-line (it was necessary, on this zipline, to crash face-first into the opposite wall of the barn to stop yourself). It is somewhat amazing that we haven't had anyone go the the hospital.

I had tried the pulley several times, but never quite mastered it as had my siblings. One day, I walked into the barn alone, and the pulley caught my eye. Deep down inside, I think I knew it was a bad idea to try anything on the pulley, but I decided that I would stand in the loop on one end of the rope and hold onto the other end and pull myself up. What happened next is a blur. In less than half a second, my feet were somehow up above my head and I was suspended upside down. Things such as this that happen so quickly and so unexpectedly have a very strange way of disorienting you. I was quite disoriented, so much so that I let go of the end of the rope that I was holding. Of course, doing this caused me to drop straight onto my back.

When I could breathe again, I was very glad that there was no one else in the barn to see what an terribly imbecilic thing that I had just done. I made the mistake of telling my family about this. Now, they all think that there is something wrong with me. I wonder why.

As for now, there is no longer a pulley in our barn.

an unnecessary comment

When I was in third grade, I went to a large private school. My teacher was Mrs. Rye.
Mrs. Rye was the kind of older lady who had short, permed hair, and wore floral print dresses with stockings and orthopedic shoes. Words that come to mind when I think of her are, old fashioned, proper, and matronly. Quite honestly, Mrs. Rye would have been right at home in a one-room schoolhouse at the turn of the century where she could have worn bonnets and ankle-length skirts and effectively punished children by smacking them with a ruler. Unfortunately, at our school, she had to content herself with writing our names on her chalkboard, making us have 'silent lunches', and forcing us to write everything in cursive.

Making most third graders write in cursive is a punishment. She might as well have taken away recess and lunch and made us stay in all day having a multiplication bee (we had these everyday after lunch) "In fourth grade, and in college," Mrs. Rye said to us one day,"you will have to do all of your work in cursive." When you are in third grade, you do not truly care about college. Half your class does not even know what it is. And in fourth grade, our teacher let us do our work in print. These facts somehow escaped Mrs. Rye.

Her favorite phrase was,'Unnecessary comment.' I believe my name was on the board several times for 'unnecessary comments'. "Miss Ashlyn," she would say ominously,"that was an unnecessary comment." and she would swish purposefully to the front of the room and put my name on the board, and then I would sink down in my seat while she glared at me. I believe it was somewhat amusing for my mother to ask me how my day was and for me to reply,"I got in trouble." "Why?" "Because I made an unnecessary comment."

The other day, we were in Lowe's. I went to get something for Mom and I turned down the aisle our buggy was on and Mom was talking to this lady. An older lady. In a floral print dress with a starched collar. And orthopedic shoes. I had this overpowereing instinct to hide behind the revolving display of lampshades. But mother saw me. And she called me over. I was not a little shocked when Mrs. Rye greeted me with a pleasant smile on her face. We talked for a few minutes and she asked me things like 'So, where do you want to go to college?' I told her I didn't know. She smiled brightly and said, "Well, if you are as smart as you were in third grade, you shouldn't have any problems." And she hugged me goodbye.

On the car ride home, I thought about how much I owe to Mrs. Rye. I can say my multiplication tables without thinking. And I got lots better at long division because she inspired me by taking away my recess. And I can play the recorder with the best of them. I am sometimes able to refrain from making unnecessary comments. I learned that pictures look better if you use the colored pencil in the same direction rather than scribbling. Oh yes, and today, my cursive is lovely...

long roads and horse-drawn buggies

I was driving the other day on the road my house is off of. It's a fairly long road lined with plenty of houses, pastures, and livestock. When we first moved out here, the road was so long that I couldn't remember all of it. It was like driving on a new road every day. Around every turn there was something I felt like I'd never seen before.

I realized just yesterday that I can now see the entire road in my mind's eye. I know what is around each turn. I know where the people who have the two new calves live (I also know that they had another calf that they raised before these two. They ate it.) I know where the little white church with funny stained glass windows is, and I know that they post humorously common-sense things on the sign outside (the last one was 'Get hooked on Jesus, not drugs.') I know where to watch for deer. I know where the people who drive their horses up and down our road every weekend live.

When I thought about the people who drive their horses up and down our road, I started thinking about when people used to drive horse-drawn carriages. I wonder if they could have seen an entire road in their mind's eye. I may think I see the details, but compared to what they would have known about the road, I would have seen a big picture. People who drove horses would have been acquainted with every stone and blade of grass on the road. They might have gone to the church with the funny windows. They probably personally knew the family that ate the cow. Could they see the big picture too, or would the details of the road have been so many that everything else was drowned out? I wonder random things like this...

On a less serious note, I heard my brother and my sister having this conversation today while we were working in the barn:
Grant: Hurry up Ansley. We need to get inside, I have Valentine's Day things to do.
Ansley: Oh yeah, what do you have to do? I have to bake a cake and decorate the table.
(Ansley is good at things like this.)
Grant: Well, I have to take a bath.
Ansley: That isn't Valentine's Day. That's everyday.
Grant: Well then, I guess I just have Valentine's Day every day.