The Presbyterian church called a meeting to decide what to do about their squirrels. After much prayer and consideration, they concluded the squirrels were predestined to be there and they shouldn’t interfere with God’s divine will.
At the Baptist church the squirrels had taken an interest in the baptistery.. The deacons met and decided to put a water slide on the baptistery and let the squirrels drown themselves. The squirrels liked the slide and, unfortunately, knew instinctively how to swim so twice as many squirrels showed up the following week.
The Methodist church decided that they were not in a position to harm any of God’s creatures. So, they humanely trapped their squirrels and set them free near the Baptist Church. Two weeks later the squirrels were back when the Baptists took down the water slide.
But the Catholic Church came up with a very creative strategy. They baptized all the squirrels and consecrated them as members of the church. Now they only see them on Christmas and Easter.
Not much was heard from the Jewish synagogue; they took the first squirrel and circumcised him. They haven’t seen a squirrel since.
Fresh Minnesota strawberries have always been a favorite of mine. As a child on the farm, I spent many hours, nose down, elbows up, with pink stained berry juiced lips, fingertips, and knees in our berry patch helping to fill bowls and my belly with fresh strawberries.
In addition to the threat of ravishment by predators such as hungry children, our berry patch was constantly under surveillance and in immediate peril from the farm’s chickens. I have often wondered why no one ever put a chicken wire fence around the berry patch to keep the chickens out, and have concluded that it was either because of the patch’s large size, it seemed like a lot of work to haul the small roll of chicken wire from the shed all the way across the lawn and find enough sticks to hold it up, it would be an eye sore, or that we all believed that grandma enjoyed chasing chickens with her broom and it was a good source of exercise for her.
Grandma’s broom protected, from friend and fowl alike, a berry patch that produced oodles of strawberries. Many large mixing bowls and gallon ice cream buckets were filled everyday during the height of the season. Berries that were not consumed fresh or used in a dessert became jam or were preserved by canning or freezing.
In addition to our farm producing lots of berries, we also seemed to have a never ending supply of heavy cream and eggs. This recipe for Strawberry Angel Cream Pie calls for only five ingredients, eggs, sugar, cream of tartar, cream and strawberries….which makes it gluten-free.
Strawberry Angel Cream Pie
Preheat oven to 275 degrees.
4 egg whites
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 cup of sugar
In a large stainless steel or glass mixing bowl, beat four egg whites and cream of tartar until frothy. Gradually beat in, a little at a time, one cup of sugar. Continue to beat until very stiff peaks form and meringue is glossy looking. Spread meringue into the bottom and sides of a nine-inch pie pan.
Bake for 60 minutes. Do not remove from oven. Turn the oven off and leave the pie crust in the oven until completely cooled.
2 cups of heavy cream
1/4 cup of powdered sugar
1 cup of mashed fresh strawberries, sweetened to taste
In a medium-sized mixing bowl add two cups whipping cream. With an electric mixer, beat until stiff. Add powdered sugar and mix to combine. Fold mashed fresh strawberries into the whipped cream. Fold gently until the berries and cream are combined. Pour into meringue pie shell and cool in refrigerator until ready to serve.
Fresh strawberries and/ or an additional cup of sweetened whipped cream.
The memory of picking ripe strawberries and eating them as God intended, right out of the patch and warmed by the sun, was such a pleasant one that I wanted to pass it on to my children. So, every June, when the berries became ripe, we made our annual pilgrimage to one of our local growers to pick fresh strawberries.
Good memories and traditions rarely happen by accident. Someone, at sometime, made a conscious decision to make an effort. Always choose to make that effort for the children in your life. Sharing your time with children is the most important thing that you can give them, in addition to your love.
I remember the call from my oncologist so very clearly. After months of battling brittle bones and being injected daily with bone hardening drugs into my stomach, just as I thought I had begun to make progress, he called me to tell me that my bone marrow biopsy was positive for multiple myeloma…a bone marrow cancer.
My first thought was thank God they finally know what’s slowly killing me. My second thought was like the words of the song says, “Lord, this time you gave me a mountain. A mountain that I may never climb. It isn’t a hill any longer. You gave me a mountain this time.”
It isn’t surprising that my first thoughts were of God and mountains. Throughout the four years that I battled multiple myeloma, at first just to survive, then to get mobility back, I would often mentally picture walking in the mountains of Montana. Mountains have always been where I have felt closest to God and found peace.
Multiple myeloma, a bone marrow cancer, destroyed my bones. They became so brittle that all of my thoracic and lumbar vertebra sustained compression fractures. I once had six new fractures in my back at one time. I also endured several cracked ribs.
I would break my back doing the simplest of tasks including flossing my teeth, lifting a toilet lid and trying to pick a shirt up off of the floor. For over 18 months I was imprisoned in a chin to hip hard body cast. I spent over two and a half years confined to a hospital bed in my living room staring out of my living room window at a small oak tree in my front yard. I was unable to stand or walk without using a walker for over three years. So, being able to hike in the mountains of Montana was a pretty far-fetched goal.
Getting stem cells
Sitting up in body cast, watercolor painting, not allowed to lift elbows off of the table.
Where I spent almost two years.
If in reality I couldn’t get to mountains, I could in my mind. I dreamed, I was in those mountains, often. I was there when I was encased in that body cast. I spent time in them when imprisoned in the hospital bed in my living room. I was climbing those mountains the day they put the Hickman chemo port into my chest. I visited those snow covered peaks each time they bored holes into my bones using only local anesthesia before they used a massive syringe to suck out bone marrow samples.
Those mountains were in my nursing home, rehab and hospital rooms. They were there the day I watched, “the nuclear bomb” of chemo for my stem cell plant slowly enter my body.
There were times during those years of battling cancer, fear, depression, chemo therapy and stem cell transplant side effects, mobility loss, and pain when my only contact with the great outdoors, for this outside farm girl, was dreaming of mountains and their meadows.
To beat my cancer I did everything the doctors asked me to do, except for one thing. I refused to use a wheelchair. I had no intention of being trapped in one of those. For, I had decided, like Winston Churchill stated in his greatest and shortest speech to “Never, never, never give up.” In fact, I bought a silver dog tag engraved with those words to always wear around my neck on a necklace that included my cross, a silver family tree given to me by my grandson on a Mother’s Day long ago and the first ring my husband ever gave me.
After making the decision to fight on, no matter how sick I was, whenever someone helped me out of bed, I would push my walker around my kitchen island until I was too tired to go any further. First one, then five, 10, 20 and eventually a 100 laps a day. I wore a trail into my hardwood floors.
During the long months that stretched into years when I was too sick and weak to leave my home, occupational and physical therapists would come to bathe me, and help me relearn the simplest of tasks. First, I had to learn how to get out of bed without breaking more bones. As I would sit up I could feel my weak spine bend sideways just like a willow branch and would pray that it would not snap and paralyze me. It didn’t.
Eventually, I re-learned how to do stairs. Then, after months of being totally house bound, with two therapists, one on each side, I was allowed to go outside and push my walker to the end of my driveway and back.
There were many trips to the end of my driveway. I can still remember the sheer terror of trying to step down from the driveway to the street for the first time without jarring my spine. I did it, though, and my world began to grow. First just to the edge of our property line, next came the end of our street and eventually laps around the block pushing a walker with tennis balls on the bottom. As I grew stronger, I mastered using a walker with wheels, next came two canes and eventually just one cane.
I walked and walked. I walked with shuffling feet, bent over, with a broken back. I walked sick and exhausted from chemo. I walked bald. I walked masked. I walked on flat streets, inclines and hills. I wore out many tennis balls. I have worn out many rubber stoppers on the bottom of my canes. I climbed stairs many times a day just to strengthen my bones and leg muscles. Each step I took was me telling my cancer to go to blazes.
After such a hard and long cancer battle, you cannot imagine the joy of traveling out of state for the first time in almost six years; being in Great Falls, Montana, to visit and hug my dear Aunt Margaret who faithfully called me weekly throughout all of those years to lead me in Bible study; and to at last stand on a hiking trail in Montana and see a horizon filled with snow and wild flower covered mountains.
Uncle Klynn and Aunt Margie
As I stood beneath a snow-capped footstool of God, the bible verse that I clung to throughout my cancer battle was again prayed.
1 I lift up my eyes to the mountains— where does my help come from? 2 My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.
It did not matter whether I could only lift my eyes to the top of a small oak tree in my front yard, or the summit of a great mountain, my help always came from the Lord….who never left me or forsook me.
With baby steps, a bit a grit and by the grace of God, I climbed the mountain!!!
I hope you enjoy these vacation pictures!
Lots of Wild Horses at Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota
Herd of Wild Horses at Theodore Roosevelt Park
Foal with Mare
Foal trying to eat car
Beautiful Wild Flowers
Animals galore! Bear, wolf, elk and antelope too!
Theodore Roosevelt National Park
Theodore Roosevelt National Park
Yellowstone National Park
Yellowstone National Park
It was a great trip. We hiked from sun up to sundown and I never even got sore muscles….Bully!!!!!
I was watching the news this weekend and there was a segment where a baker was demonstrating how to decorate cakes. At the end of her demonstration, she showed off cupcakes that she had decorated especially for Memorial Day. They were bright red, white and aqua blue. Then, with chipper voice she joyously explained that the cupcake icing design resembled fireworks.
Memorial Day is not a day to hold celebrations, in truth, it is a yearly national funeral for our military dead. It is a day of remembrance….of loss…not victory, freedom or national pride. It is the day to think about all of those young men and women whose lives were cut short and whose beautiful bodies were torn, mutilated and so grievousness wounded that they could not survive their injuries. Their trauma and deaths were horrific.
I have been reading the book, “Unbroken”. This book is about World War II soldier Louis Zamperini, an Olympic runner, who spent much of World War II as a Japanese Prisoner of War after his plane was shot down over the Pacific Ocean. The brutality of his war experiences are so vividly described as to, at times, seem to be frankly unbelievable.
I do believe them, because I have had the privilege of knowing many veterans both personally and professionally and their stories were oftentimes very similar to Mr. Zamperini’s.
For instance, take my friend El. Now in his nineties, he is the last man left on this side of the turf from his army unit. I first met El on a World War II Honorflight. I was his caregiver and he was one of my folks.
That day as we chatted together, he mentioned that he had once been a Japanese prisoner of war for four hours. I chuckled and said that nobody was a Japanese prisoner of war for a couple of hours, how did he manage that?
He then told me how this happened. His platoon had been ambushed, all of them were killed outright or wounded. For the next several hours Japanese soldiers walked among those American boys, stabbing them with their bayonets to see if anyone was left alive. Any groan that was heard, was quickly followed by a gun shot. El always says the same thing, “Thank, God, I fell on my stomach and that my eyelids never fluttered.”
Then, there was Sid Schmuckler. What a great name! Sid was quite a guy, at over 90 years of age, he still worked every day and drove himself to his office on Minnesota’s freeways in his station wagon. Sid was a navy man and fought in the Pacific. He was a beach commander.
The night before an invasion was launched, he would go ashore to scout the position and help radio our soldiers ashore. He was a beach commander on Iwo Jima and was in a few other very notable battles.
Sid could tell me about boys, who were just his age, that he had seen blown to bits just as matter of fact as if he was describing restaurant menu. He did have this sad chuckle about the ironies of war that he had witnessed.
He once told me about this chaplain that was walking right down the beach on Iwo Jima as it was being heavily shelled and under constant fire by the enemy. From behind their fortified breastworks, he and the soldiers with him screamed at the chaplain to get down! The chaplain, as calm as if he was taking a Sunday stroll, just kept walking down that bomb pocked beach, stopping to check on each wounded, dying or dead soldier in his path.
As they were yelling at the chaplain, the boy next to Sid took a bullet to the head. Still alive, it was immediately determined that his wound was mortal. When the chaplain was much closer to Sid, he was grabbed and thrown behind the breastworks. Sid pointed at the young dying soldier and asked the chaplain, to give the Catholic boy last rites.
The chaplain quickly went about his business. Just as he concluded, the young soldier breathed his last. As he closed the boy’s eyes the chaplain said, “I hope his Catholic mama never learns that a Ra bi administered her son’s last rites.” Before anyone could detain him, the chaplain quickly leaped from relative safety of the breastworks and continued his mission of mercy on that beach.
However, there was one war story that brought instant tears to Sid’s eyes. He was back on his ship, the war nearly over, and they were smack dab in the middle of the entire Pacific armada with vast air power protecting the fleet. American air superiority was so complete that even Kamikaze’s were no longer considered much of a threat. He finally felt safe from the enemy.
The ship next to his was a hospital ship. That evening, the deck of the hospital ship was brightly lit as the nurses and doctors operated feverishly to save the lives of wounded soldiers.
Sid was on the deck watching the hospital ship when one lone blip showed up on his ship’s radar. It was determined that it had to be an American plane….it wasn’t. The Kamikaze pilot targeted the hospital ship. His plane crashed onto the ship’s deck and burst into flames as it skidded across the top of the entire ship. I can still hear the despair in Sid’s voice as he described the horrific scene, “He killed all of the nurses, those girls, those girls, they all died!”
Memorial Day is set aside for us to think about human cost of war and to solemnly remember and honor our nation’s military dead and their families.
I do believe that this whole Russian business does call for a special prosecutor. It is time to have an adult in the room and the issue settled. I frankly am sick of hearing about it.
That being said, the gleefulness of the mainstream media and Democrats, as they convict the president almost daily with hearsay, reminds me of a story a veteran once told me, about himself and his best buddy.
These two young men were both stationed in Germany. They enjoyed going out and having fun. Heavy beer drinking and obliging women filled many an evening.
As it happened, on one of these occasions, the boys drank a bit more beer than they probably should have. As they stumbled around dead drunk in the dark, trying to flag down a cab driver, they ran right into a very old, very ugly, very large woman.
The gal, while not having been created easy on the eyes, more than made up for that deficiency by having been blessed with a kind heart and a giving nature. She immediately offered to help the uniformed lads get a ride to her home where they could spend the night.
The boys did not remember another thing from that night. When they awoke early the next morning they were in bed together with the ugly woman laying naked between them.
As she snored away in peaceful slumber, the soldier’s friend vigorously pointed at him and mockingly mouthed, “You did her, you did her!”
Well, my veteran friend, thought for a second about the situation. He then decided that the best way to find out the truth was to just pull back the covers and reveal what was underneath. As he lifted up the blanket on his side of the bed, it was discovered that he still had all of his clothes on.
Then, his gleeful friend very slowly peaked under his side of the blanket only to shout, “DAMN!.”
Today, is a good day to reblog this post written before Trump was even the Republican nominee for president. The tone of our nation’s politics certainly did not improve after November’s election.
However, contrary to the media hype, this White House is not the Alamo. Even a politically embattled president is considered innocent until proven guilty and has the right to face their accusers.
No, this White House is not the Alamo. Nor will it be. Too, many experienced generals in the cabinet. Besides, what do Republicans really have to fear? After all, if President Trump is hounded out of office, the next three in line are also conservative Republicans.
Its always important to be careful what you wish for, especially in politics. Oh, there may be a political massacre. Who ends being massacred, is the question at hand.
For the sake of our great nation…may truth will out and justice be done.
I have been reading a book about the battle of the Alamo. It is a sad tale of a besieged and surrounded fort near San Antonio, Texas. There in the early morning hours of March 6, 1836, its brave defenders all gave their lives for their state and country.
The over 160 American men, of diverse ethnicity, that held that small fort from February 23 until the final assault by Mexican troops on March 6, knew that the Mexican General Santa Anna did not take prisoners and that their time on this earth would shortly and violently be over.
There were several famous American frontiersmen, including Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett who died at the battle of the Alamo. Accounts recorded later by Mexican officers and an officer’s widow and a male black slave, the only adult lives spared, are filled with the horrors of kissing a young husband goodbye as he ran out to meet certain…