Thursday Threads

It's a fact of life for a blogger that if you don't post anything, no one comes to read. So, in spite of not having had any deep thoughts this week, here I am.
Appeasing the adoring masses.
Ha!
Today is a beautiful day, so while I was walking around the yard spreading toxic slug bait, I carried my camera.
The star magnolia from last Thursday is in its full glory. Not much rain to speak of in the last week, so the blooms are still snowy white.

I put a couple of primrose pots together. I always vow to not do it "this year", but I can't resist their cheerful countenances. I added some crocuses and a little daffodil out of the garden and I really like this one.

The kiwi vines are sprouting leaves. I'm hoping for a small crop this year.

Grecian wildflowers, or anemones, are a reliable patch of colour in the early spring and sometimes even in the winter.

Variegated leaves of the hardy cyclamen. If you look closely, you'll see why I was applying slug bait.

Okay, see if you can guess what these are.
I'll tell you at the end.
If I remember.

My family room is a mess. I'm cutting out some baby quilts from fabric samples that I have had for close to thirty years. About time, did I hear you say? Jeff has been hot to toss my fabric stash for a long time, but I have resisted mightily. This is the year I justify my hoarding habits. My first attempt will use the shoo fly pattern, which should turn out to be some variation of this.


Lori came over this morning to validate my quilting urge and gave me good advice on mixing colours. I feel a little inept at colour schemes. We sat and discussed quilting, aging bodies, unmentionable ailments, and our next adventure: the PGE Green Living and Sustainability Fair at the end of the month. Then we went into the yard and talked about flowers and trees and cutting down mimosas.
Lori is a good friend.

This week, I finally took care of the paperwork to be a volunteer at our nearby elementary school. I start next week.
The Math Helper.
That's me!

Now I must start dinner. The missionaries called last night to remind me that I had signed up to feed them tonight and I forgot until just now. See how I am? So here I go. Chicken fajitas and ......something yummy.....for dessert.

Here it is:
Asparagus crowns.
For Jeff, who adores asparagus.
I don't particularly like it, but I hear that freshly picked asparagus is to die for.
And now, I don't want to have to type asparagus any more today.
It does not flow from the fingers.
You try it.

What Nana Did Today

Walked the hills with Brenda.
Came home and admired the star magnolia.
In a few days it will be rain-bedraggled but still smelling sweetly.

Sat tiredly waiting for the Yamaha Clavinova 409 to be delivered.

Plunked out a few chords and admired its shiny newness for a few moments before heading off to the church for a humanitarian project.
Quilts to be tied for Haiti...

...and cute little girl dresses made out of t-shirts and a gathered skirt.

Drove to McMinnville to spend time with grandchildren.
Chris is out of town and Bethany had a hard day yesterday.
Sat with the boys while Bethany took Kenzie to dance and Natalie napped.
Josh and I watched Daniel play Wii.
I love this boy, can you tell?

Brought Kenzie and Daniel home for a sleepover.

Watched a Preparedness Pro Webinar with Karen and Hope.
We yakked more than we watched, but we learned a few things.

Papa had half a root canal this morning and wasn't feeling too good, so he went to bed and the rest of us played, I swear, the World's Longest Game of Skip-Bo. Seriously. It lasted for TWO HOURS!
Memo to self: next time, don't deal the suggested 30 cards per person.

Daniel doing Lip-face.

Time for bed.
The Osborne tradition of hot chocolate and Keebler graham crackers.
We dunk them.
Kenzie told me tonight that she remembers the first time I taught them how to dunk graham crackers in hot chocolate. I told them it would be yummy and they believed me.
Sweet!

Hedgehogs

I love hedgehogs. Not those scrawny African things you see in the pet stores, but the round fat brown ones that live in the hedgerows of England. Hence the name, you see. Plus, the little piggy snout.

When I was nine or ten and we were living in North Littleton, my Dad brought home a hedgehog which he had found on the side of the road. It had probably been hit by a car but was not visibly injured. We were pet-deprived at our house (some day I will tell you the "kitten-in-the-tree-house" incident) so Anne and I were immediately in love. We nursed it for a day or two, but sadly, hedgehog died. We had a little burial service for him/her underneath the big trees at the back of the garden. We mourned him/her quietly for some time.
Ever since then, I have had a soft spot in my heart for the hedgehog. We had an encyclopedia set with a volume of stories and one of them was about a hedgehog. He had many adventures, including running into some gypsies who tried to eat him. Apparently, hedgehogs are a delicacy in some cultures. It created a vivid impression on my mind and I was theoretically scared of gypsies for some time after that, although I'm not sure I ever actually saw any.
There are no hedgehogs native to North America. In fact, those in New Zealand were introduced by Europeans. Hedgehogs will roll up in a spiny ball when threatened, although their spines are not poisonous at all. They are nocturnal, omnivorous, lactose intolerant, and prone to fatty liver disease and heart disease because of their tendency to scavenge from human fast-food containers.
I found this video last night and it occurred to me that I have, over the years and quite unwittingly, surrounded myself with many incarnations of the hedgehog. This little animation was created in Russia in 1975 and has been beloved of Russian children ever since. It was recently given an award for being the best animated film ever. I'm not sure I would go that far, but it is very sweet.

Here are a few of my friendly hedgehogs. I also have some hedgehog Christmas tree ornaments, but I'm not about to go digging them out of the window seat today. The big one in this photo is a post-Valentine's-Day-75%-off that I could not resist. The grandkids love to snuggle and use him as a pillow. The tiny one was a souvenir from the trip to England that Bethany and I took almost twenty years ago. The third is a puppet, which I saw at Mum's house and claimed for my own.

These are tiny, one crystal and one made in New Zealand, again from my Mum.

This is a hedgehog baby, Anne Geddes style. Did you know Geddes is a Kiwi? Is it sleeping or is it dead? Hard to tell.

I think this mug was also from England, a present for Jeff.

Be careful of pregnant hedgehogs. We babysat a couple of hedgehogs once, for Jonnie's friend Ben. Mama was pregnant. She delivered and ate her babies before we knew what was happening.
Which might be why I always refer to hedgehogs as "he".

What Nana thinks in the middle of the night

Life without death and happiness without misery are contradiction and neither can be found alone, because each of them is a different manifestation of the same thing. Swami Vivekananda.

I think about dying a lot. It's not something you want to bring up in social situations, but my best friends and family all know that I have some very strong ideas about my death and burial. A few years ago I read Death: The Final Stage of Growth, by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, and it got me started. I don't think I had ever thought about my death before, except in vague, ethereal terms.
I have been thinking about my Dad's death and some of the traditions that were observed as we mourned him. He died suddenly when I was in Australia on holiday. By the time I got home, he was ensconced in our neighbour/friend/Bishop's living room in an open casket. I wasn't too happy about this, because I had never seen a dead body before and I definitely did not like seeing my Dad dead. And I couldn't avoid it. We had a sweet memorial service in that living room, which was packed with friends who told stories about Dad. Right next to his dead body. I believe the "body in the living room" thing is a Maori custom, and while it was kind of our friends to honour him thus, it felt kind of creepy to me.
After reading about death and burial customs in America, I saw how the status quo is not necessarily logical, functional, or helpful. So, I have developed a picture in my mind of how I want to be remembered and mourned.
Here is how the scenario goes:
No embalming.
Put me in a plain pine box.
Or, if my views get more radical as I age, a shroud.
No viewing, for the family or the public.
No makeup. Just dress me and close the box.
Lots of singing and funny stories at the service. Tell of my good deeds and how much I loved life and dessert and my family and friends. Tell of my adventures. Tell how I was annoying and scary and bossy. Tell it all. But don't be boring and long-winded.
At the graveside, NO FAKE GRASS. Just an big old open hole and the coffin.
Lower the coffin while everyone's still there. Sing something moving while it's going down.
Everybody gets to throw dirt and flowers on the grave.

There.
The old girl's dead.
Now let's get on with life.

Remember, we already have our burial plots up on the mountain. My wishes are now part of the public record and I expect them to be followed.

My point in all this is twofold. First, to eliminate all the unnecessary expense that traditionally goes into the process of being put in the ground. Second, I want the people who love me to really know that I'm gone and to experience every part of the process. It's a requisite part of grieving and is often bypassed by the somewhat sterile traditions to which we have become accustomed. You can disguise the hole in the ground, but it's still there, and perhaps it is better to acknowledge it.

So, there is a happiness component of this post.
I've been reading an intriguing book called "The Geography of Bliss", by Eric Weiner.


Eric describes himself as a grumpy man. While researching material for his book, he visited several countries that rank particularly high or low in the World Database of Happiness. Believe it or not, there is such a place, it's in Rotterdam. One of these countries was Bhutan, a tiny monarchy with one major road in the Himalayas. Bhutan actually has, instead of the Gross National Product, Gross National Happiness. Yes, happiness is a national policy.
Eric is told by a Bhutanese intellectual that he needed to think about death for five minutes every day in order to cure his melancholia. This idea resonates with me. In our Western culture we are removed from death until it touches us personally, and then we have no immunity to its ravages. Death is the human condition, none will escape it, and we need to be ready for the moment we cease to exist in this sphere. While my thinking through my own death may be an attempt to exert control even after I'm gone (and my children will tell you that this is probably the reason) it is also my way of strengthening myself for the eventual outcome.
This I do know. Thinking about death doesn't make me unhappy, so maybe there's something to it.

Searching The Blog

You will notice I have added a Google search box to the top of my gadget column. There should be a better name for it than that. There probably is one, but I just don't know it.

It's pretty nifty. You can search my blog for any key words and also search any links or blogs that appear on my pages.

So go ahead.

Search away.

The sum total of my wisdom is now at your nimble fingertips.

Harbingers

Harbinger: hahr-bin-jer. Anything that foreshadows a future event; omen; sign; herald: Baby daffodils are a harbinger of spring.

Apparently, I've been saying it wrong all these years.

Tat-ty Kids

When Bethany graduated from high school she took a celebration trip to the coast with her girlfriends. Upon her return she informed me that her friends had gotten tattoos. "Oh Bethany, I'm so proud of you for not succumbing to peer pressure," was my reply.
About two weeks later, I noticed that her ears had acquired another piercing. My sweet daughter had been hiding her ears behind her hair for that long! It was a minor rebellion and several years later, at the admonition of church leaders, she let the second pair of holes close up.

Ten years later, Charlie turned 18.

I noticed that something was up.
He was acting in a secretive manner.
He went to the doctor and then needed our prescription card.
He would divulge nothing.
My mind, of course, was taking all kinds of wild rides in the realm of possibilities. I was convinced that he had an STD and I felt quite sick at the prospect. I did some digging. In his bathroom drawer, I found a paper giving instructions on "The Care of Your Tattoo."
Oh.
Whew!
I was so relieved I wanted to sing and dance and hug his rotten little neck.
I felt like laughing.
His tattoo had become infected.
Ha! Serves him right, I thought.
I decided not to tell him that I knew, because it was so much fun to have him intimidated for a change. I realised then that he had been wearing his shirt all of the time at home. He was often shirtless at home, especially before and after showering. So I thought maybe the tat (that's what cool people call them you know) was on his upper arm. So I just smiled quietly to myself for the next few days, and eventually someone let the cat out of the bag. I think he overheard me telling the story to a friend on the phone. It turned out that the tat was rather large, Death Before Dishonor, on his left chest. Ugly, but at least his clothes hid it.
Then, a year or so later, he was home on leave from the Marines and walking around the house in his usual semi-naked state and I did a double-take. Wrapping around his lower torso was the biggest, ugliest tattoo I have ever seen. Think skeleton and who-knows-what-else. He was already a little rueful, having done it in the aftermath of boot camp. "So, Charlie, thinking about tat removal already eh?" He chuckled.

Then Annie brings Edwin home. Who is also the proud owner of several very visible tats. Including one on his forearm that says Mary Jane. Who is, in case you haven't guessed, his former wife.
Oh yeah, major blunder!
Annie married him anyway.

I was starting to feel like I should get a tasteful butterfly tattoo on my ankle just so that I could fit in with my family.

This Valentine's day Edwin started the removal process for Mary Jane.
Here is the facebook thread, lightly edited by yours truly.

Edwin White I dont know what was more uncomfortable? Getting a tattoo or getting it removed. Im glad I finally did it though.
Susan Wilson Osborne Tell me it's the Mary jane one! Is that one of my Roxy photos?
Edwin White Yes to the mj tattoo, and no, this is a pic of Roxy Annie took when we first got her.
Susan Wilson Osborne Oh, I see it now, she does look younger. Good for you on the tat. That was a pretty big one, did they do it in one session?
Bethany Osborne Mitchell Ow. BTW, I like that you got it removed, not that it hurt. :)
Charlie Osborne DUDE!!!!!! dont give my mom ideas man!!! shell make me get mine removed when i get back.... oh by the way... ill do it mom if you pay??!!! ;)
Susan Wilson Osborne We'll pay!
Bethany Osborne Mitchell LOL Now you don't have an excuse Charlie!
Annie Marie White I AM SOOOOOOO HAPPY!!!!!! :D
Edwin White Now where should i put Annie's name???
Susan Wilson Osborne Did you not learn anything?
Edwin White I'm not going to. I just wanted to see yor reaction.
Susan Wilson Osborne Ha! I foresee a blog post on tats coming up here. Beware!

So you see two things.
#1. People in my family do not know how to use punctuation.
#2. If you are patient and wait long enough, most things will come full circle.