Sunday mercies

I was headed out the door to get to church on time (for once) when my neighbor, Thelma, came rushing across the street hollering for my husband for help.

She was hearing baby kitty squeals under her deck which is closed off with storage drawers. They are very heavy drawers, Thelma is 90 and her weight about matches her age. You couldn't ask for a better neighbor, and she is a bundle of energy and fun.

Well, church notwithstanding, I needed to see those baby kitties myself. So we went across the street, hubby pulled open the drawers, and sure enough...there were four very tiny, very frightened, very abandoned baby kittens, all rolled up into one furry ball. No Mama in sight.

Having had a windy day recently, Thelma discovered a loose panel on her park model (like a mobile home), put it back into place and thought nothing more about it. How was she to know a very pregnant Mama crawled into the perfect spot for giving birth? So we figured Mama was out perhaps looking for food at the moment.

We got our cat, Catrina's carrier and transferred the wee ones into it, leaving them in the carrier on the driveway for awhile to see if Mama would come looking for them. That was a week ago today, and Mama hasn't been seen or heard from since. Bad Mama.

Thelma was beside herself. She isn't fond of cats and didn't know what to do with them.

Well, of course, I wanted to keep them. All of them. That idea was very quickly vetoed by you-know-who. But who wouldn't melt at the sight of them?

We offered to take them to the animal shelter, not realizing at the time that the nearest shelter is 35 miles away. But we figured a nice day for a drive, plus we couldn't think of any other creative option, so we stuck to our offer.

The Arizona Humane Society is located in Phoenix, I might add out in the boonies of Phoenix, giving us a small sightseeing excursion to discover other mountains and roads.

In we trot with the kittens in carrier, thinking that was the end to our selfless act of mercy. But noooooo. The "intake center" was another 25 miles, through yet another freeway and all through Phoenix.

There, they were very cordial. They immediately took the kittens and put them in their own carrier and examined them one by one.


Three girls and one boy. About two weeks old, they guessed, as their eyes open by ten days. They had been under that deck for two weeks?

I was falling more in love with them by the minute.

Their chances for survival were slim without the mother, they explained. But they would see if they could place them in foster care with someone who was willing to take them. They need to be fed formula by dropper every three hours around the clock.

Yep, like infants. Awwww.......

Well, you know the end of the story. We left them there. But since then, I have thought of them, always making up my own happy ending. Of course, they found foster care. Of course, a foster mama dutifully tended to them and fed them. And of course, someone fell in love with them and took each one, loving them forever.

The car felt empty on the drive home without the frail meows and little squeals. But we arrived home to a grateful neighbor, who insisted on taking us out for dinner.

I never made it to church that day. But I did experience that feel good feeling and know we did the right thing.

Lost somewhere

Here's to 2014. A new year.

So what happened to 2013? It's all kind of a blur.

I do remember gaining a new great-granddaughter with the birth of Tallulah Rosemarie (love that name) in mid-June. But if anything at all happened that was news or memory-worthy in 2013, I'm afraid it was lost on me.

Two reasons for this. They may not seem significant to you, but they have caused time to whiz by like lightening for me this year.

1. I got an iPad.
2. I got a streaming device for Netflix movies.

Okay, if you have either one of these yourself, I needn't say more.

But I have lost countless hours on my iPad by playing Words With Friends with no less than fifteen opponents at a time, checking Facebook and email updates as fast as they're posted, and discovering Magic Puzzles, a jigsaw puzzle game, when I have never put together a single jigsaw puzzle up to this point in my life. You can start with a 42-piece puzzle and work your way up to my current level of 288 pieces. The final level is 550 pieces and of course, I am aspiring to reach that level.

I've also discovered Facetime. Now, from Arizona, I can bug my kids in Minnesota by calling them on Facetime and seeing their faces and further disrupting their lives and spending their time. We watched Tallulah's bathtime via Facetime and saw her giggle with delight at Daddy pouring warm water over her head as Mommy held the iPhone camera. It was great fun.

But worse than the iPad are the Netflix serials. I'm telling you, I am not a television-watcher, A waste of time, I always said. But these series? Ooohhhhh, I am glued for hours totally captivated by the likes of Breaking Bad, Scandal, and Canada's Heartland, (love the horses).


A poor screen shot of so many choices!

There are BBC series as well which I'd never heard of before. World War II-era series such as Bomb Girls and The Land Girls; and the post-war series, Call the Midwife. If you thought Downton Abbey was riveting, you ought to see some of these.

It's hard to believe I couldn't stay awake for the 9:00 news before. Of course, I still don't see the news, but am up till all wee hours of the night. Putting that last puzzle piece in. Playing that last game of WWF. Checking to see if anyone left me an email message at midnight, as if anyone else is awake. And m-a-y-b-e watching one more episode of the current series.

So that's where 2013 went.

But now I learn there's no hope for 2014 as a friend just introduced me to the series, Lost.

Okay, everyone else has watched it already but I wasn't (formerly) a television-watcher so I missed it. It already shows great promise, so here goes...

Forty-eight people are stranded when their plane crashes on an island. They are a diverse group of people so I can imagine that besides just plain surviving, their differences cause all sorts of problems as they struggle to create a semblance of life together there.

I can hardly wait to start it.

And there goes 2014. If anything important happens, give me a call.

Century plant

We've been watching as our desert plant has rather mysteriously started to sprout a stalk...from the middle of the plant.

We thought we had purchased an agave plant when we moved to our winter home in Mesa, Arizona, three years ago. It was just a little plant, but has sprawled out considerably in the last couple of years.

But recently, a chute came up out of the middle and has been very slowly working its way upward.

It's the oddest thing we've ever seen. I wanted my husband to cut off the chute because it looked so strange. But he was intrigued and said to let it grow and see what it becomes.

Then out of the chute came sprout-like buds. We didn't know if they would open, if they'd flower and bloom, or just what they would do. The whole plant was a mystery to us.

I asked around and it was my hairdresser who told me we probably have a century tree plant. She said if that's what it is, she heard it only blooms once a century.

Who knew?

What was once just a small ground plant that fit into a small brick circle has turned into this sprawled out and blooming thing that is sprouting a tree. Apparently, and the picture doesn't even capture the full height of it, it continues to grow.

A web search gave us a lot of information:

If ever there was a plant that had an identity crisis, it would be the Agave americana. This plant, commonly known by the nickname “century plant,” is also known by the incorrect name of American aloe. Century plants are native to Mexico, but are used as an ornamental plant all over the world and have become naturalized, growing wild in many places. A century plant does not, however, live for a century or take 100 years to bloom.

The century plant’s leaves spread out from a central core, resembling a rosette. The plant, which actually takes an average of 15 years to flower, does not look like much until it comes time for it to bloom. A large stalk, 15 to 40 feet (4.572 to 12.192 meters) high and as thick as a tree trunk, shoots up from the middle of the plant and produces hundreds of clustered white or yellow flowers. The blooms remain on the century plant for about a month before the stalk begins to wither and die, killing off the rest of the plant with it.

So I guess we have to wait fifteen years through its growing pains until we see blooms and lovely flowers. Hmmmm....

Life in the desert is interesting as we Midwesterners are learning all the time. It is a breathtaking and awesome part of the American landscape and makes us feel close to the earth as Native Americans cared for this land so beautifully for so long. The majestic mountains and the endless variety of cactus plants and desert blooms teach us that things endure for thousands of years without human interference.

Our century plant, like all plants, have a life of their own. If you care properly for them but let them grow on their own terms, it's amazing what living things of beauty they become.

Kind of like us, huh?

Remembering

Like most people, at least people my age and older, I am remembering fifty years ago today, Friday, November 22, 1963. The day our President was killed.

There are many Facebook posts today from people recalling where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news.

I had just graduated from high school and was working as a secretary for a private detective agency on the 8th floor of the Pioneer Building in downtown St. Paul, Minnesota. I had returned from lunch and just settled in to resume my afternoon's work when I heard shouts coming from another floor of the building that the President had been shot.

Anyone who knows the wonderful, old and unique Pioneer Building can appreciate that offices were all designed around an open square, hollow in the middle, wrought iron railings around the open square, and a large clock on the floor that could be easily viewed from all sixteen floors. You could see people walking on the floors below you and across from you. The elevators had glass walls so you could see all the floors as you either ascended or descended.

So when I heard those shouts, they literally echoed through the building. People came out of their offices (outer doors were seldom closed) and radios were turned on loudly so all could hear the news.

I doubt any more work got done that day by anyone. It was such stunning news in what was really an innocent age, the era of Camelot.

The ensuing days were spent glued to the television set in our living room on Lincoln Avenue as Walter Cronkite spoke in hushed tones through the events following. We saw first-hand the drama of Lee Harvey Oswald's arrest and then as he was shot by Jack Ruby, a night club owner. And then the funeral, JFK being carried by horse-drawn caisson, First Lady, Jackie Kennedy, veiled in black, her young children at her side, little John-John saluting as his father's flag-draped coffin passed by.

I doubt that any fiction writer or movie producer could conjure up this dramatic plot; yet here it was, happening live and in our living rooms.

Everyone ruminates about what might have happened had this tragedy not have happened at all. A popular President, JFK would likely have been reelected. His work for civil rights may have been accelerated at a faster pace. Would Nixon have ever been elected; would Watergate have ever happened?

Would our age of innocence have continued?

After fifty years, I do believe we lost more than our beloved President.

Present and aware

A former co-worker and friend (albeit much younger), mother of a two year-old daughter and three month-old twin girls, has a chalkboard in her kitchen. I noticed it when I visited right after the twins were born.

She is a gifted writer and makes time for new posts to her blog, Fellow Passengers, in which she documents her journey as a young woman and mom. That she can find time to continue to write after the birth of her twins is something I completely understand. Writers need to write. They can no more not write than they can no longer breathe.

Aside from her beautiful writing, however, is the gift she has of inspiring others, me for one. Her posts stay with me for days as I find myself mentally dissecting her message, absorbing her words like a sponge.

 

In a recent post, she talked about being transformed by the verse from 1 Thessalonians she wrote on her chalkboard. She chose this verse as a sort of challenge to herself, and wrote that it seemed like the formula for living present and aware.

But more than being just present, which seems to be a popular catchword these days, the real challenge is translating being present into everyday real life. Putting into practice what being present and aware really means. She writes:

"If I’m present in my happiness, I want to filter that happiness into some sort of creative act later. If I’m sad, I want to remember that other people get sad too so I don’t feel so alone. If I’m angry, I want to figure out how to curb it without damaging anyone or anything around me."

 

Powerful words, these.   

 

But if you put into practice being present and aware, you bring your lessons into the community, into the lives of others, using your experience for the good.

 

Easy to be joyful when things go well. A bit harder when your health is threatened, your budget doesn't cover all the bills, when your plans go awry. Easy to pray continually when you're not overwhelmed and exhausted. Easy to give thanks in all circumstances except when you've received a cancer diagnosis, or when you lose a loved one; when things don't quite go your way.

The most profound lesson in my friend's blog was that you learn not to do it alone. You ask for help when you need it. She is learning to do this and is discovering she is richer for it.

 

That is the real lesson for me, too. Independent and stubborn and determined to do it myself, I am not good at this. I love giving to others. In fact, I was visiting my friend that late summer day, the day I saw her chalkboard, as another neighbor and I were bringing dinner to her family right after the birth of their twins.

That's easy. Easy, and joyful, and I get a good feeling.

 

But accepting help? That's another matter entirely. And asking for help? Really? Gee, I can't quite remember actually doing that lately.

 

Living present and aware is an exchange process. Both giving and receiving are necessary elements of human life. It makes the journey for us fellow travelers so much easier.

More joyful. More able to give thanks in all circumstances.

 

 

Dedicated to Rachel and her blog, Fellow Passengers:

http://fellowpassengers.com/2013/10/17/more-than-being-present/

 

 

 

Evening star

The Danish American Center in Minneapolis recently held its annual meeting. Being relatively new to this organization, I attended for the first time.

 

Danes love to sing, so we opened the meeting with a folksy-type song and ended with another, each written by a Danish composer.

The first song talked about oats. Sung from the oat's perspective, the lyrics spoke of all the things the oats see (sun, wind, rain) and the many uses oats have. It was snappy and fun to sing.
 

 

 

The second called Evening Star (printed above) was written in 1861. It had an easy melody for me, a non-singer and reader of music, to follow.

But it was the words that really spoke to me. They stuck in my head and I had to borrow a songbook from the center so I could copy this particular song.

Danish people see the beauty and prose in all of nature. Thinking you might enjoy the lessons in this lovely song, I share the words with you here.

" Evening star up yonder, Teach me like you to wander 

Willing and obediently, The path that God ordained for me.

Evening star up yonder!

 

Teach me, gentle flowers, To wait for springtime showers

In this winter world to grow, Green and strong beneath the snow.

Teach me, gentle flowers!

 

Teach me, lonely heather, Where songbirds nest together,

Though my life should seem unblest, To keep a song within my breast.

Teach me, lonely heather.

 

Mighty ocean, teach me, To do the task that needs me,

And reflect as days depart, Heaven's peace within my heart.

Mighty ocean, teach me!

 

Shady lanes, refreshing, Teach me to be a blessing

To some weary soul each day, Friends or foes who pass my way.

Shady lanes, refreshing!

 

Evening sun, descending, Teach me, when life is ending,

Night shall pass and I, like you, Shall rise again where life is new.
Teach me, sun descending! "

 

 

As the seasons change, now from summer to autumn, and the days grow shorter, nature is a wonder and can teach us so much. Each season has its purpose and its beauty. We can learn, as the song tells us, from the ocean, the heather, the sun and the shady lane.

When I once commented that there wasn't anything I liked about winter, a friend very poetically told me it was such a beautiful season, with all the trees and flowers and earth enjoying a peaceful rest, quietly readying themselves to burst forth and be alive again.

 

I've never looked at it quite the same since.

Orange socks

Perhaps every family has a strange wedding tradition. Or perhaps not.

But ours, the Steffen family, has such a tradition.

The men in the wedding party wear orange socks. Yes, orange.

To understand it, you have to go way back to my 1965 wedding, the first wedding in our family. And you have to understand my Dad, who had the most wonderful sense of humor I have ever known in anyone. He lived to tease the six of us kids and went on to tease the heck out of his grandkids as well. To them, he was "Boppa" and they adored him.

So as I was dressing for my wedding in 1965, nervous and frantically telling everyone in my house to hurry up and get ready, I passed my parents' bedroom to see my beloved Dad dressed in his suit, pulling on orange work socks. I'm sure he was posed this way just waiting for me to pass by to see him.

Of course, I freaked. YOU ARE NOT WEARING THOSE SOCKS, I'm sure I screamed. To which he simply casually replied, "Why not?"

This, I am quite certain, put me right over the edge and I went running for Mom to plead with him to change his socks.

It was a joke all along. A word of advice: You do not joke with a bride an hour before her wedding.

Well, the rest of my younger sisters and my brother saw the humor in it. So much so, and possessing a much better sense of calm and humor than me, that for their weddings, they insisted Dad wear orange socks.

Thus, a tradition was born.


This is my daughter, Kristie, and husband Rich, proudly sporting his orange socks on their wedding day.

I have to give credit to the men who marry into this family of ours. Some of them knew Dad; some did not.

But they all have agreed to go along with this tradition to honor my Dad. And they have had a lot of fun doing it.

We celebrated another wedding in our family over the weekend, this time in Hawaii where my sister's youngest, Mac, married Ren Chang, an Oahu native.

I regret I could not attend. What a picture-book setting and what a perfectly lovely couple.

And, of course, the men in the wedding party wearing, what else?

Pictured are the groom, Mac, in the middle; nephew Josh on the left, whose groomsmen also wore orange socks when he married Heidi ten years ago; and my niece Madeline's husband, Eric, who followed this tradition for their own wedding three years ago.

The last wedding for Dad to sport his orange socks was my son, Steve's wedding to Julie in 2001. We continue to honor him; some would think in this strange way, but always he is at the center of the tradition and we remember how he would laugh and show off his socks.

He also always carried a small flask of spirits in an inner pocket of his jacket to every wedding, to "calm his nerves." So far, we've only followed the orange socks-rule.

When my then five-year-old granddaughter was in a dance recital recently and my son was participating in a father-daughter dance with her on stage, it was such a special occasion that he felt compelled to adopt his own orange-socks tradition.

The little dancer and her proud Daddy.

Dad is gone now, but the tradition lives on and he will always be remembered. Strange how these things start.

If you haven't adopted your own family wedding tradition, you might consider starting. However outlandish, however not understood by anyone outside your family, it will be yours and will warm your heart.

Just as the sight of orange socks warms ours.