Stay Out of My Purse

   Have you ever wondered why women don’t want you poking around in their purse? I mean, even the best of friends will hand each other their purse to find something – and these are the same women who will go through all of the drawers and cabinets in the house to find something. We blanche when someone even looks at our purse in the I need something in there, I know it’s in there, and I’m going to go get it face.

   Why? Well…..
   As for my purse, it’s a mess most of the time. They hand me a receipt at the store, it goes in my purse. Wrappers when there is no trash can handy, ticket stubs, shopping lists, and to-do lists – they all take up their own place and position in amongst the actual purse type things. So, I don’t really care to have you rifle through my mess. It’s my mess, I’ll do it.
   It’s also my pocket of information. We all need a place that is ours, and this is mine. Normal purse documents are there, but also things like a little book and a card I carry. When I see those special things, even when rummaging for the two pounds of spare change in the bottom, they trigger my memory and I remember exceptional friends and unique happenings.
   I’ll share a lot with you, perhaps – if I know you really really really really well, even my straw. But, stay out of my purse.

Summertime

Summer – the word evokes a flurry of responses in me. I live near an elementary school, and notice that for the children making their way back and forth, they seem to have picked up a new spring in their steps. Summer is freedom; freedom from school and homework, to have time to sleep in or get up way to early and play outside until way too late. Summer time and the living is easy.... the words from George Gershwin float on the too still warm air as I seek out the comfort of shade. Lightning bugs and the sounds of night cricket sonnets fill the air as much as the light from the stars and moon. The sounds of leaves in the wind, they strike me as if they actually are laughing with the pure delight of receiving a cooler breeze than those of us with two feet stuck firmly on the earth. Summer is sun dresses and sandals, sheer silky scarves wrapped around your neck and lawn chairs. Summer is the splash of the garden hose and the smell of fresh sun warmed strawberries. Summer is the bliss of walking into the air conditioning and being able to snuggle under a quilt rather than sweating buckets on top of all sheets while fans are running. Summer is baby birds that don’t fly very well yet, are slightly mottled and now stand next to their momma’s while waiting to be fed rather than waiting in the nest. Summer is the sound of the riverboat horns as they approach each other.

I have a lot of really wonderful summer memories. I have played in sprinklers, mud, and trees. I remember making up plays with neighborhood compatriots who apparently either was willing to share the flare for the story telling or just did what the bossy neighbor girl told them. A white long haired dog named Bo Bo used to stand on our picnic table, and wait for us to come and pet him. He appreciated the attention as one of those good neighborhood dogs. He did not appreciate it when my mother tried to use some flea killer on him. With hurt feelings, he did not come back for a week. I remember summer vacations, especially ones in the back of a big green van. It had a bed in the back and I loved lying on that bed, and having it completely covered with whatever project I was working on at the time. I would let myself roll from side to side as we went around corners and watch other drivers out of the back windows. I remember many summers of band and sweating on the side of a football field. It seemed a great accomplishment to learn a few new steps, a few new notes, which we knew would be needed come fall and competitions. The accomplishment seemed worth the sacrifice of our summer hours, our sweat, blood, and yes – tears. I remember trips to stay with my grandparents. Swimming at the campground with one and all sorts of messy projects with another.
I look at this summer and as it is my first one without either being in school, preparing for school, or completely burned out from school, and I wonder what I should do with myself this summer. There is work of course. But, that is to support life, not life itself. What should I do? Read a few new books? Of course! Three are on order, two Geoffrey of Monmouth books and one biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine. I have considered lying down on the driveway at night while the pavement is still warm, but figure the neighbors would all think I had gone completely buggy. Oh well, I may do that anyway. There are flowers to picked, pictures to be taken, birds to listen to. Trips to plan, friends to visit, and time to enjoy the antics of the dogs. There is my Bible to read, my time in prayer, and Character Camp at church (like a VBS). This summer is unique. It will never come again. I feel that I need to dig down deep and plant something here that is memorable, that will be recalled someday like my grandmother’s snowball bushes. A lasting memory that comes back to life with a fragrance or sight.

The Smell of Books

I love to read. As a little girl, if I didn’t have a book with me at breakfast, I read the cereal box. Admittedly it would easier to just download my books, but there is something about the way they smell, the feel of the pages. Reading, especially in the bathtub and right before I fall asleep, I get to soak in the words of different authors. To Kill a Mockingbird has been stealing my sleep lately, as I become caught up in the world of Maycomb, Alabama and the Finch family. How I love the look into Mayella Ewell and her geraniums, Miss Maudie’s azaleas and lane cakes, even Mr. Arthur Radley who watches his children. Or getting lost in Tolkien’s words as I journey into Rivendell and wish to linger there.

I finished To Kill a Mockinbird yesterday, reliving the tension of the last chapter once again. But, now what to read? There are so many books that I want to read, I don’t even know where to start. Melville, Whitman, Homer, Michner, history, non-fiction, fiction, biography, novel, historical novel, poetry, iambic pentameter, fantasy, translated, multi-cultural, religious…. The list goes on and on!
I need to make a decision, and am just not sure where to even begin. I’m open to suggestions and ideas. Tennyson maybe?

There’s No Such Thing as Too Many Books

I love to read and do wear a sweatshirt from time to time, which proudly proclaims that there is No Such Thing as Too Many Books.  Well, okay maybe there is, in the total extreme.  However,  it would take lots and lots of books to get there.  What is it about these books though?  What can be captured in words that grabs the attention of the reader; inspiring, teaching, comic relief, worlds of words of imagination.

One of the books that grabs my attention the most are those by Tolkien.  I admire his writing, the creative ability that he used to make a world in his mind and heart and come to life for so many.  It is in the winter that I find myself turning back to those familiar pages.  First, there will be Bilbo and his story.  The shiver of the Iowa snow will be replaced with the warmth of the Hobbit gardens.  Then, the Lord of the Rings will follow next.  The stories always catch my attention and every year brings something new to mind. 

I think in the next few days I will start cuddling up with my books, a warm blanket, and let my imagination wander.