In Haught Pursuit

Take a Stand

2012-01-29T19:57:00.000-06:00

From the St. Michael Society website:

The Obama Administration announced that Catholics MUST pay into insurance policies that cover abortion, contraception, and sterilization — NO conscience clauses will be accepted.

Cardinal-designate Timothy Dolan released this video: http://bcove.me/ob5itz9v

Please sign the petition (linked below) to support Cardinal-designate Dolan and stand for religious freedom! We’ll send the petition to President Obama, members of Congress, and HHS Secretary Sebelius.

Sign the St. Michael Society's Petition

Of Catholics and the Confederacy, I Never Tire of Listening

2012-01-29T17:48:00.000-06:00

This is a fascinating interview from a Catholic perspective about the Civil War. I especially appreciated the discussion of the changing America. Before 1861 we were united states. By 1941 we were an empire.

Engaged

2012-01-17T09:49:00.000-06:00

Nicholas Anthony Ballester proposed to Emmaline Josephine Haught on the Feast of the Holy Innocents. He got down on one knee beside the fountain at Queen of Angels Catholic Church in Dickinson, TX, and gave her "a whole speech". She said, "Yes."

They are hoping to marry this summer and will live in Dayton, OH, while Nick finishes school. He graduates in April of 2013.

Losing Nick

2011-12-20T07:51:00.001-06:00

Emma's beloved Nick is here visiting through New Year's. The other night about 10 p.m., she told him that she was going to give him a dose of cod liver oil. She is always worried about his health. Nick had already had a dose of the fishy stuff the day before and decided, conveniently, that he needed to go to the bathroom, immediately if not sooner. Emma bided her time. She would install the dose when he returned. The only problem was, he didn't return! After a half hour or so we started hunting him. We peeped behind doors, peered into closets, poked under beds. No Nick.

We ventured outdoors. We looked in the trees, in the cars, under bushes. We called his phone. We came back inside and looked again. Emma fretted that Nick was sleep walking. He has a history of falling asleep unexpectedly and can keep up his end of a conversation in this semi-conscious state. I began to seriously worry. We decided to walk to the pond. With our flashlight beams criss-crossing the field, we tramped and called, "Niii ick!" Emma's cat, Cotton, came too--loping along and scaring up a mysterious large bird out of the tall grass. Eerie.

We returned home and decided to drive down the road and look. With the windows down, we drove slowly, calling Nick's name and looking for him in the ditches. We bumped down the pot-holed dirt driveway of an abandoned house and cautiously searched the open garage with the headlight beams. Emma wanted to get out and go in, but I wouldn't let her. That place scared me! I couldn't get the car out of there fast enough.

We continued down the road to the highway. "I think we should call the police," Emma said anxiously. Crossing the railroad tracks we saw the headlight of a train that was stopped a hundred feet west of the crossing. "I'm going to get out and look," Emma said. I knew what she was thinking: that the train was stopped because it had run over Nick! Discovering no body, she got back in, and we re-traced our route, this time passing our house and continuing to the west. It was getting close to midnight. I decided we better go home and wake Herb and ask him what to do. But first we drove through our hayfield back to Fiona's pasture looking for Nick. No sign of him. Sick with worry, we parked the car and went inside. As I was entering the kitchen, Emma walked into the dining room.

"Mom! He's here!" she called excitedly. I rushed to join her and found Nick sleeping soundly on the floor between the end of the dining room table and the wall adjoining the kitchen. He had his arms crossed over his chest like he was trying to conserve body heat. "Did he just get here?" I asked her. She didn't know. I had looked in the dining room several times, even peered under the table but had not seen him. That was from the foyer end of the dining room, though, not the kitchen end. I crossed into the foyer and looked toward the far end where Nick still slept. I couldn't see him. Yet he was in plain sight if you entered the dining room from the kitchen. Oh, well. We took a few pictures of him sleeping and marveled that his phone lay right beside him with 14 missed calls showing on the screen. We called it again. It rang. He slept.

Finally, we woke him up and scolded him. He was very apologetic. He had never gone to the bathroom, just sneaked around and hid in the dining room, waiting for Emma to come find him. He never planned to go to sleep. . .

Shopping for a Donkey Companion for Fiona. . .

2011-11-10T19:23:00.000-06:00

I thought I would just look at jennies (females), as we have had so many bad experiences with mean male livestock--from horses to goats to turkeys. Interestingly, the first ad I read included this description: "Sweet, gentle and a great mom! Great guard donkey or companion animal too. She will trample and go after anything unusual or NEW that enters the pasture including newborn goats or lambs. . ."

Try as I might, I could not get the "sweet" and "gentle" to go with trampling newborn goats or lambs. I hope this is abnormal behavior. If not, I think I'll give up on donkeys and get a calf of some sort. Maybe I should start by researching feed consumption. There's just about no grass left in Fiona's pasture, and hay is expensive because of the drought here in Texas. I sure don't want to buy something just to keep Fiona company that's going to eat its way through my pocketbook. I should have known there wouldn't an easy solution. Any thoughts, recommendations are welcome.

Bad Cow Disease

2011-11-09T05:24:00.001-06:00

Fiona and Friends

Emma's friend Kathy from Ohio visited us last week. Of course she wanted to meet Fiona. Everybody does. That cow has her own fan club. Anyway, I realized when I looked at the pictures I took of Fiona and the girls that having that wily bovine in a headlock is about the only time I can relax. I am ready to install a 24-hour surveillance camera in her pasture.

Yes, her wanderlust continues.

Most recently, Emma discovered her missing just as my sister and brother-in-law had arrived for a visit from Birmingham, and just an hour or so shy of sunset. We had no idea how long she had been gone. I thought I had seen her the day before, but I wasn't sure. Emma had been sick, so she hadn't been out to the pasture. Our only clue was a signature "pie" that looked pretty fresh. My mom remembered seeing it there in the parking area that morning and wondered what it was. She thought maybe it was a dead cat. This must be a genetic defect, because that is always my first thought when I spot an unidentified inanimate object--why I don't know because we never find dead cats around here. Dead possums, yes. If Mom and I took one of those ink blot tests, I bet we would think each image was a dead cat.

Back to the discovery of Fiona's escape: It was "Hi" and "Bye" to our visitors. Emma donned her boots and hurried across the 40-acre field to search an almost-dry pond, and I jumped in the car and drove to the pasture where Fiona had spent an afternoon with three beef cows the last time she made a run for it. I did not find her, but I talked to the homeowner, and he remembered Fiona's last visit. I left him a napkin with my name and phone number in case Fiona passed by.

I met Emma on the road back to our house and picked her up. We decided to go to the house on the west side of ours where Fiona had run, literally, once before. (At least that time we had her in sight the whole time.) This was the house where she put her ornery head down like a bull and tried to butt the homeowner's dogs, all three of them, when they came out to defend their territory. This time, Emma got out and talked to the lady of the house. She had not seen Fiona. We left another napkin. I need to get "WANTED" calling cards made up with a picture of Fiona and my phone number.

We drove on, stopping wherever someone was outside, talking to them, and leaving a napkin. We met some mighty nice folks we would never have met otherwise. We traveled a semi-circle around the region north of our house. The sun was setting as we turned back onto our road, Fiona-less. About a half a mile from our house, Emma said, "I think I see her!" She had spotted a cow in a back pasture. I pulled into the driveway of the property. Luckily, two women were on the porch. Emma got out and explained about Fiona. One of the women approached the car and said, "I knew somebody would come after that cow! She showed up here this morning, and I saw that halter, and I thought 'that's somebody's show cow or pet, and they're gonna be lookin' for her.'" Her husband had taken one look at Fiona and said, "That cow's pregnant, so she ain't here lookin' for a bull." Then he took her by the halter and put her in the pasture with their cow and horse, where from all reports, she behaved herself with her best company manners.

The man took Emma back there to where Fiona was socializing. Emma got the lead rope on Fiona and started to walk with her when all of a sudden, Emma fell to the ground. She regained her feet but had to tug Fiona away from her new friends. When I asked Emma about it later, she said that she fell because Fiona stepped on her. Thank goodness for boots.

We thanked Fiona's gracious hosts and departed, repeating the now familiar routine of me following Emma and Fiona in the car, but this time there was a new twist. The sun had set. So I drove with emergency flashers and high beams, which starkly illuminated Fiona's round belly. About halfway home, it finally began to do what a lot of Texans have been praying for. It started to rain. Perfect.

Emma flew with Kathy back to Ohio on Monday. I'm stuck here with Fiona Houdini until her return next Wednesday. Please pray for me.

Are They Adults Yet?

2011-11-01T05:35:00.000-05:00

I've been reading a lot about the modern idea of extending childhood. I've concluded that although I don't agree with doing it, the culture makes it difficult to go against it, college being the primary vehicle for forcing it upon the populace. Most of the alternatives to college, like apprenticeships and family farms, have disappeared.   I also realize that the use of birth control and the social acceptance of co-habitation play a major role in allowing young people to prolong childhood by avoiding the responsibility associated with marrying and raising children.

In John Taylor Gatto's book, The Underground History of American Education, he makes the point that in early America, youth in their teen years, some even as young as 12, were treated as adults and acted as adults and that their energy, courage, and skill were a huge part of what made this country thrive. Once he brought this to my attention, I started noticing it in biographies I was reading--and not just American ones. For instance, I noticed it in William Bollaert's Texas. The introduction says that at the age of 13, Mr. Bollaert, an Englishman,

"was permitted to enter the Royal Institution as a laboratory assistant in chemistry, with Michael Faraday, assistant and later professor, and with Sir Humphrey Davy, an occasional visitor. In this field he was competent enough, while still in his teens, to make some original discoveries in benzoic acid, and to publish his results in the Journal of the Royal Institution in 1823-24."

At 18 he traveled alone to Peru to work as an assayer and chemist.

Now we are at the point where even people in their 20s are not considered adults. The Psychology Today interview, Trashing Teens, with Psychologist Robert Epstein, gives compelling evidence why we should not do this. In the article, Epstein gives the results of research he did with fellow psychologist Diane Dumas:

You believe in the inherent competence of teens. What's your evidence?"

Dumas and I worked out what makes an adult an adult. We came up with 14 areas of competency—such as interpersonal skills, handling responsibility, leadership—and administered tests to adults and teens in several cities around the country. We found that teens were as competent or nearly as competent as adults in all 14 areas. But when adults estimate how teens will score, their estimates are dramatically below what the teens actually score.

Other long-standing data show that teens are at least as competent as adults. IQ is a quotient that indicates where you stand relative to other people your age; that stays stable. But raw scores of intelligence peak around age 14-15 and shrink thereafter. Scores on virtually all tests of memory peak between ages 13 and 15. Perceptual abilities all peak at that age. Brain size peaks at 14. Incidental memory—what you remember by accident, and not due to mnemonics—is remarkably good in early to mid teens and practically nonexistent by the '50s and '60s.

At the extreme, some parents never treat their children as adults. Family counselor and author Gary Lundberg says in his book, I Don't Have to Make Everything All Better, that

"in many families, tradition has dictated that children, no matter the age, are to be seen and not heard. Parents are the possessors of all knowledge and wisdom. Children remain children until the parents die, and until that time the children are to look to the parents as all-wise and all-knowing. The children are to accept and follow the parents' counsel without question. These are extreme ideas and yet, to some degree, they exist in most families. This attitude is stifling to personal growth and does not show respect and understanding."

He goes on to assert that by not letting them solve their own problems, we contribute to them "not becoming responsible adults". That makes perfect sense to me. We have to let them "go into the woods" so to speak.

And the results of fostering this Neverland? Joseph Epstein explains it well in this Weekly Standard column he wrote several years ago:

"Time for the perpetual adolescents is curiously static. They are in no great hurry: to succeed, to get work, to lay down achievements. Perhaps this is partly because longevity has increased in recent decades--if one doesn't make it to 90 nowadays, one feels slightly cheated--but more likely it is that time doesn't seem to the perpetual adolescent the excruciatingly finite matter, the precious commodity, it indubitably is. For the perpetual adolescent, time is almost endlessly expandable. Why not go to law school in one's late thirties, or take the premed requirements in one's early forties, or wait even later than that to have children? Time enough to toss away one's twenties, maybe even one's thirties; 40 is soon enough to get serious about life; maybe 50, when you think about it, is the best time really to get going in earnest."

The old hunger for life, the eagerness to get into the fray, has been replaced by an odd patience that often looks more like passivity.   In the 1950s, people commonly married in their twenties, which may or may not have been a good thing, but marriage did prove a forcing house into adulthood, for men and women, especially where children issued from the marriage, which they usually did fairly quickly. I had two sons by the time I was 26, which, among other things, made it impossible, either physically or spiritually, for me to join the general youth movement of the 1960s, even though I still qualified by age. It also required me to find a vocation. By 30, one was supposed to be settled in life: wife, children, house, job--"the full catastrophe," as Zorba the Greek liked to say. But it was also a useful catastrophe. Today most people feel that they can wait to get serious about life. Until then one is feeling one's way, still deciding, shopping around, contributing to the formation of a new psychological type: the passive-nonaggressive."

This quote does not discuss the parents of the perpetual adolescent. I wonder if the author noticed as I have that many parents encourage their children to get the long string of degrees, to wait to marry, to travel the world, etc. I've even heard parents recommend to their children that they not only wait to start their families and instead enjoy a several-years long "honeymoon" but that they limit the number of children to one or two as if this will make the marriage more stable and the family more successful. These parents seem to expect that maturity will come by delaying and decreasing responsibility, instead of taking it on.

I think the Mormons have kept the traditional perspective. They send their young men off on a year-long mission as soon as they finish high school, forcing them to not only break from Mommy and Daddy but to stand on their own two feet.  Furthermore, their church leadership teaches the youth to "get on with it", to marry and have lots of babies as soon as possible, even while still in college. It seems to work for them, but then some of the best books I have found for learning how to make these kinds of choices sucessfully are written by Mormons: The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Families, Fascinating Womanhood and Man of Steel and Velvet--even I Don't Have to Make Everything All Better.

Mustang Man

2011-10-31T09:06:00.000-05:00

"I am one with my car."

My son made this solemn declaration as he downshifted smoothly and rounded a curve at high speed, the sound of the exhaust burbling a manly bass harmony in my ears. We then leaped forward as he accelerated confidently, speeding us on our way to the courthouse to pay the sales tax on his sleek, black 2001 Mustang GT. I admired his skill and his alertness. He saw everything, anticipated everything, all while singing sonorously. I leaned back and enjoyed the ride.

That was at least nine months ago. The love affair with his car burns on, always on the verge of consuming him totally.

This morning he asked me if I had heard that he raced a super-charged Mustang. "No?" I answered.

"He whipped my butt!" he confided, "Waaaaaaa-aaa!" he emoted, beaming with the memory of his brush with such raw power, the need for speed.

Then he spread open his arms and invited me to hug him, which I did most eagerly. He had already been out and started the car to let it warm up. Clutching his hot chocolate, he opened the door, stepped out, turned to me and grinned. "You hear ma car?" he asked with a tone of deep satisfaction.

I nodded my affirmation, grinning myself. Then he was gone. Although I could not see him, I heard the Mustang crooning its love song to my boy as they roared through the autumn air. Second gear. And third. Hurtling exuberantly into Monday in a dangerous combination of horsepower and testosterone. Taking risks and feeling alive and invincible and POWERFUL.

"My baby boy is exulting in his manhood," I thought.

I was at once filled with awe and fear. Lord, take care of my precious son.

Emma and the Glass Slippers

2011-10-31T07:39:00.000-05:00

The Time-consuming Ringlets

As late as Saturday afternoon, Emma was still debating whether to attend the Houston District's Scottish Country Dance Ball. She had missed two SCD ball classes and consequently didn't feel like she knew the dances well enough. Also, she had been sick all week with a respiratory illness, and she was tired.

So she took a nap.

When she awoke, she decided, "yes", she would go. She only needed five minutes for makeup and an hour to fix her hair. No problem. That just made us an hour late for the ball.

As I drove madly away from the house, she produced one black glove and sadly announced that she couldn't find the other. "What about your dance shoes?" I asked.

Emma wore glass slippers so delicately wrought that they appear invisible. . .

but doesn't her hair look good!

Christ Rules

2011-10-30T14:38:00.001-05:00

<p>&amp;amp;lt;/iframe&amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;gt;Psalm 71:8, 11 &amp;amp;amp;nbsp;&amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;gt;He shall rule from sea to sea, and from the river to the ends of the earth. &amp;amp;amp;nbsp;And all kings shall adore Him, all nations shall serve Him.&amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;gt;</p>

A Furniture Find

2011-10-29T15:09:00.001-05:00

I have been hunting furniture for our guest bedroom for the last six months. Or has it been a year? Too long whatever it is.

Yesterday I dragged my sister Beverly and my brother-in-law Stephen, who are visiting from Birmingham, and Emma all to Baytown to look at a 1950s maple set. The furniture turned out to need refinishing. Although the price was reasonable, I figured that once I paid to have it re-done it would be way more than I wanted to spend. The seller, bless her heart, offered to let me take a couple of the drawers to a refinisher nearby. I agreed, and we set out. As we pulled into the parking lot, I thought, "What a nice place!" It was much nicer than I was expecting for a refinisher. It turned out that this "refinisher", Town and Country Sales, offers much more, including upholstery services and a gallery of restored and new pieces.

Three people were standing outside and greeted us warmly. One of them was Ronnie Parrish, the owner. I explained why we were there, and he came over to the car with me and Beverly, examined the drawers, and gave us a detailed explanation about what would be required to fix it, the virtues and sins of maple as a furniture wood, what to beware of in future shopping for maple (tiny hairline cracks where the wood is joined by glue) and how much he would charge to refinish it. He ended by encouraging us to keep doing what we were doing--searching Craigslist and going to garage and estate sales in search of quality furniture. The whole time he talked to us, it was as a knowledgeable friend. Clearly, profit margin is not his primary concern. He loves what he is doing, and he cares about people. It was a wonderful experience.

After returning the drawers to the car, we told him we wanted to visit his store. He welcomed us to do so, and we entered to discover an antique wonderland, all of it expertly repaired and refinished. "I finally found furniture I like!" Emma exclaimed as we "oooohed" and "ahhhhed" our way through the building. I imagine the next time Nick visits, Emma will make sure that a nest-planning trip to Town and Country is on their agenda.

When I looked at the prices, I had sticker shock, not because they were so high, but because they were so reasonable. Not cheap but reasonable. Stephen was impressed by the woodworking equipment he could see in their shop. On the way out, Emma and I climbed up in the big chair in front of the store, and Beverly took the picture above. We can't wait to go back.

My Flu Shot

2011-10-28T08:16:00.000-05:00

Nathaniel brought home a cold more than a week ago. Then Herb got it plus some flu-like symptoms. Then Emma succumbed and had more and worse symptoms than her brother and dad. She ran fever, had a sore throat, lost her voice, had sinus issues and was just generally miserable. She spent a lot of time on the couch with my laptop, germinating my keyboard. With sickness all around me, I feared I should surely fall ill as well. On Monday I noticed that my cheeks felt hot. I started getting an uncomfortable feeling in my throat and this prickly feeling on my neck and face. I knew I was done for unless I did something drastic. For me, that's taking cod liver oil. I had bought this Green Pastures fermented cod liver oil for Emma. She had given up on taking it, so it's been sitting unused in the refrigerator. The normal dose is 2 ml, less than 1/2 teaspoon. I took a tablespoon, though it almost killed me. It's that nasty. At least the first dose is. I don't know what it is about this stuff, but I took a tablespoonful every day, and not only did I not get sick, the dose itself got less obnoxious. Yesterday, I barely noticed it, and I did not taste it again like I did on the previous days. The bottle came with a syringe. You are supposed to squirt it in the back of your throat so you don't taste it, I guess. Emma and I both tried it that way when we first got it. It didn't seem to help. Maybe now that I've gotten used to the stuff, the squirt method would be full-proof.

Adventures with Pork

2011-10-27T08:35:00.001-05:00

I've never bought one of these things before, but I was feeling cocky. . .It's a bone-in picnic roast. Cooking it was not a picnic.

If I hadn't consulted Julia, it probably would have been fine. First off she told me, "The flavors of a marinade will penetrate pork more thoroughly if the meat is boned."

"Oh, great," I muttered. I could foresee trouble as my butcher skills are practically non-existent. I would have to find a recipe that didn't require marinating.

I pushed onward. Julia described the different pork cuts. Mine was next to last in the long list. I read,

"Picnic Shoulder or Shoulder Arm--No French equivalent."

Ouch! What an insult!

She went on to explain "part of it is palette; part is jambonneau."

I don't know what those words mean, but apparently my pork shoulder is some kind of half-breed, not worthy of a French equivalent. My heart was sinking. Then Julia moved in for the kill:

"This is lean meat and should be boned,"

How did she know I was looking for ways to get out of shoulder surgery? Drat and double drat! Heaving a sigh, I resigned myself to the grisly ordeal.

Slowly, I inserted my knife into the meat alongside the bone and started working my way around it. I pushed and sawed and hacked my way through until I conquered it at last. It took me about ten minutes.

I looked at what was left of the roast and thought about Nick and his new hatchet. I think he could have done a neater job, and he would have enjoyed it.

My poor roast certainly wasn't going to be featured in Bon Appetit.

Why butchers wear aprons.

Oh, well. I proceeded to make up the marinade that Julia said was her favorite. It was really a dry rub. I tried grinding it with a mortar and pestle. After three minutes of totally wasted effort, I got out the little electric spice mill. Did you know that if you get in a hurry and take the lid off before the blade is completely done spinning, you will be enveloped in a spice cloud, which will make you sneeze. (Yes, peppercorns.) Then the cloud rains on your countertop, appliances, and floor.

Once I had the spice mixture rubbed in, I went to get my favorite huge yellow Tupperware bowl with the plastic lid. I was going to put the roast in there and leave it in the refrigerator overnight. I peered into the cabinet and found the bowl but no lid. I got down on my hands and knees and rifled through the contents of the cabinet. Still no lid.

All of a sudden, I remembered where I had seen it last. It was not the kitchen.

I went out to the garage and peered into the cat food can.

No lid.

I lifted out the bag of cat food.

No lid.

I poked all around the vicinity.

No lid.

Baffled, I went back to the kitchen. While at the sink washing my hands, I spotted something out of the corner of my left eye. No, it wasn't. It couldn't be.

It was.

I must have brought it in recently to wash? I don't remember.

At last I got the roast installed in the refrigerator. Oh, the relief! It was like I used to feel when Nathaniel was a toddler and I finally got him to bed for the night.

Thankfully, the rest of the preparation went smoothly, and I was pleased with the final result.

Heaven Helps Me

2011-10-25T06:51:00.001-05:00

Two or three years ago I learned about this book called Edible Landscaping. I ordered myself a copy and carried it around with me in the car so I could read it whenever I had to sit and wait for something like a doctor's appointment or a music lesson. I had barely dug into the book when it disappeared. I waited so long for it to turn up that I forgot about it. Probably this could have been avoided if I had thought to pray to St. Anthony. Coming to Catholicism in my mid-30s, somehow I never developed that habit. I am going to work on that, as I am now 51 and find my old excuse looks a little feeble.

Between the chickens and the drought, the few vegetables we attempted to grow this past summer produced nothing but blooms. Then in August, I had Nathaniel till up the flower bed that borders our front porch. I had intended to plant azaleas and gardenias there as soon as we got some rain and the weather cooled down. That didn't happen in September. Low and behold, a few weeks ago I noticed a volunteer plant flourishing there. Now it is covered in yellow blossoms and looks lovely.

It's a squash.

This must be a magical squash, because it talks to me. Every time I see it, it says, "Remember Edible Landscaping?"

"Yes," I answer. "I'm going to order a new copy."

Well, this morning, I finally remembered to do it. I ordered a shiny new 2010 edition from Amazon. Then I thought, "Hey, isn't this St. Isidore the Farmer's feast day?" I checked, and it is. Hmmm.

I think he and St. Anthony are in cahoots.

Love is Kind

2011-10-23T04:22:00.000-05:00

Bravo, Beverly! Excellent Rebuttal to My Unisex Scrubs Post

2011-10-22T09:35:00.001-05:00

How I do love a thoughtful comment!

My sister, a nurse, wrote about her perspective on wearing scrubs. She makes some excellent points, and I thank her for her time, her patience, and her great charity. Here's what she said:

Being a nurse, I know exactly what you mean. White dresses are very beautiful and professional-looking. I also think they're completely impractical for modern nursing, not to mention that most nurses don't have figures that would lend themselves well to dresses anymore. One coworker called it the "milk jug" look (scrubs hide a lot of figure flaws!). Uniforms aren't tailored articles of clothing. You buy them off the rack and you get what feels comfortable, because you're going to need that comfort working 12 hr shifts. They're doing much more physical nursing than years ago, too. Hospital staffing has changed and nurses do much of the work that "orderlies" used to do, pulling grown men up in the bed, emptying bedpans and catheters, cleaning up any variety of body fluids off the floor. It is a very physical job. And no matter what position I get in, I KNOW I'm covered.

I'm writing this after a long shift, still wearing my navy scrubs with snap front shirt, elastic waist pants, and Saucony running shoes. No hose, no hat, no stiff white oxfords.

Now if all I had to do was carry around a tray of pills all day, I might consider a dress :D.

I replied:

Ha, Beverly! I wonder how Mother Teresa, Florence Nightingale, and Clara Barton managed? :D

She answered:

Nursing can and is done every day in skirts. For most - and certainly for me - it seems easier in pants. That's my observation. No statistical analysis was done :).

"Scrubs" is a term used for most loose-fitting nursing/health care uniforms. They can be quite unflattering and make the wearer appear slovenly, especially if their demeanor is slovenly. There are scrub skirts, and I know older nurses who wear them. I know one nurse who's at the end of her career, is still trim and wears the whole dress/hose/nursing shoe outfit, sans hat. She looks quite good in it. But it has more to do with who she IS, or a combination of her dress and demeanor, that make her stand out as "nurse" in the old-fashioned sense you refer to in your post (and I don't mean that negatively, either). There are other nurses I know who wear skirts, but lack that "put together" look that the white dress seems to have. They don't look any less frumpy than the ones in scrubs.

There are other alternatives.

I'm thinking of the 30+ yr nursing veteran that trained me, MISS Chris, a beautiful African-American nurse who wears whites: exquisitely pressed pants that are the perfect length, appropriate undergarments (appropriate because you never see them), white jackets that are trim but not tight, and have subtle flourishes of lace or details that speak of care in dress. She wears white or pastel knit tops. Every hair of her head is in place, her lipstick is perfect, tasteful earrings worn. She is immaculate in her appearance, and utterly feminine. When she walks into the room, you know EXACTLY who she is and that you will be taken care of by the best.

I once asked her where she bought her "scrubs". She cast a stern look at me and said crisply, "I buy my UNIFORMS at ___________." To her way of thinking, there was a gulf between the shapeless scrubs most nurses wore and HER choice of dress. I will never forget that lesson.

I understand your preference for skirts and respect it. My feeling is that the line between feminine or not, professional or not, is not so much drawn between skirts and pants, but between those who care to dress and act the part of a lady and those who do not. Sadly, ladies like Miss Chris, who embody that wonderful meld of attractive attire and decorum, are vanishing. The profession is the poorer for it.

Thanks again, Beverly. Now if I could just interview Miss Chris!

The King and the Thing in the Wing

2011-10-22T08:37:00.001-05:00

My husband heard a mysterious noise in the garage the other night. It emanated from one of the wings of the airplane he is building. Until then, dear husband's face had reflected the contentment of a quiet evening at home, where he rules as a benevolent but just king.

What was this thing in his wing, and how dare it be there?

Oh, thing! Have a care!

THE KING DECLARES WAR

The wings are stored overhead. They have "skin" on the outside, but the far end, the one that will be the wing tip, is wide open. Armed with a .22, the king drew a ladder to the wing root. He climbed up, grabbed the wing spar, a piece of metal that protrudes from that end, and shook the wing.

A furry critter scrabbled out the far end onto a rafter.

Oh, possum!

Pow! The king nailed the possum in the head just as it realized its life circumstances had grown perilous and it better make a break for it.

Despite the mortal wound to its brain pan, it leaped. . .

back inside the wing.

UTTER DISMAY contorted the king's face. "He's bleeding out in my wing!" he complained bitterly to me and Emma as we rushed in. (We had been banished from the garage, but we had pressed ourselves against the side entry door, where we, all a-tingle, watched the proceedings through the window.)

Now that we were inside, we could hear the varmint scratching out a frantic break dance inside the wing.

Ewwww! My stomach rebelled at this sound and somehow pulled on my tongue, causing me to have to swallow several times, which action caused my eyes to squeeze shut.

At last, all grew still. The prince was called to assist with the extraction of the deceased.

His assistance was not needed after all. The king, unbeknownst to me, managed to grab the possum's tail, and suddenly its bloody corpse, with eyes still bright, swung down into our midst.

Something about the way its body came swinging down overwhelmed my senses, and I gasped and had to turn away shivering. Emma comforted me.

The body was dispatched to the field morgue. Yesterday a team of winged medical examiners worked feverishly on the post mortem.

And so happily ends another possum tail in the Kingdom of Haught.

Just Driving Through

2011-10-21T07:53:00.001-05:00

Saturday morning I was out and about and went through the drive-through at a Chick-fil-A to get an iced tea. I chided myself for not parking and going in. I began thinking about situations when a drive-through is really necessary and/or beneficial. Having just left instructions for Nathaniel to pick up some chicken feed, I thought of the feed store. Now there is the ideal situation for a drive-through! I don't understand why all of them don't utilize this feature. How heavenly it would be if I could place my order from my vehicle, pay at the window, and have the feed tossed in the back of the truck from a loft. It's one thing if you can actually enter an establishment and pick up the goods yourself, but if all you can do is pay for them, then why go in? I can just imagine what the order taker would say if my dream were to come true: "Welcome to Old McDonald's Farm and Feed! What can I get for you today? OK, ma'am, that will be two 50 lb. bags of laying pellets, one 50 lb. dog feed, and two bales of alfalfa. You want salt blocks with that?"

Speaking of McDonald's, as I was getting ready to pull out into traffic, I happened to look to my left. I saw the golden arches sign with a message entreating me to "try the new English Pub Burger". Feeling rather saucy, I rolled down my window and replied, "Yeah, RIGHT!" I know it was a silly thing to do, but I really did feel better afterward. I have no idea what a real English Pub Burger tastes like or whether such a thing even exists. This morning I googled "McDonald's English pub burger" looking for a picture of it. Apparently this product is being test-marketed in the metro Houston area right now. Illinois got to try it first. Lucky them. The funny thing was that I read the first six "hits", and they all talked about the new burger as food. They pointed out that it has cheddar and American cheese on it, which they thought was funny because it's supposed to be an English burger. I thought it was funny because I don't believe an English pub would use fake cheese, no matter what you call it. I wonder if the marketing strategy isn't more about changing cash-strapped consumers' perceptions of McDonald's from a tacky "happy meal" kind of place to something slightly more intimate and sophisticated. Maybe bringing out this English Pub Burger is really tied to the introduction of its latte and has nothing to do with whether the burger is actually English. Maybe McDonald's wants you to think of their restaurants as your coffee shop and your English pub. Good luck with that.

On Unisex Clothing and a Movie Education (sigh)

2011-10-19T06:42:00.000-05:00

Scrubs.

To me, they sound just like they look, but scrubs by any other name would still be ugly. I guess it is the nature of "unisex" clothing. When you take away the details that make an article of clothing distinctly masculine or feminine, you take away the beauty too. I think you even take away some of the dignity of the person wearing them. At least, in my experience, such clothes don't enhance the wearer's dignity.

I mentioned this to Nathaniel and Emma on our way to church Sunday. "Nurse's uniforms used to be attractive," I said. "They wore white dresses and neat little hats, and they just looked so much more professional than now."

Nathaniel sighed.

"I know that, Mom," he explained patiently. "I've seen Pearl Harbor."

Fight Courageously Under the Banner of Christ Your King

2011-10-18T08:21:00.001-05:00

Even though I try to avoid it, I still hear bits of the garbage that is known as modern political debate, which as far as I can see is designed to distract us and prevent us from seeking a solution outside of the tiny, two-party box. As longtime readers know, I quit voting after the last presidential election. Even then, I only voted because I could vote with a clear conscience for Ron Paul. I had long before that refused to vote for the lesser of two evils, as the lesser evil is still evil. I see no major difference between a Democratic presidential term and a Republican presidential term. They each work to move the country further to the left, though their respective approaches may be slightly different. The only solution I see is to work toward the reign of Christ the King, which Catholics are called to do anyway. I can do that with a clear conscience and without being in conflict with my role as the heart of the home.

Angelus Press recently hosted a 3-day conference on Christ's Kingship. Read about it here.

As the feast of the Kingship of Christ approaches, it is good to re-read Quas primas, the encyclical Pope Pius XI wrote that established it. Here is an excerpt that I find especially helpful:

The rebellion of individuals and states against the authority of Christ has produced deplorable consequences. We lamented these in the Encyclical Ubi arcano; we lament them today: the seeds of discord sown far and wide; those bitter enmities and rivalries between nations, which still hinder so much the cause of peace; that insatiable greed which is so often hidden under a pretense of public spirit and patriotism, and gives rise to so many private quarrels; a blind and immoderate selfishness, making men seek nothing but their own comfort and advantage, and measure everything by these; no peace in the home, because men have forgotten or neglect their duty; the unity and stability of the family undermined; society in a word, shaken to its foundations and on the way to ruin. We firmly hope, however, that the feast of the Kingship of Christ, which in future will be yearly observed, may hasten the return of society to our loving Savior. It would be the duty of Catholics to do all they can to bring about this happy result. Many of these, however, have neither the station in society nor the authority which should belong to those who bear the torch of truth. This state of things may perhaps be attributed to a certain slowness and timidity in good people, who are reluctant to engage in conflict or oppose but a weak resistance; thus the enemies of the Church become bolder in their attacks. But if the faithful were generally to understand that it behooves them ever to fight courageously under the banner of Christ their King, then, fired with apostolic zeal, they would strive to win over to their Lord those hearts that are bitter and estranged from him, and would valiantly defend his rights.

Love is Patient

2011-10-16T08:08:00.001-05:00

In All Its Multi-voice Glory

2011-10-16T07:51:00.000-05:00

I found this version of William Byrd's Domine secundum actum meum last week and fell in love with this piece all over again.

Virtual Girlfriend or Traditional Wife?

2011-10-14T08:30:00.000-05:00

The Virtual Girlfriend

I was looking through the options for blog "gadgets" and stumbled across this description for one called "Virtual Girlfriend":

Want a girlfriend who will cook/bake for you? A girlfriend who is very understanding and will admire everything about you and what you do? A girlfriend who is ready to kiss you anytime? A girlfriend who will take care of you when you are not feeling well? Get your virtual girlfriend now...a pretty, sexy girl who would love you no matter what; dream girl; ideal woman; cool gadget especially for love, romance blogs and sites.

I read it aloud to Emma, and we both had a good laugh. It's funny that education, career, and money-making potential were not mentioned among this dream girl/ideal woman's attributes. Gee, do men just want to be loved, encouraged, and cared for? What's the matter with them anyway?

I don't think it's that hard to find a real woman with Virtual Girlfriend's attributes. The key is, she will want to be a wife, not a girlfriend.

I've Been His Mom for 20 Years, and I'm Still Learning

2011-10-13T06:22:00.002-05:00

The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and you better go there.

I have basically maintained a gluten-free kitchen since December of last year. That means I no longer bake all the white-flour goods that I used to for my family. No more Buttermilk Pound Cake. No more Toll House Cookies. No more Butter-Me-Not Biscuits. I've tried a couple of times, but no matter how hard I try to contain it, that all-purpose "dust" seems to go everywhere, eagerly awaiting a chance to cross-contaminate something.

Nathaniel has taken this pretty hard, even though he is free to eat these kinds of baked goods away from home, and he is away from home a lot between college classes and work. I thought at the beginning that it wasn't such a big deal because of this. I thought he was lucky because at least he didn't have to give it up totally like Emma. And I thought he would realize this and actually be supportive.

Nope.

He has grumbled and complained and has refused to try the alternative baking that I have done using almond flour. I was pretty disappointed in his attitude. Then he started asking me to buy him cookies at the store. I would do it rarely. Reading the ingredients on the package always makes me feel like I am poisoning him instead of doing something nice for him, so most times I would talk myself out of it. This happened again a couple of weeks ago. I got home from the grocery store, and he immediately searched through all the bags to see what I had gotten for him. "You didn't buy me any cookies!" he announced, furrowing his brows in consternation. Then he said it. He asked me the big question that revealed all, that explained why he had been such a grumpy, unsupportive young man.

"Don't you LOVE me anymore?"

My jaw dropped as I thought, "Is that what he thinks? I tell him I love him every day and hug him and kiss his cheek and talk with him and wash his clothes when he has been too busy because of work and school, but Cookies = Love?"

Then he smiled and laughed to cover up his wounded heart. I smiled and laughed with him, but the next time I went to the store, I bought him a bag of Chips Ahoy. When I got home he looked through all the bags and found the one labeled, "MY MOM LOVES ME A LOT". His attitude has improved dramatically.

Enjoy Some Spanish Culture on the Feast of Our Lady of the Pillar

2011-10-12T12:48:00.001-05:00

Contrast in Women's Dress: 19th Century and 21st

2011-10-12T08:28:00.001-05:00

The lady in the green shorts has a nice hat.

Nicholas Ballester took this photo with his cell phone while attending a Civil War re-enactment this past summer. He was there as a counselor for a SSPX boys' camp.

My Dairy Prayer

2011-10-11T08:15:00.001-05:00

O Lord, You know how I stumble upon the stone of all factory- farm food, like American "cheese", and eggs from "vegetarian-fed" hens, but if it be your will, grant that I may just get past the milk section in peace. Yea, though I walk through the valley of death, let me push my cart blissfully by the ultra-pasteurized "fresh" dairy products and the "fat-free" half and half and never pause and mutter under my breath. In Your mercy, let me gaze past the fat-free milk that "promotes brain health" by adding something while taking away the fat that provides the cholesterol the brain thrives on. Let me lie down in green pastures in a land of raw milk and honey, and let farmer's markets filled with real food be within ten minutes of my house, all the days of my life. Amen.

V. O Lord hear my prayer.

R. And let my cry come unto Thee.

The South's Gonna Rise Again With the Help of Tridentine Mass Supporters?

2011-10-10T05:48:00.008-05:00

The crown of thorns given to Jefferson Davis by Pope Pius IX is on display at the Confederate Hall Museum in New Orleans.

THE CATHOLIC KNIGHT: The emerging Dixie Independence Movement is now growing rapidly, and appears to be increasingly populated by Catholics, many of whom are taking leadership roles in the movement across the Southland. While it is impossible to calculate actual numbers at this time, reports are coming in to The Catholic Knight about many traditionalist Catholic groups, such as the FSSP and the SSPX, having a large crossover in membership with the League of the South and the Southern National Congress, especially in states that were part of the Old Confederacy (1860 - 1865). This of course is not limited to traditionalist Catholics, as many practical Catholics of all stripes are becoming partial to the movement.

My jaw dropped when I read the above passage. Then I finished reading the post and watched the video. As someone who sees no hope of improvement in the present political "game" of the Republicans vs. the Democrats, I have come to the conclusion that the country must somehow adopt the Social Reign of Christ the King to avoid total ruin. I couldn't imagine how such a Catholic alternative would come about. I certainly never dreamed that it might come through the influence of Catholics in The League of the South, although I realized years ago that the Catholic agrarian movement of Fr. Vincent McNabb seemed compatible with the League of the South ideals.

Read The Catholic Knight's entire post and do watch the video also. The video starts out a little slow. Be patient. It's worth your time.

Finally, More Traditional Mass Options for Houston

2011-10-09T17:33:00.065-05:00

The Fraternity of St. Peter's Houston Apostolate is now offering daily Mass and two Sunday Masses, all in the extraordinary form.

A little background on the extremely limited availability of the Tridentine Mass in Houston:

It's been four years since Pope Benedict promulgated Summorum Pontificum. It's been eight years since Fr. Stephen Zigrang unsuccessfully tried to get permission from the Archdiocese of Galveston-Houston for a Tridentine Mass parish. Read about it here.

To take up where the article leaves off, the Society of St. Pius X took Fr. Zigrang in. He has served at my parish, Queen of Angels in Dickinson, TX, ever since.

Hauntingly Beautiful

2011-10-09T07:01:00.000-05:00

William Byrd

Sometimes I put this piece, William Byrd's Domine secundum actum meum, on "repeat". I never grow tired of it. This version is sung by David Hobson on the Elizabeth soundtrack, where it is titled "Night of the Long Knives".

Lyrics:

Domine secundum actum meum noli me
indicare nihil dignum in conspectu tuo egi.

Ideo deprecor maiestatem tuam, ut tu,
Deus deleas, iniquitatem, meam.

Lord judge me not according to my deeds, for I
have done nothing worthy in thy sight.

Therefore I entreat thy majesty, that thou,
O God, would blot out my iniquity.

Oh, the Possumbilities!

2011-10-08T02:02:00.000-05:00

A used possum popper

I thank God for possums. If we didn't have any, I would buy some and set 'em loose on our property.

Why?

Because I can't think of another hobby for my menfolk that offers the excitement, variety, fun, and satisfaction that hunting and killing possums offers. It's wonderfully economical too! They can do it right here at home, and it usually takes less than 20 minutes. When they come back inside, their chests are expanded; they are grinning happily, and they have a definite bounce in their steps. They regale me with the details of the hunt, opening wide the lid on their secret cache of words that they normally reserve for talk between themselves about SEC football.

Usually, it is a surprise sighting that sets the game in motion. One night as we were driving up the driveway about 11:00, my husband spotted a possum lighting out across the hayfield. Herb tossed a flashlight to Nathaniel, and Nathaniel didn't need to ask questions. He leapt from the moving vehicle and pursued the varmint on foot. Herb followed, bumping along through the tall grass, which switched the sides of the car angrily as Herb tried to zig when Nathaniel zigged and zag, when Nathaniel zagged. I watched our headlights cut through the darkness and sweep crazily from side-to-side, briefly illuminating our next door neighbors' bedroom windows. Two or three times. Oops. That was the possum that got away, but he still did the menfolk a right smart o' good. They were PUMPED when we finally returned to the driveway and parked the car at the house. Emma and I were just slightly overwhelmed and a wee bit nauseous, but we recovered.

Recently Herb actually sat in a rocking chair on the front porch and waited for one to show up and make his day, er, night. It did. And he was so happy! He described the whole scene to me the next morning before instructing me that if I went out the front door and turned to the left, not to be scared when I saw the dead possum, perfectly rigid in its last agony. Wasn't that sweet of my dear husband? He is always looking out for me that way. That particular day, if I went out the back door and turned to the right, I would see another stiff and grimacing possum. He was left over from two nights before. His fearsome visage caused our cats to tiptoe by him, ever on the alert lest the varmint leap up and attack. They needn't have worried. That possum died from what my friend Sylina calls "lead poisoning". He warn't gonna git up ever agin. A lot of possums meet death by lead poisoning around here, but some fall due to cranial contact with a blunt object, like say, a crowbar. Some play cowboys and injuns with Chief Nathaniel Compound Bow. Others succumb because a hoe mysteriously gets caught between their head and shoulders. And then there is the colorful "death by paintball".

So much variety to the danse macabre!

A Real Roses Rosary

2011-10-07T00:01:00.002-05:00

My husband took this picture for me last Sunday after mass, and I have eagerly been awaiting the Feast of the Most Holy Rosary to share it with you.

The rosary was made of rosebuds by my husband's schola buddy, Mickey Rios. He is gifted that way. He buys and arranges the flowers for the altar every week. I was lucky enough to be sitting close to the front of the church where I could admire it. The red of the roses against the white marble stood out like drops of blood on new-fallen snow.

Ave Maria. . .

Planning Emma's Wedding: A Clarification

2011-10-04T09:01:00.002-05:00

In my last post, I said that Emma and I are planning her wedding. This is true. That does not mean she is engaged. She is not. Sorry for the confusion!

We started early because of a miscommunication with a friend who coordinates weddings. That is finally straightened out, but only after we had started reading wedding planning books, making lists, looking at wedding and bridesmaid dress patterns, reception halls, etc. I kept thinking, "This is way too soon," but I went along with it because I am a horrible planner. I figured, "This lady is an expert, so I better do what she says!" Well, she is an expert, but now that we are communicating better, she assured me that we have plenty of time. Whew! Choosing a reception hall is the scariest part for me. Who knew it could be so complicated?

Last year we visited some bridal stores where Emma tried on some dresses, but that was because her pattern drafting teacher told her to do so. She wanted Emma to sketch a wedding dress design, and trying on some dresses was part of the homework. It is all enjoyable to us, and we hope that this season of pre-planning will make things go much more smoothly when she actually does become engaged.

I thought my readers might enjoy these pictures. They were taken by Kaley Palanjian, my niece. She and her mom, my sister, Lisa, accompanied us to the bridal shops last summer. It was a great girl-fun day.

Mommy? I'm Scared

2011-10-02T20:26:00.000-05:00

Emma and I stayed up late last night talking. Part of the conversation involved a discussion about her beau, Nick, being exhausted and texting her to that effect while he was in his basement in Ohio. The rest, I think, was about wedding stuff with a few old Doris Day and Dinah Shore YouTube videos thrown in for good measure. Earlier in the evening we had cautiously watched Father of the Bride, starring Steve Martin. I generally dislike him; Luckily, except for a few incidents, I was happily surprised by this movie. Emma was thrilled by the daughter's wedding dress--it actually had sleeves! And the bridesmaids wore long, frothy pink dresses. That right there earned the movie big points with her. The end was so sad when the daughter left on her honeymoon, though, that I started crying. We've been on a wedding planning streak for the last couple of weeks, so the movie hit a weak spot. Anyway, we got to bed after midnight. I had not been asleep long when I heard Emma talking to me urgently. Panic seized me. I opened my eyes and tried to understand what she was saying.

"Nick is in the basement, and he won't talk to me," I heard.

Groggily, I dragged myself out of bed and followed her to her room, where I asked her to repeat what was wrong.

"Mommy, I'm scared, and I want you to talk to me."
"Oh," I said. "I thought you said, 'Nick is in the basement, and he won't talk to me.'"

She laughed at me.
I crawled into her twin bed with her and threw one arm around her, pulling her close, while she explained that she had heard loud, scary (interpretation: rock) music that sounded like it was right outside her window. She was afraid someone was going to break in.

"Are you afraid of windows?" she asked.
"No," I said.

She is, but she had crept through the house, past all the windows where she felt vulnerable, in search of dangerous listeners of rock music, who might kill us in our sleep, or numb us into paralysis with their loud, scary music. This seemed awfully brave to me. However brave, it finished her off. She was unable to go back to her room alone. I lay on my side and listened to her story, precariously balanced on the edge of her bed. I savored the smell of her skin and the warmth of her body snuggled against mine, safe. No, I was not scared of windows or listeners of scary rock music. I was terrified by the thought that one day, Father of the Bride will be reality, and she will no longer sleep in that bed, nor seek mommy comfort when she is scared.

The Strange, Beautiful Texture of Silence

2011-08-10T06:08:00.000-05:00

It's funny how you read about an idea that makes a huge impact on you and then that same idea pops up in everything else you are reading. That's what has happened to me about the subject of silence/meditation. It's not that I was unfamiliar with the concept, it's just that I have a new depth of understanding of it because it is being presented to me from several different sources.

For years now I have been upset by the intrusion of electronic media into my daily life. My first memory of being disturbed by it was at an aquarium in New Orleans. I'm guessing this was in the early 90s. We had to wait in long lines, and I was dismayed to find television sets hanging above our heads. I did not want my thoughts to be directed against my will. Now this electronic intrusion has progressed to the point of being attacked by commercials via the gas pump.

Here is a marvelous quote from The Chosen by Chaim Potok. Danny Saunders, a college-age Hasidic Jew, explains silence to his friend Reuven:

"You can listen to silence, Reuven. I've begun to realize that you can listen to silence and learn from it. It has a quality and a dimension all its own. It talks to me sometimes. I feel myself alive in it. It talks. And I can hear it. . .You have to want to listen to it, and then you can hear it. It has a strange, beautiful texture. It doesn't always talk. Sometimes--sometimes it cries, and you can hear the pain of the world in it. It hurts to listen to it then. But you have to."

This idea is expanded in A Guide for the Perplexed by E. F. Schumacher. I'll write about it next time.

The Symphony and a Movie, Together

2011-07-23T09:02:00.000-05:00

Emma and I watched the first movie in the "The Lord of the Rings" series, The Fellowship of the Ring, last night while listening to the soundtrack being performed live by the Houston Symphony, a chorus, and soloists.

I noticed that I enjoyed the music much more, but I also often felt torn between watching the movie and listening to the music. This has never happened to me while watching the video at home. Sitting in Jones Hall last night, I tried to imagine what my brain was doing every time I felt that tug. I didn't figure out anything. I wish I could have my brain scanned while watching the movie on a big screen with the recorded soundtrack and again in a situation like last night's with the live music. Without that kind of feedback, all I can say is that I did not like my attention being divided that way, even though I did much prefer the live music. Maybe if the musicians had been hidden in an orchestra pit as they are in a ballet performance, I would not have had a problem. I noticed that when the music grabbed my attention, I listened to it more intently and looked at the musicians. I missed a lot of the movie this way. Of course, I have seen the movie before, so maybe I would not have done this if it were my first viewing.

The Houston Symphony has several of these live soundtrack-plus-a-movie performances on their schedule. I suspect that it has figured out that the segment of the public that will buy a ticket to sit and listen to a traditional live symphony performance is dying off and that the symphony must provide the visual stimulation that young people are used to in order to attract them. Several years ago I started noticing the trend of offering pop music on the schedule, complete with pop singers. For example, Earth, Wind & Fire will perform with the Houston Symphony next spring. (If you are not familiar with its music, just click on the link for a sample.) I guess this is concert is to attract the 50 year-olds? This movie thing just continues this dumbing-us-down development. It's sad.

I had expected that a lot of "Lord of the Rings" fans would come dressed as a favorite character. Emma spotted a couple, but that was all. I didn't see them myself. I did see several women in shorts. Someday maybe I'll learn not to be disappointed by this. Going to a symphony concert is so much more pleasurable to me when women wear sequined gowns and diamond earrings.

Sullivan Ballou: A Model for Fatherhood

2011-07-21T17:06:00.003-05:00

Sullivan Ballou died on this day in 1861 from a wound received at The First Battle of Bull Run. He has become famous for his letter to his wife Sarah, which he wrote the week before. It is read by Liam Clancy in the video above and stands out as a marvelous example of the power of the written word. Ken Burns brought it to the country's attention when he had it read aloud in his PBS Civil War documentary.

What Sullivan Ballou expresses to his wife is his undying love for her and their children but also the rightness of giving his life for what he believes in. Although he was a Union soldier, and my sympathies are definitely with the Confederacy, his decision transcends "sides". He was fighting for what he believed to be the greater good. Though he longed to see his boys grow into "honorable manhood", he chose to risk his life.

In "The Family Has Lost Its Head", an article in Fatherhood and the Family, Ed Willock explains it this way:

"There is a normal tension between the man and wife in regard to the question of the common good. It is the kind of tension that makes for balance. The woman will usually place the good of her family first. For her to do so is normal. The man, if he is truly head of the family, realizes that his family's well-being depends upon the common good and thus will make the common good the first end of his work."

Sullivan Ballou epitomized this kind of headship. I am grateful for his example. I believe that there were many men like him at the time of the Civil War because our country was populated by families with a traditional understanding of marriage. Today, those examples are few but needed so desperately.

Mr. Willock points this out admirably:

"The constant and endless regard of today's good husband for the well-being of his family, so that he saves from the time of their birth for the education of his children, while his neighbor's children starve, or while his local political system grows corrupt, or his Faith goes unchampioned, or his brother is exploited, is a sign of the times. It is goodness measured by the standard of the wife, and thus she is the actual head of the family. This is not good headship measured by any objective standard. Such a father may leave an inheritance of wealth to his sons, whereas what they need most is masculine virtue lived out for their emulation."

Bishop Fellay Consecrates New Church

2011-07-18T08:18:00.001-05:00

Update 8/10/2011: Read complete coverage of the ceremonies and see photographs here: http://sspx.org/chapel_news/cincinatti_oh_8-9-2011/cincinatti_oh_8-9-2011.htm
Especially note the difference between a consecration and a dedication, which I did not understand when I initially wrote my post.

Parishioners of Our Lady of the Assumption Church (OLAC) in Walton, Kentucky, were richly blessed this past weekend. Bishop Fellay, Superior General of the Priestly Fraternity of the Society of St. Pius X (SSPX), dedicated their new church on Saturday, July 16, and conferred confirmations on Sunday, July 17. The dedication actually started with the blessing of the relics on Friday night.

Nicholas Ballester, an Our Lady of the Assumption altar server with the rank of M.C., and my future son-in-law, explained the blessing of the relics to me this way:

"The bishop prepares the relics (signs the papers that go in the reliquaries with them and seals them), and then they are left in an outdoor chapel overnight, vigil constantly being kept before them. Then tomorrow during the ceremony there will be a procession out of the church to get the reliquaries and bring them back to be inserted into the altar and cemented in with blessed cement (it's cement that has been mixed with the gregorian water, which is a special holy water the bishop uses to "baptize" the church. He'll make it tomorrow during the ceremony. It has wine and blessed ashes in it)."

Nicholas is going to share church dedication pictures with me in a few weeks when he returns from serving as a counselor to boys on a SSPX summer camp trip to Civil War sites. In the meantime, you may read about the history of OLAC and see construction pictures beginning on Page 4 of the November Regina Coeli Report. I don't know any details about the actual blessing of the church and consecration of the altars, but reading about how it was done at St. Thomas Becket in Veneta, OR, was tremendously helpful to me, as I have never had the privilege of participating in such a ceremony.http://sspx.org/chapel_news/cincinatti_oh_8-9-2011/cincinatti_oh_8-9-2011.htm

The Helpmate Who Helps Too Much

2011-07-14T06:51:00.002-05:00

One of the fabulous things about being a homemaker is that I have the opportunity to read good books and research important topics. The down side is, it turns me into an "expert", and I can and sometimes do give too much advice to my husband. This dilemma grabbed my attention in an article by Ed Willock called "The Father in the Home". It's from the book, Fatherhood and Family, which is Volume Three of the Integrity Series. Mr. Willock says, "The father must be the head of the house, and that means if and when he becomes a better man it will be in accordance with his own idea of perfection and not his wife's. To say other than this is to imply that mother knows best. If she knows best, then God would have made her the head of the house. He didn't."

Later in the article, Mr. Willock says, "In order for the man to be the proper head of the family, his wife must continually consent to it. He cannot effectively force her to consent. On the other hand, the man must consent to her being his helper or else she cannot truly be helpful. If he seeks advice for living from some other sources, looking down upon her suggestions, then he is cutting himself off from the most likely source of wisdom."

These two quotes illuminate why marriage is indeed a dance!

One of the wonderful things I observed while watching waltzing lessons is that it is the woman's job to make the man look good while recovering from any leadership mistakes. She must do this without ever leaving her role as follower. How is this done in a marriage? Well, I think in the same way that the wife corrects mistakes that she makes in "helping" too much: encouraging and supporting him. I found this helpful list today on Betty Beguiles: 15 Ways to Encourage Your Husband.

Compliment him on his strengths and achievements and acknowledge his victories.
Create a peaceful atmosphere within our home. Make it a place that he can lay down his burdens and rest easy.
Pray for him. Reread The Power of a Praying Wife.
Write him love letters. Make sure he knows how absolutely swoon-worthy I find him to be.
Speak well of him to friends and family. It wouldn't hurt if he accidentally overheard from time to time, either.
When he stumbles, respond with mercy, compassion and encouragement.
Encourage him to dream big and find ways to support those dreams.
Try not to give feedback on every single decision he makes.
Ask him for his opinion and guidance. Make sure he knows how much I value his opinion.
Be affectionate. Don't be shy about communicating how much I desire him.
Make sure he has the time to do the things he loves and to pursue his passions.
Apologize for things I’ve done in the past that have hurt him.
Thank him for all his hard work and many sacrifices.
Don’t bring up past failures or hurts or rehash old fights. Truly forgive and forget.
Have faith in him and let him lead.

The Factory Model in Home Life

2011-07-13T14:18:00.000-05:00

How important is efficiency in a family's home life?

I've been thinking a lot about this since we attended a dinner theater at church way back on Laetare Sunday. The play presented was Cheaper by the Dozen, and I really enjoyed it. It made me laugh. The father and mother in this biographical drama, set in the 1920s, were an engineer team with twelve children. They helped factories become more efficient, and they applied these factory ideals to their family life. For example, the father showed the children the most efficient way to to take a bath, and he installed record players in the bathrooms so that the children could listen to foreign language instruction while they were in there. No time was to ever be wasted. Great emphasis was put on testing and being able to skip a grade. The parents obviously loved their children and wanted what was best for them, and there is an absolutely fabulous defense of the pro-life position. . .It's just. . .I don't know. I felt like they saw their children as products to be manufactured rather than humans to be nurtured. This had nothing to do with the number of children they had, just their way of parenting them. My feeling was that every one in that family had to be busy at all times improving themselves or doing something productive as determined by the parents. Maybe it's different in the book on which this play is based.

As a mother whose children are grown, I often do look back and wish that I had done a lot of things differently, but making efficiency and "measured" education top priorities of my family life are not on my list. Pondering this, I asked my dear engineer husband what he had thought of the family life portrayed in the play. He admitted that he liked the emphasis on efficiency and achievement. He also said that he did not want to live that way. Whew!

Emma and I discussed this issue as we cleaned the kitchen after breakfast one morning. She was reading A Daughter of the Land, by Gene Stratton Porter, and she said a female character marries into a family that emphasizes work. It is often made-up work, and there is never an end to it. Eventually the young wife gets pregnant, becomes exhausted from the lack of leisure and dies in childbirth. Later, I compared this in my mind with one of my grandmother's favorite stories. She married at 15, and she and my grandfather lived with his parents in the early years of their marriage. This was in the 1920s, just like the timeframe of Cheaper by the Dozen. My grandmother said that she and her mother-in-law, Martha Rollo Somerset, would hurry through their daily chores so that when they were done, they could snatch up their cane poles and Catawba worms and light out for Bassett's Pond. Clearly, the "work" had an end, and there was this wonderful leisure to be enjoyed together at the end of it, the memory of which was so dear to my grandmother that it brought a twinkle to her eyes and a smile to her lips, decades and decades later. I think this leisure was truly an end in itself--a time to absorb nature and enjoy each other's companionship--not just a "break" so that they could do more work.

I do believe that scheduling and efficiency have a place in family life. I just don't know exactly what prominence should be given them. Probably if I had had more children, I would have been forced to figure it out. All I know is, my attempts to give primary importance to these things have never lasted long, whether from my own lack of discipline or because I simply don't value them highly enough. Probably it's both.

Pod'n Me: the Ramblings of a Paleo? Catholic

2011-07-10T07:07:00.000-05:00

In my struggle to understand how to best help my daughter get well, I have become addicted to alternative health podcasts.

I eagerly await each new show from "The Healthy Skeptic" by Chris Kresser. He is far and away my favorite podcaster because of the depth of his knowledge but also because he doesn't have an agenda: He's open minded. I also find excellent information on several others like "Paleo Body, Paleo Mind" and Jimmy Moore's "Livin' La Vida Low-Carb". (Chris Kresser discusses the variations in the "paleo" classification here.) I have learned lots of things that have helped me with the choices I am confronted with in dealing with Emma's Hashimoto's/gluten intolerance/depression. Sometimes it is helpful details. On a "Healthy Skeptic" podcast I learned about the influence selenium has on the body's ability to handle iodine supplementation. On a "Primal Body, Primal Mind" interview with Dr. Janet Lang, I learned about using minuscule amounts of iodine for Hashimoto's once the patient is stable--their immune system is no longer attacking the thyroid gland. It reaffirmed my decision not to give Emma iodine in the beginning of her treatment. I think I understand now why she crashed and burned when she took the prescription cortisol and bioidentical thyroid in December. Her adrenals were just too weak for her body to handle it. I shudder to think what might have happened if I had given her the prescribed iodine then.

I hear all the time about people with Hashimoto's who just take thyroid medication and are "fine" without changing their diet or doing anything hard, the implication being that Emma is suffering needlessly by going medication-free. It discourages me horribly. To all those people, we tried medication. Emma not only didn't improve, she got dramatically worse. Listening to podcasts gives me the support I desperately need to stick with what we are doing. She is dependent on me to help her to stay motivated as well. She chose the path we are on when I gave her the options six months ago. She decided that she wanted to go off the medication, and she decided that going gluten-free only wasn't enough. She wanted to do the GAPS diet because it offers the best chance at healing the gut, thereby calming the immune system, which is the critical issue with an autoimmune disease. GAPS, being grain-free and sugar-free, fits the paleo ideal.

As far as the big picture goes, Chris Kresser's podcast on the Gut-Brain Connection is incredible. I think it is basic knowledge that everyone needs but especially young women who plan to marry. They are going to be responsible for their children's health and their husband's, and this information is foundational. I had already read a lot about this subject, but this podcast deepened and broadened my understanding. Plus, a lot of these topics are complicated, so the more times I hear/read about them, the more I "get it".

I have found that my Catholic faith dovetails perfectly with my better understanding of nutrition and how the body works. It's pretty funny, as most of the podcasters I listen to are evolutionists and/or feminists. I have learned from them that the birth control pill is a hormone disaster, rendering a woman estrogen dominant, which is the underlying cause of many serious health problems. And the hormone imbalance doesn't necessarily correct itself when the woman stops taking "the pill". To eat a diet that produces health, someone needs to stay home and make everything from scratch. You can't buy anything prepackaged or eat fast food if you want to avoid industrial seed oils, high fructose corn syrup, genetically modified food, preservatives, MSG, gluten, and sugar. And when you do take these foods out of your diet, and eat good fats, grassfed meat, and organic vegetables, you get pregnant! Chris Kresser and Robb Wolf (of the Paleo Solution) have both talked about this phenomenon. Their clients are discovering fabulously increased fertility. Robb Wolf talked about a woman who followed his diet and exercise recommendations and got pregnant for the first time when she was 48! She had been through all kinds of fertility treatments without success. I found support for traditional femininity in an interview with a fertility specialist who prescribes this way of eating (nutrient dense/low-carb/paleo) for his patients. He said that fertility doctors are seeing the first wave of women who grew up playing competitive sports. They are experiencing infertility because their hard training (stress, low body fat) caused their Hypothalamus/Pituitary/Adrenal (HPA) to become dysfunctional. Here is an explanation of the HPA axis from the National Institutes of Health:

The Stress Circuit

The HPA axis is a feedback loop by which signals from the brain trigger the release of hormones needed to respond to stress. Because of its function, the HPA axis is also sometimes called the "stress circuit." Briefly, in response to a stress, the brain region known as the hypothalamus releases corticotropin-releasing hormone (CRH). In turn, CRH acts on the pituitary gland, just beneath the brain, triggering the release of another hormone, adrenocorticotropin (ACTH) into the bloodstream. Next, ACTH signals the adrenal glands, which sit atop the kidneys, to release a number of hormonal compounds.

I once read that ideally, a woman needs about 28% body fat to be able to conceive, maintain a healthy pregnancy, and nurse the baby. I don't know what the recommendation is now, but the point is that women need stored fat to be able to do well what they are designed to do. Low body fat and constant stress can contribute to amenorreah. It's interesting that the fascination with women being skinny came about at the same time as the introduction of the birth control pill.

A couple of these "paleo" podcasters even promote prayer/meditation as essential to overall health. For all these reasons, I feel like I have found the companion diet for John Senior's The Restoration of Christian Culture. This approach to health/lifestyle is also a ringing endorsement for Fr. Vincent McNabb's The Church and The Land, as the easiest way to eat the way you should while having babies is to live in the country and raise your own meat and vegetables.

My Answer to Fallen Priests, Murdered Children, and Other Tragedies Far From My Home

2011-07-07T06:42:00.000-05:00

I pray for them.

I pray for priests, seminarians, and religious every day. I pray for the dead, the dying, the sick, our country, our leaders, etc. It's the only reasonable response I can come up with to the sorrows of this world. I have decided that I just don't want to know any particulars. I don't want to know the details of tragic events outside of my direct sphere of influence. Why? Because the details upset me, and for every breaking news story begging me to be outraged and/or cry, there are hundreds of others that are not reported. What about them? Being upset is a negative thing because it distracts me from doing my duty, and it uses up my emotional energy with no return on my investment. The world seems bent on sucking out my emotions. I am learning, finally, to guard them. A woman's emotions are too delicate a thing to be tampered with. All the researching I have been doing on the female endocrine system reinforces my decision to extremely limit my exposure to stress, and bad news is a stressor as far as the endocrine system is concerned. Chronic stress can overtax the adrenals, leading to adrenal fatigue, which can start a domino effect of problems for your hormones. The stressed body will actually rob reproductive hormones to pay adrenal hormones. In this way stress and poor diet seem to be the main contributors to the rising problem of infertility. On the way to out and out infertility, you get to visit mood swings, PMS, and depression.

Also, I want to cultivate inner peace so that I can share it with my family, especially my husband, who must go out into the world every day to earn a living. I have found that if I am all caught up in the latest murder/kidnapping/scandal then that is hard for me to do.

Our modern lifestyles are overly stressful. A lot of it we cannot control. However, we can certainly limit our exposure to "news". I am choosing to be the heart of my home, not the heart of the world.

Emma's Hashimoto's Diagnosis, Part 6

2011-06-24T13:17:00.001-05:00

New Year New Diet, continued from Emma's Hashimoto's Diagnosis, Part 5

In January, Emma had been gluten-free for one month. It had clearly helped, but she had a long, long way to go. She had setbacks that would keep her in bed for days. First, we did the 30- day detox that Dr. Kharrazian recommends in his book, Why Do I Still Have Thyroid Symptoms. I won't go into all the details. We continued to avoid gluten and also eliminated nuts, corn, shellfish, tomatoes, pork, eggs, dairy, soy, and sugar and drank a detox "shake" made with rice protein. I loved it, but Emma could not stand it. Just the smell of it made her feel sick at first. I experimented with fruit, mostly organic blueberries, and ice until I came up with something she could tolerate. Or maybe she just got used to it. We both did well on the plan. I noticed a big increase in energy and my clarity of thinking. Emma noticed the whites of our eyes got extra white.

Because of Emma's gluten intolerance, we were fairly sure she had a damaged gut lining, and she and I both wanted to heal it. The GAPS diet is designed to do just that. So at the end of the 30 day-detox, we began the GAPS Intro diet, which is primarily bone broth and boiled vegetables. No grain at all, so the shake we had been drinking would be illegal because of the rice. I also had Emma take BioKult every day, a probiotic created by Dr. Natasha Campbell-McBride, the author of Gut and Psychology Syndrome.

I read about the die-off symptoms that might occur as a result of the bad bacteria dying as the gut was re-populated with the good bacteria in the BioKult, but I really did not expect Emma to go through that. I was proved wrong within a week. She had terrible die-off symptoms and would lie on the couch crying, whacking the back of it repeatedly with her arm and shouting, "Why do I have to do this diet?" She actually scared me. It was like an exorcism. That lasted about two weeks. Thankfully she wasn't like that all the time. It mostly happened in the evening. I have no clue why.

She also had extreme muscle weakness. She had a hard time just walking from one end of the house to the other and spent many days just lying on the couch.

One day we realized that she no longer had sinus problems when she awoke each morning, and the mysterious chronic acne on her shoulders had also disappeared. The sinus issues we had been fighting for years. The M.D.s had given her antibiotics, which never helped. Now we knew why; it was caused by a food allergy.

One of the more mysterious symptoms of hypothyroidism is the swelling it causes. Within a few weeks of starting this diet, Emma lost a lot of inches in her midriff. She even lost inches in her head--she knew that because of the way her white hat fit--and her upper arms. Since she didn't lose any weight, we decided these lost inches must be to decreased inflammation. She and I had wondered why her upper arms were not proportionately sized with the rest of her body. They were bigger. It was only recently that I discovered that it is a hypothyroidism symptom, and only last week did I learn what actually causes it. (Thanks pubmed!) It's glycosaminoglycans. Glycosaminoglycans are supposed to be in your joints, providing cushion. With hypothyroidism, they can end up in your tissues. Why they do, I don't know. It's very frustrating. I still don't know if the upper arm swelling and the swelling in her head and midriff were both caused by glycosaminoglycans. The funny thing is, glycosaminoglycans are what we were getting a ton of by eating the bone broth. I learned about them from watching this somewhat corny video by Dr. Cate Shanahan, author of Deep Nutrition:

After about a month on GAPS, Emma realized that she could play her favorite Celtic songs by ear on her tin whistle. This was something she had wanted and tried to do for a long time but could not. At first it was a little work, then it became nearly effortless. She just thought of a song, and she could play it through.

We tried to reintroduce dairy and eggs. I was so sure that she would not have any problem with these foods. Again, I was proven wrong. Within a couple of days of introducing them, she became very depressed. We have tried several times since then, and she has yet to be able to tolerate dairy, though she seems to be able to tolerate egg yolks in baked goods now. Another food that she always ate before was peanut butter. She reintroduced it by eating one tablespoon. The next day she had a rash up and down her arms. We were both exceedingly grateful for this. We both prefer a rash to depression.

Emma steadily improved until it was time to do the TH-1/TH-2 challenge, which is a test to see if one of the arms of the immune system is dominant. By then it was March. The test is easy to do. The chiropractor gave Emma two sets of pills comprised mostly of herbs, I believe. One set would stimulate the TH-1 side; the other set would stimulate TH-2. If you react to the TH-1 set, then you know to support TH-2 to bring the two sides into balance and vice versa. Some people don't react either way. She also did the GABA challenge, which is a test to see if you have a leaky brain barrier. I really did not want to do these tests. This same information can be found out by lab tests now, and I did not want to trigger an autoimmune flare by exciting her immune system, because I had learned by painful experience that with Emma, this would mean DEPRESSION. I let the chiropractor talk me into it though. Boy, did I learn to regret that.

Perplexing Poultry Problem #573

2011-06-15T11:16:00.000-05:00

How to Remove Chicken from the Freezer

I know. You're thinking, "Just open the door, reach in, and remove the chicken."

That is always what I have done in the past, dear reader. But not today.

No, today, the chicken is UNDER the freezer, and it is stinky dead. The freezer is in the garage, where it is probably 110 degrees.

After studying the situation, Emma got down on all fours and tried pulling it out from the front. "Ewwww!" she cried, "WORMS ARE IN ITS EYE!" Although she could see this appetizing detail, she could not extract the putrefied carcass. Tugging only loosed some feathers.

"Let me try pushing it to the back," I told her. "I think that is how it got under there in the first place."

Wielding first a shovel and then a broom handle, I poked and prodded and stirred, all to no avail. The chicken did not emerge from the back side.

"OK. I guess we'll just have to move the freezer," I sighed. Emma and I gathered our strength and hove into the mammoth upright. It might as well have been a granite mountain. It didn't even tremble. We tried again. Same result. I appraised the situation anew and came to the firm conclusion that a dead chicken under the freezer is definitely a man problem. I informed Emma.

"Let's go visit Grandma," she said brightly. So we perambulated away from Perplexing Poultry Problem #573 and did not look back.

She Thinks She's a Rodeo Bull

2011-06-11T07:56:00.001-05:00

Fiona is finally confined. I hope so anyway. We went through several weeks of her escaping on a regular basis, even after my husband added a third electric wire to her fence. Two or three nights we resorted to tying her to a tree. The most interesting escape occurred when I was here alone making yogurt. The milk was four degrees away from the correct temperature, and I was stirring constantly to keep it from scorching when I got the call from my mom, alerting me that Fiona was in her back yard. What a dilemma! I decided to finish the milk. It took about five minutes. Then I lit out for my mom's backyard. No Fiona. I searched the wide open field next door for a sign of her but found none, so I ran back to our house and discovered her in the garage. This is the garage where my husband's delicate airplane project resides, as well as lots of other equipment/paraphernalia. I chased her through a maze of buckets, ice chests, and bicycles, wincing as she galloped across the air compressor hose. She exited the open garage door and took off to the north. She sneaked through the "alley" between the dog's yard and Emma's bower, and I headed her off by the water pump. She rolled her eyes, tossed her head, and performed her special Fiona leap, twist, and kick maneuver, slinging saliva in a long string. I darted in and unsuccessfully made a grab for her halter. Away she ran. . .back to the garage. Luckily, she is a glutton. I sneaked up on her while her head probed the depths of a trash can where we keep 50-pound bags of dog food. I grabbed her halter easily this time; the struggle occurred when I tried to disengage her head from the bottom of the can where she was scarfing up dog food at warp speed. I remembered her previous owner hinted that she could be a little "feisty" periodically. Feisty? The cow is wicked, possessed, evil. Feisty ain't even close.

Emma finally figured out that Fiona was stepping through to freedom in a corner where there happened to be a few more inches of space between the top wire and the middle wire. The bad bovine pouted for a couple of days once that escape hatch was fixed. A few days later, Emma and I decided to take a walk through the pasture while we prayed the rosary. When we walked along Fiona's fence, she came tearing over from the other side and walked with us. "Holy cow!" I thought. Maybe there's hope for her yet.

Houston Latin Mass Community Family Picnic and An Update on FSSP Plans for New Houston TLM Apostolate

2011-04-28T05:34:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Mr. Jon Merrill, I have been able to share information about the Priestly Fraternity of St. Peter's plans to establish a Traditional Latin Mass parish in the Houston area. Most recently he sent me information on the Houston Latin Mass Community's family picnic, scheduled for Sunday, May 1, and a link to Fr. Van Vliet's letter with the latest information regarding the Fraternity's work toward establishing a new Houston apostolate. I have copied the picnic information below. An excerpt from Fr. Van Vliet's letter follows. I have provided a link to the complete letter, which is quite detailed and includes bank account information for donations.

We invite your friends and family to join the Houston Latin Mass Community for our first Family Picnic on Sunday, May 1 from 11:00 a.m. - 3 p.m. at Seven Meadows Central Park, 23610 Seven Meadows Parkway, Katy, 77494. Hot dogs and drinks will be provided; please bring a covered dish and dessert to share. (See attachment for invitation.) Please RSVP to Mollie Charba at mcharba@juno.com or 281-392-6011 (Home) 281-220-7685 (Cell). Call or e-mail if you have any questions. We look forward to seeing you!

Picnic Invitation.doc

http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&source=s_q&hl=en&geocode=&q=23610+Seven+Meadows+Parkway,+Katy,+Tx&aq=&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=45.8712,108.017578&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=23610+7+Meadows+Pkwy,+Katy,+Texas+77494&ll=29.736061,-95.743103&spn=0.197649,0.421944&t=h&z=12

The Houston Latin Mass Community is a group of individuals who wish to support the efforts of the Priestly Fraternity of St. Peter in the establishment of a personal parish in accordance with Can. 518 for celebrations following the ancient form of the Roman Rite.

April 11, 2011

Dear Faithful of the Houston Area:

I am writing to announce that the Priestly Fraternity of St. Peter (the Fraternity) is planning to establish a new apostolate in the Houston area as early as this summer. His Eminence, Daniel Cardinal Di Nardo has given his permission to establish a parish in the Houston area staffed by the Fraternity. This is a great blessing since all the sacraments would be administered using the liturgical books of 1962. A beautiful 40 acres property is being donated for the purpose of establishing this Fraternity run parish and we are making the necessary arrangements for the title transfer. The land is located near the intersection of Fairbanks North Houston and Breen Road in the northwest quadrant of the city inside the beltway.

Read the complete letter here.

Scared of the Light

2011-04-27T07:23:00.001-05:00

My dear husband is a man of action. He knows what he wants, and he gets it. I really, really admire that, as I am exactly the opposite. Depending on the expense of the item, I can deliberate forever, until I am so worn out by worrying over it, I just want to forget the whole thing. There is only one slight problem with my husband's method. If it is something inexpensive, he doesn't read the label carefully. It's like there is this intense magnetism between his procure-happy fingers and the object of his desire, and it totally blinds him to details. This has led to some interesting purchases, but last night's definitely tops them all.

We've been banging around in the dark for several months now with inoperative night lights. I was perfectly willing to continue this way, as I have read how even a little light can disrupt your circadian rhythm and contribute to sleep problems, which my husband has aplenty. I failed to share this information with him, though, so he waited patiently for me to replace the little stubbed-toe preventers, as such things fall under my domain of responsibility. Unbeknownst to me, yesterday, apparently, was my deadline for fulfilling this important duty. Despite putting in a full day at work (which was a very trying one because of a power outage) and attending evening schola practice and then still having to drive an hour to get home, he squeezed in a trip to the night light store.

He arrived home as Emma and I were in the midst of the rosary, strode past us purposefully while briefly "showing" me what was in his right hand and confidently giving me the "I came, I saw, I conquered" look. Bewildered, I kept saying Hail Marys, though he had shattered my concentration. "What was that?" I wondered.

Shortly, he returned, and as he passed through, he said under his breath, "I made a little mistake".

So much for meditating on the mysteries of the rosary! Overcome with idle curiosity, my brain slammed on the brakes and made an illegal u-turn as I contemplated the mystery of what my husband had had in his hand and what mistake he had made when he disappeared with it down the hall. You can see why "Grant me the grace to pray as I ought" is one of my favorite prayers.

Luckily, I managed to regain control before the end of the rosary, and by the time we had finished reading about Easter Tuesday, I had actually forgotten about my husband's purchase and "mistake"--that is until 11 p.m., when I came out of the master bathroom and turned out the light to go to bed. Immediately I was bathed in a blue glow from a new night light. Before I could recover from the shock, it changed to red, then green. I crawled into bed in the twilight zone and lay there anxiously in the miasmic atmosphere, waiting for the little green men to take me away in their spaceship.

"I can't sleep!" I whined to my husband as I clutched the covers and nervously watched the shifting colors on the ceiling.

"Shut your eyes," he advised practically. Then he snored.

The Elegant Laborer

2011-04-26T07:56:00.000-05:00

Yesterday my dream became concrete reality. We had a sidewalk poured to connect the back of our house to Emma's bower and my parent's driveway. As I watched the work progress, my eye kept lighting on this one man. He swung a pick ax, operated heavy equipment, and worked concrete with complete ease and looked elegant doing it. Why? He wore a long-sleeved western shirt, a cowboy hat, and light-colored jeans--nothing unusual, but he stood out from the other laborers who wore short-sleeved pullovers or t-shirts and ball caps.

I wonder what he wears to church.

Inspiration for Young Women

2011-03-28T10:42:00.000-05:00

This is an excerpt from a letter written in August of 2008 by Fr. Gerard J. Beck, SSPX, to the girls who had attended the summer camp where he served as chaplain:

It is so important that you remember always the beauty and importance of noble womanhood, and strive for that ideal in your own life. Nourish your mind and heart--by what you read, watch, listen to--with what is noble and uplifting, things that will remind you constantly of your goal and push you to make efforts towards it. Surround yourself, as much as possible, only with what is good, true, and beautiful, and your soul will come to be, little by little, good and true and beautiful itself.

It is not a commplace ideal that I encourage you to strive for, I know. But as Evelyn Waugh said, "You were born into the wrong age for such gentle ambitions; you must either be much more--or much less." The world today will not let you be mediocre--you must either strive for true nobility, or be swallowed up by the vulgarity around you.

Be noble-hearted in your efforts then. "Life cannot blossom unless one has the courage to give what one has in order to become something more." Give everything you have, that you may blossom into the beautiful and noble woman that God created you to be.

You Can Take a Girl Out of the Country. . .

2011-03-28T08:02:00.001-05:00

Saturday morning I donned a springtime dress of wisteria blue with splashes of delicate pink and yellow blossoms. I draped a strand of pearls across my neck; matching earrings completed the look. I placed a medium blue straw hat on my head and covered my feet in some adorable little Mary Jane black flats. Feeling fresh as a flower from my punkin head to my twinkle toes, I joyfully betook myself to do my weekly shopping at the outdoor farmer's market in Houston, about a 45-minute trip. I planned to make several other stops, but the farmer's market demanded first place, as I was on a mission to procure pastured pork bacon, a high demand item with a tendency to sell out quickly. I felt incredibly light-hearted and gay as I perused the vendors' booths.

The first cloud appeared on my horizon when the pastured pork people told me that the only bacon they had left was mostly fat. Determined not to let it get me down, I opted for ground pork and bratwurst and continued on my merry way. The bee farm lady greeted me, "Hello, friend!", and I purchased six beeswax tapers, four votives, and a gallon of raw honey from this sweet lady. I love farmer's market folks. They're so sociable.

With pork products in one hand, and bee products in the other, I was now comfortably balanced and securely rooted to the ground. It felt good, similar to what my dear husband does for me, who is serious, focused, and always plans his work and works his plan. I have a tendency to get so happy that I begin to float. Then, if I have a plan, I forget it as I ride currents of air wherever they may carry me and sing, "This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it!"

I intended to shop some more after I deposited these goods in the car. However, on my way there, I caught a glimpse of my right foot, and my light heart crashed suddenly to the ground, for behold, from my instep protruded several inches of this woodsy arrangement of oak leaves and pollen pods. I shuddered. Instead of an attractively-shod, civilized foot, I had an attractively-shod, savage foot that looked like it was part of a Sasquatch costume!

Dear me!

Humiliation is good for one's soul, I reminded myself as I hurried to the car. After depositing my purchases in the cooler, I sat down sideways in the driver's seat with my legs out the door and studied the situation on the bottom of my shoe. It appeared to be a giant oak debris bouquet, glued in place with a massive, moist chicken poop of reddish brown hue, a gift from our home flock. Turning, I reached for the fast food napkin stash that we have traditionally kept in the glove box. Egad! The cupboard was bare. "Oh, nooooo!" I despaired. I blamed this nasty situation on the Specific Carbohydrate Diet, which required that we completely give up fast food. And without drive-thru food, one no longer receives a steady supply of emergency napkins.

I searched frantically in crevices, pockets, and pokes for a used napkin or tissue, all the while contorting my body awkwardly as I dangled the offensive foot out the door. My efforts produced one small rectangle of a TJMaxx receipt. I examined it hopefully. Could it do the job? Could it separate the unsightly arrangement from my shoe and yet maintain my hygiene so that I might confidently continue my planned itinerary?

I realized I had no real choice. Grimly, I took a deep breath and ever so gingerly attempted to purge my sole of the wages of chicken contamination. Immediately, I felt something dampen the index finger of my right hand. I dropped the receipt, spread my fingers and examined the offended digit. A reddish brown blob coated half of my finger nail. Oh, gag! Deep disgust churned in my delicate stomach. Retrieving the receipt, I carefully folded it and attempted to remove the poop from my finger. I succeeded in heavily outlining my nail with manure. I stared at it in shock, my mouth open. Feeling queasy, I decided to drive directly home and indulge in applying massive quantities of soap and hot water with a scrub brush. I tossed the polluted receipt onto the parking lot and closed the car door.

Now, guilt as heavy as a Japanese sumo wrestler sat upon me, squeezing the last bit of lighthearted air from my lungs. "Don't mess with Texas!" it declared unreasonably, "especially at the farmer's market, you idiot, where all the earth day people shop!" Totally miserable, I pondered this message. Slowly, I opened the car door and peered down at the brown-streaked receipt. Yuck.

Rebelling, I closed the door again.

The sumo wrestler bounced. "Think of the little children!" he demanded.

Dutifully, I imagined an adorable two-year-old, angelically radiant in his innocense, picking up my refuse and saying with a hurt tone, "Look, Mommy."

"Uncle," I squeaked, miserably.

I grabbed a plastic grocery bag, re-opened the door, leaned out, and snatched up the abandoned slip of poo paper. I felt no relief, though, because the second I secured it, I felt something moist on my right thumb.

"This could not be happening," I tried to convince myself.

But it was. I now had a brown thumb in addition to the brown outline on my index finger.

"Waaaaaaaah!" I cried, giving into total frustration for my situation. I was unclean.

Then I remembered the Whole Foods bathroom, bountifully equipped with water, liquid lavender soap, and paper towels, and less than five minutes away. I drove there.

I sighed contentedly as I lavished my hands with the liquid soap and worked it into a mound of sanitizing suds so thick, my hands disappeared completely. I rinsed and repeated. I breathed in the intoxicating loveliness of the lavender and joyfully greeted the pink purity of my right hand's thumb and index finger. My spirits soared heavenward. Cleanliness is indeed next to godliness.

Resuming my errands, I took a side road through a classy old residential neighborhood in River Oaks, blessed with multitudes of mature shade trees and vast walls of giant azaleas, all abundantly abloom. I felt the familiar lift of happiness. As my feet lost contact with the ground, I pulled over and texted Emma excitedly: "I'm on the azalea trail! Yippee!"

Bad Cow, Bad Fence, Good Neighbors

2011-03-24T23:40:00.000-05:00

After a long morning away from home yesterday, Emma and I returned about 1 p.m., tired and hungry. Emma stayed in the car to finish something she was reading. I hurried in to start lunch but was first greeted by the flashing light on the answering machine. I pressed the "play" button.

"Hello, Wendy. This is your neighbor down the street, P____. Your Jersey cow came down the road this morning headed for the highway. . ."

It was one of three messages, the final one informing me that her attempts to capture the wily Fiona proved fruitless and that she had given up and called the sheriff.

O help!

I hot-footed it to the car and told Emma. The news shocked her so much that she denied at first that Fiona could be gone. Then she recovered herself and ran for the lead rope. I dashed back to the phone and called the sheriff's department to see if they had recovered the renegade Jersey. I could imagine that scene: Fiona surrounded by squad cars with flashing lights, craftily assessing her options, then slyly distracting and disgusting them by plopping piles of splattery poop on the road, at which point she would break and run. Ugh.

The sheriff's department dispatcher came on the line. "This is Wendy Haught," I said. "Did you catch my Jersey cow?"

"No, ma'am," the dispatcher replied emphatically without hesitation. Apparently Fiona was the only Jersey cow on the run that day. The dispatcher didn't need to ask me any questions.

"OK, thanks," I said, not the least surprised that Fiona had eluded them.

Emma came in to change shoes. We both grabbed some of these little date/almond butter/squash/coconut balls she had made and ran for the car. I had had one of these things for breakfast and nothing since. Somehow running to the Honda with a handful of vegan treats seemed horribly inadequate for the high drama to which we had been called. Surely this scene called for beans and bacon or jerky and biscuits and a pair of fleet-footed little Mustangs. Oh, well. As usual, Fiona was directing the show, not I.

We tore off down the driveway, praying fervently to St. Anthony, St. Francis, and St. Isidore. Thankfully, my neighbor, P____, with the help of a friendly motorist, had been able to divert Fiona away from the highway and down a side road. I planned to search there first. If we didn't find her, then I would let Emma implement her plan of searching off-road on the 4-wheeler.

Right away we noticed that there was continuous pasture fencing on both sides of the side road. Deo Gratias! She would have had to keep to the road where she would be easier to catch. We cruised slowly along, checking for any openings where she might get through. We passed a small pasture with three fat cream-colored beef cows and one bony brown and white Jersey who was determinedly impersonating a fat cream-colored beef cow.

"There she is!" Emma cried exuberantly.

We pulled in the driveway of the home that adjoined the pasture, hopped out and knocked on the front door. No answer. We waited a few minutes while I thought this over. Should we go fetch Fiona without the owner being present? This was indeed a dilemma. I mean, after all, this is Texas, y'all. You don't just go rushing pell-mell into other folks' fenced pastures. They might think you're a cattle rustler and take a shotgun to your hindmost parts. For all I knew they were in there right now, pressed against a wall, peering at us stealthily through a window.

Yikes!

Being the sensible, cautious person I am, I said, "Come on, Emma," and we headed for the pasture gate. We let ourselves in, and Emma quickly worked Fiona into a corner where she was able to grab her halter and secure it to the lead rope. The other three cows moved close and watched intently. It was a little nerve-wracking, especially since one of them had horns. They followed us, jogging, to the gate. Then they walked with us as far as they could inside their fence. They didn't want Fiona to go.

Boo-hoo. Or should I say Moo-hoo?

I followed behind Emma and Fiona in the Honda just to make sure no trouble overtook them. As I inched along, I counted our many blessings. How lucky we were! We are eternally grateful to P____ and whoever captured Fiona and locked her up in the pasture with the three beef cows. Our story could have had a much different ending.

Mr. Haught returned home from work and promptly fixed the fence. Fiona, just as promptly, hurried to the repaired area to inspect her options. Hope springs eternal. Even in bad cows.

Emma's Hashimoto's Diagnosis, Part 5

2011-03-12T22:20:00.001-06:00

The Visit with Nick, continued from Part 4

So Emma arrived at the Ballester's, and Nick took over as chief caretaker, a job he filled admirably. I first wrote about this young man last July when he and Emma were in Italy together for a choir group pilgrimage. At that point, they had carried on a long distance relationship for about six months. It had started in Syracuse when they both attended a Christmas "jam session" that Fr. Stanich organized. (Read about that here and here.) Nick assures me that it was love at first sight for him. Emma says that she didn't understand what was going on, but that he was very nice to her. She specifically remembered him hastening to help her with her coat and that he was very polite. They barely spent any time together in Syracuse and what they did was in a group setting. However, Nick was convinced that Emma would make a great wife and mother, and realizing that it was going to be difficult to win her when they lived so far apart, he wasted no time. His parish's group returned home before Emma's departed Syracuse; he asked to be her friend on Facebook and began e-mailing her before she even got home. I admire his "obstacles be damned, I've found what I want, and I am going after it" approach--it's so reassuring and thoroughly masculine. He told me that aside from the Faith, Emma is his highest cause and that she is his "pearl of great price". He has proved it over and over, especially through her illness. God bless him. I have moms say things to me all the time about Emma being too young and that I should be glad that they are separated. I say, "I love this young man, so steadfast and true, and I couldn't be happier and more proud that he has chosen Emma!"

This Christmas visit would not be the first time that Nick had taken care of her. Emma was actually quite ill on the Italy pilgrimage that they both went on in June/July, and he took care of her then. At that point we did not know that she had Hashimoto's or was gluten intolerant. The pilgrims lived on refined carbohydrates; mealtimes were irregular, and they maintained a grueling schedule of walking almost all day, every day. Emma began having serious blood sugar issues, near blackouts, dizziness, fatigue, and muscle weakness. Nick took pictures of her napping in the strangest places: on a bench, leaning against a wall, etc. Understanding what I do now about her illness, I think that she probably should have been hospitalized on the day they made the pilgrimage to the 7 basilicas of Rome, but no one, including me, knew how terribly sick she was, as she had seemed perfectly healthy until this trip. When the details were related to me upon her return home, all I could come up with was that she was not used to going without protein. The pilgrims would eat pastries for breakfast and then not eat lunch until late afternoon after walking all day. And the lunch was usually more carbs, like pizza. At home she always had lots of protein for breakfast--bacon and eggs, omelets, etc. I couldn't figure out why the other pilgrims didn't get sick. Emma and I decided that they were used to eating that way. Once home, she recovered quickly, which led us to the false conclusion that it was only the lack of protein and adequate rest that had caused her problems. It took the stress of college starting six or seven weeks after her return to cause trouble to flare anew. There was also the emotional stress of not expecting to see Nick again until the summer of 2012. This Christmas trip wasn't worked out until late October/early November. By then she was having major brain issues, but I didn't know it.

So, from past experience, I knew that Nick would take good care of Emma. Additionally, Nick's mom is on the Specific Carbohydrate Diet, which is the ideal diet for people with Crohn's/IBS/gluten intolerance/celiac disease. She is the one from whom I first heard about it, months and months before I ever thought it would play any role in my life, and she is still the only person I know who is on this diet. What is more, she is thoroughly knowledgeable about Hashimoto's. We even read some of the same blogs, like The Healthy Skeptic. I do not know of another family that could have been more ideally suited to take care of Emma while she was so ill. And they're traditional Catholic. God must surely have had a hand in this. I mean, really, what are the chances? (I'm sure Nick could tell me. He's really good at statistics, among many other talents.)

The second night that Emma was there, they attended a Hilary Hahn concert in Cincinnati.

Reunited for the first time in six months, they renewed their relationship under trying circumstances once again. At least this time, in between Emma's naps and snacks, they got to do some fun things together with a chaperon instead of a whole group of people.

The Ballester family dressed in Nativity costumes to sing Christmas carols.

Nick and Emma cooked dinner at a friend's house after watching a movie.

zzzzzzzz

Emma usually fell asleep during morning prayers and also took a nap later in the day. The first week she really struggled with depression and cried at the thought of having to go home and leave Nick. Mrs. Ballester gave her a book on courtship to read, and she was unable to understand it. Nick said he tried to explain it to her, but her thinking just went around and around in circles. (Within a couple of weeks of returning home, she was able to read it and understand it.)

Emma cut out and decorated almond flour gingerbread cookies that Nick's sister made with a SCD recipe.

Emma finally got to hear Nick play violin "live". She listened to his senior recital CD most of the Fall.

She began having episodes of waking up in the middle of the night with her heart pounding so fiercely that she had to get up out of bed. This was hyperthyroidism. I was actually relieved when she told me this on the phone. For me it was the confirmation that I needed that Hashimoto's was at the bottom of all her symptoms, because it is typical that Hashimoto's goes back and forth between being hypothyroid and hyperthyroid. It made me glad that we had discontinued the thyroid hormone. I wondered what that would have done to her when she was in a hyperthyroid stage.

Emma could not get enough of the snow. Nick said his family called her The Snow Baby. She got to go sledding two times with Nick and his three brothers and loved it.

Meanwhile, back at home, I was researching like crazy, second guessing myself, and missing Emma horribly. We never did decorate our Christmas tree. It stood, crazily, in the middle of the living room with multitudes of lights but nothing else, not even a star on top. Finally, sometime between Christmas and New Year's, I had Nathaniel pull it into its customary position. It had been blocking part of the couch for weeks. Like Emma, I was depressed and crying, often without warning.

Cutting up at the ice rink.

Nick attends the Napping 101 Lab.

Mrs. Ballester said that the second week Emma improved, that her gluten-free diet seemed to be helping, although she was afraid that Emma would return home sad and lonely for Nick.

Nick shaped these Nativity scene figures out of homemade marzipan. They used them to decorate the top of Jesus' birthday cake. You can see by Emma's eyes that she is extremely tired.

He did his best to ensure that would happen. He cooked her breakfast every morning and often fed it to her as she lay in the recliner. He carried her up the hill several times when they were sledding because she was too tired to make it and would get severely out of breath.

After Midnight Mass in the basement of the new SSPX chapel in Walton, KY.

In fact, when the Ballesters visited a family from their parish, Emma struggled to climb a tree in their back yard and said that it actually made her so sore that it was hard to walk. This soreness lasted for several days. Just a few months earlier she had climbed with ease and no soreness.

Nap time comes to the Wright-Patterson Air Force Museum.

Emma seemed to fit right in with the Ballester family. She got lots of teasing from the boys and enjoyed some bedtime chats with Nick's sister, whose room she shared.

On their one-year anniversary, Nick presented Emma with a promise ring.

Emma was scheduled to fly back to Houston on Sunday evening, January 2. The security lines were so long, she called me and said that she thought she was going to miss her flight. She sounded happy at the prospect. Luckily, this was not the case. Again, she miraculously made it through airport security without being touched. Deo gratias!

And they plan to live happily ever after. Nick will visit us this summer. Yay!

Herb, Nathaniel, and I met her at the airport. I finally exhaled, and it felt really good.

On the following Wednesday, Emma and I returned to Dr. Richardson to begin the next step of Dr. Kharrazian's protocol for Hashimoto's treatment, the detox diet.

Emma's Hashimoto's Diagnosis, Part 4

2011-03-08T17:02:00.002-06:00

ObyeO, continued from Part 3

Counting down the days to Emma's departure for Ohio, I became less and less able to function myself. I forgot all kinds of things, I was so worried about her. Tops on my concern list was Emma being subjected to an under-the-clothes pat down by airport security. If the idea of talking on the phone with the music department head filled her with terror, what would happen to her if she was subjected to an invasive search? Would she totally go nuts and be locked up? I didn't know, but I stayed awake at night trying to figure out if I should just put her in the car and drive her to the Ballester's house. (Nick Ballester is Emma's suitor, and they plan to marry after he finishes his industrial engineering degree at Wright State. Getting to visit Nick was almost as critical to Emma's health as getting off gluten.)

Emma insisted that everything would be fine. She did not want me to drive her and then have to come back for her two weeks later.

Reluctantly, I agreed.

On the day before she was supposed to depart, her Haught grandparents arrived for a Christmas visit. They got to see me in prime meltdown mode but were very understanding and supportive. Emma's packing began Thursday night and proceeded into the wee hours. This alone almost did me in. I was too frazzled to realize that she couldn't make decisions, and that packing for her was like a giant maze that she couldn't find her way through. At one point I went to check on her, and she had a friend on video chat, showing her clothes options and asking for advice.

On Friday afternoon her grandparents and I took her to the airport. She got her bags checked. We still had plenty of time, so we sat down, and she ate a snack. She still needed to eat every couple of hours. I told her for the umpteenth time to make sure and buy some snacks once she got through security.

At last it was time to take the plunge and go through the security line. Grandma and I walked alongside her as far as we could, then we pressed close to the plexiglass wall where we could see her being confronted by security. She walked through the metal detector. My heart froze while I waited for the next event.

The security person waved her through! She didn't touch her at all! Emma turned and waved at us. "Oh, God, thank you!" I said to myself. And then she disappeared down a hall.

How fleeting was my relief!

Regular readers of this blog will know that Emma has no sense of direction and is incredibly trusting and insensitive to danger. We now suspect that these things are Autism spectrum symptoms, caused by food allergies/leaky gut. So once she was out of sight, I focused on praying that she make it safely into her plane. Luckily, her brother had the best idea ever for her Christmas present. He gave her an iPod and downloaded all her favorite YouTube music videos onto it. He spent several days working on it to have it ready for her trip. She said it saved her. She felt a panic attack coming on, and she put the headphones on and listened to the Corries. She did not buy food.

Grandma and Grandpa Haught and I left the airport and drove to a nearby restaurant for lunch. I didn't want to go home until I heard from Emma that she had boarded. Finally the word came, via text message. She was all right. She was in her seat. Yay! We finished our lunch and went home, ready for naps.

I dozed lightly on the couch with my cell phone in my hand, waiting for Emma to tell me when she had landed safely. Right at the scheduled arrival time, the phone rang.

It was Nick. "Mrs. Haught? I'm afraid something terrible has happened."

My throat constricted, and a crushing weight slammed my chest as I envisioned Emma's plane, burning and crumpled on the runway.

"What?" I whispered.

"My dad left without me," he said.

I could not decipher the meaning of that sentence.

"Oh," I answered, waiting for my confusion to clear.

He rushed into a long explanation of how he had been delayed running some errands and when he got home his dad had already left for the airport.

Apparently, Emma was not dead.

"Oh, that's OK, Nick!" I assured him. "Anything beats the other alternative," I thought to myself.

I told him that I would text her and let her know.

I knew she would be anxious about being met by Mr. Ballester without Nick. It would be their first meeting. I gave her the bad news, and she was scared, but she made it. Nick's brother Damian was along too, so I am sure that helped.

She called me when she arrived at their house. I asked her if she had gotten any snacks.

"No," she said.

"Are you starving, Emma?"

"Yes."

I knew she would not ask for food.

"Give your phone to Nick," I said.

She handed the phone over, and I told Nick that Emma needed food right away. He was prepared. I had e-mailed him a list of food items that would work. So with that phone call, the hand-off was complete. Emma would stay with the Ballesters through January 2. It would be our first Christmas separation.

FSSP Plans for Houston Apostolate Move Forward

2011-03-04T10:26:00.001-06:00

My sincere thanks to Mr. Jon Merrill for passing along this information.

Fr. Van Vliet has provided the following update to the status of our attempts to establish a Traditional Mass Apostolate in Houston.

If you wish to make a contribution please refer to the FSSP Website (http://fssp.com/press/contributions/) identify "Houston Apostolate" on all donations to ensure they are correctly routed.

Dear Faithful in the Houston area:

I am writing to give you an update on the progress for the Priestly Fraternity of St. Peter presence in the Houston area. Things have been progressing slower than most probably had hoped for, but the good news is that there is still progress. At this stage, everything is looking good for the FSSP to move forward with locating this new apostolate on the property that Betty White is donating for this purpose. For those familiar with the St. Nicholas Project, we have been in discussions with them and progress is being made there also. Two weeks ago we sent a letter to his Eminence, Cardinal Di Nardo, to give him an update and to have a written agreement to confirm his verbal agreement previously given. We received his positive response, and therefore, the negotiations with the developer to the North can continue since we will require a wider right of way to the property than the present allowance in the subdivision. The Developer has agreed in principle with our proposal for creating the right of way, but final agreements and documentation have to be obtained. The land will have to be surveyed and further negotiations with the Municipal Utilities District to the South will continue. There are probably other steps that fit in between there, but once all the permits and agreements are made, we will be in a position to develop our own plans for the property, which will require significant funds in place before construction can begin. Given the time it has taken to get this far, you can imagine that the other permits and agreements are going to take some time also, but do not despair, we are making progress. In the meantime, we need to raise funds to secure the access road to the property, the permits, the required surveys and such to ensure that the property is accessible and can be developed for the intended purpose. I would like to thank once again Betty for the donation of the property, and Jerry Tipps for his time and expertise, as well as all those who have contributed thus far either with a donation or their valuable time. My hope is to make another short visit in the near future to help secure all the permits and begin arranging for my moving to Houston once the elements mentioned above are in place, though the earliest would be late summer. May God bless you and I will keep you in my prayers, particularly at the altar.

In Christo Domino Nostro,

Rev. Charles Van Vliet, FSSP

Counter Culture

2011-03-02T09:40:00.000-06:00

Still Life

Real Life

The Real Life photo captures the state of the kitchen after making sauerkraut and not cleaning it up before going to the farmer's market. (There is no excuse for the toasted pecans; they've been there longer than I am willing to admit.) There was still more beautiful produce in the car, but I opted to take the pic immediately, lest in waiting, I got distracted, which is an ever-present danger with me. The little purple bag is a lavender potpourri that I purchased at the market. I bought two of the large size, and Emma bought two of the small ones. The vendor told me the large ones work great in the dryer for about 8 loads. I might try it. I already put one in Emma's hope chest.

We Turn Heads

2011-02-28T11:24:00.000-06:00

Saturday, Emma and I rose early to go to the farmer's market in Houston. The good stuff sells out quickly, so we wanted to get there by 8. The weather was beautiful, and the forecast said the temperature would get up into the seventies. Somehow we both felt festive, and independently of each other, we decided to wear hats.

We got lots of comments at the market.

"You look like Spring/Easter."

"The hat ladies. Love it!"

"You look so pretty!"

We felt like we cheered up a lot of people that morning.

What we didn't find at the market, we got at a nearby Whole Foods. I noticed there that people didn't give a second glance to the guy with the really scary long black hair or the one with the freaky tattoo all over his neck, but they stared at us. At the checkout, the girl looked us over and asked cautiously, "Uh, so you got somewhere special to go today?"

"No," I answered.

"You're not from Houston, are you?" she asked, leaning a little closer as if looking for clues to our mysterious origin.

At this, I just about burst out laughing. There were people within a few feet of her who looked like they might be from another planet, but Emma and I filled her with insatiable curiosity.

This wasn't the first time that we've gotten this kind of reaction. On her recent (18th) birthday, Emma and four traditional Catholic girlfriends went shopping at Kroger to get ingredients for pizza. They weren't wearing hats or anything particularly special, just skirts and blouses. One person stopped them and asked them where they were from. The girls gave their respective hometowns. "You're from AMERICA!" the person exclaimed, astounded.

Wow! Even I was surprised by that one.

During that same Kroger shopping excursion, a young woman approached the girls and, addressing each girl in turn, said, "I like your skirt and your skirt and your skirt and your skirt. I like all y'alls' skirts!" Then she walked away happily and announced exuberantly, "PENTECOSTALS ROCK!"

Emma's Hashimoto's Diagnosis, Part 3

2011-02-28T05:04:00.000-06:00

The Advent of the Unknown, cont. from Part 2.

Monday, Dec. 13th, we met Dr. Richardson, a chiropractor who uses Dr. Kharrazian's protocol for treating thyroid disorders. Like the the Hotze clinic, she tried to get Emma to talk about her symptoms, but Emma hardly said a thing. Dr. Richardson looked over Emma's recent lab results and suggested that she was hypoglycemic and needed to eat small meals with protein snacks in between. I was puzzled by this diagnosis, because Emma's fasting blood sugar was not low, even by functional medicine standards. However, the news that Dr. Richardson is keeping her Lupus, another autoimmune disease, in remission by following Dr. Kharrazian's plan encouraged me to have faith. Maybe we were finally on the right path.

Our visit did not last too long. Dr. Richardson said that Emma must eat gluten-free and begin taking emulsified Vitamin D and using glutathione cream, an antioxidant, right away. She wanted to wait to do anything further until Emma returned in early January from her planned trip to Ohio. So we got the Vitamin D and the cream. Price tag: $35 for the office visit, $40 for the cream, and $18 for the Vitamin D. The regular office visit is $50, but we got a discount this time for being referred by Dr. Kharrazian.

While I was checking out, I received an e-mail response on my phone from the music department head at the college where Emma was enrolled. He said that if Emma would call him, he could tell her what she needed to do to get the waiver for me to be able to communicate with him. Pure terror glittered in her eyes when I relayed this information. "No, Mom! I can't do that!" she cried. Later I learned that her inability to talk to the doctors sprang from this same anxiety. It wasn't that she didn't want to talk about her symptoms. It was just terribly painful for her, and she felt like she was going to burst into tears any moment.

It was now lunchtime, and Emma and I talked as I drove to Panera's to see if they had a gluten-free menu. Emma said that she was very encouraged by her visit with Dr Richardson, but frustration soon set in at Panera's. The clerk didn't know anything about the gluten-free menu. She got a manager who found a notebook with the information we needed. The choices were pretty slim, but we found something and sat down. Almost instantly I noticed that strange look in Emma's eyes that indicated she was about to go into crash mode. She had been talking, but now she got quiet. The food came, and I had to make her eat it because she had already lost interest. After about five minutes she started coming around. I don't know if Dr. Richardson was right, and this was true hypoglycemia, but treating it as if it were certainly worked. By the way, with the risk of cross-contamination from all that bread, Panera was a really dumb choice of a restaurant for something gluten-free. Never again.

We left there and went shopping for some items that Emma needed for her trip to Ohio. We shopped for about an hour and a half, then I noticed her withdrawing again. "No, not already!" I thought. We were still an hour from home. We left, and I drove quickly to Chili's to try their gluten-free menu. By the time we were seated Emma was already far enough gone that she was irritable and said that she would rather not eat. I ordered something for her. The same thing happened as at Panera's. Within a few minutes of beginning to eat, she transformed into a cheerful, talkative girl. Feeding Emma every hour and a half or two became the focus of my life.

I began to think that there was no way for her to get on a plane in a few days and go off to Ohio as guests of the Ballester family--especially at Christmas. Adding to my concern was that this was at the height of the touchy-feely security checks. Would Emma be singled out, as I had been last year, because she would be wearing a skirt?

From Full Skirts to Disposing of Chicken Carcasses

2011-02-26T15:36:00.003-06:00

Gathering eggs in a full skirt pegs out my joy meter.

It's definitely on my top 10 list of Simple Pleasures, neck in neck with flopping down in the pasture on a sunny day and having a cat search you out and rub all over your face. Oh, dear. I must not forget the delightful endeavor of chasing chickens back in their pen while swooshing my skirt from side to side with both hands. I don't know what it is about gathering up one's skirt and doing something purposeful that just pleasures me no end, but it does. Then there's dumping a potful of used-up chicken stew bones in our two Black Labs' bowl and hearing them crunch like mad while my chimes float notes of delicate beauty upon the air. Yes, I know you're not supposed to feed dogs chicken bones. However, I've seen our Cowboy and Spats kill and eat chickens feathers, innards, and bones, so I don't worry my pretty little head about that. Maybe that rule is intended for Chihuahuas. It certainly doesn't apply to our Labs. They inhale the bones, masticate like a commercial food disposer, and swallow. They don't give a fig about pausing to savor the nuances of flavor. Terribly businesslike in their attitude toward food, they must be the capitalists of dogdom.

From Her Valentine

2011-02-15T06:48:00.002-06:00

Receipt for a Happy Childhood: A Lovely List of Children's Poems

2011-02-15T06:19:00.001-06:00

Last month, an anonymous commenter asked if I would provide her a list of the poems included in Day and Night and Other Dreams, a book of children's poetry that I wrote about here. She explained that the book was one of her childhood favorites, and she was having a hard time finding a copy. Although I am late responding, I am glad to provide the titles of the poems. Better yet, this little book has meant so much to me and Emma, I am also going to include the poems themselves. I had hoped to get the companion tape transferred to mp3 by now, so that the lovely songs could be enjoyed by my readers, but that project seems far down on the list of priorities these days. When I do get it accomplished, I will put a link to the file in this post as well as in the announcement post. I hope you enjoy this, and that you find someone wonder-full with whom to share it. Most of all, I hope that renewed interest in this book and accompanying music tape will encourage its some publisher to make it available again along with a CD of the music.

I apologize for all the formatting errors. I don't have the patience just now to fix them.

Day and Night and Other Dreams: Table of Contents

Girls and Boys Come Out to Play. . .Anonymous
Spring. . .William Blake
Somewhere. . .Walter de la Mare
Where Go the Boats?. . .Robert Louis Stevenson
My Shadow. . .Robert Louis Stevenson
Little White Lily. . .George MacDonald
General Store. . .Rachel Field
The Peaceable Kingdom. . .Traditional Shaker
The Throstle. . .Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Clock-a-Clay. . .John Clare
I've Been Roaming. . .George Darley
A Swing Song. . .William Allingham
Evening Song. . .Fannie Stearns Davis
Lady Moon. . .Lord Houghton
The Land of Nod. . .Robert Louis Stevenson
Last Song. . .James Guthrie

Girls and Boys Come Out to Play
Anonymous

Girls and boys come out to play,
The moon doth shine as bright as day,
Leave your supper, and leave your sleep,
And come with your playfellows into the street;
Come with a whoop, or come with a call,
Come with a goodwill, or not at all.
Up the ladder and down the wall,
A halfpenny loaf will serve us all.
You find milk, and I'll find flour,
And we'll have a pudding in half an hour!

Spring
William Blake

Sound the flute!

Now it’s mute.
Birds delight
Day and Night;
Nightingale
In the dale,
Lark in Sky,
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the Year.

Little boy
Full of joy,
Little girl
Sweet and Small;
Cock does crow,
So do you;
Merry voice,
Infant noise,
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the Year.

Little Lamb
Here I am;
Come and lick
My white neck;
Let me pull
Your soft Wool.
Let me kiss
Your soft Face,
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the Year.

Somewhere

Walter de la Mare

Could you tell me the way to Somewhere—
Somewhere, Somewhere,
I have heard of a place called Somewhere—
But know not where it can be.
It makes no difference,
Whether or not
I go in dreams
Or trudge on foot:
Would you tell me the way to Somewhere,
The Somewhere meant for me.

There’s a little old house in Somewhere—
Somewhere, Somewhere,
A queer little place with a Cat and a Mouse—
Just room enough for three.
A kitchen, a larder,
A bin for bread,
A string of candles,
Or stars instead,
A table, a chair,
And a four-post bed—
There’s room for us all in Somewhere,
For the Cat and the Mouse and Me.

I want to be off to Somewhere,
To far, lone, lovely Somewhere,
No matter where Somewhere be.
It makes no difference
Whether or not
I go in dreams
Or trudge on foot,
Or this time to-morrow
How far I’ve got,
Summer or Winter,
Cold, or hot,
Where, or When,
Or Why, or What—
Please, tell me the way to Somewhere—
Somewhere, Somewhere;
Somewhere, Somewhere, Somewhere, Somewhere—
The Somewhere meant for me!

Where Go the Boats?
Robert Louis Stevenson

Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating--
Where will all come home?

On goes the river
And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.

Away down the river
A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
Shall bring my boats ashore.

My Shadow
Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—

Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball,

And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;

I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

But my lazy little shadow, like an errant sleepy-head,

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Little White Lily

George MacDonald

Little white Lily
Sat by a stone,
Drooping and Waiting
Till the sun shone.
Little White Lily
Sunshine has fed;
Little White Lily
Is lifting her head.

Little White Lily
Said, "It is good;
Little White Lily's
Clothing and food."
Little White Lily
Dressed like a bride!
Shining with whiteness,
And crown'd beside!

Little White Lily
Droopeth with pain,
Waiting and waiting
For the wet rain.
Little White Lily
Holdeth her cup;
Rain is fast falling
And filling it up.

Little White Lily
Said, "Good again,
When I am thirsty
To have nice rain;
Now I am stronger,
Now I am cool;
Heat cannot burn me,
My veins are so full."

Little White Lily
Smells very sweet;
On her head sunshine,
Rain at her feet.
Thanks to the sunshine,
Thanks to the rain!
Little White Lily
Is happy again!

General Store
Rachel Field

Someday I'm going to have a store
With tinkly bells hung over the door,
With real glass cases and counters wide
And drawers all spilly with things inside.
There'll be a little of everything:
Bolts of calico, balls of string;
Jars of peppermint, tins of tea,
Potatoes and kettles and crockery;

Seeds in packets, scissors bright;
Kegs of sugar, brown and white;
Sarsaparilla for picnic lunches;
Bananas and rubber boots in bunches.
I'll fix the window and dust each shelf,
And take the money in all myself.
It will be my store and I will say:
"What can I do for you today?"

The Peaceable Kingdom
Traditional Shaker abecedarious

Alligator, Beetle, Porcupine, Whale,
Bobolink, Panther, Dragonfly, Snail,
Crocodile, Monkey, Buffalo, Hare,
Dromedary, Leopard, Mud Turtle, Bear,
Elephant, Badger, Pelican, Ox,
Flying Fish, Reindeer, Anaconda, Fox,
Guinea Pig, Dolphin, Antelope, Goose,
Hummingbird, Weasel, Pickerel, Moose.
Ibex, Rhinoceros, Owl, Kangaroo,
Jackal, Opossum, Toad, Cockatoo,
Kingfisher, Peacock, Anteater, Bat,
Lizard, Ichneumon, Honeybee, Rat.
Mockingbird, Camel, Grasshopper, Mouse,
Nightingale, Spider, Octopus, Grouse,
Ocelot, Pheasant, Wolverine, Auk,
Periwinkle, Ermine, Katydid, Hawk.
Quail, Hippopotamus, Armadillo, Moth,
Rattlesnake, Lion, Woodpecker, Sloth,
Salamander, Goldfinch, Angleworm, Dog,
Tiger, Flamingo, Scorpion, Frog.
Unicorn, Ostrich, Nautilus, Mole,
Viper, Gorilla, Basilisk, Sole,
Whippoorwill, Beaver, Centipede, Fawn,
Xanthos, Canary, Polliwog, Swan.
Yellowhammer, Eagle, Hyena, Lark,
Zebra, Chameleon, Butterfly, Shark.

The Throstle
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"Summer is coming, summer is coming,
I know it, I know it, I know it.
Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,"
Yes, my wild little Poet.

Sing the new year in under the blue.
Last year you sang it so gladly.
"New, new, new, new!" Is it then so new
That you should carol so madly?

"Love again, song again, nest again, young again,"
Never a prophet so crazy!"
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend,
See there is hardly a daisy.

"Here again, here, here, here, happy year!"
O warble unchidden unbidden!
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear.
And all the winters are hidden.

Clock-a-Clay
John Clare

In the cowslip pips I lie
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies
Pearled wi' dew like fishes' eyes.
Here I lie, a clock-a-clay,
Waiting for the time o' day.

While grassy forests quake surprise,
And the wild wind sobs and sighs,
My gold home rocks as like to fall
On its pillar green and tall;
When the parting rain drives by
Clock-a-clay keeps warm and dry.

Day by day and night by night
All the week I hide from sight.
In the cowslips pips I lie,
In rain and dew still warm and dry.
Day and night, and night and day,
Red, black-spotted clock-a-clay.

My home it shakes in wind and showers,
Pale green pillar topped wi' flowers,
Bending at the wild wind's breath
Till I touch the grass beneath.
Here I live, lone clock-a-clay,
Watching for the time of day.

I've Been Roaming

George Darley

I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Where the meadow-dew is sweet,
And like a queen I'm coming
With its pearls upon my feet.

I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
O'er red rose and lily fair,
And like a sylph I'm coming
With its blossoms in my hair.

I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Where the honeysuckle creeps,
And like a bee I'm coming
With its kisses on my lips.

I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Over hill and over plain,
And like a bird I'm coming
To my bower back again.

Evening Song
Fannie Stearns Davis

Little Child, Good Child, go to sleep.
The tree-toads purr and the peepers peep
Under the apple-tree grass grows deep;
Little Child, Good Child, go to sleep!

Big star out in the orange west;
Orioles swing in their Gypsy nest;
Soft wind singing what you love best;
Rest till the sun-rise; rest, Child, rest!

Swift dreams swarm in a silver flight._
Hand in hand with the sleepy Night
Lie down soft with your eyelids tight._
Hush, Child, little Child!._Goodnight._

Lady Moon
Lord Houghton

"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?"
"Over the Sea."
"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?"
"All that love me."
"Are you not tired with rolling, and never
Resting to sleep?
Why look so pale and so sad, as forever
Wishing to weep?"
"Ask me not this, little child, if you love me:
You are too bold;
I must obey my dear Father above me,
And do as I'm told."
"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?"
"Over the Sea."
"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?"
"All that love me."

The Land of Nod
Robert Louis Stevenson

From breakfast on through all the day
At home among my friends I stay,
But every night I go abroad
Afar into the land of Nod.

All by myself I have to go,
With none to tell me what to do--
All alone beside the streams
And up the mountain-sides of dreams.

The strangest things are there for me
Both things to eat and things to see,
And many frightening sights abroad
Till morning in the land of Nod.

Try as I like to find the way,
I never can get back by day,
Nor can remember plain and clear
The curious music that I hear.

Last Song
James Guthrie

To the Sun
Who has shone
All day,
To the Moon
Who has gone
Awa,
To the milk-white,
Silk-white,
Lily-white Star
A fond goodnight
Wherever you are.

Emma's Hashimoto's Diagnosis, Part 2

2011-02-10T11:33:00.000-06:00

THE CRASH AND BURN, cont. from Part 1

I was totally dumbfounded by Emma's seeming recovery after her long afternoon nap. The next morning she got up and attended her college classes as normal. Mulling it all over, I began to wonder if Emma's strange behavior at the restaurant had been an anxiety attack. Thankfully, the Hotze Clinic has a nurse available by telephone, and the doctor had encouraged us to take advantage of it. So I called and described what had happened. They really do have excellent customer service there. She talked to the doctor and called me back, saying, yes, it could have been. She also suggested another possibility, but I forget now what it was. I called Emma between her classes and explained what I had learned. She sighed with relief. "That's what's been happening when I have to perform for the Master Class!" she said. Because she is a music major, she had to perform regularly in front of teachers and other music students. She said that she had been having a horrible time with these performances all semester and would always be on the verge of tears. This news took me totally by surprise. She also said that she had been struggling in her music theory class. If the teacher explained one thing and then gave the students a problem to solve, she would be one of the first to finish and get it right. But if the teacher gave them several problems, she would become overwhelmed and be the last one in the class to finish. Doing the homework took her forever and required enormous concentration. She told me that the reason she had been leaving early for class was that she had become paranoid about being late. If she didn't leave early enough to be 15 - 30 minutes early for class, she would have to force herself not to look at the clock in the car because it alarmed her so.

Emma had begun taking the cortisol and thyroid medication the day of the doctor visit. After my call about the anxiety attack, though, the doctor said to stop the thyroid for three days to let the cortisol build up some first. Apparently the anxiety was caused by the adrenal fatigue. So she did that. She seemed much improved after the first week. She started the thyroid medication and, as prescribed, added one more of cortisol.

A few days later, I was doing dishes, and Emma was playing piano. She had memorized several pieces for an upcoming performance, and they had been sounding really good. Then, as I washed, I heard her make several mistakes from which she could not recover. She hunted for the right notes, striking one after another of the wrong ones. My heart seemed to stop. I had never heard her play like that, especially something that she had already memorized, which she had always done effortlessly. Finally, she went back to her music and practiced the measures that were troubling her. Over the next few days this scenario repeated itself many times. Emma told me that whole sections of pieces that she had memorized just disappeared from her memory. She would re-memorize them, only to have a different section slip away from her. It happened with her pieces for voice too. She even totally forgot to take the online quizzes for her drama class. This drastic change in her memory caused her and me enormous stress. What was happening? How would she do her finals if she couldn't count on her memory?

She continued attending classes, but she began having frequent headaches and isolated pains all over her head; however, the worst new symptom was mysterious "crashes" at home, where she would become uncommunicative and then have to lie down. During these episodes, a ghastly beauty overtook her face, reminding me, alarmingly, of some tragic heroine laid out for her wake. Sometimes she would fall asleep for an hour or two and then feel somewhat better. I wondered if she crashed because of fatigue caused by the hypothyroidism. This didn't make sense to me since she was taking the cortisol and the thyroid medication as prescribed. She had been having a sore throat, so during one of these episodes, I gave her a glass of Emergen-C. She likes two packs in one 8 oz. glass with crushed ice. She sat up within a couple of minutes of finishing it. She said it was the tartness and coldness that revived her. I didn't know what to think.

On Friday of that week, she took her voice final and forgot a verse to an aria that she knew well, surprising her instructor. The next day, at her English final, she said that "the proctors acted like Nazis," and she was so nervous that she struggled to keep from running from the room. By counseling herself, she was able to write one page for her essay. She worried a lot about her upcoming Sight Singing and Music Theory finals. Sunday, after another crash, I told her that I would not allow her to take any more finals. The stress could only be making her worse. I e-mailed the music department head and told him that Emma would not be taking anymore finals and the reason why. He replied that he could not talk to me unless Emma signed a waiver giving him permission to do so, even though she was still legally a minor.

I contacted the Hotze Clinic via their online patient portal and described what was happening. The nurse said that the doctor said Emma should increase her dose of cortisol, I can't remember now by how much, and come in regularly (weekly, I think) for monitoring. I was deathly afraid of increasing her cortisol, as these new symptoms all began after she increased the cortisol to two pills a day. She and I talked it over, and we decided to stop the cortisol and the thyroid medication rather than risk more symptoms. We hoped to return to the pre-hormone prescription state, which was not ideal but a lot more stable.

I had finished reading Dr. Kharrazian's book, Why Do I Still Have Thyroid Symptoms When My Lab Tests Are Normal?. He recommended treating adrenal fatigue and hypothyroidism through diet and various supplements, only taking actual thyroid hormone as a last step if all issues were not resolved by the other treatment. I contacted Dr. Kharrazian's office and asked for a list of practitioners in our area who followed his protocol. There was one, Dr. Richardson, and I made an appointment with her. Meanwhile, we cut gluten from our diets as recommended by Dr. Kharrazian.

The appointment with Dr. Richardson was on the Monday of the week that Emma was supposed to leave for a two-week visit with her suitor, Nick Ballester, at his family's home in Ohio. Would she be able to make the trip? I had serious doubts.

Emma's Hashimoto's Diagnosis, Part 1

2011-01-27T08:32:00.000-06:00

Last fall, I felt like Emma was withdrawing from me. I couldn't quite put my finger on what was different, but I knew that something had changed in our relationship. No one else in the family noticed it. I guess because Emma and I have spent so much time together I was more sensitive to it. I decided that the difference must be that we were naturally growing apart because she had a separate life four days a week at college. But I still had this uneasy feeling that I could not get rid of.

As the semester wore on, I noticed that she would have short bursts of anger about things that bothered her. I had never seen her react this way in all her life. Then she began leaving for school a half-hour or more before she needed to. She said she needed to study before class. That is perfectly reasonable, of course, so I did not pursue it.

Late in November she started showing signs of depression and would break down in tears with little provocation. That's when I finally knew that something was indeed terribly wrong. For several months she had been having cold hands and feet, so I knew that she was having thyroid problems. She had been diagnosed with hypothyroidism several years ago at the Hotze Clinic when she was having temperature regulatory problems and fatigue. She was put on Armour Thyroid, a bioidentical hormone, and she got better.

It was a lifesaver. Before treatment, she could never get out of bed before 11:00 in the morning, even though I was in her room repeatedly trying to get her up. Then she was tired and wanted to take a nap in the afternoon. This went on for about a year and a half, I think. We kept going to the doctor, trying to find out was wrong. He focused on Emma's sinus problems, since all her blood work was normal. He said that a severe sinus infection was draining her energy and recommended antibiotics. I was extremely reluctant to give her antibiotics. I had always done my best to avoid them. From the time my children were infants, I was the kind of mom who took them to the doctor to find out what was wrong and then never automatically filled the antibiotic prescription I was almost always given. I kept it in my purse just in case. So I think Emma had been on antibiotics once in her life before this, when she was between three and five. I decided to take her to an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist first. He wrote an antibiotic prescription. Out of ideas and feeling desperate, I finally gave in and filled the prescription.

She did not get better. Sinus infections can be extremely persistent I was told. Two more courses of antibiotics were prescribed. Still she did not get better. I asked for a cat scan of her sinuses to see if there was some abnormality that was causing the problem. There was none.

One day a friend from church called me and told me that she was reading a book by Dr. Hotze, a Houston-area doctor whose clinic specialized in hormone problems, and that Emma's symptoms were described in this book. I got a copy of his book right away. It seemed an answer to prayer, and I made her an appointment. She got the hypothyroidism diagnosis and began the hormones. Her diagnosis and treatment cost a couple of thousand dollars and the clinic does not accept insurance. But it was worth it. Emma was functioning normally and was enjoying life again except that she still had sinus issues. She was prescribed allergy drops for hayfever. The drops were extremely expensive too. It seems like they were $150 every other month. Emma said they didn't help, so we discontinued them after the second bottle.

After about six months, she wanted to try getting off the thyroid medicine. She quit taking it, and everything was fine. Her temperature stayed good, and she had normal sleep habits.

So I thought that she had outgrown this thyroid problem, whatever it was. My daughter was healthy and happy, and I pretty much forgot everything about this troubled period in her life until the cold hands and feet symptom re-surfaced last fall. That prompted me to start reading up on hypothyroidism again. I was shocked to read that it could cause anxiety, depression, mood swings, etc. I guess those symptoms didn't make an impression on me when Emma was first diagnosed because she didn't have them. I read for the first time about Hashimoto's, and I was so glad that Emma didn't have that. The Hotze Clinic had said that she had a genetic predisposition to hypothyroidism. Apparently, I thought, the hypothyroidism was back with some new symptoms. I called the Hotze Clinic and made an appointment for the first available opening, which was Dec. 2

Right about this time I learned about Dr. Kharrazian's book, Why Do I Still Have Thyroid Symptoms When My Lab Tests are Normal? I read everything I could on Dr. Kharrazian's website, drknews.com. I was so excited. I found out that I could order his book as an e-book and read it on Scribd.com. Not wanting to waste any time in waiting for the book to be shipped, I did just that and began reading immediately. I can't remember now if I had begun the book before we went back to the Hotze Clinic. If I hadn't, I started within days after the appointment.

I couldn't wait to get to that appointment and get some help for Emma. As soon as we got into the examining room with the nurse, I asked her to look in Emma's records and tell me exactly what her diagnosis was. She told me that it was autoimmune thyroiditis. I was stunned by the word "autoimmune".

"Is that Hashimoto's?" I asked her.

"Yes, but it doesn't make any difference. "

I about fell out of my chair. I knew from my reading that Hashimoto's is first and foremost an autoimmune disease. Thyroid problems are symptoms of it. I didn't want to just treat symptoms. I wanted to treat the cause. And this nurse was telling me that we were not going to do that. She proceeded to draw Emma's blood for the lab work, while my mind raced.

Then the doctor came in and started asking Emma questions. She was so incredibly reticent that I kept jumping in to elaborate for her. I felt horrible about it. Each time I did it, the doctor looked at me as if he was thinking, "Oh, another one of those moms who want to think and act for their children". At one point when he left the room, I received a text from a concerned friend who said that he had asked Emma in a text message a few minutes before why she was at the doctor, and Emma answered, "Because my mother hates me". I looked across at Emma and wondered who she was.

Emma had been fasting for the blood work, and the nurse brought her a plate of fresh veggies and fruit to break the fast, but Emma wouldn't eat any of it.

Finally, the doctor gathered enough information to pronounce that Emma had hypothyroidism and adrenal fatigue. He prescribed cortisol, iodine, and thyroid hormone. I had just read that iodine should probably not be given to Hashimoto's patients. I questioned the doctor on this point, but he assured me that it was the right thing to do. Remembering that Dr. Kharrazian had said that the first step to treating Hashimoto's was to get off gluten, I asked him if there was anything we needed to change about Emma's diet. He said it would be best to follow the Hotze eating plan. From our previous experience, I knew that this was not gluten-free. My confidence in the care Emma could receive from the doctors at the Hotze Clinic was gone. We would not be coming back. We filled the prescriptions at the on-site pharmacy, getting just enough for one month. I thought these medications would resolve Emma's issues for the time being while we implemented Dr. Kharrazian's protocol. I told Emma I would re-read the information about iodine and Hashimoto's and not make her take the iodine if I thought it was problematic. Then we left. It was lunchtime.

So began a precipitous decline in Emma's physical health.

We got in the car and Emma fell immediately asleep. I began to worry that she had low blood sugar because of the fast that she had to do for the bloodwork. I stopped at the first decent-looking restaurant that I came upon. Emma began protesting when she saw it that there was nothing there she wanted to eat because it was a Texas-style cafe. I told her that I was sure we could find something for her on the menu. While waiting to be seated, she complained that it was too loud in the restaurant and that she couldn't stand it. Once seated in a booth, I looked across at Emma. She looked tormented. I started naming off menu items that I thought she might like. Again, she complained that it was way too loud in the restaurant and that she couldn't stand it. Then her eyes filled with tears, and she put her head down on the table. Stunned, I sat down beside her and put my arm around her. She pushed me away. I didn't know what was happening. I ate half a bowl of soup and got her out of there as quickly as I could. She breathed a deep sigh of relief as soon as we exited the building.

We got in the car, and she immediately went back to sleep. She slept all the way home, more than an hour. Then she went straight to bed, complaining of being extremely cold and tired. She slept for four more hours. When she woke, she was energetic and cheerful, as if the events of the previous eight to ten hours had not happened.

To be continued.

Health Begins in the Gut

2011-01-26T08:04:00.001-06:00

"I hate your guts!" That corrosive taunt enjoyed most-favored status in my repertoire of childhood "fightin' words".

Now I wonder why. I never saw anyone's guts or interacted with them in any way. How could I hate them? Maybe it was just instinctual knowledge. I'm learning that the gut is the center of health, both mental and physical. So hating someone's guts could actually make sense.

I continue to see changes in Emma since we eliminated gluten from her diet. Gluten sensitivity is a gut problem and is the underlying cause for approximately 50 diseases, depending on where it manifests its attack--the brain, the liver, the heart, the skin, etc. The other night Herb used our electric knife sharpener, which makes an annoying noise, and Emma said, "That's the first time I've heard that noise without feeling like I wanted to run away." If I hadn't just learned the day before that sensitivity to noise can be a symptom of food allergy, I wouldn't have known what to make of it. She is also sensitive to garlic, which makes her cough. This past week she has been waking up with congestion and swollen eyelids. We think it may be the raspberries I put in our detox shakes.

The gut plays a huge role in immunity and hormone balance. Frankly, I do not understand where one issue ends and the next one begins. Everything is so inter-related. That's why going to a doctor who wants to treat symptoms is a really dangerous idea. Emma's doctor prescribed cortisol and thyroid medication with no concern whatever for whether she was gluten intolerant or had an autoimmune disease. I know now that healing must begin in the gut for all autoimmunity. You must have the right balance of gut flora to enjoy true health. Dr. Natasha Campbell-McBride, MD, a neurologist, nutritionist, and author of Gut and Psychology Syndrome, (GAPS) is helping me understand this. She says,

We live in a world of unfolding epidemics: Autism, ADHD, asthma, allergies, anxiety, depression, epilepsy, diabetes, celiac these conditions overlap with each other and are related by similar underlying causes.

That "similar underlying cause" is an unhealthy gut. Dr. Campbell-McBride says that our gut health has been destroyed by refined carbohydrates, antibiotics, environmental toxins, contraceptives, and formula-feeding our babies. I was shocked to learn that a baby gets his supply of gut flora from his mother as he passes through the birth canal. So if the mother does not have healthy gut flora, neither will the baby. If she then formula feeds the baby, his gut health is further compromised. In fact, Dr. Campbell-McBride maintains that a formula-fed baby has totally different gut flora from a breastfed baby. The damage increases with each generation if gut health is not restored. It is both depressing and fascinating to contemplate the implications. The good news is that gut health can be restored by diet. The GAPS diet is based on the Specific Carbohydrate Diet that was developed primarily for Crohn's Disease, Ulcerative Colitis, Diverticulitis, etc.

I have learned this information from listening to Dr. Campbell-McBride's videos on YouTube. I have ordered the latest edition of her book, Gut and Psychology Syndrome, from The GAPS Diet site, but this new printing is just becoming available, so I have not received it yet. I can't wait for her to finish the book she is working on now, Gut and Physiology Syndrome. I recommend watching any video with Dr. Campbell-McBride. There are several really good ones on minddfoundation's youtube channel. Please watch them and share them with everyone you know. This one is an excellent start:

Since I have begun talking about Emma's health issues, I am overwhelmed by the number of my friends and acquaintances who need this information. Just on the hypothyroidism issue alone I have talked to six women in my parish who are struggling with symptoms despite receiving medical treatment. Hashimoto's, an autoimmune disease, is the underlying cause of the majority of hypothyroidism cases, and people with Hashimoto's are nearly always gluten intolerant. If you are gluten intolerant then you have a 50% chance of being dairy intolerant. The thing that most people don't realize is that so-called "gluten sensitivity" is extremely complex. We are on a waiting list to have Emma tested by Cyrex Labs. This is the first lab that will be able to test for sensitivity to many of the other wheat proteins that people are sensitive to besides alpha gliaden. It will also reveal if the two arms of your immune system, TH-1 and TH-2, are out of balance, and if so, which one is the dominant one so that the other can be supported in order to bring your immune system back into balance. The dangerous thing about wheat/grain sensitivity is that many people are completely asymptomatic, yet the damage is being done to their cells anyway. I wish everyone would get tested, but at the very least, families with autoimmune disease definitely should. Read all about the test here.

Building Butter Babies

2011-01-19T06:00:00.118-06:00

OK. This is the last thing that I am going to post about butter for a while. Or maybe I should just say something positive like, "Here is the final installment on my important series on butter." (snort.)

It's funny, but what Emma has missed on our detox/elimination diet is not gluten-containing grains but whole fat dairy products, especially cheese. Last year when we had raw milk, she consumed vast quantities of whole milk and cream. And she always drank from the jar of milk that had the most cream on top, often three or four inches thick in a quart. Now that I know she is gluten-intolerant and has a variety of problems associated with thyroid malfunction, including low stomach acid and malabsorption of Vitamin D, I wonder if that was because her body needed the readily-absorbable vitamins in the milk fat, not to mention all the enzymes that would have been aiding her digestion. She basically crashed and burned in physical health in December. (I'm working on a post about that, but there are so many strange details to work in, I don't know when I'll finish it.) She and I both noticed that her health took a nose dive immediately after she quit drinking raw milk in November. However, our big fear now is that she is dairy intolerant. People who are gluten intolerant have a 50% percent chance of being dairy intolerant as well. I guess we'll know when we she starts eating dairy again during the provocation phase of this detox.

I know you're probably wondering what all this has to do with butter. Well, I realize that we are going to have to work extra hard on her nutrition to restore her health but also to prepare her body for pregnancy, childbirth, and nursing. Women with Hashimoto's/gluten intolerance who don't address their nutritional deficiencies have a higher risk of infertility, miscarriage, and having babies with birth defects. Chris Kresser at The Healthy Skeptic announced the other day that he is going to teach a seminar next month on nutrition for pre-conception, pregnancy, and breastfeeding. Naturally butter from grass fed cows can play an important role in this. Then he will offer an online class and also a DVD option for those who can't attend the seminar. I plan to enroll Emma in the class. In the meantime, she and I will be studying this article by Chris Masterjohn, "Vitamins for Fetal Development: Conception to Birth". It was published in Wise Traditions, the journal of the Weston A. Price Foundation.

Finally, here's today's butter nugget from which the title of this post is directed:

From The Nourished Kitchen, via The Healthy Skeptic:

Butter and cream produced from cows grazing on rapidly growing green grasses were considered a fertility booster among traditional societies and held sacred. While modern diet gurus encourage women to eschew these nutrient-dense foods in favor of margarines, vegetable oils and dairy substitutes, such butter and cream are potent sources of fat soluble vitamins A and K₂. Preformed vitamin A, also found in abundance in liver and fermented cod liver oil, helps to improve reproductive health and reduce risk of birth defects. Vitamin K₂, a nutrient critical to reproductive health and growing babies, is of particular importance and those suffering from gluten-intolerance are more likely to suffer from inadequate levels of this vitamin as well as many other micronutrients critical for fertility. Indeed, inadequate vitamin levels adversely effect the fertility of celiac sprue sufferers²⁸. A recent study of over 18,000 women found that consumption of low-fat and skim milk products resulted in decreased fertility while consumption of full-fat dairy products saw increased fertility making good quality butter, heavy cream and whole milk good choices for women planning to conceive²⁹.

Don't Pass the Butter

2011-01-18T07:47:00.001-06:00

'cause having your own supply is just too important, especially if you are investing in Pasture Butter or KerryGold. I just bought this set of two at Tuesday Morning for $9.99. I would have bought three more, but this was the last one at that location. It's made by Fifth Avenue Crystal. It's the Portico design, and it matches the punch bowl that Nathaniel gave me for Christmas one year. If I don't find three more at another Tuesday Morning location, I'll hunt them down online!

Of course, these are kind of fancy. For everyday use, I found a clear glass one and a white porcelain one at Crate and Barrel for $4.95 each. They are next on my procurement list. I think I will go with the clear glass, because my dishes are an off-white. Plus, if you're like me and use butter from grass fed cows, you get to see the gorgeous deep yellow of the butter with the glass one. It's like having a sunny day right on your table. . .hmmm. I just had a vision of two of our eggs with their almost-orange yolks, sunny side up on a plate with my little crystal butter dish alongside. I think this detox/elimination diet is finally getting to me. I haven't had any eggs or dairy in a couple of weeks.

Better Butter: The Difference Must be in the Grass

2011-01-14T07:28:00.001-06:00

I've written on several occasions about how different our homemade raw butter is from regular pasteurized store butter. Our butter has a much firmer consistency at room temperature. This surprised me. I expected the flavor and nutritional value of our raw butter to be superior, but I thought the texture would be the same for all butter. I attributed the difference to the fact that ours was unpasteurized. Now, after discovering Organic Valley's Pasture Butter, I know that the difference must be in the grass. Organic Valley's Pasture Butter is made from the milk of cows who have been grazing summer pasture. Regular store butter comes from the pasteurized milk of cows who are kept in confinement and fed grain (yes, even the organic butter). Yuck.

Organic Valley's Pasture Butter is pasteurized also, but the color, the flavor, and the texture are the same as the raw butter I make. I'm guessing that the raw butter is still better nutritionally because it has all the enzymes and vitamins that are destroyed in pasteurization. I'm not sure though because Organic Valley's Pasture Butter is cultured, but I think the culturing is simply to ripen the cream for better flavor, which I do by letting it sit out at room temperature for a while. I do know the Pasture Butter is better nutritionally than the regular store butter because it has all the CLA (conjugated linoleic acid) from the grass. The Nourishing Gourmet has an excellent post on butter from grass fed cows that includes an explanation of its nutritional benefits. It also gives the low-down on Kerrygold butter from Ireland. It comes from grass fed cows as well. If I couldn't get Organic Valley I would definitely buy Kerrygold. I am getting the Organic Valley for approximately $3.68 per half pound. I have bought it at Kroger, HEB, and Whole Foods. I have a bunch stashed in my freezer because it is by nature a limited edition product.

Detox Fun and Hashi's Update

2011-01-13T16:17:00.003-06:00

Our refrigerator is bursting with full egg cartons. Good thing Fiona is dried up so that we don't have gallons of milk to deal with as well. Emma and I are on Day 7 of the Detox/Elimination/Provocation diet. Elimination means no eggs, no dairy, no beef, no pork, no gluten-containing grains, no corn, no tomatoes, no soy, no peanuts. We have a nutrient-rich shake we drink before meals which are supposed to be fish, fruit, leafy vegetables and a little turkey or chicken. . .

But we've discovered brown rice cakes. After the fourth day on the diet, I bit into one, and it tasted fabulous. "I LOVE brown rice cakes!" I enthused to Emma. "Oh, me too!" she affirmed. They're the best food we have in the house!"

You can see how we've regressed. And tomorrow it can only get worse. Tomorrow we start the dreaded subtraction of Phase 3: no fish or poultry either.

Thank goodness we'll still have rice cakes!

Emma's symptoms change regularly, but the depression and the hypoglycemia have not reared their ugly heads in two weeks. That is a great blessing. The gluten-free diet seems to be working. Her brain fog is much improved. The strangest improvement of all happened the other night. She discovered that she can now play hymns that have chords simultaneously in both hands. I never knew that she couldn't play hymns like this. I thought she just chose to play the right hand only because she just wanted the melody to sing along with. She plays all kinds of other music with both hands. It never occurred to me that she couldn't play the hymns as written. Her piano teachers never required her to play hymns, so the issue never came up. Anyway, she was shocked and happily surprised to find that she can now play them. The brain is an amazing thing. The impact of food on the brain is even more so.

Emma is not on any medication at this point. For now, her treatment plan is to do the de-tox, avoid stress, restore her vitamin D level, eliminate gluten, and apply an antioxidant cream, glutathione, to her feet and throat. We are both happy with her progress so far.

One Day at at a Time: Ain't it Funny How Time Slips Away?

2011-01-10T14:37:00.002-06:00

Well hello there,
It's been a long long time
How am I doing?
Oh well, I guess I'm doing fine
It's been so long now and it seems that
It was only yesterday
Ain't it funny how time slips away?

--Willie Nelson

It's been a month since my last post. I pretty much forgot that I have this blog. All my computer time lately has been devoted to researching Hashimoto's, an autoimmune disease that attacks the thyroid. Emma has it. She was unable to complete her finals last semester because of brain fog, hypoglycemia, short-term memory loss, and anxiety attacks. Apparently the Hashimoto's was triggered by the stress of school, although she has had some mild symptoms for a long time. I'm sure now that her navigational problems must have something to do with the brain fog. We are addressing the disorder with Dr. Kharrazian's protocol as described in his book, Why Do I Still Have Thyroid Symptoms When My Lab Tests Are Normal. The first step was going gluten-free and addressing her severe vitamin D deficiency with emulsified Vitamin D. Now we are in Phase II, which is a 3-week detox/elimination/provocation diet. The goal is to find out which foods she is sensitive to and eliminate them permanently so that she is not constantly firing up her immune system.

The interesting thing about Hashimoto's is that one goes back and forth between being hypo and hyper-thyroid. Emma says that hyper is definitely more fun as she has lots of energy then, as opposed to hypo when she is severely fatigued and often depressed. The down side of hyper is that it also makes her heart race, keeps her awake all night, and makes her feel light-headed.

The Healthy Skeptic has an excellent series on thyroid disorders.

So that's the highlights for today.

WATCH MY TOES, MOM!

2010-12-09T11:18:00.001-06:00

Emma's dress rehearsal is tonight for her college chorale's Christmas performance, so this morning she thought it would be a good idea to hem her dress. She insisted that I whack off the excess fabric while she was wearing the dress. They make the dresses long enough for 6-foot tall women, so there was a considerable amount of fabric to cut. I thought it would be better to measure and mark first, then whack the dress after she took it off. Emma insisted, however, that the dress's slinky fabric is impossible to mark, so I, reluctantly, took up my scissors. Immediately, Emma started squealing, "Watch my toes, Mom!" and curling them up. She made me so nervous I cut a big scoop out of the fabric above her feet. Oh, well. It's probably for the best. I don't want her to trip going up the risers. Besides, her black flats have a cute bow on the toe.

A Heart-stopping Night of Entertainment

2010-11-20T11:10:00.000-06:00

On Wednesday, I started to write about the Chanticleer concert that Herb, Emma, and I attended last month at Kingwood United Methodist Church; Then I realized I couldn't say the things I wanted to say because it's been too long, and I can't remember the details accurately enough. This morning I've decided to try again. I mean, gee, I have already invested five minutes in scanning the program.

The concert was wonderful! I admit that I am hopelessly in love with the male voice. Put twelve of them together singing the most amazing harmony, opening with Ave regina caelorum, and I'll swoon every time. Well, actually, I didn't swoon, but I perched on the very edge of my seat, and TWO times embarrassing squeals of excitement escaped my lips. And, no, it does not help to clap one's hand over one's mouth after the squeal has escaped. The sound still leaps into the ears of the people in front of you and the people behind you. The people behind us happened to be the pastor and his wife, and the people in front of us were two students Emma knows from college. I thought Herb was going to crawl under his seat, but instead he seared my soul with a withering glance so potent that the memory still makes me cringe.

I readily admit that my squeals were inappropriate. However, I would like to say a word in my defense:

During the concert, vast quantities of adrenaline still raged through my bloodstream from the disturbing adventure of getting Emma to the church!

She was supposed to leave college and meet us there. She had her ticket with the address of the church so that she could put it into the GPS. I should have found the church on a map first as a backup plan, but I didn't. I knew it was just a couple of miles from school. I was sure the GPS would get her there without a problem.

As it happened, Herb forgot about the concert and got home late. So I was already nervous when we got in the car. We were driving hard and fast to make it to the church on time when Emma called me and said that the GPS was not working, but she was "just going to keep driving" until I could give her directions. Stop and ponder that one.

Would that she knew how she can make my heart stop with her careless words!

I was in the process of studying the GPS on my phone to see where we were supposed to turn, so I told her to find a place to pull over. She was in heavy traffic, talking on the phone with me and trying to re-boot the GPS. She knew which road she was on but not where on that road. We played 20 questions while I tried to ascertain her location. All the while she remained detached and serene. This is her typical reaction, which never fails to unnerve me. Somehow, deep in my mothering gut, I'm convinced that she should be worried about the risky situations that being geographically-challenged puts her in, and if she is not going to be then I must do it for her. So as she wanders aimlessly but peacefully along, I fall apart.

I figured out where she was. She had missed her turn by several miles. About this time she got the GPS working again and managed to get to the church a few minutes before we did. Our trip from home took us about 50 minutes. Hers should have taken fifteen at the most. She only needed to make one right turn after leaving school. I aged five years getting her there.

After the concert, I sent Herb by himself, and I waited while Emma got autographs from the members of Chanticleer. They were a charming group, very friendly. It proved a perfect "nightcap" to their performance. Interestingly, they manned their own sales table, from which Emma picked out a Christmas CD. Then I drove her home, exceedingly grateful to see her safely buckled into the passenger seat.

Drying Up

2010-11-16T23:46:00.001-06:00

This picture has nothing to do with drying up. It's just one of my favorites.

The problem with coming back to blogging after a long break is that nothing seems worthy of talking about. I'm not sure why that is, but if I force myself to write something every day for a while, before I know it, I have a lot to say. Of course, that's not really the same thing as having something worthy of talking about, but maybe with enough quantity, I'll get lucky and get some quality.

So I am forcing myself to write.

Emma started drying up Fiona today. We've been talking about it for a while. She actually started when college began. She dropped the night milking. Now, with the prospect of Emma going to visit her suitor, Nick, for two weeks at Christmas, she decided this morning to begin drying her up completely. Today was the perfect day to start because Emma is sick with a head cold or a sinus infection. She told me that her head "feels like the apple she baked in the fire on Halloween, minus the butter and cinnamon." Make your own diagnosis. Whatever the ailment, it seemed best to stay inside, as it was cold and windy out, and we still have no barn. The other good reason to dry her up is that I do not want to be stuck milking that ornery cow for two weeks while Emma is gone, especially during Christmas. It would probably rain every day and be 40 degrees.

When I went to the grocery store this afternoon, I bought milk. It felt really strange. It's been almost a year since we first brought Fiona home, and it has been a major lifestyle change. How odd it seemed today not to wash a milk bucket. I will miss it. We do plan to get Fiona bred. Then it will be nine months before she births, and we can have milk again. That seems a lifetime away. I hope we don't get soft and citified in the meantime.

Have You Been Looking for Me?

2010-11-15T08:35:00.000-06:00

Considerate bloggers let you know in advance when they are going to take a break from posting. Obviously, I am not one of them! In my defense, though, I didn't plan not to blog; other things just got in the way. Lucky for me, a charming young reader by the name of Michelle Emerson let me know--ever so sweetly-- that she was disappointed that I had not updated my blog in so long. It's good to be missed. Thank you, Michelle!

For the Lovesick Maiden: A Scotch Song and Halloween Custom

2010-10-29T09:07:00.001-05:00

From Traditional Scottish Songs:

My Mother Bids Me Bind My Hair

by Anne Hume (1742-1841)
Also set to music by Haydn

My mother bids me bind my hair
With bands of rosy hue,
Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,
And lace my bodice blue.

"For why," she cries, "sit still and weep,
While others dance and play?"
Alas! I scarce can go or creep
While Lubin is away.

’Tis sad to think the days are gone
When those we love were near;
I sit upon this mossy stone
And sigh when none can hear.

And while I spin my flaxen thread,
And sing my simple lay,
The village seems asleep or dead,
Now Lubin is away.

A Halloween Custom From Catholic Cuisine:

From the Scotch we have the recipe for Salainn Bannock. In Cooking for Christ, Florence Berger tells us that this cake was "made by Scotch lassies especially for Halloween. They stir about six teaspoons of salt into the dough so it is scarcely edible, eat it, and then, without a word or drink of water, they climb into bed to dream of their future husbands."

Chanticleer Sings in Kingwood Tonight

2010-10-27T08:56:00.000-05:00

We have been eagerly anticipating Chanticleer's performance at Kingwood United Methodist Church, Kingwood, TX, as we have been big fans for a long time. Unbelievably, I just talked to Paula at KUMC, and she said that there are still approximately 200 tickets left, so if you would like to go, call the church. The number is 281-358-2137. Tickets are $25 and can be reserved by phone then paid for in cash or check only at the concert tonight, which begins at 7 p.m.

What I Learned from the Cat

2010-10-26T06:38:00.000-05:00

THE INTERLOPER

After 31 years of marriage, I have discovered the key to getting to converse more with my husband. I was in the living room the other day and heard him talking in the game room.

"Were you talking to me, dear?" I asked.

"No, I was talking to the cat."

"You talk to the cat more than to me!"

"She sits in my lap more."

O treachery! This is sad but absolutely true! She sits in his lap and purrs and pops up every few minutes and kisses his face, making contented little happy kittycat sounds. He pets her and talks to her even though she is interrupting the TV news!

So there you have it, ladies. Make your move and reap the benefits. And don't forget to purr.