The Slide Show

A day was spent together with aunts, uncles and cousins. Games were played, much food was eaten, and conversation abounded. The kids played upstairs in the one big open bedroom, making the lights downstairs shake. The adults played Rook or Shanghai around square card tables. Memories were always made when the Bender family gathered at the farm.

I love my cousins. :) Guess which one I am.

Evening rolled around and nobody really wanted to leave. Someone would mention looking at the old slides. Sometimes it seemed like they just couldn't be found (or was it the thought of having to go look for them amidst the sundry items in the back bedroom with a corner that was used as an attic). But, the best evenings were when the big screen would be brought out, the slide carousals with their carefully arranged squares would be set up, and the projector would be plugged in.

The living room furniture would get pushed around so the living room would become our own private "movie" theatre. Popcorn would be popped and pillows propped. The light switch would be flipped off as the projector beam illuminated the screen. In the beam, dust mites danced and the musty, dusty smell of the screen filled the air. Someone would have to put their hand up into the beam, making bunnies and dinosaurs appear as animated shadows. Then the picture show would begin.

"Awww, look how cute she was!" was the comment for any of my aunts as babies and young girls. Or for that matter, any children, even if we weren't sure who they were. I think I see Aunt Sharon on this one. The cute shy one.

I do believe that's Sharon with her awesome car in the next slide. A Ford Maverick? A Pinto? Or maybe a Chevy Vega?

(No, I don't really know cars that well. I had to ask Leo.)




"Wow! Was that Darwin?" was the comment for my dad. I am sure my dad was looking ornery as always. See the evidence below. See the handsome lad in the back row? In the middle? Yep, that's him.

Maybe the orneriness he comes by honestly. 

Maybe from my Uncle Oren, my Grandpa and Uncle Carl. 

Of course, Aunt Jane doesn't look un-ornery in this picture either. 

"Don't they look "schnook?" was the consensus for photos of young couples dating or in the early years of married life.  Especially the ones with my mom and dad. Of course. 

This one was at their baby shower.

 And then after my sister Kimberly was born. 

Schnook, so schnook. 

Cute, as it were. 

A favorite picture of my mom. 

Old cars, old furniture, funny clothes and hairstyles. My grandparents looking young and my dad and his siblings even younger. The farmhouse as is was back in the day. We loved to look at these pictures and hear the stories as memories were evoked.










Then the "newer" slides showing some of the grandkids would be shown and we liked to pick each other out and then pick on each other just a little, and always in good fun. New memories were being made from the vintage ones. I am conveniently missing from this slide. Oops. 

Soon, too soon, the last carousal was flipped through, the popcorn and homemade root beer long gone, and the moon was high in the sky. Time to gather the coats off my grandparents bed and bundle up for the three-mile ride home. Goodbyes were said and sleepy children carried to the cars.

Photos, whether in slides, old home movies, or as they are today in digital, tell a story. They capture a moment in time that might have otherwise been forgotten, or grown hazy like a dream. Today, all it took was just a hint of a smell that reminded me of that musty, dusty screen and I was a girl again, waiting for the first slide.

Love,
Dianne

Shining in the Dark

"You are the light of the world.

A city on a hill cannot be hidden.

Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl.

Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.

In the same way, let your light shine before men, 

that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in Heaven.

Matthew 5:14-16 NIV

"Do everything without complaining or arguing,

so that you may become blameless and pure,

children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation,

in which you SHINE LIKE STARS in the universe

as you hold out the word of life..."

Philippians 2:14-16

Lights go out, and the light goes on in my head. 

Here is our evening, spent in darkness, but only in physical darkness,

and for that I am thankful. 

Last night, the electricity was out for a couple of hours. 

The candles were lit, 

the little boy was super excited 

and we roasted mini marshmallows on toothpicks. 

They tasted like potpourri.

All available candles were lit. 

Our one working kerosene lantern shone brightly-ish. 

Heather turned on her Japanese lanterns. 

We are thankful for batteries. 

Ryan had the most fun.

I mean, flashlights are fun no matter how old you are,

especially when you need to use them. 

Then as the evening darkness continued one...two...two and one-half hours,

my bed got filled with my three youngest, reading books. 

And not a one of them was reading the Little House books.

Where oh where have I gone wrong? 

But, they were reading and for that, I am thankful once more. 

The darkness and the shadows were not threatening. 

We were together, the house was warm and the love between family members, even warmer. 

I was at a place of contentment and peace.

Believe me, I haven't always been there, and I often lose sight of the path,

but when those moments are illuminated, I am thankful. 

Even thankful for the dark times, because it makes these moments shine even brighter. 

So, when the lights go out, whether literally, or in my mind, or when I see someone else 

struggling in a dark place, 

I need to remember, and I need to shine.

“How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world.”
― William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

So maybe, just maybe, when the pit is at it's deepest and darkest, I can reach out with a light to help. 

Or if I am in the pit, I can reach up and grasp the flicker of hope that I see. 

And as a fan of The Lord of the Rings, I leave you with one last thought: 

“May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out.”

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

May I be a light as God has called me to be. 

Love,

Dianne

SuperButton Sunday

It all started with a few buttons.

(Well, maybe it was more than just a few buttons.) 

And time, because that is usually what I am short on.

Sunday afternoon, after a Sunday afternoon nap, after a Saturday nightshift...

I don't want to straighten anything up, I don't want to do the dishes,

I don't want to run a load of laundry through. 

I want to do something creative-ish. 

So, buttons. 

Button, button, who's got the button?

Who remembers playing this game? 

Only involves one piece of equipment and multiple children.

I'll let you guess what equipment is needed. 

Here's a hint:

However, for my craftiness today, I needed not only buttons and a few beads, but string. 

I like jute. 

Jute sometimes likes me, unless the buttonholes are too small. 

I played around with various combinations and ideas for getting the bracelets on and off. 

Note: Jute does not stretch to get over chunky knuckles. 

 I like the look of these. I am partial to purple. 

Who wouldn't be?

And pearls. 

Purple and pearls. 

Sigh. 

Still playing around. 

I like neutral colors combined together too. 

They have a calming effect. 

Red and black? Not so much. But that was Ryan's favorite. Should I be surprised? 

I didn't even watch the Superbowl. 

Instead I got distracted in the buttons and watched a video with Heather and Ryan. 

Remember The Absentminded Professor? 

Is there really any better way to spend a Sunday afternoon and evening? 

Unless of course, it was the Steelers playing in the Superbowl...

Love,

Dianne

Feeling Pinterest-y

Pinterest is addictive. 

Pinterest is fun.

The snow is blowing and I need a plan. 

I know!

Chalkboards and Cinnamon Rolls.

(Not necessarily in that order)

Start with a frame and tape the edges that you don't want to be a chalkboard. 

Easy right? 

Spray with chalkboard paint. Do a light coat and do it about 2-3 times.

Then when that is dry, cover it up with newspaper and spray paint the frame part with 

whatever color you desire. I picked an aqua/tealish blue. 

Actually it was called "Blue Ocean Breeze"

I had to keep touching this up because I got blue on the chalkboard part,

then chalkboard on the blue part, then blue (again) on the chalkboard....

You get the idea. 

I thought it would be easy. 

 These are some of the other frames I took apart to paint and to give the chalkboard treatment. I figured out that doing it in the basement let me avoid the mysterious headache that occurred when I did this in my kitchen. Go figure. 

These are the frames to the above, newly sprayed glass, now chalkboards.

Aren't they pretty?

I love the detail on the edge of this one. 

It just makes me happy. 

To test them out, I used them at my Pampered Chef Get-Together. 

Ryan, using chalkboard ink, decorated this one. 

Oh, and I did mention Cinnamon Rolls, right? 

Another Pinterest inspiration because we all know that even though the thought should be inspiring, 

a picture really takes the cake, so to speak. 

 I haven't made Cinnamon Rolls for a very, very, very, very long time. 

Because it might not happen again for a very, very, very long time, 

I made sure that I made enough this time. 

Oh my. Mmmmmm.

Where's the coffee?

How many can I eat in a day?

 Love,

Dianne

My Little Dutch Beatle

Never, let me repeat, NEVER let a child less than 10 years of age in the bathroom for longer than is necessary to do one's business. There are too many temptations.
1. Water
2. Scissors
3. Hair products
4. Mirror

Last evening, as the little man was in there, supposedly doing his business, I let him be. I thought at first he was just trying to get out of doing the rest of his barn chores, so I knocked on the door.

"Are you okay in there?" You know, in case he fell in. He did once, when he was pretty little so it never hurts to check. Just in case.

"I'm fine."

"Okay...."

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, forty minutes...

WHAT is he doing in there???

The door latch clicks and I hear the door squeak slowly. I can imagine him slipping his face out as he  checks to see if the coast is clear. Then he runs out the hall into the kitchen. All appears to be normal. At first glance.

Then as I venture warily into the bathroom to check out the damage, I see two combs, a fingernail clipper, tweezers, lotion, numerous Q-tips and various puddles of water on the counter. AND soft wisps of hair that have floated to the sink bowl.

"RYAN!"

His tousled light brown head appears before me. Attached to his body of course. He looks up and I see a crooked path across his forehead with odd wisps of untouched bangs mocking me. Now, he really does need a haircut (he could pass for one of the Beatles) and the amount he took off really, in comparison, is not so bad. It's just that now he looks like the Little Dutch boy or Little Lord Fauntleroy.  Especially after I fixed it.

An appointment at Hair Raisers is in order.

The funny thing is, the desktop computer is on the fritz and he hasn't been able to do his activities that he enjoys on there. He has a horse farm and you know they all need fed, groomed, rode, etc every day. Well, they are being neglected for now and Ryan has had to find other means of play. Hence, all the paper airplanes in the kitchen, the living room, the hallway as well as using the bathroom as a source of creative play.

I guess that's one way of looking at. He was just being creative. It is just a little hair after all. It could have been worse, he could have cut someone else's hair. And it is better than the globs of red icing from a tube that I found in the bathroom a few evenings ago. I thought someone had a massive bloody nose.

Yep, the hair was a little nicer to find than that.

Love,
Dianne

One Husband, Cooked To Perfection

The conversation started with "sandwich spread". Years ago, my mom would make this connection of green tomatoes, onions, peppers and celery; then along with some flour, cornstarch, water and salad dressing, she would can it in a hot water bath. To prove that I wasn't making this up, and that we used to eat sandwiches with just this "sandwich spread" on it, I turned to the old Cherry Glade cookbook.

There on page 72 was the recipe. Then as I flipped through the cookbook, I came across a page that I had seen many times before, but had never really read.

Until now.

"HOW TO COOK A HUSBAND" (taken from "The Bible Friend" August 1979)

Oh my. Oh dear.

I began to read it aloud to my family. I understood the concept of equating "cooking" your husband, to "loving" him in a godly way, but when I got to the part that said "Like crabs and lobsters, husbands are cooked alive.", I lost it.

I laughed until I had tears. I could barely get out the next words.

"They sometimes fly out of the kettle and so become burned and crusty on the edges..." 

Really.

Of course, it did bring up some good points, such as whether I keep my man "constantly in hot water" or if I am freezing him out with "carelessness and indifference". I learned that I should "use no pepper or vinegar on any account", but that "a little sugar in the form of kisses" is certainly recommended.

Another interesting bit of advice was regarding the selecting of a husband. In comparing him to, umm, fish, the suggestion was to "be sure and select him yourself, as tastes differ." Hmmm, that kinda throws blind dates out of the boat, so to speak. Oh, and in the selection process, please remember "It is far better not to have one at all unless you will patiently learn how to cook him." 

Remember the burnt and crusty edges? Tsk, tsk, tsk.

Why didn't I read this before? Like back in 1988 when I got married. It could have saved my poor husband from "sputters".  (Really, I have no idea what that means.) Regardless, the lesson to be learned here is to treat him with kindness, respect, honor, warmth, cheerfulness, and love and he will be "cooked" to perfection. Or at least something like that.

Kinda like whipped cream and strawberries,
or bananas and peanut butter,
ice-cream and hot fudge
or even a baked potato with broccoli.

Different, yet they go so well together as they balance each other out. Delicious.
Maybe, just maybe there is something to this cooking the husband thing after all.

Love,
Dianne


PS. When a husband is not spoiled by mismanagement, he will serve a lifetime of happiness.

Someone Never Forgets My Name

The other day, I found this paper tucked into a pile of Ryan's school papers.

I pictured him, hunched over this paper, tongue tip out at the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on the task at hand. I bet he was glad we didn't name him Nathaniel, Sebastian, Alejandro, or even Leonardo. Four short letters...Ryan, and yet, he forgot to write them down on a school paper, a test no less. So in hopes of helping him remember, he got to write it twenty times.

Thinking about this, I am thankful, so thankful, that God remembers my name. Always. Even when I forget His, I am never forgotten. Humbled. Awed. Amazed. Sometimes I just need a reminder that in the midst of the cares of this life, big or small, that God is there, always speaking my name.

Not "Hey you" or just simply "You", but He speaks my name and if I am listening, I can hear it.
Sometimes I don't.

Sometimes I don't want to hear what He has to say. I don't want to be obedient in whatever He is asking me to do. I want to just live my life the way I want to live it.

But then, softly I hear, "Dianne". That's all, just my name. I shrug it off, like it was a harmless breeze, but then I hear it again. Just as soft, but somehow, it feels louder. I pause. I sigh. I wait.

Then we talk. Usually I do most of the talking because I feel like I need to catch up on things. As if He doesn't know already, right? But I think He likes to hear me tell Him, to just be open and honest before my God.

Peace, so much peace. The problems, the stresses, the life stuff hasn't gone away. The same worries haven't gone anywhere, but now, I am not alone. There is someone who hasn't forgotten my name.

Love,
Dianne