Theological Training in a Sink

If there's one thing you learn in seminary it's how to fix garbage disposals. Even though student housing was designed with extreme no-frills simplicity -- someone, somewhere felt the need to install within the kitchen sinks of every single apartment a garbage disposal, the bane of maintenance existence.

For some reason they break down a lot, often gooked up with lemon pulp, leftover casserole, and what have you.

Anyway, if you're a seminary student and looking for an extra buck, you sign up to work the maintenance team and get a weekly list of apartment woes to visit. Bob was one of many students who righted all the wronged garbage disposals. Evidently you can tell a lot about people by the stuff you find in their sinks.

This specialized maintenance training came in handy today when our own disposal went kaput courtesy of a metal ring opener of a canned cat meaty treat. We gave up a word of thanks for Duane, our former apartment manager who we used to think was too strict about keeping communal living up to safety code. We used to complain all the time about Duane's demands to obey fire marshall orders to keep bikes, strollers, toys, and family room furniture out of the building hallways. We'd push it 'til we got a nasty note, then squish everything inside the apartment, and on 4pm Friday when Duane was gone for the weekend out came everybody's extra junk to be properly stored in the hallway until the next nasty note. It turns out that seminary families are terrible at following rules.

Let me tell you though on the first day we moved into our house and after the first thing that broke down, there was no one with whom to file a work order. We missed Duane! There's no one to fix our stuff except ourselves, except when we can bribe my handy brothers or our philosophical plumber.

Anywho, our sink is now officially in working order with thanks to theological training that includes garbage disposal repair. Duane if you're out there -- we love you and we miss you!

Thanks for coming over. With love, T

My Dad in Headlines

With thanks to the Grand Meadow News.

"Dexter Man Trucks 4 Million Miles in a Half Century

"When Diane Mork married her husband, Milford (Mel), 48 years ago, she probably didn't know what she was getting into, but she learned very early theirs was going to be a different kind of marriage. Her first clue came on their wedding day and 'honeymoon.'

"On their wedding day in 1961, Milford was almost late for his wedding because he had two flat tires (both on the same axle) on a truck loaded with grain." Click here for full story.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog. Cheers, Terri

Miss Lucretia has entered the house.

I'm pleased to announce that Amanda has been cast as Miss Lucretia, a proper lady of the town who likes to gossip. She will perform in her school play, The Taming of LaRue, a comedy set in the old west with thanks and apologies to William Shakespeare.

We found out today after she and her brother were reprimanded for kicking each other in church, though not by me because I don't notice such things. I also didn't notice Aidan repeatedly falling backwards with his chair in civil disobedience against his mother's policy that he cannot be first in the donut line.

Speaking of church, if you have the chance to experience full orchestra and choir on All Saints Day, I highly recommend it. Bells. Brass. Strings. Drums. Candles. Naming of the dead. Powerful. The scripture was about Jesus raising Lazareth from the dead and Lazareth departing the tomb like a walking mummy.

You can think of a whole bunch of stuff with this. I remembered hesitating at the front door of a friend. I wanted to ask him to perform an exorcism because I knew he had experience. I couldn't say the words, though, and so I simply asked him to pray for us. In hindsight, it's the same thing. Inviting good spirits. Getting rid of bad spirits. Begging Jesus to raise someone from the dead. This was back in the time when Bob's liver failed, which I've written about a lot. Our friend did come and pray. A lot of people did. And after a couple of months entombed in the catacomb of our apartment, Bob walked out like a living skeleton. It was wonderful!

Anywho, back to Miss Lucretia. It's fun to have a 13-year-old daughter who is excited to take on a new role, practise lines, and imagine costumes. And it's great to be in a church who puts up with kicking kids and proclaims life for all*.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog. May you and yours, including your dearly departed, be full of life.

With love, T

*all = everyone

French Flattery. African Poetry.

My daughter has learned the art of making French toast, courtesy of her consumer science teacher.

My son has learned the art of getting what you want through flattery, courtesy of his preference for his sister's French toast.

In other words, Aidan will eat French toast only if Amanda makes it which automatically means that she will prepare and arrange a plate for him on demand. Admittedly, it is tasty and well presented. I won't tell you her secret ingredient.

The psychology of flattery. Beware. It works.

Meanwhile I've discovered more Dave Matthew lyrics. Do you know what it is like to feel the light of love inside you? We are presently cheap enough to check music out of the public library and are listening to Big Whiskey and the Groo Grux King. Five Charmer stars.

Gotta go. Time to rake an acre and bake four dozen breakfast muffins, which represent the task master and do-gooder sides of things. Thanks much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

Razor Blades and Eye Balls

Razor blades and eye balls do not go together. And I'm not talking Halloween, I'm talking doctor appointment. When a spread of sharp metal instruments greets you to your ophthalmology date, you know the next 15 minutes are going to be horrible.

Me to eye doctor: I don't like the looks of those razors, needles, and pokers.

Eye doctor to me: It won't be so bad. It's a simple procedure. Like childbirth.

O Lord. That's exactly what I said out loud about 100 times and I wasn't praying. Come to think of it, I was praying because that's what you do when you don't know what else to do. Crying doesn't help. Curling up your legs doesn't help. Calling the doctor to stop doesn't help.

While I'm praying I'm thinking torture and how it's legal in the U.S.A. I'm thinking war and how I've been terrible at updating my kids' conscientious objector files. I'm thinking misery and how can anyone be against health care reform. I'm thinking I need a drink.

One thing I'll say is that if you must have your eye lid lanced and scraped, it's really nice to have a hand to hold. To squeeze. Both hands. Cinch tightly. Honestly, it helps.

Afterwards I apologized to the doctor. Felt bad for those who heard me from the waiting room. Thanked my husband and his hands. And left that place in a daze and an eye patch.

When Amanda asked me how it all went I said O fine. Parenthood public relations.

Gotta go. Time to tuck kids to bed and drop steroids in eyes. Thanks much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

PIANO DREAMS

dedicated to my Aunt Laurie who reminded me of the piano crash; to Ellen who already endured this story; to Kathy who is exceptional at teaching piano to curmudgeony little boys; and to Mr. Schwartz, the dreamy band teacher who tells me my son is advanced and by golly, I believe him

At 60 miles per hour, my piano rock and rolled off the pick-up and onto the highway. Kersmash went my new-used upright. Kersplat went my $50 investment. Kerplunk went my artistic aspirations.

30 years later my son hates the piano. He detests practice, forgets lessons, resists recitals, and resents his parents. Kerplink is my vision of procreating musical genius.

“He doesn’t know how good he has it,” mama wanna-be sighs in the key of melancholy. As if I know how good I have it. As if I appreciate what my parents provided. As if I embrace the undiscovered opportunity which awaits me.

Mostly I don’t listen to the rhythms of generosity, but instead hear the crashes of my failures. Even still. . . grace happens.

“I need a saxophone by Tuesday,” are the Friday instructions from Aidan. Apparently fifth grade band has inspired one piano opposition leader to join the woodwind section. Mama wanna-be sings in the key of glee. Within 24 hours we are in the kitchen where my son happily honks his new-used horn. My Dear Charmer Friends, we may be plugging our ears but we’ve got ourselves a baby grand jazzman.

Kerput goes my idea that I’m in control. Except I'm still making Aidan take piano lessons.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog. With love, T

ELIMINATED AND TERMINATED? WRITE THAT.

So last year I read some books by John Steinbeck and fell in love. Mr. Steinbeck is dead 40 years but when you write you live forever. Hence, the potential for mutual affection goes as far as do words and ideas.

Going to California, Mr. Steinbeck's homeland, seemed like the right thing to do. Then I saw an ad for a school out there. Filled out all the forms. Wrote my entrance essay. Paid the application fee. Sought advise and references. By the grace of God I got all that paperwork in, twice. Then my husband started asking reasonable questions. (Gotta love reason.)

Bob: What's the program like?

Me: It's in California.

Bob: How much does it cost?

Me: Five miles from the beach.

Bob: Do they give out scholarships?

Me: Yes, they have Beverly Hills, sunshine, and moving stars.

You get an idea for what Bob puts up with and I know what you're all thinking. You're thinking how can that lady learn in California when she lives in Iowa? When she has two children and a husband and a middle class, suburban, do-gooder lifestyle to live. Not to mention an income to earn. Two words: low residency.

Telecommution, baby! A thousand miles in the other direction. A 180 degree turn around. In Biblical terms, that's reconciliation, restoration, rehabilitation, transformation. CHANGE.

Now in plain English.

I'm pleased to announce that I have been accepted into the Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program at Antioch University in Los Angeles, actually in Culver City. It is a low residency program which means I do my writing projects from home. Real classrooms are so last century. I go there twice a year. And yes, I did finally carefully look at the program and it looks AWESOME!

I am already planning my Iowa-based writing projects, as there is a lot to explore here, with the many amazing people that I keep meeting. And I am already dreaming about my outside-Iowa writing projects. My themes will be artists, farmers, theologians, parolees, musicians, plumbers, mothers, brothers, and others, dead or alive, including the terminated and eliminated. And as always, my dear family.

Thanks much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

photo: steeple shadow and tree, St. John's Lutheran Church, Des Moines