Janice Learns About Tatting

Tatting is an old craft for making lace and other decorative ornamentation.
Tatting is portable and easy to learn creating
complex pieces with simple stitches.

When I came to California as a newlywed in 1950, I met cousin “Tom,” Glenn’s mother’s cousin. I think her real name was Bernice, but everyone called her Tom.

She did a very interesting thing using a shuttle with thread wound around her fingers. She made small knotted loops with even smaller loops at regular intervals around the first loops. It fascinated me and I learned to do it. It was an appropriate pastime to keep me occupied while I was waiting for my first little daughter to be born. I decided to make a simple double chain long enough to be inserted down the middle of a handmade baby dress made of white batiste.

Our home was in the Imperial Valley, a place of little rain and much dust. When I finished the chain the color was more dingy brown than white. As a new bride I didn’t have much laundry experience, but it seemed to me that the proper procedure would be to soak the chain in chlorine bleach. Accordingly, I poured some bleach in a little saucer that I placed on the back of the toilet, and dropped in the result of long hours of work. Then we went off to a church meeting in a neighboring town.

When we came home I was looking forward to seeing how sparkling white my little creation would be. But, alas! There was nothing in the saucer but a few little threads about the length of a fourth of an inch! I had known nothing about diluting the bleach with water!

But there was time, I was determined, and I enjoyed the handwork, so I made another chain, this time cleaner and more neatly formed because the process was becoming easier for me. I made the dress and when Ellen was born I took a picture of her wearing the dress. In fact, I think I put the little dress on every one of my six daughters at least one time, but I seem only to have pictures of the first three. I think I may have even put the dress on the two baby boys at least once, but that may be my imagination. Baby boys commonly wore dresses in my grandmother’s generation, but with the advent of gripper snaps, that practice went out of style.

I know I still had the little dress when we lived in Lima, because I remember giving it to a mother from one of the “pueblos jovenes” where the poorer people lived in bamboo mat houses.

The Instruction Book

“Eleven hundred dollars,” the gentleman said. For a 1972 Oldsmobile in the year 1985—36,000 actual miles on the odometer—previous owner an older lady who had used the car only for errands around town.

After looking over the car and a moment of mental mathematics, Glenn said, “We’ll take it.” We had been looking at smaller used cars in the $4000 price range, but we could pay cash for this one and the difference in price would pay for the extra gasoline we would be using.

What amazed me every time I opened the hood of the car was the expanse of the labyrinth of parts, tubes and belts that made the car run. With a simple turn of a key and a step on a pedal, I had access to power developed over years of engineering expertise and put together by who knows how many machinists and technicians in how many shops and factories all over America. But I did have to turn the key.

I studied physics in college, and I do have a general idea of how a gasoline-powered engine runs. But what would you do if you stepped out your door tomorrow morning and found a luxurious four-wheeled vehicle like none you had never seen before? Taped to the window is a neatly stenciled card with your name on it. You go to the car, look it over, rub your hand across the glossy-painted fender, and open the door. But the dashboard doesn’t look like anything you have ever seen before. How do you start the motor? You call in your family and your neighbors, but they can only scratch their heads in wonder. You call in the automobile experts in your city and they push and pull some buttons and levers but nothing works. Wouldn’t you be “moving heaven and earth” to find the person who designed the car, the one person who would know how to turn on the power to make the car go?

Now, suppose you did discover what seems to be an instruction book under the front seat of the car. You start to read it, but among some statements that seem easy to understand, there are others that don’t seem so clear. You show the book to your neighbors and friends, but they’re not impressed. They begin to cast doubts on the authenticity of the book. “This is the wrong book.” Or, “You don’t need a book. Keep trying things, the car knows how to run its self.” You take the book to some automobile engineers. They are glad to see the book and they take it and study it and come back with an armload of thick volumes they have written which are even harder to understand than the book you found.

This is a picture of what is happening with the human race. Man is a unique and marvelous creature. Whoever or whatever created him must be even more intelligent than man himself. There is a Book that claims to be the instruction book, but we are being told that it is not the instruction book. The Book is being ridiculed and slandered by friends and neighbors who have not even read it. Volumes have been written about it, but these books don’t even agree with one another. Worse yet, the prevailing theory in much of the world is that each “car” knows how to run itself. And we do get started after a fashion and run about crashing into each other, hurting ourselves and each other.

You, my dear friend, are a marvelous being. If the Bible is the revelation of the Creator of this world and of the human race as it claims to be, it should be possible for you to understand enough of it to make your life run right. The Bible is not about a machine. It is about a Person-to person relationship. Through the teachings in the book, you as a person can make contact with the Person who created you and live each day connected to the Power who is unlimited, who understands you, and who is always present. But you do have to “turn the key.”

The Value of the Invisible

You can tell from this blog that taking care of my physical health is important to me.  I have another blog titled www.simplebiblestudy.wordpress.com

In it I encourage the second half of Jesus’ statement to Satan, “Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.”  Sometimes I wish I had chosen a different title for that blog, but I still don’t know what it would have been.  I put “Simple Bible Study” in a search engine yesterday and discovered that there are hundreds of websites with that or a similar title, so what could I say that has not been said?  I just know that it is so easy to let lesser matters consume all of our time.  “The apostle Paul wrote, “what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”  I want to keep my priorities straight.

A link to read about sugar and sugar substitutes

http://www.womentowomen.com/nutritionandweightloss/splenda.aspx
I read the entire thorough discussion of sugar and sugar substitutes. Although it ends with an offer of their “Personal Program” for health, I found their information balanced and thoughtful.

In Memory of Glenn Kramar

(November 21, 1925-January 19, 1999)

This is a translation of a poem written by Pedro Tamayo of Tungual, Peru, and published in the magazine, La Voz Eterna, July-August 2002.

Like a bird that spreads his wings from his nest

and soars in lonely spaces

so he came to distant and dangerous places.

On rustic slopes and steep hills,

under the mended roofs of the forgotten

he lay down to rest,

and with tasteless bread he was nourished.

Upon that layer of hard soil where he planted,

today glorious fields on colorful meadows,

treasure shines through his clear vision.

Remembrance of his existence thrills the heart,

for among the thousands of sighs there are showers of hope

that soothe the soul, that fall over the gray pastures

bathed by the sublime and gentle showers of crystal clear waters.

The eloquent tree did not wither

nor was the flowering lily disturbed,

in the valleys torrents of waters do not run away,

but stay and water the dry and dusty soil.

Absent bird, leaving a trail to follow fluttering

to a glorious and eternal meeting

in the gracefulness of the blue celestial heavens.
Holy book open, names engraved

with cursive golden letters,

with measured notes, heavenly voices will sing

with indescribable joy.

“But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.  They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not faint.”
(Isaiah 40:31)

More about Pollan’s book

Today I read part of chapter three, “The Industrialization of Eating.” He goes into the history of white flour, for instance, and explains how choices made because of human weaknesses have combined to weaken the nutritional value of what most of the people are eating today. I also browsed ahead and read his argument for preparing meals from whole natural food, smaller amounts, and enjoying them in a more relaxed family setting.

Book Suggestion-In Defense of Food

My family has been the recipient of much of my advice about nutrition, so they respond with anything good they find on the subject. The book “In Defense of Food” by Michael Pollan, copyright 2008, was dropped on my table about lunchtime today and I skimmed it while eating a delicious mushroom sauce pasta, stir-fried vegetables and salad. It is a good book. Daniel had checked it out of the library. You can too, or at least read it there, or the reviews on Amazon.com before you decide to buy it. It is not another diet or vitamin book, but it explains once again the negative relationship between good food and commercial interests in our culture.  If you choose not to look at the book, just follow the first sentence. “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.”

The world is too much with us…

Mrs. Elsberry assigned sonnets for us to memorize in my English literature class and the first few lines of this one by William Wordsworth comes to my mind often.  Mr. Wordsworth would rather be a pagan than be trapped in the “getting and spending” world.  I’m not a pagan, but I appreciate the reminder to enjoy God’s creation.  Material possessions command too much of our time. The apostle Paul wrote: …what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.  He also wrote: love never fails William Wordsworth. 1770–1850

535. The World

THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;	5
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gather’d now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;	10
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

Shall I Tell?

I have a hematoma on the top right corner of my head. When I cup my hand over it, it feels almost as big as half of a boiled egg, but I don’t think it is, quite. On the medical record of my visit to the doctor it is called a “contusion” which is just another word for “bruise.” Beside it there is a thick scab about the size of a quarter.

“Hematomas exist as bruises (ecchymosis)….Some hematomas form into welt-like formations that are hard to the touch. Such a formation is a sac of blood that the body creates to keep internal bleeding to a minimum. In most cases the sac of blood eventually dissolves, however, in some cases they may continue to grow or show no change. If the sac of blood does not disappear, then it may need to be surgically removed.

Hematomas can gradually migrate, as the effused cells and pigment move in the connective tissue. For example, a patient who injures the base of his thumb might cause a hematoma, which will slowly move all through the finger within a week. Gravity is the main determinant of this process.”

Mine has been “migrating” down the right side of my face, beginning with a bright red color in the soft tissue at the side of my right eye, and covering most of the right side of my face with various pastel shades. I have had it for 12 days, though, and the colors are now barely noticeable.

How did it happen? On November 6^th at about 10:30 in the morning, I put on my walking shoes, my smaller cotton hat (the one I bought in Athens in 1985) and got my walking stick (a bamboo stick with a rubber cane tip) and went to the mailbox to mail a letter. (I have the habit of using the walking stick, because loose gravel has been knocked out onto the edges of the driveway.) As is often the case, the mail had not been picked up the day before, so I folded the advertising papers around the letters and started back up the hill.

On the last and steepest part of the hill, I have two choices. I can come on up the driveway, or I can take the concrete steps with railings that Manuel has designed and had built during the past few years. I often choose the driveway, but that day I chose the stairs. On the 2^nd or 3^rd step I saw a white length of wire that looked like a straightened clothes hanger. I’ve seen it there several times before and it really wasn’t bothering anything, but this time I thought about picking it up. But it might have been left there for a reason, so I decided to just push it over to the side, I think with the walking stick. (Could it have been with the side of my foot?”)

I’m not sure of the chronology of the next few seconds. I know I was very angry at my self on the way over backwards and shouted, “Oh no!” and hit my lower back and then my head with a hard blow. I was falling downhill to a place that was partly dust with pebbles and partly the edge of the concrete paving of the driveway. I got myself up, gathered the scattered mail and looked around for my walking stick. I saw it about 10 feet down the hill, went and got it and walked up the driveway, not the steps. I lay the mail on the table and on the way past the refrigerator picked two plastic bags of wheat germ out of the freezer and sat down in my recliner with one bag on my head and the other on my back.

While sitting there, I was wondering whether or not I would have to tell my kids. I was mentally composing a description of what happened, thinking I would go to the computer when I got up and write up the details to leave on the kitchen table in case they came home and found me unconscious. (Dumb? I know.)

After 15 minutes, I stood up and started for the kitchen to put the ice bags back. I am so glad I got across the 4 feet of carpet before the blood started running down my face and onto the kitchen floor. The next few minutes were occupied with wrapping my head with a string of paper towels, discarding at least one application and applying another, and discovering my hat with a 3 inch blood stain on it. I must have left it on while I was holding the ice packs to my head, otherwise I would have known it was bleeding.

Julie was at work at the Neighborhood Health Clinic and does not answer her cell phone during working hours. (I didn’t have the clinic number, but I do now.) I called Manuel at the church and told him that I had fallen and needed to go the emergency room. He came quickly and took me to Zion, the San Diego Kaiser hospital. If I had had signs of losing consciousness I would have gone to the nearest hospital, but it is about 10 minutes drive to the local hospital and 25 minutes to Zion, and I doubted if there would be much difference in the lapse of time for getting attention.

After more ice to slow down the bleeding, a shampoo of sorts to discover that the puncture wound was short and, according to them, did not need stitches, a cat scan to determine that my skull was intact, a tetanus shot, and a prescription for an antibiotic, Manuel brought me home. He then went down to the scene of the accident and found a pebble with a bloodstain on one corner. Without a DNA test, I guess we can’t tell for sure if that was my blood, or if there was already a blood-stained pebble in the area.

There remains the question of whether it was a purely “mechanical” fall, or if I had a momentary dizziness that caused me to lose my balance. I’m up-to-date on blood tests and eco-cardiogram and my blood pressure readings have been normal. I do remember that a couple of weeks before the incident I had awakened with a mild vertigo that kept me a little uneasy all day. I also notice a slight weakness after eating breakfast. I assume that my blood supply is occupied digesting my food, so I usually sit and rest for about 20 minutes after breakfast.

And, in post-analysis of the way my brain works, I notice that I have a very bad habit of seeing some other little thing that needs doing while on the way to whatever impetus got me up off my chair. And when I change directions, the gyroscope in my head does not seem to change as fast as my body does and that leaves me a little unsteady on my feet.

I’m enjoying the quiet days in my apartment with so many papers and pictures and books and other little tasks to enjoy. I have never had any severe pain, even the first couple of days, just sore places here and there. I feel somewhat subdued and chastised and at least temporarily disinterested in lone world-traveling adventures.

Am I Apolitical?

The year was 1976.  It was the Carter-Ford election year.  My journalism professor brother was visiting me in California.  After some hours of conversation, he said, “Janice, you’re apolitical!  You are a-political!”  It sounded like a bad word, so since that time I have tried to pay more attention to politics.  I try to look at both sides of any issue and I do vote in the elections.  I am usually sympathetic with anyone who has made an informed decision contrary to mine.

It was somewhat understandable that I was not informed about the issues because I had lived in Peru from 1963-1971 (exciting times through the national election in which Belaunde was elected president and the subsequent taking over of the government by the military before he finished his six-year term).  In the next five years I was teaching kindergarten full time and foster parenting three nephews while four of my children were still at home.

Now after 30 more years of watching the political system work and three days before a scary national election, I am wondering again, “Am I apolitical?”  I looked up the word “politics” and all its cognates in Merriam-Webster and decided that my interests do not closely fit any of the definitions, except “politics” definition 5 a: the total complex of relations between people living in society.”  In addition, definition 2 under “political economy” attracts my interest–”the theory or study of the role of public policy in influencing the economic and social welfare of a political unit.”

But what disappoints me about politics is the whole gamut of vote-getting strategies.  I hear of stretched truths and omitted information, not to say outright lies of the candidates on both sides of any controversy.  I know about the special interest groups who expect attention to their pet project (often money-making) in return for their support of a certain candidate.

I am not persuaded that the democratic form of government can lift a country to a better “complex of relations” among people living in society.  I read once that a democracy will last only until the majority of the people learn they can vote for their own selfish interests.  At this point in history that has been only about 200 years at the most.

Four years ago I had an interesting conversation with an Englishman at an international dinner at an Anglican church.  It was an election year, of course, and in our discussion we began to come to the conclusion that the ideal form of government would be a monarchy, if the monarch were a person of integrity who had the best interest of the people at heart.  And, perhaps because the conversation was taking place in a Christian church, we agreed that Jesus Christ is the only perfect monarch.

And that, really, is the key to the difference between how the American democracy worked in its early years and how it works today.  It wasn’t so much that the constitution affirmed that we were a nation under God,  it was the fact that most of the people living under the constitution had placed their own lives under God’s control.  There were differences of opinion about specifics, but there were enough people who respected the authority of a beneficent higher power that they took care of themselves and their neighbors in a good way without being forced to do so by the government.

Should Christians be in politics?  Surely Christians want to be involved in “the total complex of relations between people living in society.”  Our involvement should be according to the natural talents we’ve been given and the learned abilities we brought with us when we accepted the call of Christ.  I have decided that my own talents and abilities are more in line with the one-by-one call to each person to obey God and receive the power of his indwelling Spirit.  Does that make me “apolitical?”

While I am living in the world, I want to follow the example of the first disciples in being citizens “who must obey God rather than man” when there is a conflict, but those Christians of the first centuries were also instructed to “Give everyone what you owe him: If you owe taxes, pay taxes; if revenue, then revenue; if respect, respect; if honor, then honor.”  They were esteemed as good citizens in the Roman Empire, except when they refused to honor the emperors as Deities.

“Righteousness exalts a nation, but sin is a disgrace to any people.”  (Proverbs 14:34)