Remembering

9-11, 2001, found me in Gulf Shores with my family and it was there that we watched in horror as the tragic events of the day unfolded like pages in a guest book at Jefferson Memorial.  I think being away from home made it seem even more surreal, more cold (as if the killing cold could have been any more bitter) almost like it was happening someplace else and not here in "you can't touch this" America. There's just something about being in your own home with its familiar intimacies that make things seem more, well, "real".  I think that must be why so many people feel the need to get away after suffering a personal tragedy, maybe somehow the impersonal-ness of a hotel room in a strange city must give some a temporary respite from the pain of reality?   (God never said that there wouldn't be pain, He promised that He would be with us during it.)

Since we didn't come home from the beach until late that next weekend it wasn't until I went back to work on Monday that I was finally able to talk to friends about what had happened that past Tuesday, about where they'd been when they heard the news and about how their own lives had been affected.  I think that God created in us an innate desire to bond, to cling, to share those common experiences with fellow human beings.  You might say that we unconsciously create our own unofficial group therapy sessions as the need arises as part of the mechanics of coping.  (Women, I must say, seem to have more of those bonding genes than men and we aren't afraid to call a therapy session in a heartbeat.)

Today in church we watched a short video of remembrance about 9/11/2001. And as I sat there and watched it I realized that almost all of the young children who had been in the early part of the service to share in a second-grader's baptism were not even born then, that the only thing that they will ever know about that day will be through the media and whatever we who were here then, tell them.  It made me think about Pearl Harbor and my generation.  We weren't around then.  I've only read about it or watched film clips of it.  My parents lived it as children.  9/11 is my own "Pearl Harbor" and the middle schoolers who sat in those seats at church will unfortunately have to wait on theirs.  And it will come.  Actually, I think it happens each day that any soldier loses his life on the battlefield but another event such as that which happened on 9-11 will probably happen again during the lives of those innocent children.  I say this with the sincerest regret that I can give you but also with a truck-load of confidence because as sinful man living in a sin filled world we are doomed to repeat our own bloody history until Jesus comes back to take His children out of it.  As long as sin exists we will keep hurting each other with a vengeance but Hallelujah, what an Answer we have for the hurting and the incredible pain that we bring on ourselves.  Thank you Jesus, our  very Balm in Gilead.

Kiss your loved ones today.  Tell God thank you, for everything, and I mean everything.  Never take tomorrow for granted.  Those who perished at the World Trade Center had absolutely no idea that their last tomorrow was already in the history books.

Saved From a Life of Crime by Mississippi Power

This morning I saw a beautiful sight...the power company setting a new pole in my neighborhood.  I threw on my sensible Birkenstocks and headed down the hill just as fast as my chubby legs would carry me, (never mind that I still had on pajamas, by this time I was past caring what I looked like--you try putting on makeup by flashlight and see if your lipstick doesn't wind up looking like something out of Sunset Boulevard) and all but kissed some young man from Mississippi Power who'd come to save me from being sent to Julia Tutwiler.  I had been just this close to shooting out our neighbor's generator (with my imaginary gun) because they had power for the TV and microwave and I didn't.  I have my priorities and electricity is high on the list.  Don't get me wrong, I know that I have been extremely blessed.  God is so good and I could never thank Him enough for the blessings that He has given me.  Too many times we forget to thank Him for the simple things like electricity and if you've been without it for a couple of days He'll bring you right back on track with what you ought to be thanking Him for!

Our power was off for two long days almost to the minute and I think if I'd had to walk around with a flashlight one more night I think I'd have thrown my "Little House on the Prairie" books straight through our still-blank TV (the power may be on but you know the cable company hasn't gotten with the program yet.)  Camping is not a favorite hobby of mine nor is anything that involves flashlights or porta potties.  A lack of electricity makes me claustrophobic, like I've moved to Laura Ingalls Wilder-ville.  I can feel a panic attack wanting to start churning up my diaphragm every time I watch LHOTP and snow starts falling thicker than Eaglebrand and Halfpint is whining because she can't walk that 5 miles to school  (it can't be up hill both ways because they lived on the prairie for pete's sake and the prairie doesn't have any hills.)  I could not have been Ma Ingalls; I'd have killed Charles or Mr Edwards or Mr Olson or anybody else who'd driven up with a wagon full of beef jerky and a sack of meal telling me to throw another log on the fire, that it was time to start dinner.  It's a good thing that God didn't leave it up to the likes of me to populate the United States because I'd have never left "back East" where people had neighbors and stores and gas lights and half-off sales.

I know there will be times ahead when the power will go off again and I'll get just as jumpy.  But we're going to invest in a generator.  I think I've convinced Larry that the expense would be well worth it when you compare what it would cost in gas these days to drive to Wetumpka on visitation weekends (the home of Julia Tutwiler Women's Prison for those that didn't already know) versus buying a generator that will run a television and a microwave.  It's really his civic duty to keep a potential criminal off the streets!

Wherefore Art Thou Bobby Sherman?

Dear Cheryl Tiegs:

It's me again, forever the faithful fan of you and Summer Blonde by Clairol (although at this age I've had to resort to the professional stuff and let my hairdresser do the heavy "lifting" to get that sun-kissed look.)  I hope you are doing well today.  In my imagination you're still skipping down the beach in that famous pink bikini while the likes of guys like Moondoggie and Bobby Sherman are falling all over themselves just itching to hoist you aloft like some life-sized Barbie doll.  Work it honey, because in this blog you won't have a single wrinkle and those pesky spider veins won't ever appear in the city limits of the Malibu that's in my mind.  You're safe here, Cheryl, I've got your back (now if I only had those long legs!)

About this weight loss gig that I've taken up. You know, the one I told you about in my last blog where I needed to lose 90 pounds to get back down to my lowest high school weight that I can remember? You know, so I can create my OWN Cheryl Tiegs kind of Summer Blonde commercial because I absolutely adored you in yours where the cute guys were holding you up like some freshly-cut pine tree in the lumberjack Olympics?  Now you remember.  Well, I've lost a whole pound since we last "spoke" so I've just got 89 more to go.  Oh, don't get me wrong, I know it's too early to start looking for 4 or 5 cute young guys who'd be willing (or persuaded for a fee) to hoist me up like some prized heifer at the County Fair but I'm a pound closer than I was when I last blogged.

One whole pound...I'm nothing if not optimistic.  Are my bifocals lying or is that Bobby Sherman way down at the end of the beach looking my way?  Just 89 more pounds, Cheryl, just 89 more pounds...oh yes, and the pony tail is still a project in the works, more like a pony's thumb.  I've been sweatin' like a field hand today while I cleaned out the basement but I didn't take the scissors to it even though I wanted to.  I just kept thinking "what would Cheryl do?"  I figure what you'd do is pay someone to clean out the basement while you and your beautiful hair sat on the couch upstairs and read movie magazines but unfortunately that is where my fantasy and cold, hard reality slapped each other like two divas fighting over a cocktail dress at a two-for-one sale.

Bobby Sherman, please see if you can dial up Moondoggie on the hot line and tell him that mama's comin in 89 more pounds.  And Cheryl, keep that hair swishin' and stay perky!

Sincerely, your biggest fan (and I do mean your biggest fan)
Modine Gunch

See Yoo in Mala-Boo