CHILI BY DISTRACTION

Coming to you from the land of Cumin.  And a day of anticipated ice and sleet now glistening in the sun which is flickering like an indecisive light bulb.  In my little world, we are the lucky region experiencing only a little winter weather.  But we are never in the consistent, mind-numbing cold world of never lose your mittens or forget your hat and travel with peanut butter in the car.  And due to this fact, our world comes to a halt when anything actually sticks to a road and the temperature is below 32.  We don't do winter driving well and we live in a hilly place.  We are programmed to jump out of bed and run to the TV to see which schools and businesses are closed if we think we heard sleet hit the window during the night.  

But preparation for a snowy, icy possibility is our forte.  Because people actually think a winter storm warning might bring a little fun in February as long as the power holds out.  And our power company prepares diligently but mother nature thinks she looks better in shimmering branches and low hanging iced pines.  A hearty crew works mightily while we are selfishly enjoying a white day.

During the possibility of a winter "event", we lose our ability to drive just thinking about all of the places we must go shopping to put in our winter supplies.  There are eight sleds left in town and definitely no generators.  Little old ladies are counting their candles.  We have had other winter examples which taught us what it is like to live for days or a week at the top of a hill without power.

If one is to be sequestered, one must have chili.  The kind of chili which can take days to plan almost like a Thanksgiving dinner.  The perfect chili.  I did all of this while waiting for the perfect moment to begin the awesome chili preparation.

Two pounds of Angus ground chuck.  One pound of behind the butcher counter ground sirloin.  Tomatoes.  Onions.  Garlic.  Cheese.  Frito's.  Sour cream.  Milk.  Coca Colas.  Green olives.  Windmill cookies.  Strawberries.  Eggs.  Apples.  Butter.  Crackers.  Bread.  Paper goods and Tide.  And anything Little Debbie.  Rolaids and Tylenol.

All items guaranteed to be out of stock two days before the possibility of the broadcast event.

The mood struck me last night.  With the pressure of Downton Abbey starting soon and a quick visit with a friend, I began the process.  I had my onion and garlic chopped before I called my friend.  I browned the meat.  Added my whole tomatoes et all plus water.  Set out my spices - Hungarian Paprika, black pepper, curry, chili powder, salt, cayenne, Added tomato paste.  Of course, I didn't stand by the stove and do each thing.  No.  I would go sit in my chair and chat and then get up and stir the pot.  Turn it up or down.  Put the lid on and take the lid off.  During the middle of Downton Abbey, I left the room and put the lid on and turned off the stove so it would be ready for the fridge.  After poor Isabel's horrible engagement party, I tasted the chili.  Mmmm.  Oh no.  I have done this before, more than once.  I like tomatoes in my chili but now I remembered why I no longer add them.  I had made a lovely, simmered pot of spaghetti sauce minus the wine which I would have incorporated if I had had a good bottle nearby.  

When you want chili and you get spaghetti sauce, it is disappointing.  Spaghetti sauce is not the comfort dish one longs for when thinking about a frosty day.  It will do but not with sour cream and Frito's and cheese.  At least I had angel hair.

When the cooking gets tough, call home.  At first light.  Of course.  In all of my speedy and not overly attentive course of cooking, I had forgotten the CUMIN.  And no spice can turn a questionable morsel to the Tex-Mex side of the fence as quickly as a dash of cumin.  Mama was a chili saver.  And she knows chili!

The pot of spaghetti sauce was about to become chili.  I could have eaten it for breakfast I was so excited to correct the situation.  But I carefully put the cold pot on low and waited for the stew to warm up.  I added the cumin and a little water, put the lid on and turned the heat up a smidge.  And waited.

A magic timer went off in my head.  Chili time, finally!  Yes.  It smelled like chili, after hours of anticipation, preparation and regeneration.  I got my bowl down.  But of course, skinny cooks can't be trusted so I took a taste test.

Whoa.  Maybe not a good whoa.  Why is there a piece of silver floating in my chili.  I thought it was a bay leaf and then I remembered another ingredient I left out.  This was a little piece of silver paper.  And another piece of  paper - round.  Just like the quality seal affixed to the top of any new spice bottle.  I grabbed the bottle.  I don't know how the paper ended up in the batch.  At least two tablespoons of cumin did make it in.  There is  definitely a Tex-Mex flavor.  Very spicy.

My heart sank once again.  I've ruined the chili, twice.  A well-loved, expensive pot of chili.  Disappointed Frito's, sour cream and cheese.  I offered myself up as the test.  One big bowl of Cumin with all the fixings.

I'm still standing.  But then I took a closer look at this picture and I wondered.  Where is the rest of the silver paper?  Thank goodness it's quality sealed.  I think I will try to make chili one more time in my lifetime.

2015 EIGHTEEN DAYS IN

Yet.  Three little letters.  

Yet is certain of nothing.  Nothing good and nothing bad.  It is a hinge on a door in our life.  It is opening or closing.  And sometimes our whole world hinges on the direction of the door.  Or the coming in or going out of a person.  Sometimes the wind blows the door open with spring air or blows the door shut when a storm approaches.

We say to people “the door is always open.”  But really, the door can’t remain open all of the time.  Night falls and very few people go to bed and leave the front door wide open.  Sometimes it may be unlocked but not wide open.  There are reasons we shut the door at night.  To keep the heat in the house.  To keep a monster out of the closet.  To signal to the neighbors this house is down for the night.

We shut the door and turn off the porch light.  And draw the drapes.  No more illumination of what really goes on inside when someone is outside looking in. 

Lights off – go away. 

Yet, Mr. Larry Wilkins in Kuttawa, Kentucky had his porch light on January 3.  He was home with his two dogs when there was a light knock at the door.  He opened it to find a bloodied, shivering little girl.  The dogs welcomed her in and she told Mr. Wilkins about a plane crash.  Her parents were dead and the plane was upside down. 

She saw his porch light and walked barefooted through the woods, wearing clothes suited for Florida and not the cold, wet Kentucky night.  Mr. Wilkins said she was a brave little girl.  He wouldn’t even walk through those woods in the dark.

She is seven years old.  I can only guess that she knows every word of Frozen or was wearing sparkly purple nail polish and a special beaded cornrow obtained at a souvenir shop where tan, young women gain job skills braiding hair, folding t-shirts and scooping up Hermit crabs.

 

I do know she is amazing.  She survived a plane crash and realized her parents were dead.  In the same situation, most adults would be beyond coping. 

Yet, Sailor had the presence of mind to pick herself up and go for help.  She was not waiting for someone to come to her. 

Yet resides with the negative but, the never finished and.  But yet is a contract of possibility, more is yet to come.

Eighteen days into the new year of  2015.   A year of hopes unseen, yet.

THIS TIME OF YEAR: SQUIRREL WITHOUT UMBRELLA

I love fall!

My newest habit is a result of cooler weather.  But a warm front came along, throwing the digits back into the miserable eighties.  Really?  At the end of October.  But that is just October.  My favorite month.  Apple pie.  Football.  State Fair.  Reading a book sitting by an open window.  The sun changing.  Baseball.  Caramel.

A cool evening draws me out outside. Faithful pup runs up the stairs, stomping in the leaves just beginning to fall.  Happy for company, he grabs a twig to catch my attention.  But I am busy lighting a candle, setting down a mug of marshmallow overflowing hot chocolate to strike the match.  A perfect fall evening of solitude.  No air conditioners, just a low current of night time noise. I pick up my phone and begin my latest obsession - Spider. Peace, quiet and relaxation.  A tonic for a goodnight's sleep.

Then the artillery begins.  The thawacking sound of an acorn letting loose, dropping through levels of leaves, ricocheting off the roof.  I raise my hand to my head as minimal protection.     

What goes up must come down.  A girl, a bow, an arrow.  Standing in the middle of a quiet street, she leans back, shooting the arrow up into the blue.  Gravity sends the arrow back down.  Her little brother picks up the fallen arrow and the process begins again.  Up it goes and down it comes.  At some point, he questions the operation and is running around with a dishpan on his head.  "Where is it?  Where is it?"  He stands next to her, sticking to her like glue.  He can't see the arrows whooshing down through the leaves.  She is not afraid, then, now or ever.  Until one of the arrows hits the roof of a car parked at the curb.  They retreat quickly into the house. A dishpan is not quite the perfect accessory when the sky is falling.     

   

This was just a little thing.  But I am into little things.  Last week, I was in traffic on a four lane thoroughfare, a major east west connector and also a primary exit off the interstate.  This road runs through red lights, past strip shopping centers, churches, schools, drug stores, banks, the gym I sometimes think about, local and chain eateries, the vet's office, the grocery store, my favorite antique mall, apartments, entrances to lovely subdivisions.  

There are trees everywhere.  And poles connecting this to that with wires crossing the street.  A wire was silhouetted in the sky.  A little squirrel was running across with a mouthful of acorns or nesting material sticking out of his mouth.  Zippity Do Da.  Zinging across the certain canyon of death as thick traffic traveled below.  One slip of a little foot.

But he was on a mission.  Building a nest and gathering supplies.  He may have the advantage of not sensing the perilous situation.  He just did what he had to do.  No quibbling.  From watching squirrels in my backyard, I doubt he gave a second thought to jumping out on that wire.  He didn't test the tension with his foot or grab an umbrella for balance.   He didn't stop to consider the traffic below.  He was moving along even though the very scary was right below.  A squirrel has to do what a squirrel has to do.  I think that is amazing.  The something inside of him that says nuts to gather and nests to build.  This is that time of year.

His sky is falling.  Acorns.  Manna.  Provision.




Revision. Previously published 10/20/14.

WOO PIG SOOIE PIES

Please don't tell Martha I renamed her lovely Pumpkin Whoopie Pies.  She is quite the stickler for details.  While I know she has heard of Arkansas, I don't know if she has actually been here.  And I'm almost certain she has never seen a grown man wearing a Hog Hat cheering like crazy in a stadium full of other fans.  Of course, she is

WOO PIG SOOIE PIES

an expert on almost everything.

Although Martha has cooked a truckload of hog products, from bacon to ham to tenderloin to chops, I can't really see her calling the Hogs, throwing her arms straight into the air and wiggling her fingers while screaming Woo Pig Sooie.  Around here it is common knowledge the call came from folks calling their pigs (Hogs) back to the old homeplace.  As a national producer of pork products, the little piggy that stayed home is definitely a bit sharper than the little piggy hurrying to market.

This delicious Whoopie Pie answers the quest for the frantic fall search for all things pumpkin.  And a tasty addition to any tailgate party whether outside in the elements or around a coffee table.

Honestly, the recipe is labor intensive but always worth the effort.  I finally got smart and fixed the cookies ahead of schedule and stuck them in the freezer until needed.  Great idea.  On party day, I thawed them in the fridge.

Anything with cream cheese frosting is worth the effort.  The butter, cream cheese, vanilla and powdered sugar are meant to be together.  

But I'm not the Queen of Piping which is a talent Miss Martha can do with her eyes shut.  I try. When you don't have an industrial plastic bag dedicated to frosting frufru on cupcakes and rolled out sugar cookies, but you have the whole tipping caboodle leftover from the happy homemaker days of piping as a way of life when necessary, you improvise.  I don't have an assistant to run out and purchase emergency supplies in the middle of creaming butter and cream cheese.

However, with six finished, piped, filled cookies, I paused to think that my improvisation using a storebrand baggie might not end well.  It didn't.  I resorted to my handy dandy multifunctional iced tea spoon for plopping cream cheese frosting.  I don't know which would have troubled Miss Martha the most, using a baggie for a piping bag or the improper usage of my tea spoon.  Here is the delicious, worth every effort, fallish, pumpkin recipe.

PUMPKIN WHOOPIE PIES

Cake Ingredients
3 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
3 tablespoons ground cinnamon
1 tablespoon ground ginger
1 tablespoon ground cloves
2 cups firmly packed dark brown sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
1 can pumpkin filling, chilled
2 eggs

TO THE RESCUE

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Filling Ingredients
3 cups confectioners' sugar
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
8 oz. cream cheese, softened
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, whisk flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger and cloves together.  Set aside.  In a stand mixer, mix brown sugar and oil until well combined.  Add pumpkin filling and mix well.  Add eggs and vanilla until well combined. Sprinkle flour mixture over pumpkin mixture until fully incorporated.  Drop heaping tablespoons of dough on a parchment-lined baking sheet about 1 inch apart.  Bake until cookies are just starting to crack on the top - about 15 minutes.

Sift confectioners' sugar in a large bowl.  In a stand mixer with a paddle attachment beat the butter until smooth.  Add the cream cheese until well combined.  Add sugar and vanilla and beat just until smooth.  Transfer filling to a disposable pastry bag and spread a healthy portion on the bottom side of one cookie and place the second cookie on top. Refrigerate for 30 minutes.

*******

Using culinary flare, arrange the finished Woo Pig Sooie Pies on a plate, in a basket, or atop a mini hay bale.  Accent with mums, daisies, acorns, leaves or mini pumpkins and gourds.  Place on a handwoven, hand dyed with berries from your summer garden, tablecloth.  Watch the pies disappear!

OH SAY, CAN'T YOU SEE?

Being from Maryland, she called a cab based in Maryland.  Although, I tell people you can see Washington D.C. from her kitchen window.  Looking through the side yard of her backyard neighbor is a boundary street.  She walks to work in Washington and returns home to Bethesda. Someday she will appreciate this unique experience. For now, she only thinks about it when I visit and get excited  to see car lights going down a street in another city!  But you can see Washington D.C. from her kitchen window.

The Maryland cab is prompt.  The car is clean and cool.  Another good visit is over.  Almost five years ago on a sunny August morning, she and her new husband packed up all their hopes, dreams and worldly possessions into one car and a rental van driven by her helpful brother-in-law.  Two full days and one night later they arrived in the city of their new beginning.  Jobs, education, friends and one dog - five years later, they are off to a great start.

I can't help it.  Everytime we part, I cry.  I tell the cabbie I'm just saying goodbye to my girl.  Not sad at all.  Just tears for the visit ending and the distance between us.  I am very happy for their place in life, as long as we get regular visits.  He turns on the music, afraid to hear anymore of this sob story.

We drive down Embassy Row, blocks of United Nations, in brick and mortar.  Down Rock Creek Parkway along the Potomac River, always full of joggers and bikers so steeped in routine that the history across the river is invisible.  Maybe.  I always feel lucky to be able to visit my nation's capitol.  In four days, these parks and streets will be filled with celebrants waving Old Glory.

I comment on the preparations being made and he mentions how busy work will be until the Fourth of July.  He works all of the time.  But on that afternoon, he will finally take off and head to the national fireworks with a group of friends from his apartment building.  They go early to get a good place.  He says they will spread out a picnic and just relax.  He breaks out in a big smile, turning back to tell me what a wonderful thing it is to see such fireworks.  I tell him I will think of him when I watch the show on t.v.

He is not from here but he has been in America for fourteen years.  He is from Togo.  A cousin in Nebraska helped him get his green card.  But Nebraska was a hard place to start - too cold and too much competition.

I ask him if more family is here in the states.  No, his wife and children are still in Togo.  Once a year he is able to return.  But he wants to bring them over.  He really wants them to get their education in the States. We have been talking over the radio.  As if on cue, I realize I'm hearing John Lennon in the background, singing  "Imagine".  Not one of my favorites.  But the song totally changes for me, in that instant.  "You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one."  The exact lyrics when this man from Togo tells me he is dreaming of the day he can bring his family to America.

Hours later, I 'm on my last flight.  I feel like the plane is trying to catch the sunset, flying from the darkened east westward, towards a still coral sky, narrowing.  Below, the ground is darkening as schools, houses, grocery stores, lose their recognition.  A hieroglyphic alphabet, known only to city planners and linemen of the county, is stitched neatly with punctuations of gold and white beads.  From above, the message only reads the size of the community below.  In the totally dark areas, the edges become lightly scattered with a bead or two or a handful, as letters begin to appear again.  A place begins to tell its story.

The interior lights are dimmed.  My seatmate and I start a casual conversation.  I noticed him earlier.  He was carrying a car seat down the aisle for a young mother who was already loaded down with a little baby and a bag.  Helping a fellow traveller.  He and his wife are traveling to see another son having just left one in Virginia.  This man is the second person on my return flights home who is flying as the parent of an airline employee.  He is grateful to have such an opportunity which helps him come back to the States two or three times a year.  Originally from Chile, he is now a U.S citizen.  But his mother is in her nineties.  He and his American wife have retired in Chile.  He is glad not to miss the Fourth of July here at home.  The grill is his territory and we talk about all of the meat he will prepare for his large extended family.  Telling me about his family, he clasp his hands together.

For thirty-seven years, he looked out the windshield and across the engine of an 18 wheeler, traveling all over the U. S. and Canada.  We have lived in the same city for over three decades and have two things in common - Catholic High School for Boys and a former neighborhood.  Everytime he gets excited he clasp his hands with a clap.  But not loud enough to wake anyone.  Most people are feigning sleep anyway, in order to avoid the mid-air nighttime snack of  pretzels and a glass of water.  I think milk and cookies would be more interesting but at this hour, why bother?

This man has loved traveling the country.  The joy for his chosen nation is refreshing.  The pride he has in his American born children and their success in life is evident.  While he has been very successful in returning to Chile, he will come back to the U.S. someday, to stay.

He proudly volunteers his voting record and still remembers his first elections.  Even though he is in Chile, he always votes.  And being from Arkansas, we share our mutual admiration of Bill and Hillary Clinton.  I have a feeling that this "full of life" man makes a contribution wherever he is headed.  He is excited to be a part of this American Dream.

I couldn't believe my day's good fortune.  I began my day in Togo and finished up in Chile.  Two men from two different worlds.

Having just returned from the home of news junkies, I am aware of the newest situation along the U.S./Mexico border.  I was raised in a border state in a different time.  I went to school with children who were from Cuba and Mexico.  I do remember names.  There are so many sides of this issue and I'm not an expert in any area.

I cannot see another city from my kitchen window.  Only the house to my east.  I know these neighbors.  If I walk into my kitchen in the middle of the night, their motion light shines into my house for a few seconds.  Another lot backs up, adjacent to the east.  I can see a ceramic dog on their window sill in the kitchen, over the sink.  There are no blinds. I only know these neighbors have a yippy dog.

As a mother, I have done a lot of thinking about what it would take to put my child on a bus, alone.  What the living conditions would be like to send all my hopes and dreams with my precious eight year old.  The trust I would give to another person.  The hope I would place in any information.  The money I would save to buy the possibility.  The time invested in planning, praying, preparing.  The nerves of steel for a selfless mother to push a crying child on the bus, not knowing.  As a parent, always trying to do the absolute best thing for our child.

No matter the politics, these are precious children.  Even in keeping the laws of the land, we must first protect these children.  They have not been thrown away but sent on a hopeful journey.   However we feel about the situation, while they are our guests, we must treat them as we would our own.

Oh say, can't you see?  How a mother could look through a fence and see a wonderful life on the other side.  Just backyard neighbors.

'Good fences make good neighbours.'...
'Why do they they make good neighbours?...
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.

from Mending Wall by Robert Frost



      

AN ODD COUPLE: A DESIGNER HANDBAG AND A RECALLED FROZEN DINNER

Running by the grocery store is usually very uneventful.  In this case, it was uneventful but with a twist.  I marched through all of the proper steps and then returned to my car, shook my head and wondered.

The Bible talks about entertaining angels unaware.  The people who cross our path on a daily basis or the quick chance encounter with a stranger.  This wonderful army of angels is out and about checking up on us and our kindness to strangers.  Of course, it's more than that.  I like to think of heavenly angels and their place on this earth.  I never stopped to think that maybe this world was like getting the short straw.  Anything in heavenly glory, shining gold, would have to be better than keeping up with faulty folks.

Or a customer using the self-help line.  I have never liked the do it yourself version of anything.  The minute those new fangled checkouts came along, I sensed an immediate panic in the job security of the hard-working  employees.  Checking out with less than fifteen items has never been a goal of mine because I try to get everything I need in the near future, and anything that strikes my fancy for meal preparation three months from tomorrow.  I may not be organized but I am prepared.

Two yogurts.  A quart of milk.  Eggs.  Vitamins.  Dog food.   A trip to the pharmacy finishing with groceries. I never remembered the bread.  The entire quickie checkout section was open except for one person already checking out.  I had to go around him.

(I forgot to mention I had just returned from a quick trip to my mother's.  After thirty years, she had gotten a pet, Sally.  I had gone to meet the new kitten and take pictures.  My camera case was in the passenger seat but I thought to put it behind on the floor, under the umbrella.  In the past few weeks, a band of thieves has been breaking into cars in busy parking lots in broad daylight.  Summer seems to bring out the best in purse snatchers.)

Not being an expert in the serve yourself grocery genre, I was careful and deliberate.  There was only the one person behind me on another machine.  My cash back, eight five dollar bills, was so fresh the drying ink had caused the bills to stick together horribly.  I counted the money and put it in my designer handbag.  Two twenties would have been an easier transaction.  As I was finishing up the transaction, a different color had come up on the screen and a recorded voice was saying something I wasn't paying any mind.

I really didn't want to be bothered for a 25 cent off coupon or take the time to figure out what was most likely some sort of pitch from the store.  My purchase was paid, bagged and in my cart.  An ever ready employee, with expertise in the quickie lanes, pulled off my receipt and was folding it up and down to find the proper information.  She crisply folded the paper IMPORTANT RECALL NOTICE.

My first thought was "how creepy."  We still had not gotten to the bottom of the situation but I was creeped out to think this major gigantic grocer was still peering into my purchases, weeks later.  My assistant read out loud, "Important Recall Notice.  Valued Customer : You may have purchased the products....."  Then I saw the product listed and remembered buying it recently.  I laughed and said I was just wanting to try something new - Chicken Pad Thai.  She still had the receipt in her hand, once again carefully beginning to read the Important Recall Notice.

In my mind, I was beginning to have a not very polite conversation with this helpful person, wondering if I should just snatch the receipt from her hand.  She took her ink pen and circled the lines without leaving any ink.  I was trying to appreciate her sincere effort at educating me and her obvious need to do her job well.  She still had the receipt, creased at the "Important Recall Notice" but gathered up gently in her hands.  One last time, she suggested I might want to highlight this section. I thought she would never stop.  This was a comedy skit in the making.  And she was standing in my personal space.   She asked me if I still had the original receipt.  (Okay?  How do I know?  This was a wild purchase to try something different, something Thai.)She finally gave me the receipt and I thanked her but I was thinking unkind things about her education level.

After a couple of minutes being held hostage over a recall notice (who notices those anyway?) I zoomed my buggy out of the store.  Freedom.  On this hot Sunday afternoon I was glad to have gotten such a good spot, one closest to the store which was not designated handicapped.  In my family, we call it a "must be living right" spot, a silly sign that we must be doing something right.

Walking out of the store, I felt a sense of hovering, someone else in my larger personal space.   I realized the only person who had been checking out next to me in the self serve section was still behind me, even after all of my Important Recall Notice- Notices.  My purse was securely tucked up on my arm but I turned around enough to see he was hanging back, with just a small paper sack wrapped around what appeared to be a soft drink.  The lot was full but there was a lull in customers coming and going.  I turned around again, hoping he would realize I knew he was still there.  The rear gate of my car lifted as I put myself between the car and the length of the buggy.

Nothing eventful happened but I couldn't shake the feeling he had been following me.  It was all very odd.   He never got into a car but walked down the lot to the street, looking side to side, walking past a soft drink kiosk at the edge of the parking lot.  If he had walked out with a real bag of groceries, I probably wouldn't have thought anything strange.  

Next time, I won't flash my five dollar bills but I will still be wary of something out of place, trying to hone my sense of something not right.  Standing up straight, looking back twice.  Whatever it takes.

However, isn't it always after the fact we realize an angel was entertaining (helping, tolerating, guiding) us and we were terribly unaware, standing in the quickie check out lane, irritated with someone suggesting we highlight these lines as she carefully folds the receipt in just the right spot.  In exasperation, making us pause for a minute, looking around at the people in our surroundings.  


"Angels of the Lord camping in my yard,
burning midnight fires to keep away the bears."


My own translation of Psalm 37:4
 

EAGLE EYE

EAGLE EYE

Art glass and yard art are two of my favorite things.  A thirty year collection of cobalt glass lines a windowsill, hangs across a window top like a blue valance and dots the landscape of my home.  Hand-blown art pieces, sitting pretty, hold candy and fresh flowers except for the show-off basking in the study, proud of her curves and pedigree beginning.  A schmaltzy, whirlygig backyard has always tempted my landscaping dreams.  But to date, my only yard expression is my Francis of Assisi statue, a cobalt colored birdbath and an art glass garden stake.  Taller than me, it has a curly cue at the top with six diamond shaped blocks coming down the wrought iron pole, which pounds into the ground for secure footing.  The artist has filled each block with a thick piece of colored glass; red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple, from top to bottom.  I’m not superstitious but my friend says it looks like something to ward off the "evil eye".  Growing up, I had my own personal watch, Eagle Eye, a  long-time nickname for my father.

The American Bald Eagle is the only eagle unique to North America.  One amazing feature of the eagle is its incredible eyesight.  The eagle eye is almost the size of a human eye but it can look forward and to the side at the same time.  The eagle’s visual acuity is over 4X that of a person with perfect sight.  With such clarity, the eagle can see danger and track a moving animal almost a mile away.   

My father sang in a church choir for almost all of his life - from his hometown church to a Navy chapel. Wherever he was a member, his regular place of service was standing on the back row praising God in full voice.

His reputation as Eagle Eye began when my sister and I were little.  Children's Church had not been invented.  We started out in the Cradle Roll where babies, "so fresh from God" were presented, on their first visit to the church nursery, behind a special curtained window where the church family could oh and ah over the little babies gussied up in lacy bonnets or bitty baby shoes.  A few years later, the three and four year old children would walk into church, thus beginning their education in proper sanctuary behavior.

I know I date myself but learning how to sit still during any occasion is a learned activity and obviously a lost art in many venues.  In my opinion, no matter the age, sitting with family and friends, experiencing God in all of His Awe and Wonder through music, scripture and preaching is much more of a worship experience than being sequestered in another room participating in material that has been watered down to appropriate age levels.  As an adult, I really don't mind how many dropped crayons roll down the floor or innocent questions are asked during a worship service including the entire family.

Sister and I shared the pew with our mother and our aunt and uncle.  Our only form of entertainment was a pew pencil and the church bulletin which we used to perfect pencil drawings to amuse each other.  I always drew Iron Poor Blood and Iron Rich Blood (from Geritol, a sponsor of The Lawrence Welk Show seen on Saturday night), my tale of a rich girl and a poor girl.  Once, I drew pictures of visiting family members, giving them animal characteristics. This artwork almost got me jerked out of church.  The object of the game was pain or laughter, whichever would cause an uncontrollable outburst in a church with almost 1,500 people listening intently to the sermon.  Pinching and nail gouging were also successful.  My father’s eagle eye was usually trained on our behavior and "discussed" after church.  His eyebrows were permanently raised for much of my childhood. 

From the Doxology to the Majesty and Glory, over time, my ear became trained to hear my father’s strong bass voice.  Even in a new state and church, Eagle Eye’s job was not over when we hit high school, which was good as we considered introducing a whoopee cushion to one morning service.  From his perch, Eagle Eye kept me in line with just a look.  He was always watching and knew who talked too much, sat too close or moved around too long.  Eagle Eye saw all.

With time and his age, we reversed the keen gaze, eagling in on his own actions while sitting in the choir loft. During a prayer, he would casually but with great stealth find his nail clippers and to our horror, commence an underhanded little snip here and there after the amen.  Or pause to refresh his eyelids during a long sermon.  Then we were the ones with raised eyebrows and the Sunday noon chat.   

When the bald eagle became the national symbol in 1782, there were almost 100,000 nesting eagles in the country.  In 1963, with only 487 nesting pairs of American Bald Eagles remaining, extinction was dangerously close.   The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service defines "endangered " as a species which is considered to be close to extinction in most or all of its range.  The Endangered Species Preservation Act of 1966 protected the species.  By 2007, the American Bald Eagle was removed from the list and continues to increase. 

The choir loft was only a classroom for  my Daddy's discerning eye.  While his eyesight was not quite as good as the eagle, his lifelong devotion and life lessons were just as important to me as the catch of the day on the talons of father eagle swooping down to his little eaglet.  Sometimes one might think the sharp Eagle Eye type of father is endangered.  But a look around reveals Old Eagle Eye is still thriving - looking down from the choir loft, catching a child landing in a pool, applying the imaginary brake on the passenger side of the car driven by a new driver, throwing a gentle pitch into little hands, questioning "Talks too much" on a report card, kissing the forehead of a sweaty five year old, flinging a house shoe down the hall just to hear his daughters laugh.  The loving, watchful eyes of exceptional fathers. Oh, that all children could be so lucky!     

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY IN MEMORY OF THE BEST!