On May 26, 2012

Deanna.

What do you think of when you read that? How would you describe her?

Quiet? Opinionated? Serious?

I wonder if many would think that.

And to some extent, some of them are true.

But that's not what I would think of first.

Serious? Are you kidding?

Yesterday she asked me if I was going to write her a blog post for her birthday. I hadn't thought of it, but decided to try.

Also yesterday, Deanna was telling stories, making fun of a post I was working on. She had put two stupid-looking pigtails which were uneven in my hair. They weren't twin, she said, so they were a "fraternal situation."

Her explanation of a fraternal twin situation: “Kind of like if you had popcorn on your butt and I had wood cravings. A twin situation would be if we both had wood cravings.”

Of course, she meant wood shavings. She was being so weird that Melody was recording her. When she found out, she said:

“Hello, world. I didn’t get enough sleep last night."

Apparently. Apparently it happens often, for there are many such scenes I could relate. I'm sorry if you don't get it. You must have seen Deanna in such a mood to appreciate it.

In celebration of Deanna's 21st birthday today, I shall list 21 things about her.

21. Some people say Deanna doesn't like a lot of things. This is true, but it isn't so much that she doesn't like things, but that she likes disliking them. This doesn't always make sense to me, but it makes things interesting. Like when she said, regarding the cat that thinks it's ours:

"I don't know why that cat doesn't realize how much I hate it."

20. She likes Michael Buble, Ramine Karimloo, and Michael Ball.

19. She likes dancing. Yes, she was bought the first time, but she has gone contra dancing voluntarily since then.

18. "Neither rain nor hail nor sleet nor snow..." shall keep the mailman from his rounds, or Deanna from her daily trek to the mailbox. Since before we had to have one of us stand at the doorway if Mom was gone while she did it, she has been the one to get the mail. Even if she's not home, we'll sometimes leave it for her to get.

17. We do the three-year-old class, and Deanna is the competent teacher.

16. Deanna is stylish. Sometimes on Sundays, Eric will come out with shirt and tie. "Where's Deanna?" he'll ask. "I want to ask her if this matches. What do you think?"

"Looks fine to me," I say, "but ask Deanna."

Upon sight of it, Deanna gasps in horror. "No! That looks awful. It doesn't match!"

15. She likes euchre, and she's pretty good at it.

14. She loves to swing. Once she swang for three hours straight.

13. She likes to do hair, but...

...she hates to have her hair done.


12. She always thought her initials, DLB, were the coolest initials ever. They're also on about every third lisence plate you see.

10. When we redid the living room, she rolled a section of our wall! We had to get photographic evidence of this. She will be happy I didn't put up a picture that showed her pajama pants.

9. She loves to go on walks.

8. She loves musicals, and she wants the soundtrack to every one we go to.



 7. She likes lotions, and they have to smell good.

6. Deanna's purpose in life is to keep us amused. She does this pretty well.

5. She will not be happy with me for posting some of this.

4. On her 18th birthday, we stayed up until her birth, which is at 1:48. We did it again this year.

3. She has a wonderful sister who made her a cake. Her cake is not beautiful, but...

2. She likes lemon things, and it is completely lemon, so it's all good.

1. I must say, I have the best older sister in the world! What would life be without her to spice things up? Happy birthday, Deanna. (You can go drink now!) I love you.

In Justice's Court

I have liked the clever, thought-provoking words of Let Us Love and Sing and Wonder since we started singing it at church, and in particular one verse:

Let us wonder grace and justice
Join and point to mercy's store
When through grace in Christ our trust is
Justice smiles and asks no more

(And no, the reason I liked it isn't because we enjoy pointing out that it would be funny if Grace and Mercy had a brother named Justice.)

The vision of justice smiling and asking no more had appealed to my imagination as a perfect word picture. But for some reason, as we sang the song last Sunday, it struck me particularly; and as I envisioned it, I decided to write a poem. So, yesterday I did. As usual, I had a hard time naming it, so I went with something boringish.

In Justice's Court

High up above
He sits on his chair
Dark flowing robes
Around his spare form
And he looks down at me
As I stand in the dock
I cannot hold his gaze
As my cheeks start to warm.
No hint of compassion
From those steely eyes
No hint of a smile
From his down-turned lips
I want to observe
His angular face
But 'neath his changeless gaze
How my heart skips!

As he evenly speaks
In emotionless voice
My frame starts to shake
As my color runs dry.
"Look at this wretch,"
Calls out the voice,
"So full of transgressions
I can't understand why.
Your thoughts have been evil
Since the day of your birth
You have not loved others
Or done what you should
You've stolen and lusted
For what was not yours-
Yet after all that
You thought yourself good.
You grumbled and swore
And as you lived your life
You've gone your own way.
Yet with all of this
You were not content
But with each offense
You filled every day."

Out of despair
I lifted my face
Tears streaming down
I sank to my knees.
"What is your defense?"
The voice came again.
"I did not understand.
I beg-forgive me, please!"
His frown only deepened.
"Your crimes are so great
No repayment I find
Fits your guiltiness well.
There's but one thing,"
And he gave a slight nod
As though he were pleased,
"Eternity in hell."

At the force of his words
I could not even speak
And as my tears flowed
I knew he was right.
I deserved this sentence
Which I could not bear.
As I cried out, "Forgive!"
There appeared a light.
Then came a voice
So tender and soft
Sweeter than any
I had before heard
"Yes, Justice, forgive,"
Said this smiling voice,
"This one has not sinned.
It was I; take My word."

My heart filled with love
For this Man in between
Me and this Justice
And what I should get.
But could Justice accept
What this Man had proposed?
For the tiniest sin
He could not just forget.
To see what he thought,
I peeked around
This big, shining Man
Who had taken my place
And my heart skipped a beat
At that silent Justice
For he had a great
Smile on his face.

Feet in the Dirt

Traditionally at our house every year at the beginning of the growing season, the rototiller would be brought out and our two plots of garden dug up. One was very large, and the smaller square one had awesome dark soil. Usually, it would be Saturday evening, and round and round the garden in ever-tightening squares the hard ground was transformed into beautiful, fluffy (if such a word can be used to describe dirt) brownness. We loved it. We followed along behind Mom or Dad as they rototilled, and then we would race around the rows of dirt in our bare feet. It was one of our favorite parts of gardening.

I felt bad for Kristen, for she's never had the experience, and the boys may not remember. It's been four or so years since we put in raised beds and no longer till a big section.

So, when we decided to redo a pretty large section beside the house, I smiled as Kristen followed Mom as she dug it up.

Before she came out, I took some pictures of the daylillies piled in the wagon and the chives we saved out of the patch, and Mom rototilling.

Kristen came out, saw Mom, and following the tradition of her mother and siblings before her, she trodded after her rototilling parent.

She thought she was funny waving away in front of her face because she didn't like the smell.

When she found some bulbs from the daylillies left in the dirt, she said, "Jeannettie, I found a section of those things! Take this section!"

But she didn't seem to realize the proper way to enjoy the situation, so I said, "Kristen," motioning because you can't hear anything with the rototiller going, "take your shoes off."

Finally she understood and slipped off her flipflops.

 She smiled, feeling the dirt between her toes.
"Does that feel good on your feet?"

Apparently so.

She asked me, "Did you walk in the dirt?"

"Yes, many times."

"Where are your footprints?"

"Not today. When I was your age."

"Oh. Are your footprints still there?"

With a secret smile, I replied, "No."

"Why not?"

Then she said, "Come in the dirt with me."

"I have shoes on," I said.

"Take them off. Please, Nettie. Come in the dirt with me."

So, I slipped off socks and shoes and for the first time in several years, walked in the lines of the rototilled soil.

"We used to have races in the dirt," I told her. She smiled, took the idea, and ran with it. (I thought of saying that before I realized it was literal.)

I took pictures, and she cooperated well, though begging me to race most of the time.

A fall in the soft dirt is fun!

She showed me the iris around the corner. "Jeannettie! It's blooming!" (Does she know that word? I'm not sure. Anyways, she pointed it out to me.) She always smells the flowers. "Did you smell it, Nettie? It smells good."

The flower has been open for several days. I murmured an assent.

"Smell it, Nettie," she insisted.

So I complied, and I was surprised by how strong a scent the iris had.

Then she told me the wild geranium was blooming too. It has been for well over a week, I believe. "Smell it, Nettie," she said. I hadn't smelled this one either, and again was surprised.

Thenardier, this poor chicken, was bothered either by Roman, Diffidence, and Featherfoot or Kristen. She can catch the chickens better than anyone else. She made me hold a stick in case Roman came after her when she tried to pick up "Miss Bawk Bawk", their name for Thenardier.

(Thenardier is pronounced ten-ARE-dee-eigh, and is the last name of the innkeepers in Les Miserables. I had to look up Thenardier's name to remember it.)

  

Poor chicken. First she pulled its neck back, for me to take its picture, I think.

Then she pulled its beak apart.

Then she held it together. "Look, Jeannettie, it doesn't do anything when I do this."

Then she started hitting its beak. "Do you hear that weird sound?" she asked. It did make a funny sound when she did it.

"Kristen!" I said. "Leave the poor chicken alone. Would you want someone to pound on your nose?"

She tried it, and, "It doesn't make that wierd noise," she said.

"Okay, Miss Bawk Bawk. You can go now." From one torture to another-Roman and Featherfoot were immediately after her.

(Featherfoot was originally named Lily St. Regis-from Annie, the "dumb hotel". That was before we knew he was a rooster...)

I suggested going in; dinner had been done for a while. "Did you guys do lots of races?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Well, we should do lots of races."

Thinking of how I would have wanted to, I agreed and we raced a bit more.

We drew lines in the dirt for the finish line, but someone kept cheating by skipping half of the track.

Then we went in for a yummy, if cold, supper of grilled lemon chicken, broccoli, and grilled garlic potatoes.

We went back out afterwards, and walked a bit in the small square garden with the dark soil. I was cold and would have gone in, but Kristen said, "You can put a coat on," and unable to resist her pleading, I did.

My feet enjoyed remembering that unique feeling of cold dirt on your feet as the sun's going down, and in the small plot, the wonderful feeling of dirt that still has lingering warmth gathered from the sun. When I returned inside, washing my feet stung. Some warm furry socks felt very good to feet that had been bare in the dirt.