Since the last time we visited, my husband and I have completed a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle. It is a picture of a great horned owl sitting on a limb of a snow covered pine tree. There were multiple browns, greens, and white pieces – and nothing else. It took us weeks to complete it, and there were many evenings we threatened to throw it back in the box and take it to the Salvation Army. But, we kept after it – after all, what else did we have to do on cold March evenings? Once completed, my oldest son asked if we were going to decoupage it and hang it. My husband said he was going to take it out and shoot it with a shotgun. However, in the end, he was the one that preserved it and will be the one that makes a frame for it. It will fit in with the décor of our log home and remind us that patience does pay off.

Jigsaw puzzles have been around since the 1700’s when John Spilsbury of London fashioned the first one out of wood. They weren’t known as jigsaw puzzles then, but as dissections. It wasn’t until 1880 that they began to be called jigsaw puzzles, but this was a misnomer as they were cut with a fretsaw – a saw not all that much like a jigsaw.

Jigsaw puzzles became very popular during the Great Depression. They provided a cheap, long-lasting, and recyclable form of entertainment. Even today,  I would consider jigsaw puzzles as being one of our least expensive forms of leisure activities. But, don’t be fooled by those you see on the shelves at Wal-Mart. In 2005 the most expensive puzzle, to date, was sold for $27,000 at a charitable auction for The Golden Retriever Foundation. The puzzle, created by  Rachel Page Elliot, predicted a female Golden Retriever with her five puppies playing in the grass. What a honor that must have been for this 92 year-young woman who hadn’t taken up puzzle making until she was in her seventies.

Besides the sense of accomplishment that’s felt when completing a puzzle, there are possibly other benefits. The Alzheimer Society of Canada proclaims that jigsaw puzzles can help keep the brain active and may reduce the risk of developing Alzheimers.

When I looked at our owl puzzle with the last piece still absent, it came to mind that this is what our lives are like without the most important piece – God. Our life is an unfinished picture when we try to fill it with “things”, but leave God out. Solomon reminds us in Ecclesiastes 3:11, that God has planted eternity in the human heart. We will never be completely satisfied with our earthly pleasures and pursuits if we leave the “most important piece – “the piece of God”- in the box.  He has built in us a restless yearning for Him, and no matter how many things we fill our life with, if we turn our backs on God, a void in us goes unfilled and peace escapes us.

Isn’t it wonderful that God discriminates against no one? Anyone can pick up that last piece and put it where it belongs. Because He wants nothing more than for us to have a relationship with Him, you can be assured it will fit perfectly.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

I became a bird watcher of sorts fifteen plus years ago when I moved to the prairie community of Recluse, Wyoming. Some of that had to do with the fact that there were more birds than people in this sparsely populated grasslands. Some of it had to do with the man I had just married that was into nature. I bought the Reader’s Digest Book of North American Birds and my husband bought me an 8×40 magnification pair of birding binoculars. We hung up four birdfeeders – one with common birdseed, one with nyjer seed for the finches, one with sugar water for the hummingbirds, and one for suet that I handmade in my kitchen. I was on the beginning of a journey to learn some amazing things about these feathered creatures.

One of the most fascinating and almost inconceivable  pieces of information I learned had to do with bluejays. I checked several reputable sites on the Internet to make sure someone wasn’t pulling my leg. What I found was that there was a consensus among the experts that the bluejay is not blue, but black. Now that I live in South Dakota we have plentiful numbers of bluejays that feast at our feeder. (I only saw one bluejay during the 13 years I lived in Recluse.) No matter how hard I try, I cannot make that vivid blue bird look black. But, they say it’s so. We only perceive their feathers as blue, according to the scientists. They explain it as the same phenomenon as why we see the sky as blue – a process that has to do with light refraction and reflection – whatever that means.

This morning I read about another instance, not related to birds, that had folks scratching their heads. This had to do with a man – a man by the name of David McNight from Durham, North Carolina. Mr. McNight was better known by the locals as “the street fiddler.” The disheveled older man with unruly gray hair spent much of his later years on the streets of Durham, playing his instrument and gathering a few coins that those passing by might toss into his opened fiddle case. The folks in Durham may have thought they knew Mr. McNight; they certainly saw him often enough.  But when he succumbed to a brain tumor in 2017, many were surprised what stories his obituary held. David spoke many languages, was the graduate of a prestigious university, composed music compositions ranging from bluegrass to waltzes, and had even run for the senate at one point.

And my point of the blog this month is that we can be deceived easily. Birds and people are not always what they seem. Some people would take these examples to warn us again about the dangers of deception. Of course we need to be cautious, but this is not where these stories are taking me today.

Today, I am wondering how many people we think we know, when we really don’t know them at all. I wonder how many David McNight’s I have in my life. Maybe a few more sincere questions to the Davids of the world would make a difference in their lives and in mine. Maybe it’s not even a stranger or a casual acquaintance that we’ve not taken the time to know. Maybe we’ve lost touch, in the midst of our busy lives, with those that mean the most to us.

This week I’m going to strive to ask a few more questions. Maybe give an encouraging word to a clerk or a sympathetic pat to a downtrodden face, or a follow-up call to a friend who’s having issues. Maybe by this time next week, I can say I know “a David” a little better.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

There were three  kids in our family when I was growing up. My brother, Dave, is three years older than me, and my sister, Connie, is six years younger. As soon as we were old enough our summers consisted of working long days in the hayfield. Dad didn’t have hired men, so we were the next best thing. The pay wasn’t great, but we did get room and board, experienced the great outdoors, and learned how best to combat  deerflies, mosquitoes, and bees. In addition to that, Dad and Mom sent us all to college, making the pay  better than we realized at the time.

There was a summer or two that my brother was offered an actual “bring home pay” kind of hayfield job with a rancher down on Goose Creek. The folks encouraged him to take it to help with college expenses that would be coming up soon.  My little sister at this time hadn’t earned her right to passage yet (being able to reach the tractor clutch), which left Dad and me to put up the hay.

Many of the days in the hayfield were carbon copies of the previous day – hot sun, blue skies, bumpy treks across the meadow, and delightful smells of cut hay, meadow flowers, and fresh air. If we would see a blue heron fishing on the creek, or a family of grouse rising off the meadow, or a beaver slapping his tail along the creek bank, it was a bonus.  These events were notable for us, but not deeply branded into our memories.

There was, however, one sultry July day that presented a rather anomalous event that I remember clearly.  There was barely a breeze and the air hung heavy with humidity. The deerflies were out in hordes; coming after me from all directions. I noticed Dad, across the meadow,  swatting at them with his old straw hat. I did the best I could with my bare hand, sometimes leaving bloody blebs on my arms.

That day, I was in charge of raking up the scatterings of small bunches of hay that had escaped the teeth of the side delivery rake and of Dad’s front loader sweep. Once I had the scatterings arranged in a windrow, Dad would again maneuver the front loader down the hay row, picking up the scatterings and depositing them onto the stack he was making.

By mid afternoon, Dad, satisfied with the stack he had just finished, waved me towards the pickup. I was more than ready to take a break and leave the pesky deerflies to find some other poor  victim. “Let’s go to the house and have a piece of that chocolate cake your mom made before we tackle the next stack,” Dad hollered over the noise of our tractors.

Afternoon breaks usually lasted about twenty minutes – but occasionally longer. It often depended on whether Dad had an inclination to stretch out on the carpeted floor “for a few minutes” after making his stomach happy. This particular day, a few big sprinkles began hitting the kitchen window as we devoured our cake and lemonade. I could see the treetops swaying some now as I looked through that same window. Good! The deerflies wouldn’t be as prevalent when we went back.

“Let’s see what happens with this weather,” Dad said as he lowered himself to the floor and stretched out in front of the box fan. The sprinkles didn’t last long, but Dad’s nap lingered. That was okay by me – the novelty of the hayfield had worn off some time ago.

I refilled our silver thermos with ice and water and then picked up the book I’d been reading to pass the time until Dad awoke. Before I finished the chapter we were headed back out the door to the truck. As we turned onto the meadow, we noticed alarming changes. The first thing that got Dad’s attention was that the three haystacks he had constructed earlier had vanished – not a trace of them anywhere. While Dad was pining the loss of his stacks,  I was noticing the large cottonwood tree lying on its side beside the creek. “Look,” I pointed to the tree. “What happened?”

“Must have had a little twister come through.”

I was stunned we hadn’t known anything of it while we were at the house. But then, I remembered the noisy fan, Dad was sleeping, and I was absorbed in a book. It was possible, I supposed.

“Why did it knock that tree over and none of the others?” I said, pointing to the grove of trees that lined the road.

“I imagine it’s because that tree didn’t have a strong root system. Because it sat next to the creek, it’s roots didn’t have to go far to search for water.”

I have learned since that many things  determine the length of tree roots, but nothing more  than the soil conditions they are placed in. Dad was exactly right. Under general conditions, tree roots extend about 1.5 times the height of the tree and most are in the top foot of soil. There is a Banyan tree in the Botanical Gardens in Calcutta that far exceeds this “normal.” It’s root system spans out over three acres.

The Bible compares a man that trusts in the Lord as having roots like a tree. (Jeremiah 17:7-8.) As he trusts in the Lord, that man is not bothered by the storms of life just as the trees that lined our road were not bothered by the twister. Louisa May Alcott said it this way: I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.

It is my hope that we may all  learn how to sail our ships with a little more confidence, even if it’s stroke by stroke.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

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There is a distasteful story I remember from my days in nursing school. This one has nothing to do with patients, but with a fellow classmate. In order to protect the innocent, I will call her Abby.  I do not remember a lot about Abby – except for this one incident that I have not forgotten in four decades.

Our three story dorm had a small kitchen area on the center floor that we could use to fix a home cooked meal if we wanted. Since many of us were hours away from home and some of us (like me) did not own a car to get home, we looked forward to any tasty treats that were concocted and shared from that kitchen.

Several of us had been invited to meet in the lounge area, adjacent to the kitchen, at 3:00 pm. on a Saturday afternoon. Rumor had been circulating for a couple of hours that Abby was in the kitchen baking a homemade pie from scratch. The rumors were confirmed when we stepped into the lounge area and smelled the aroma of sweet baked peaches. Brunner’s (our med-surg textbooks), care-plans, and visits to the library were momentarily forgotten as we licked our lips and settled into the soft couches and matching chairs.

Abby, with the help of a couple of classmates, began handing out the small paper plates of beautifully golden crusted pie. Those receiving the first plates held them in their laps, waiting for all of us to be served. When it came to homemade goodies, we had an unspoken code of culinary conduct – no one should be privileged to take a bite before another.

“Dig in,” yelled smiling Abby when the last person had been handed their plate. We did just that, but just as quickly, grim, grotesque facial distortions plastered our faces.  We spit the terrible taste from our mouths, muttering various words of dislike and displeasure. The sweet taste we had eagerly anticipated had been replaced by one of the most nasty to ever cross my lips.

Several of us thought this was some sort of premeditated joke Abby had played on us. As it turned out it was an honest mistake. Instead of reaching into the sugar canister for a cup of sugar, she had reached into the salt canister. After our disappointment subsided, we were able to laugh about it and encourage Abby who swore she would never bake again.

Salt (in moderation) is an important staple in our kitchens. The average American consumes a teaspoon and a half of salt (3400 mg of sodium) per day. Even though too much salt (as us girls found out) is detestable; too little or no salt makes for a  blah dish.

It is interesting to note that just as people around the globe have different ideas on most things, salt is no exception. The Yanomamo people of the Amazon Rain Forest get by on one tenth of a teaspoon of salt (200 mg of sodium) per day. On the other end of the spectrum are the people of northern Japan; consuming a whooping eleven teaspoons of salt (26,000 mg of sodium) every day. I’m thinking they may have liked Abby’s pie!

Table salt is what first comes to most people’s minds when the word “salt” is mentioned. But salt is used for so much more than that as the following chart displays:

Sixty-eight percent (blue) represents salt used for making industrial chemicals, twelve percent (red) is salt used in water conditioning, eight percent (orange) is used in highway deicing, six percent (green) is used in making fertilizers, and the final six percent (yellow) is our table salt. Overall, there are more than 14,000 different ways to use salt.

Without salt, we would have a very different world. When used in appropriate amounts salt is a very useful compound. Even the common phrase “salt of the earth” means fundamental goodness.  The expression originated in the Bible and was spoken by Jesus in Matthew 5:13 when he told his disciples they were the ‘salt of the earth’ (fundamentally good) and encouraged them to be a positive influence in the lives of those around them.

I can’t think of a more flattering description than to hear folks depict a friend, family member, co-worker, or neighbor as “salt of the earth,” just as Jesus referenced his disciples. Who do you think of as “salt of the earth”? Do you come to someone’s mind when they are asked that same question?

Until next month….keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

 

My husband and I like to watch “Jeopardy” after we clear the dinner dishes and wipe up the kitchen. It’s not that we know many answers/questions,  in fact we feel fortunate if between the two of us, we are able to answer a half dozen correctly. But there are those categories that we do better at. I get excited if there is a category that is medically or biblically oriented. I can often come close to ‘running the category’ in those two subjects.

This past week I lit up when I saw the category “The Human Body”. “Oh, boy,” I smiled and settled into my spot next to Stan on the reclining loveseat. I pulled the lever to elevate my feet, threw the fleece blanket over my legs, and settled in.  I anticipated a favorable outcome, so be it if it was only in one category.   I eagerly waited for the contestants to move off of “Classic Albums”, and “The Calendar” of which I hadn’t bothered to even guess the answers. “Come on,” I pleaded, “pick human body.”  I couldn’t wait to redeem myself!

Then it happened. The contestant in control, moved over to MY category. I beat the contestants in answering the first two clues.  Great….I was on a roll. Third clue: In relation to organs in the body, sinister refers to this. What? I leaned in and read it again. I could not remember the word sinister ever mentioned in my nursing studies  – except to describe the one instructor that gloated on writing difficult questions into her tests. And in forty plus years of experience, I could not recall anyone relating organs to sinister.  This must be a geographical  clue, I thought – something that is relative to California where they film “Jeopardy” and not Nebraska, Wyoming, and South Dakota where I had practiced. There was one small consolation – the three contestants were in my boat – none of them rang in. Alex Trebek seemed to get some satisfaction over enlightening us with the answer as he tipped his head downward, lifted his eyebrows upward, and spoke  slowly. Sinister organs are those organs on the left side of the body.

Really? I had never heard such a thing.  In an effort to solidify my hunch that this was a geographical issue, I  grabbed my phone and tapped on the  Facebook icon. I was determined to find out if any of my Midwest nursing friends had heard of this before. I was quite confident that most of them would be as much in the dark as I had been.   Okay folks, I wrote…who knows what it means when you are referring to a sinister organ?

Within seconds (too soon for anyone to look it up) a nurse I had worked with fifteen years earlier (in Wyoming)  wrote one word – left. Well…she was probably watching “Jeopardy” too. In her next entry she wrote simply: OS/OD. Left eye/right eye. Excuse the pun – but this wasn’t looking good for me.

I knew the initials OS and OD were abbreviations for  some long, difficult to pronounce  Latin words that would mean left eye and right eye.  My friend typed back: Sinister/Direct. Hmmm…not exactly Latin or unpronounceable. My friend didn’t bother to tell me what the “O” stood for. That’s okay – I had my smart phone.  Oculus – an eyelike opening. I was glad something was finally making sense. But, even with these reminders, I could not recall ever learning the actual words that “OS” and “OD” stood for. The one thing I did remember was a very useful “little ditty” a military nurse taught me about “OS” and “OD” and how to remember which eye belonged to which letters.  “OD stands for Officer of the Day,” she had said without hesitation,  “and they are always right.” Now, that is something that stuck with me!

This Jeopardy experience encouraged me to delve deeper into why we remember some things and not others. I learned that our minds have a property known as “brain plasticity” and are always changing depending on our environment and what our needs for learning are. One article explained that our brains go through a natural synaptic pruning process, much like we give our rosebushes  in the fall.  Neurons that are rarely or never used eventually die, but new stronger connections are formed based on what we need at the time.  Based on the assumption that my nursing instructors had taught us about oculus direct and oculus sinister, I may have dismissed the information as unimportant as long as I knew what the commonly used abbreviations meant. When the doctor wrote an order for two drops to be put in the patient’s “OD” I knew exactly where to place them – thanks to my military friend.

Now that I’ve retired from nursing, there are bound to be neural pathways that have been active with medical facts and knowledge that will be pruned back. But, I’m looking forward to the new pathways that are forming.  I already see it happening  in my line dancing class. I’m not sure why the wonderful ladies in my class didn’t send me hiking when I started a year ago. Oh my….I was an uncoordinated newborn filly in a ring of sophisticated thoroughbreds. Now…well, I’m no species to write home about yet…but I’m standing securely on my own two feet and having a great time.

Until next month…keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.