Introducing the Four-Acre Wood and “Shipwreck”

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Ah, where to begin? 2020 was an eventful year for all of us, (that alone might win the Captain Obvious prize for the classic understatement.) For Susan and I, it meant; selling our beloved 1890 house of 27 years, moving in with Susan’s 84-year-old mother for 6 months until we figured out that she was more independent than we thought, and discovering that we all needed our own space, then searching for a house of our own a month before I retired. The hunt began. While Susan’s mother was doing okay on her own, she’s not going to get any younger and we didn’t want to move too far away. In a real estate market gone crazy with bidding wars, we came across a house that had been on the market for 3 years. The previous owner had an inflated idea of its worth, and so it sat, and sat, and sat until he gradually dropped the price, year after year until we came along, and after a few offers later the house was ours.

The last two homes we owned were built-in 1890. We are old house people, it’s in our blood (and under our fingernails and probably in our lungs) but there aren’t many historic homes in Jefferson County, Missouri, but this house checked off a few boxes. Though only 20 years old, the plans were from North Carolina architect William Poole whose designs are rooted in tradition and southern heritage. The brickwork came from salvaged 100+ year old home demolitions in St. Louis. The full-width front porch mirrored our last two houses, pulled on some heartstrings, and was a major selling point.

Anyone who has purchased a house knows that acquiring homeowners insurance is part of the deal. We submitted bids to several different companies. The little subdivision we are in (a whopping nine houses) is called “Shipwatch,” based on the fact that most houses including ours have views of the Mississippi River. I may have mumbled, or the insurance agent on the other end misunderstood me, but the quote came back with a price to insure “Shipwreck” and the name stuck.

So welcome to Shipwreck!

Shipwreck sits on four acres which is about 3.5 acres more than we wanted, fortunately, most of it is wooded, hence the name for this blog, The Four-Acre Wood, (with a nod to Winnie the Pooh).

As mentioned in the “About Us” page … we invite you to join us on this journey, this chapter turning of; retirement, remodeling, resale shops, cooking, gardening, decorating, family, fashion, dogs (see I didn’t forget about Mimsy), and life musings … not because we have any great wisdom or expertise in any of those areas, but because life is best shared. If the pandemic has taught us anything, it has taught us that we are not designed to live in solitude.

Tim, Susan, and Mimsy

Political Conversations with a Dog

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Mimsy

Mimsy and I discuss all manner of topics; the state of Cardinal’s baseball, the weather, the economy, and subjects forbidden in polite company (religion and politics). I do most of the talking, but Mimsy is a good listener, an underappreciated and almost forgotten art.

Mimsy is not without her command of the English language, but there are only so many conversations that you can have concerning bacon or rotisserie chicken.

A few nights ago, two presidential candidates had a highly publicized debate. Neither Mimsy nor I watched the debate. We both have a low pain tolerance … besides I had a sock drawer to organize, and she had itches to scratch and paws to lick. From all reports, we made the right decision.

“Politicians are like ticks,” I told Mimsy (we both hate ticks). “They attach themselves to you without permission and suck the lifeblood out of you. They provide nothing advantageous but are willing to grow fat at your expense.” I continued with my one-sided conversation. “Millions and millions of people in this country, and this is what we get to choose from?”

Mimsy chuffed and pushed her paw against my ankle.

“No, you can’t be President,” I told her, “You can be sneaky, but you haven’t learned to lie. Besides, you’re a companion dog; you want everyone you meet to like you. That’s an admirable quality in a dog but not the best thing for the POTUS.”

Mimsy gave a short bark and nudged me again with her paw.

“No, I didn’t say it had to be a Pitbull. They are tough but also stubborn and too often looking to pick a fight; that’s not what I’m looking for as the leader of this country.”

Mimsy stared me down and whined under her breath.

“Okay, I’ll tell you. I’m thinking of a working dog. Maybe an Airedale or German Shepherd. They are smart like you (throwing her a bone) but can be scrappy when necessary, willing to tackle the job, and, like all dogs, very loyal.”

Mimsy had heard enough; she turned her head and started to prance out of the room.

“Wait,” I said, “Maybe you can be VP. They don’t have to do much, and you project a regal appearance; you would be great at state funerals and diplomatic dinners so long as you don’t lick your plate.”

Mimsy turned around and laid down by my feet.

It’s settled … Mimsy for VP.

Now, we have to pick a presidential candidate. Are Lassie or Rin Tin Tin available?

(also by the author)

Future Horizons and Free Advice

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  Pictured above is my grandson, standing on the beach on Sanibel Island, staring across the horizon. He looks to be deep in thought. I want to believe he is having a philosophical moment, pondering his future, distant horizons of unlimited possibilities. But he is twelve and growing like the proverbial weed, there is a better than even chance he is thinking about food and where we will eat tonight. 

  I probably think about his future more than he does. At age twelve his personality is pretty set and from my perspective it’s a good one, caring and generous. Dogs are instinctively drawn to him; I take that as a good sign.
Free advice is dangerous to give as it is rarely well received, but I am buying dinner tonight, so he may listen.

  Where to begin? The transition from boyhood to becoming a man does not happen at a specific age or chronological point. It happens early for some and never for others. There is no guidebook or manual for this journey. Like most things in life, it is often messy and confusing. It is a stew made from relationships, character, learning, self-awareness, kindness, patience, self-control, and perseverance, among others. It is stirred together with experiences, successes, failures, and time. Done properly this topic would take volumes, following are just a few highlights, of things I would like to pass down. 
. . . . . .
  1. Always be learning, always stay curious. Staying curious will be the closest thing you will find to the fountain of youth. It’s a big ol’ crazy world out there, packed with different people, cultures, ideas, music, food, literature, etc. Sample as much as you can and learn from everything … and not just once. At age 12 sushi may not appeal to you, at age 25 it might be your favorite. At 12 you might shake your head at be-bop jazz, at 30 you might be the drummer in a local group. You can’t know or experience everything, but there is enough to keep you busy your entire life.
  2. Accept that life is not fair … never has been, never will be. Bad things happen to good people, good things happen to bad people. You can’t control most things that happen to you, but you can control how you react to those events. When dreadful things happen (and they will) don’t give in to feeling sorry for yourself, and don’t take on a victim mentality (ever).
  3. Learn to be comfortable in your own skin. Develop the skill of self-awareness. As you grow and mature you will learn your strengths and your weaknesses. Think about the people you are most at ease with, chances are they are comfortable with themselves, they have learned that they are not perfect, neither are they losers. It’s likely that you also know people who feel the constant need to impress others or pretend to be something they are not. Learn that being yourself is a good thing, that God created you exactly as he wanted.
  4. Hard work beats luck every time. Hard work is hard, and there is no substitute. Demanding work can also bring joy and happiness. We don’t often think of hard work and happiness together, but nothing will give you a greater sense of satisfaction than setting a tough goal for yourself and achieving it.
  5. Just a few good friends. Aside from your family, your friends can be the biggest influence on the kind of man you will become. Choose wisely. Friendship like any relationship will take work (see point 4). A few solid friends are worth more than a hundred “friends” on any social media site.
  6. Walking among immortals. I can’t make this point half as well as C.S. Lewis, so I will just quote him, “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal … it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub and exploit.” This was eye-opening for me. I don’t always succeed, but I try to view everyone I see, first as a child of God, before I make any snap judgments based on their looks, dress, speech, etc. You will never meet anyone who is 100% good or 100% bad, but everyone will have a story to tell and something to teach you.
  7. Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none. I purchased a t-shirt with this quote for you a few days ago because I want you to remember this. There is a lot of wisdom to unpack in these nine words. Though this comes from William Shakespeare and not Holy Scripture, we all could do a lot worse than trying to apply this to our lives.

    I look forward to seeing the grown man you will become. Godspeed.
    Poppy

(I originally wrote this back in 2018, but recently updated the post for inclusion in an upcoming book)

The Man on a Spiritual Journey

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“Greek Orzo, Lemon, and Chicken Soup” was on the menu tonight. I had everything I needed except for chicken, which is important when you’re making chicken soup. Karsch’s Village Market is just a hop, skip, and a jump from the four-acre wood and the closest place to score a Rotisserie Chicken. In the hierarchy of human inventions, I would place Rotisserie Chicken only behind the wheel, moveable type, baseball, and Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony on the list of greatest ever inventions. Okay, technically baseball and Beethoven’s 9th are not inventions, but it’s my list and I can put anything in there I want.

I wound my way through the Windsor School complex (shortcut) and made a left onto Highway 61-67. For decades that highway was the main route running north and south through Missouri following the Mississippi River before Interstate 55 was built.

I hadn’t gone far when I passed a man walking on the shoulder of the road on my right heading north. That someone was walking along the old highway was not unusual or unexpected, but his man was unexpected by any standard. He was a man of color and in the first week of August he wore a black knit cap with an open top from which erupted a volcano of dreadlocks. Across his back was a bedroll and no less than eight to ten plastic grocery bags tied together in a cluster that somehow defied gravity.

I continued to the market on my Rotisserie Chicken quest.

It didn’t take me long to nap the chicken along with 3 or 4 impulse purchases. Heading home, I passed the man again; he was making substantial progress. I turned into the Windsor School parking lot for my shortcut then stopped the car. I rarely carry any cash these days and I tend to ignore panhandlers, not that I’m unfeeling (at least I tell myself that), but when someone holds up a cardboard sign at a highway interchange that reads … “Homeless vet, Hungry, Wife has cancer, Dog is sick.” I’m skeptical, and I rarely carry cash. But this man was not panhandling, and I had a ten-dollar bill.

I pulled the bill from my wallet and tucked it into one of the cupholders by the center console, made a U-turn and headed back to the man. He was now in front of the Imperial Animal Hospital. The shoulder of the road was wide at this stretch. I pulled alongside and rolled down the passenger side window, holding the folded ten-dollar bill between my index and middle fingers. “Maybe you can use this?” I asked.

He flashed a grin in the middle of a perfectly shaped mustache and beard that ended in a sharp point 3 or 4 inches below his chin. “Thank you,” he said, “but I’m on a spiritual journey and can’t accept money from anyone.”

This was not the response that I expected. I paused for a moment then said, “But it’s also a blessing to give.”

“It tis, it tis,” he replied with a thick Jamaican accent, “but if I accepted money from you, I would have to take it from everyone.”

I wasn’t sure I understood the logic, but there was no point in debating.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

I told him. He was in control of the conversation at this point.

“Can I pray with you?” he asked.

I’m a firm believer that you can never have too many prayers coming your way. I nodded in the affirmative.

He addressed the Creator, praying for my safety, protection, guidance, and wisdom. He prayed for my family and for their safety, protection, guidance, and wisdom. He prayed for 2 or 3 minutes. When he finally stopped, we both said, “Amen,” we fist-bumped, and he was on his way.

I checked my rearview mirror carefully before beginning my U-turn onto Highway 61-67. The last thing I wanted to happen was for someone to pray at length for my safety and protection, only to pull into the path of an oncoming car.

Thirty seconds later, I thought of all the questions I should have asked.

He knew my name, but I didn’t know his. What was his destination? How did he come to be walking along Highway 61-67 in Jefferson County Missouri of all places? Where will he sleep? He refused my money, but would he have broken bread with me? I would have been glad to sit on the curb and share a drumstick with him. Sadly, these were all questions that will remain unanswered.

Mimsy greets me enthusiastically at the door, she too is a fan of Rotisserie Chicken.

The last addition to the soup is a couple shakes of hot sauce. It sounds counter intuitive for chicken soup, but it doesn’t make it hot or spicy, but adds just a bit of umami or savory taste. Life, like soup, can be bland at times, but there are opportunities to add flavor to your day. It often comes with chance encounters with fellow travelers, the bagger at the grocery store wearing a t-shirt from your favorite vacation destination and a thirty second sharing of memories is exchanged. The guy with the tricked-out pickup who pulls next to you as you’re pumping gas, you sincerely compliment his truck, he beams and thanks you. And if you’re very blessed, you will have a man on a spiritual journey pray for you.

Poppy

Of Cheeseburgers & Dive Bars

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Cheeseburger

Seriously, is there anything more American than the cheeseburger? Sure, we have hot dogs, baseball, and apple pie … but we live on cheeseburgers.

Our family lived in Ferguson Missouri for thirty something years. Yes, that Ferguson. No, not the Ferguson you have read about in the media, which is a conversation for another day, because today we are talking cheeseburgers, dive bars, and the characters that form the personality of those bars.

The Golden Greek’s was a bar and grill on the corner of S. Florissant Road and Paul Avenue, housed in a turn of the century brick building. The front door was set back from that intersection at a 45-degree angle to those streets. I don’t recall anyone ever entering through that front door unless they were returning from a smoke break. I parked and went in through the side entrance, like everyone else.

Nobody would accuse Golden Greeks of being a “Fern Bar.” It maintained a degree of cleanliness just above a level to avoid any serious letters from the health department. The wall behind the bar contained a potpourri of inspirational quotes like; “In God we trust, all others pay cash,” and “Life is hard, but it’s harder if you’re stupid.”

If you wanted a glass of wine, you were in the wrong bar. They kept a small stock of Sutter mini bottles for those few customers silly enough to order wine at the Greek’s.

As you sat at the bar the large walk-in fridge with its antique brass hardware was on the right. The kitchen was on the far left of the building. Efficiency experts were not a thing at the turn of the century. The layout did, however, provide the patrons at the bar with a sneak preview of the goods being delivered to the kitchen. Periodically someone from the kitchen would walk behind the bar, into the fridge, and emerge with a platter containing a heaping mound of ground chuck. This was not a collection of perfectly formed beef circles of an identical thickness, unloaded from the back of a Sysco truck. That mound of raw meat was the foundation for some of the best burgers in the region, soon to be formed by human hands before being tossed onto the ancient griddle. The patties were often misshapen, of inconsistent weight, but consistently tasty.

Any good dive bar should also provide a group of entertaining regulars, and the Greek’s was no exception. It didn’t matter which night I was on hand for take-out, the cast of characters remained constant. Two or three off duty postal workers, still in uniform. A couple of mature ladies, who in my imagination were retired roller derby players, broad of shoulder, muscular, and always attired in jeans and flannel no matter the season, and several construction workers wearing the makeup of drywall dust. The most interesting though were the two who blurred the lines between employees and customers, Carol, and Chico.

I was never sure of Chico’s specific job duties at the Greek’s, he worked some in the kitchen, did various odd jobs and his bartending was limited to twisting the tops off beer bottles. Chico was Hispanic, Mexican to be precise. I know this because I overhear Chico telling another patron as he laughed, “All those people who say Mexican’s are hardworking, well they never met me.” From Chico’s stories he was on a first name basis with every police office in Ferguson. He walked a fine line between being a productive citizen and incarceration, but his laugh was infectious.

Carol worked days and moved back and forth from the kitchen to behind the bar as needed. Her shift ended at 5:30 and that’s when she moved from one side of the bar to the other, switching roles and becoming a customer rather than a bartender. Carol was of medium everything; height, weight, build, hair, and face. She could have disappeared into any crowd, anywhere and not be noticed. The only thing not medium about Carol was the ease of her life.

Dropping in 3 or 4 times a month for take-out did not qualify me to be a regular. I rarely joined in any conversations, I was content to be a listener and observer to this wonderful kaleidoscope of humanity swirling around me.

One Friday night I took a seat two stools removed from Carol. She was deep into customer mode at that point. She was engaged in conversation with Billy, one of the regular construction workers. Carol was relating stories of the cruelties inflicted on her by her ex-husband. She described how he would push her up against a wall and hold an unloaded pistol to her head while he pulled the trigger. Billy nodded sympathetically while Carol paused, taking a sip of her beer, before continuing. “You know the funny thing is,” she said calmly and matter-of-factly, “That was the same gun I shot him with.”

——————————————-

The Golden Greek’s has been closed for years now and we have moved to another county. Over the years I’ve learned to make a decent burger at home. My secret is using a super-hot cast iron skillet to quickly sear the burgers. They aren’t bad, but I still miss the cheeseburgers from the Greek’s … but not as much as I miss the stories and the characters.

Poppy

Something Wicked This Way Comes

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LordHaveMercy

May 24, 2022.
Evil entered the Robb Elementary School in Uvalde Texas. Evil can take many forms, sometimes it’s obvious, almost cliche-like: the Nazi concentration guard ushering hundreds of Jews and undesirables into the gas chambers, dad or stepdad abusing their own children, but often it is more subtle; the scam artist preying on the elderly, seeking to rob them of their life savings, those spewing hatred and vitriol on social media in some perverted dogma or twisted religious idea.  This time it came in the form of a deranged, demented 18-year-old armed with a rifle. An hour later 21 innocent people, children, and teachers are dead. We grieve as a nation, we struggle to understand, to wrap our head around how and why this is happening. Both political parties and all media channels, take positions, issue statements, and offer endless criticism and solutions without acknowledging that evil exists.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe, the war in Ukraine rages on with untold innocents killed and all but forgotten as this latest tragedy rolls onto our front porch. Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn wrote, “What seems to us more important, more painful, and more unendurable is really not what is more important, more painful and more unendurable, but merely that which is closer to home.” The Ukrainian crisis in no way diminishes the horror that occurred in Uvalde, the causes are different, but the loss of innocent life remains tragic whether it’s one life or hundreds, every life is precious regardless of age, nationality, or religion.

Evil will never be a popular topic at a dinner party, it’s unpleasant and for the most part, we want to believe it doesn’t exist. If we acknowledge evil, it forces us to accept that it’s part of our existence, but out of our control. We want to believe that we are in control, that while things are not perfect, the next ordinance, law, or legislation will bring us closer to perfection and peace. History has taught us differently.

Ironically as it sounds there is a positive side to evil. The design of the universe and nature teaches us that where there is darkness there will also be light. Recognizing evil is not a loss of faith or condition of hopelessness but rather an embrace of something even more powerful. Romans 5:20 “…but where sin increased, grace abounded all the more.”

I love this from Henri Nouwen, “But in the midst of all this pain, there is a strange, shocking, yet surprising voice. It is the voice of the one who says:  ‘Blessed are those who mourn: they shall be comforted.’ That’s the unexpected news: there is a blessing hidden in our grief. Not those who comfort are blessed, but those who mourn! Somehow, in the midst of our mourning, the first steps of the dance take place. Somehow, the cries that well up from our losses belong to our songs of gratitude.”

“Lord have mercy.” A short prayer, three simple words, a prayer of a contrite heart, acknowledging no goodness within us, and that God owes us nothing, but hearing a quiet voice saying, “My grace is sufficient not just for you, but all of my creation.”

The Joy of an Incoming Storm (and lack of control)

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Storm2

Obviously, We don’t mean a tornado or damaging storm, but those sudden spring shifts in the weather, where a cold front moves in, and minute by minute the skyscape changes until the swirling dramatic clouds are replaced by a wall of solid grey, the rain descends as the wind whips the trees back and forth and they sway as if hearing the beats of distant samba drums. Here at the Four-Acre Wood, the back deck and the view of the valley below us provide a great perspective for that drama.

To be honest our favorite vista for incoming storms has been Sanibel Island and the view across the Gulf of Mexico. Unobstructed by trees, the demarcation of the approaching cold front is visible miles away. Suddenly you feel the temperature drop 10 or 15 degrees and at the same time, the wind picks up … gathering sand from the beach and blasting any exposed skin. Seconds later the rain arrives at a horizontal angle, pelting and stinging. The wind roars in your ears as you laugh, running for shelter, never feeling more alive.

Is part of that exhilaration an acknowledgment of a lack of control on our part?

We, humans, want to be in control. Intellectually we know that storms will be a part of our life, both in nature and emotionally, yet we plan, devise, plot, and worry endlessly …borrowing trouble from a future that has not yet occurred.

How much better if we could surrender control over things that we have no influence on and just say a simple prayer … “Lord, I’d love a life of ease, with no problems and no worries, but that’s not what you promised.  What you promised is that you would never leave us or forsake us … not through loss of job, divorce, financial hardships, or cancer. You play the long game, not through the pop-up storms of our life as painful as they may be, but through the eternal.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Vespers and Birthdays at the Four-Acre Wood

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We are one day short from the middle of May. Okay, technically (since May has 31 days) a day and a half for all you sticklers to details. Let’s not quibble, it’s the middle of May. Winter has relinquished its hold on the northern hemisphere (at least in the midwest). Everything is green and growing, our weeds have never looked healthier. 

Today we celebrated the birthday of our youngest daughter (since we are being technical, one of two). It was a simple and relaxed meal. The convenience items were the store-bought birthday cake and the potato salad. The burgers, baked beans, and deviled eggs were homemade. Our two daughters and three grandchildren were in attendance, and no one complained, especially when it came time for cake and ice cream. It was a time to count your blessings.

Twilight descends on the Four-Acre Wood. The air softens, and the edges of the tree leaves begin to blur just slightly. The village of Kimmswick, so visible during the winter has now disappeared from view.

Vespers, a time of evening prayer, a time of reflection. The world’s problems and ours do not stop at twilight, but it is a time to set them aside. Our work is done, the day is done, and tomorrow holds the same promises that we held today.

Poppy

 

The Sparrow’s Nest

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SparrowsNest

A sparrow selected our front door wreath last spring as a prime spot to build her nest. In her mind I’m sure the location made sense, it was sheltered from rain and inclement weather. That it was a high-traffic area was beyond her understanding. Every entrance and exit from the front door set the nest in motion causing her to fly away. Understanding the situation we took to entering and exiting through the breezeway door or the garage until the fledglings had literally, “flown the nest.”

Fast forward to 2022 and a newly designed spring wreath is hung on the front door, and yes, Mrs. Sparrow came back.  The wreath was removed before she could take out any building permits for a new nest. Several days later we noticed the front porch was strewn with twigs and bits of evergreen. There is a reason the term, “bird-brain” exists.  She chose the next closest spot to build her nest, the blades of the ceiling fan on the front porch.  Day after day she worked on her nest until the next stiff breeze caught the blades of the fan, spinning them and sending her nest architecture onto the floor of the porch.

“Can you build something in the corner of the porch, away from the door where she can build her nest in peace,” Susan asked?

Every day we are bombarded with news of war, violence, refugees, famine, and cruelty beyond imaging. Closer to home we watch as friends and family deal with issues that leave us feeling just as impotent as the events on the other side of the globe. Our world spins like the blades of the ceiling fan, scattering our feeble constructs and there seems very little that is in our control. Some days the best we can do is to offer a smile to a stranger, a kind word when a sharp word is our first thought, and build a little ledge for a sparrow’s nest.

Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, at your altars, O Lord of hosts, my King, and my God.  Psalm 84:3

Ledge

Weeds Give Me Hope!

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weeds

Here at the Four-Acre Wood we are ready for spring. Every season has its charm and beauty, yes even winter, though at times it’s a stretch to find that. The robins have been back for weeks now. Where do they go during winter? We could “Google” that to find the answer, but the mystery is more charming than an explanation. A little magic trumps a computer generated response every time.

The valley behind us spills into the Village of Kimmswick, then on to the Mississippi River. The trees lift their branches heavenward, still bare, but in supplication, knowing that new growth will come.

Our once carefully manicured and mulched flower beds offer the first hints of new growth and fresh green. No, not hybrid hydrangeas or hostas, but weeds.

Steinbeck wrote in Cannery Row, “.”Our Father who art in nature, who has given the gift of survival to the coyote, the common brown rat, the English sparrow, the house fly and the moth.”

We could add to that list, weeds.

Steinbeck’s observation is spot on. God did not give the gift of survival to the exotic and rare, the Siberian Tiger or Peacock, but to the lowly, the common … weeds … and me.

I’m slowly checking off things I won’t accomplish in my life time; brokering peace in the Mid-East, finding a cure for cancer, or balancing my checkbook. But I’m okay being a weed, so long as I’m a weed in God’s plan.

Our Father who art in nature.

(But God, we’ve got to talk about mosquitoes and poison ivy)

Inside and Outside

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At The Four-Acre Wood tonight, there is the inside, then there is the outside. The outside … well it’s been 24 hours of sleet and freezing rain, nasty stuff, even Mimsy with her four-leg drive has slipped and fallen (me, let’s not talk about it … the video would have gone viral). Far from The Four-Acre Wood the world news seems even more dismal. It’s a time for perspective and faith. 

Inside we are blessed to have our oldest daughter, and youngest granddaughter with us while her husband is on the other side of the world on miltary duty. We have heat, we are safe, and we have have enough produce for a nice salad. We take none of these things for granted. 

Outside the trees lift up their bare arms, covered in a coat of ice, waiting for spring. Waiting. Spring will come as it always does. Bare limbs will become green once more. It’s ordained, it’s God’s design. 

Inside we finish watching “The Major and the Minor” a classic Ginger Rodgers movie. We dance with baby Adeline (not as smooth as Ginger) but dance we do. 

Outside we place the future in God’s hands and go along for the ride.

Poppy, SuSu, Erica, and Adeline