knitting, a sermon, and booksale finds

Knitting.

My mother brought home a 30-or-so-peg knitting loom and a ball of normal acrylic blue yarn. We've been taking turns, learning how to make stuff on it. Though it naturally makes a tube, it can also make flat pieces. We're learning how to do all sorts of fun stuff with it.

Strangely enough, 9-yr-old brother has really latched on to it. He saw me working away this morning before church, and immediately realized the potential of my little gadget. This is good for experiments, he said, immediately describing all these un-professional and very original methods he invented, right there on the spot. I taught him the regular, circular method, casting off, and he promptly made a hat for Sister's baby doll. A very neat and cute little hat, too. Now he's making a wardrobe of beanie-baby clothes...

Loom(or spool)-knitting is such a rhythmic, relaxing activity! It doesn't require any coordination at all, making it ideal for needle-impaired individuals, but one can still make beautiful things.

Anyway. I can't figure out (quite) why my profile has ended up at the bottom of the page. I suspect it's because of my big picture of the Russian chapel. Oh, well. When that post gets farther down (or disappears into the archives) hopefully the profile will reappear at the top.

Can you believe? ONE MORE DAY IN THE WHOLE MONTH!!!!! And then it's MARCH! AUGHHH!

I was at a booksale on Friday. Here are some of the books I got:

~the complete speeches of Winston Churchill
~A big picture book, entitled "A Day in the Life of the Soviet Union."
~The File on the Tsar (guess what this one's about?)
~Robert K. Massie's book about Peter the Great (exact title escapes me)
~"Chechnya" by Anatol Somebody or Other (aren't I helpful?)
~a Kate Keisler (sp?) illustrated children's book of collected sea lullabies
~Bleak House, by Charles Dickens

I got more Russian history books than that, but they all have very nondescript titles that I don't care to repeat.

Thoughts from the Sermon on the Mount, on taking oaths:

Here's the application for me, who has an inordinate amounts of trouble obeying my parents **quickly**....

I'm gonna try ending my "Yeah, okay Mom" with "So help me God." Just in my head. Maybe it will remind me:

God will hold me accountable for my (even casual) promises. Whether or not I follow through with them conveys something about God to the watching world.

While the pastor was explaining all this from the texts, it felt like he was pointing right at me. I guess God wanted it that way.

Gotta go. Methinks I'm on kitchen duty.

Tradition, tradition, tradition...

"Christ in Russia" by Helen Iswolsky (I'm not at all sure about the spelling of that last name, by the way, and am solely relying on my hem*brilliant* photographic memory) has absolutely nothing in it about Christ.

It should be titled "Eastern Orthodoxy in Russia."

I read the chapter about Easter customs.
(**There's some word family here: East--as in, where the sun rises every morning, and Easter--as in Christ the Son rises from the dead. But I'm too ignorant to know for certain where the root actually comes from.**)

This author, writing in the 50's during the Communist era, makes the point that no matter where Russians are in the world, and no matter what oppression they face, they still tenaciously celebrate a traditional Easter, according to their sacred calendar.

The one Russian phrase that I know how to say, coincidentally, is the Easter greeting: "Kristos Voskres," or "Christ is Risen." This is NOT because I've read it in a book (though I have), but because my great-great-grandmother was Russian. And every year, she would have her little grandson (my grandfather) over to her house to celebrate Easter. She taught him that greeting (amongst many other things which have been since lost in obscurity), and he told it to my mother, who told it to me. It's the only Eastern Orthodox custom with which I am familiar. My great-grandmother, also a full-blooded Russian, didn't keep up Easter customs so well. She was either born in America, or born very soon before. Her father (my great-great-grandfather) was an atheistic Bolshevik peasant, and his philosophies of life passed on to her more than the mother's did.

Hatred of God has a deeper seat in the heart than tradition. But isn't it amazing that I still have a wee bit of my ancestrial heritage living on, because of my great-great-grandmother? I wonder what traditions of my grandparents I'll remember to pass on to my children.

Oh, one other thing survived from Russia, now that I think of it: the potato pancakes. My mom still makes those...

Russian History...

The ultimate of all ultimate Russian history sites:

Alexander Palace

I love this site because it's so complete. It's a very good reference page, but can be very entertaining as well.

I appreciated all the sources and firsthand accounts that have been transcribed on to the web, all of which are inaccessible if one can't make it to a really good library.

Especially interesting--the photo essay "Blood-Stained Russia" by Donald C. Thompson. I spent a little time going through it this afternoon.

...how's that for a boring blog post? Okay, okay. Here's a picture.

The chapel at Tsarskoe Selo:



I'd love to worship God in there.

On the Reading of Obituaries

Man knows not his time.

I've made a strange habit this week. I started reading the obituary column of my local newspaper. Every day, a few more people vaporize into NOTHING, as far as we are concerned. Old people die every day. And three or four times this week, a child or young person died. That especially seized my heart. I expect to die when I'm old, and I expect to be old soon. But think. A car crash happens tomorrow, and suddenly I'm no one. Not important any more--except in a few shades of memories.

So thank God for HIMSELF! When I've done what God wants me to do, I'll go Home. Nothing random, nothing sudden, nothing tragic. I'll go when I'm supposed to go, after finishing exactly what I'm supposed to finish. God always has the best for me.

In the meantime, a Christian can use the death column as a call to pray for the world around. Rejoice when you read about a Christian finishing his race. Pray for the souls of the survivors. All the relatives of the dead, Christian or not, need special prayer. Tragedy can drive them to seek Christ. Even when one doesn't know anything about the person, a LOT can be deduced from the language of the report and the information that it contains. All you need is a shred to pray on.

What an opportunity!

And here's a verse to look up:
Heb. 2:14-17

On a different note, we had shrimp for dinner. Out of all the bunch of us, only my mom, dad, and I liked it. I've been studying crustaceans in biology, and once I started finding actual anatomical pieces of shrimp in my dinner, I wouldn't eat any more of it either. I LOVE cocktail sauce, and suspect that is the only reason I eat shrimp at all. That stuff is the best. Mmm.

a short story

I have a Launchcast station. My ID is silmarwen14. It plays a lot of different stuff.

And by the way, here's a silly little ditty I wrote sort of recently:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I sat down on the train, next to a natty-looking fellow.

"Hello there," I said, just trying to be friendly.

My fellow traveler looked positively delighted to see me. He shared his newspaper. "Look at this here," he pointed to the headlines on the top of the second page. "Someone from Dover discovered to have the world's largest snuff box collection. Sounds fascinating, what? We should trip over sometime to see it."

I nodded my assent. "Snuff boxes are a rare and unusual commodity, indeed. Every gentleman has his personal style." I proudly drew my snuff box from my suitcase, where I kept it for safekeeping.

"That's a dandy!" my companion exclaimed. I handed it to him, and watched as he inspected it closely. "Real gold, right?"

"My grandfather passed it on when I came of age. It's been in the family for years."

"The jewel-work is exquisite!"

"Certainly. The snuff isn't bad either. Have a pinch."

I reclaimed my snuff box, and gave the dandy a bit. He gushed enthusiasm. I put my box safely back into my briefcase!

"You don't sound like you're from around here," I finally said to him. "Are you from Canada?"

"Chicago," he grinned.

"What business brings you to Britain?"

"Research with a fellow in Dover," he replied.

"I'm going to Dover myself."

"Really?" He stared at me intently. "Do you live there?"

"As a matter of fact, I do." I shifted in my seat.

"Perhaps you know this snuff-box fellow," he gestured to the story in the London Times.

"Never in my life," I stared at him. He looked strangely familiar.

The train stopped at a station. My traveling companion spent a great deal of time shuffling around underneath our seat for his bags. He left the car with his great mound of luggage, and I wondered why he did not call a porter to help him with all those boxes and bags.

I thought, If his business is in Dover, then why does he not stay on board til then?

I reached under my seat for my briefcase. A pinch of snuff sounded most welcome at that moment. But my box wasn't in my case. Nor could I find it in the depths of my jacket.

"Well, well," I thought with more than a twinge of annoyance. "Research, eh?"

It was too late to do anything. The whistle blew. Before long, I found myself back in Dover.

My little manse looked the same as ever. I rang the bell, but the maid answered. Where was Jeeves? Surely he had not fallen asleep!

I found his note on my dresser. A mysterious cousin had fallen mysteriously ill. Apologies.

"Well, at least I know the rat," I thought to myself. I counted all my snuff-boxes, just to be sure. Yes, there were 576. They all survived. The nerve of my butler, posting me in the London Times and opening exhibitions at my house while I was abroad!

The next morning there was a brief in the London Times. Infamous jewel thief traced by secret police, from Chicago as far as the London subway system, where he disappeared last month. They suspect he recently reappeared in Dover as a local folklore scholar by the name of Edgar Clyde. Sparse evidence suggests he has since fled to India.

Clyde, welcome to the underworld. Someday I'll find you and make you give back that snuff box!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a list of folk cds...

Yes, I can have a very sharp tongue.

By the way, here's an eclectic little list of some good folk cds that you've probably already heard of:

I have heard all of these, and really like them all. They are in the order of my thought process, but not in order of importance.

Spanish Blood--Edgar Cruz
Lonely Runs Both Ways--(Duh) Alison Krauss
Love and Thunder--Andrew Peterson
This Bright Hour--Fernando Ortega
Somewhere Along the Road--Cathie Ryan
Kate Rusby and Kathryn Roberts--Guess Who?
The Words that Remain--Solas
One Moment More--Mindy Smith
Arnish Light--Tannahill Weavers
Silly Wizard Live--Silly Wizard
The Graceful Ghost--Grey DeLisle
Into the Cauldron--Chris Thile and Mike Marshall
Appalachia Waltz--Mark O'Connor, Edgar Meyer, Yo-Yo Ma
Blueprint--Natalie MacMaster (this one has some really good cuts, but is definitely not my favorite...
The Man Comes Around--Johnny Cash
Wondrous Love and Where the Sun Never Goes Down--Chanticleer
Down the Old Plank Road--The Chieftains
Tales from the Acoustic Planet--Bela Fleck

This should suffice for now.