The Parable of the Verbena Seeds

            A woman desired a beautiful flower garden, so in early spring she planted verbena seeds in starter containers and carefully tended them. She watered the seeds faithfully, protected them from cold snaps and storms, and looked forward to the day she could transplant them into her garden and enjoy their beautiful blooms.

            But in the night an enemy—or a bird or a strong wind—visited her makeshift greenhouse and sowed seeds of a different kind. And it came to pass that in late spring a careful inspection of her seedlings revealed fuzzy little stalks and leaves, which mightily resembled those of tomato plants. As the stalks grew in stature, delicate yellow blossoms appeared on them. Verily, they were tomato plants!            

            This woman had always held fast to the belief that actions carry consequences. Confident that her actions in nurturing these seeds had been good and well intentioned, she was certain her efforts would be rewarded. 

            “How can this be?” she lamented to a friend. “I have always adhered to the belief that actions carry consequences. I sowed verbena seeds and diligently cared for them. I have been a good and faithful gardener and should have beautiful blossoms to show for my efforts. Instead, all I have are a few pitiful tomatoes.”

            The friend gave her a sympathetic smile. “It is true that actions carry consequences, and in the grand scheme of things, remembering that will ensure a life well lived. But sometimes our actions—even the best and most sincere of them—don’t always bring the results we expected. That is when we accept what we are given and make something good of it. That is called fortitude.”

            As the woman pondered these words, the friend continued. “Other times our actions are not admirable, and we suffer because of them. That is justice.”

            The woman nodded, understanding the fairness of this situation.

            “But there are also times,” the friend said, “when our actions are shameful, and yet we escape the consequences altogether. That, my dear one, is called grace.”

            The woman thanked her friend for her wise counsel. Then, with a grateful heart, she gathered the tomatoes and took them inside her house to make a salad.

 

             

           

Word Nerd

           The other day a friend posted her results of one of those Facebook quizzes. You know, one of those that tells you what kind of animal, car, state, cookie you most resemble? I generally scroll right past them, but this particular quiz caught my interest. It claimed to identify the kind of “thinker” one is, and it classified my friend as a Linguistic Thinker. Such a thinker, along with other traits, “...is intrigued not only by the meaning of words but also by the sounds of them and their rhythm.” 

            I was positive I was a Linguistic Thinker as well. More and more these days, I find myself in awe of words, either spoken or written. They don’t necessarily have to be complicated, polysyllabic words, although it’s okay if they are. As long as they communicate ideas with sincerity and clarity, I’m impressed. Add a touch of local color or creative flare or—as stated above—arrange them in a particularly mellifluous combination, and I’m downright gobsmacked. (How do you like that last word?)

Martha Bryant, on the left, claimed the
title of current reigning Word Wizard
with the word gunsel. Look it up.
Rest assured, the competition to unseat
her at our next gathering will be fierce.

            I don’t claim to be a philologist (another great word!) by any stretch  of the imagination. I’m not an expert who applies “a critical attitude toward words, their roots and their meanings.” (WSJ, 4/5/14). Rather I’m a dilettante—a dabbler in diction, an amateur tripping through a garden of wordly delights. A word nerd, if you will. I often enjoy a book as much for the way it’s written as for the story. As a rule, card and board games don’t interest me, but give me one involving words and I’m all over it. I’m a faithful solver of the Daily Cryptoquote in the newspaper. (I used to be obsessed with crossword puzzles but gave them up when I realized what a timesuck they were becoming.) Only a word nerd would have dictionary.com for her homepage, right? And who else but a word nerd would spend an entire evening with other “nerders” (aka the Inklings) in a cut-throat, high-stakes word tournament, vying for the title of Word Wizard?

            So with all this evidence of my linguistic leanings, I saw no need to take the quiz. But I did. I breezed through it, scoffing as I clicked off the too obvious answers that would identify me as a...Philosophical Thinker??? What? Surely not! Philosophical Thinker couldn’t possibly apply to the person who gave up reading Sophie’s World because she couldn’t follow the geared-to-middle-schoolers explanation of existentialism. The same person who, full of ambitious optimism, bought a book entitled Half Hours with the Best Thinkers and fell asleep fifteen minutes into the very first half hour. The person who pored over the two-paragraph explanation of secular humanism in the The Bathroom Book Edition III and still remains clueless on the subject.  

            Needless to say, I’m crushed. My entire thinking paradigm now must shift from “What is the meaning of this word?” to “What is the meaning of life?” and let me tell you that is a major shift. Quite frankly, I’m not sure at my age I’m up to the challenge. One thing I am sure of, however, is that I’m through with Facebook quizzes. A few more life-altering discoveries like this one, and I’ll be lucky if I can think at all.   

            Want to know what kind of thinker you are? Here’s the link. But be forewarned. You might not like the results.

 

           

             

Makes Scents to Me (Part II)

            I’m not sure of the exact date my preference in scents switched from those that came in a bottle to those that came from plants. But while I don’t recall the exact date, I do recall the incident that brought me to my current “scentses.”

The sweetheart roses which
began my outside
"scent"imental journey.

             One spring evening a few years ago, I was sitting in my little outside alcove—can’t really call it a porch—and caught a whiff of the sweetheart roses on a bush near my front door. Nothing heavy, just a light aroma wafting on the evening breeze. Up to that point, my plant choices had been mainly based on sight—what had showy blossoms, what provided the most color, what filled out space the best. But that evening, as I breathed in that airy sweetness, I made the conscious decision to consider my sense of smell in future planting. And I also began making the effort to appreciate the fragrant gifts of plants already established. So these days, I no longer linger at the Dillard’s or Macy’s perfume counter, inhaling the floral or musky scents provided there. Instead, I do my lingering outside—more specifically, in my own yard—and enjoy the offerings from the most creative perfumer of all, Mother Nature.

The smell from this lilac bush is especially sweet since it was a rescue plant and cost me next to nothing!

           

 

 

 

 

Does anything beat the heady scent of honeysuckle in full bloom...

 

unless it's jasmine?

 

 

.
And don't forget the mouthwatering aromas of fresh herbs. My all-time favorite...fresh basil. Even if I'm not going to cook with it, I'll crush a leaf in my fingers and inhale.

 

Knockout roses are appreciated more for their blooms than their scent, but I've found if you get up close and personal and inhale deeply, they'll reward you with a subtle rosy aroma.



 

This beauty doesn't actually belong to me. It's in my neighbors' yard. But since it's on the edge of their property, I sneak over and "borrow" a whiff  from time to time. Even this bee can't resist its citrusy reminder of southern summers.













         A disclaimer: Lest, I give the impression I live in the middle of a sprawling garden like those featured in Southern Living, I don’t. I don’t even live in a charming, nostalgic neighborhood with lush cottage gardens and picket fences. I live in an ordinary suburban neighborhood, on an ordinary-sized lot, most of which is covered with ordinary green grass. But “blooming where I’m planted,” I try to make the most of my limited space and my limited horticultural abilities. And these days, I'm happy with that! 

          Do you have a favorite perfume offered up by Mother Nature? Please share!

Makes Scents to Me (Part I)

Back in the day, this
little bottle couldn't have
cost more than 25 cents.
Today, it's listed on eBay
for $35!!!

            The very first scent I can ever remember using was Tinkerbell toilet water. Actually, I think it belonged to my sister, but that didn’t stop me from “borrowing” it. I’d liberally douse myself with its sweetness before I headed outside to play. The scent lingered about as long as it took the alcohol in the water to evaporate, and that most likely was a good thing. The smell of baby-powder mixed with a six-year-old's sweat couldn’t have been a good combination.

Those of a certain age
will remember this
iconic blue bottle.

            From Tinkerbell, I graduated to Evening in Paris, which once again I borrowed--this time from my mother. In fact, it was the very bottle I’d bought for her at Woolworth’s for Christmas. For some reason, she didn’t use it much herself.









           Junior high and high school found me reeking of Heaven Sent. I didn't personally care for the smell all that much, but the TV ads insisted it would make me "a little bit naughty but heavenly," or   --I'm almost too embarrassed to write this-- like "an imp wearing angel wings." So I went with it. 

            My first gift of perfume from a boy was—what else in the late ‘60s?—Youth Dew by Estee Lauder. I loved it then, but now...pee-YOO! And as I think back on it, I suspect the boyfriend might have distributed several bottles of it. pee-YOO to him, too.
 

My dislike of this perfume might
have more to do with its
association to a certain boyfriend
rather than the actual scent.
 

            Fortunately, in the ensuing years, my taste in smells (does that even make sense?) grew more sophisticated and, I hope, more subtle. And these days, my favorite fragrances don’t come from a fancy bottle at all. The original intent of this post was to write about those, but as you can see I got sidetracked. I hope you'll check out my next post when I share my current favorite perfumer. 

 

           In the meantime, do you have some nasal nostalgia you'd care to share?

   

Spilling the Beans about Bush's Beans

            Remember in National Lampoon's Vacation when Clark Griswold is excited about seeing the "second largest ball of twine on the face of the earth"? Well, I’m with Clark on that one. For me, one of the best parts of a vacation is discovering those little known, off-the-beaten-path places that don’t attract swarms of tourists but do give a unique peek into a region or event. And with that mindset, last week, while on a rather impromptu vacation, Bill and I jumped at the chance to visit the Bush Brothers Visitor Center in Chestnut Hill, TN. No, not those Bush brothers, but the Bush brothers of bean fame. You know—Jay Bush and his golden retriever Duke, and the secret family recipe, and “beautiful bean footage”?

            I can hear you asking, “How interesting can beans be?” I asked myself the same thing when a guy at the hotel suggested we take in that particular attraction. But when he described it as a little “funky,” he caught my attention. If nothing else, it offered a refreshing alternative to chain restaurants, water slide parks, and miniature golf. So we decided to check it out, and—to answer, the above question—"If you don't know beans about beans, pretty dang interesting!”

            To save you the verbal equivalent of “slides of my vacation,” I’ll just provide this link to the visitor center—along with a few highlights and a couple of pictures to prove I really was there.

§  A beautiful drive through the lush, verdant foothills of the Smoky Mountains

The Bush family homestead in the
quaint town of Chestnut Hill

 

§  An on-site restaurant with very tasty food, including bean of the day appetizers and a pecan pie made of—are you ready for this?—pinto beans
 

 

                   §  A small museum which provides interesting history of the company's beginnings and
                      some amazing facts about the bean canning and distribution process (Please don't
                      tell me to get a life.)

§  A cute country store with lots of Bush's Beans gimcrack to choose from

Me with local celebrities--Duke and Jay.



A handy and useful souvenir--
a tea towel!

 

        

         Now, before I create a tourist assault on this quiet, unpretentious bit of Americana, let me say that I wouldn’t plan a two-week vacation around it. But if you happen to be in the area, give it a visit. Chestnut Hill is not your ordinary hill of beans.   

            Like I said, I love side trips to out-of-the-way places. Any favorites you'd be willing to share with me?

       

              

           

More Writing About Writing

            Shel Harrington (the divorce attorney who doesn’t like divorce) invited me to participate in a blog hop that asked the following questions of writers. Fortunately for me—and unfortunately for you—this opportunity comes at a time when I’m excited about some upcoming projects and possibilities. The result is a rather lengthy post, but that's what you get when you ask a writer to write about writing.

What are you working on?

Lots going on right now, and I like it that way.

I currently have several projects in the works, but probably the one I’m most enthusiastic about is converting Beyond the Farthest Star to an ebook. I’ve been contemplating this for a couple of years, and finally—with encouragement from Sarah Basore—decided to go for it. The determining factors were a couple of workshops at the recent OWFI Conference. This a revolutionary time in the book publishing business, and much of the stigma of self-publishing is vanishing. I’ve weighed the pros and cons, and lately it seems the scales are tipping in favor of the pros. Also, I think my tolerance for risk-taking has grown. Sooo, in the not-too-distant future, look for my book on your favorite reading device!

Other projects include my finished manuscript, a women’s fiction piece with the working title Crossroads. My initial experience with electronic publishing will influence the course I take with it.  I’m also just beginning a book which centers on a woman getting out of prison and beginning a new life. I’m still blogging (obviously), and I’m trying to enter more contests these days. 

How does your work differ from others in its genre?

A tough question because as the verse in Ecclesiastes states, “There is nothing new under the sun.” So I’ve taken tried and true themes and—I like to think—added fresh twists. For example, BtFS is basically about bullying, friendship, and young love—definitely nothing new in young adult fiction. But I gave it an unexpected ending. In Crossroads, I borrow on the “reversal of fortune” idea. My pitch for this story: Take the Jasmine character in the movie Blue Jasmine—or Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire—and set her in the middle of Oklahoma with no drugs and better friends.

Why do you write what you do?

First, I blog because thoughts and ideas bounce around in my head like marbles in a pinball machine. Some of those thoughts I want to share and get feedback on. Others I just want to get out of my head before it explodes. Some are serious (gems), some completely inane (gimcracks). As far as books go, I also learned at the OWFI Conference that I can classify my work as inspirational women’s fiction. I was thrilled to learn this because I’ve struggled for some time with pinpointing the category in which I write. My work isn’t overtly Christian, but it’s based on a Christian world view, and I make references to Christian beliefs. I want my writing to entertain—and hopefully elicit the occasional laugh—but I also want it to inspire, to leave the reader with a sense of hope.  

How does your writing process work?

Huh? I’m supposed to have a process? No, really, I guess I do have a process. I just don’t have a routine. I don’t get up each morning, have a cup of coffee, and devote the next four hours to writing. But, like probably 90% of bloggers, I have a mile-high stack of newspaper articles or slips of paper with thought-provoking quotations or subjects I use to generate content. Or sometimes I just elaborate on observations I’ve made as I grow older and go about my daily life. Regardless of where the ideas originate, I try to remain consistent with my posts, writing one at least every one or two weeks. Blogging regularly is good for me. It requires a modicum of self-discipline, and when you’re retired from a “real” job, self-discipline can present a challenge. Another part of my so-called process is belonging to the Inklings, a writing group. If you aspire to be a serious writer—serious being a relative term—a writing group is the best thing you can do for yourself. The group will encourage you, feed your creativity, give you honest feedback, and hold you accountable. Plus, you’re guaranteed there will always be a few people who’ll read what you wrote.

As far as my process for writing a novel, I try to write a general outline first and then write the scenes in chronological order. I also write down events on a calendar as they occur, so I can keep the time sequence straight in my mind. Not everyone adheres to this plan, but it works best for me, even though I do adjust the plot for characters who won’t cooperate.

This is probably waaay more information than anyone wanted. If you’re still reading at this point, I thank you from the bottom of my heart and applaud your tenacity.

Next Monday, the destination on the tour will be Marisa Mohi’s blog. A member of Oklahoma WomenBloggers and self-described “unprofessional librarian,” Marisa brings her unique perspective to a variety of subjects.

Perfect Way to Say "Happy Mother's Day!"

Happy Mother's Day, Mama.
I love you!

       I'll admit it: I hate picking out greeting cards. And I especially hate it when the occasion calls for something seriously heart-felt. For the most part, my family is not now and never has been into "mush." That makes it extremely difficult to find a Mother's Day card for my mother. One that strikes a good balance between syrupy sweet poetry stating what a perfect mother she is and...let's say...Maxine  issuing a warning about mixing medications. However, this year, after several minutes hours in CVS, I finally came up with an appropriate card, and I managed to get it in the mail so she'll receive it in time. (I think.)

     But wouldn't you know, just when I'm feeling very smug about my accomplishment, I actually do find a way to say exactly what I want. I can't put it in the mail, but I can share it here. And while it does get  a little mushy in parts, it tells the truth about "perfect" mothering. So Mama, this is for you and all mothers who are “lavish in love, extravagant in truth, big spenders of grace.”

           

  http://www.aholyexperience.com/2014/05/why-mothers-day-is-really-just-for-the-birds/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+HolyExperience+%28Holy+Experience%29