Ponder This – by Karl Coulson

Posted on August 6, 2018 by Donna Coulson

NOTE:  For today’s blog, we have a guest writer, my husband Karl.  Thanks Honey!

There are some things that I do which make me shake my head and wonder, why? As ya’ll know, donna kay and I are spending the summer in our fifth wheel – sometimes camping in the mountains, sometimes in Encampment parked at a friend’s house and sometimes in Cheyenne parked at Windy Acres, my cousin’s place out on Horse Creek Road.

Recently we were in Cheyenne for Frontier Days. We had a great time thanks to really good tickets, procured by our friend Liz, to the rodeo and two night shows. On Sunday morning we went to church at our home church Golden Prairie Baptist out north of Burns. We love that church, and they love us. Pastor Jeff always has some great insights and some much needed encouragement. Usually donna kay and I talk about his sermons all the way back to town. This week we talked about something else.

After the sermon we’re “deployed”, Pastor Jeff’s word sending us out to show God’s grace and love to others. Then after the service we were standing around talking to friends when Jeff started a conversation with me. Eventually he got around to asking me how we were getting along living in the trailer and asked how we were sleeping. I assured him it is very comfortable and that we sleep well most nights. He asked this with a big smile on his face. Now, Jeff is almost always smiling so at first I thought nothing of his question other than concern for us. By the time I got to the truck in the parking area I knew better. I just got busted. I was sleeping during his sermon. Shameful, but it happens.

It’s not that what he was saying was boring, it never is. It’s not that I’ve heard it all before, because I haven’t. I slept well the night before and I wasn’t sleepy on the 40 minute drive to church. But try as hard as I could, sleep overtook me. (Good thing I don’t snore.) I felt donna kay nudge me several times. I would wake up for a couple of minutes then breathe heavily and go back to checking my eye lids for leaks.

It’s not the tenor of Jeff’s voice or his lack of emotion. It’s not his volume because this is not the only sermon I have missed most of. Pastor John at our church on St. Croix is loud. Really loud! To the point of vibrating the windows at times, loud. Even with the A.C. running he can heat up the room with his passion and with his emotion. But I can sleep during his sermons as well. (Sorry John.)

I’m not the only one. Let’s be honest now, I’ve looked around and noticed others in both congregations sleeping sometimes. I’m sure none of us mean to, it just happens. With me it usually starts when I look down to refresh my thoughts on the Bible passage being addressed. I re-read the passage, and to make sure I have it in context, I read several verses before and after the passage referred to. While contemplating the meaning, my sight blurs, I blink my eyes to clear them and there I go, I’m done.

Several years ago donna kay and I took a class by Kim Bevel titled “Gray Matter”. In this class we learned that a person can only concentrate on someone speaking 10 to 17 minutes before their mind withdraws. In order to refocus a person needs to become active, move around, stand up, sing. This could be part of the problem. The other part of the problem I learned doing yoga. Yes, this tough as nails former truck driver has done some yoga. This last winter donna kay and I did some “stretching” and “relaxing” yoga just before bed each night for a couple weeks. Man did we sleep good. In the relaxing yoga it was a lot of deep breathing and stretching out the chest. Before the sermon each Sunday we sing. I sing, as King David did, with all my might, from my gut, breathing deep singing loud. We’ve stretched, breathed deeply then sat down and relaxed to listen to really important information. Do ya see it coming? That’s right, after 10 minutes I’m done. This is not every Sunday, just sometimes.

I am not suggesting that church services be rearranged. I’m not saying we need to do the sermon first and the singing and greeting of friends later. I’m just giving a plausible reason for my shameful actions. I berate myself at the time and again later and feel guilty.

But I have another thought. During the service I have greeted all my friends, at both churches. I have sung with all my might praising God for his love, faithfulness and grace. I’ve prayed thanking God for all my blessings and His salvation. Perhaps at this point God touches me, giving me complete relaxation, telling my soul to rest in His arms. Perhaps God is telling my soul, “Rest, I’ve got this”. Maybe He’s say’n “you’ve been keyed up all week worry’n about all those things that stress you out, just rest”.

So, with this in mind, I’ve decided that I’ll continue to try to stay focused, but when I don’t, I’m going to be thankful for God’s rest and not feel guilty.

Categories: Banishing the word should!, Gypsy life | 2 Comments

People Watching

Posted on July 29, 2018 by Donna Coulson

 

People watching is a popular and usually fun pastime. It’s a habit I partake in and often enjoy.  Walking through the mall, waiting in an airport, relaxing in a park.  People are such varied and sundry creatures. It’s fun to notice the choices people make with their appearance and demeanor. I smile watching two people enjoying each other’s company (within reason!), I love seeing children sleeping without care in horrible positions in strollers or, better yet, on a parent’s shoulder, totally oblivious to the noise and commotion around them. (I envy their ability to sleep so peacefully in the hub-bub.) I chuckle warmly at the fashion choices of little old men in plaid paints and striped shirts or those of carefree little girls dressed in rain boots and tutus. (And I often wish I weren’t so constrained by society’s norms so that I could wear a pink feather boa sometimes!)  I especially love airports, watching loved ones reunited.  Hugs and tears and smiles speak so loudly of how precious each is to the other.

But…people watching is also a dangerous game. The danger of course, is being judgmental and critical.  We don’t stop at just noticing, we pass judgement – and not just on the look but on the inner person as well. “That girl is too heavy for that outfit, doesn’t she understand diets?…He’s a terrible father to talk to those kids like that…Doesn’t she know that she’s wearing too much makeup?…He must be lazy since he’s so unkempt…that man is wearing a MAGA hat, let’s harass him!”  It’s so easy to compare and be condemnatory. I hate to admit that I partake in this negative side, too, sometimes. While I have a small tattoo, I don’t admire necks or entire arms that are inked.  I have three holes in my ears, but ears with those big hollow rings in them don’t attract me.  We laugh at websites that show non-conforming customers at Wal-Mar- there are entire websites showcases these individuals. I truly try not to engage in this kind of people watching.  Not because there aren’t shocking or worrisome people in public, but because I know in my depths that looking at others from a pedestal of my own making is treacherous territory.

People watching with the goal of celebrating the infinite variety of folks is fun, any other motive is hurtful, to me and to others whether they are ever aware of it or not.  How do I rein myself in and curtail my tendency for mean spirited people watching?  I try to watch myself from other’s perspective:  I’m certain that the fact that I DO have a tattoo is cause for judgment from some, or that I DO have my ears pierced several times, or that I DO wear jeans and t-shirts when the fashion police have decreed that women over 55 shouldn’t wear jeans (What? You’d rather I wear polyester pants with elastic waists pulled up a little too high?  Brrr, just the thought makes me shiver. Euww!) I’m not saying that I make decisions based on what the current fashion trends are, and I certainly don’t feel like I need to curtail my First Amendment rights to be me through the expression of my clothes. Tangent:  I’ve never been too subject to that…When they were in high school my children were a little chagrined (to say the least) that I often wore dresses with colored or patterned ankle socks and tennies. More than once one of them commented to me , “Mom, you are a fashion statement, and that statement is, ‘I am a dork!’”)  Anyway, what I am saying is that as a follower of Jesus, I do have a responsibility to represent myself and my God well when I’m in public.

So, carefully, I’m going to keep people watching, continuing to celebrate that God made us all so differently.  Maybe I’ll also whisper a prayer when someone walks by who displays something worrisome (Like the pretty young woman at the Frontier Days concert this week weaving as she walked while she held a can of Coors Lite in each hand.) But more than that, I’m going to watch myself to make sure that I’m being someone worth watching.

Categories: Random thoughts on being me | 2 Comments

Flying

Posted on July 23, 2018 by Donna Coulson

The Bible says that if we come to God with faith He will give us the desires of our heart.  I believe that.  However, I’m also fairly sure that God is going to make me wait to realize one of the fondest desires of my heart.  Maybe it’s only because I don’t have enough faith to see it happening in this life, but I think I’ll probably have to be patient until I get to heaven.  That’s because my desire is this:  I want to fly. Not inside a big metal tube with staff to serve me overpriced snacks, but with my own, tireless wings.  The other day, I watched an eagle soaring, playing with the wind currents above Silver Lake, and I once again thought how marvelous it would be to ride the air, soaring effortlessly above the world.  That would, in fact, be amazing.  I thought about that eagle all day, gliding in my imagination in a silent, noble dance above the lake and mountains that I love.  I imagined how it would be to feel the air support my wings and what I could think as I enjoyed that different perspective.  At the end of the day my thoughts were still in the clouds and I decided that maybe, after a while, flying eagle-like would become lonely and maybe even a little boring.  Solitude and beauty are rich gifts, that’s true, but my heart seems to have some trouble absorbing too much beauty and too much solitude at a time.

No, flying like an eagle is not my heart’s desire.  What I really want is to play with the hummingbirds.  I’d love to hear the whir of my own wings as I dart in and out of the trees, smelling and tasting the flowers. I’m sure the yellow daisies are tangy, the bright red Indian paintbrushes must be sweet, and the blueish bells in the meadow?  Maybe they have a savory richness that would make them my favorite.  If I could fly, I think I’d be so excited I’d rarely sit still.  Instead, I’d play tag with that little red-throated guy who is zooming around the hummingbird feeder next to my camper. (I put it up after we set up camp in the Sierra Madre Mountains this week, and within minutes the party began.) I sit and watch enviously as the four or five little creatures, so fairy-like and cheery, loop and dart, skyrocketing around limbs and branches in a game of chase that my eyes can’t quite follow.  They argue and cheer each other as they race to see who can defend the feeder most strenuously.  Sometimes, to my human thinking, it looks like the reddish brown one is being mean, not allowing the others to spend much time drinking the sweetness from the feeder, but as I pretend that I’m one of them, I become sure that his twittering voice holds the deepest and most pure of the laughter among them. They play hard and with abandon. There’s no trace of remorse for the undone laundry or hint of worry at an unpaid bill.  Nope.  There is only elation and delight in the game and calm when one of them does stop for a moment’s rest on a shimmering aspen limb or to drink from the bright red feeder.  I sit, ground-bound in this body, wistful for wings that would take me on loops around the pines and allow me to join the fray. I consider how lucky my little hummingbird pals are as they cavort, understanding one thing only – the joy of Creation around them.

Then it occurs to me.  I also understand the joy of creation. And maybe, I have a bit wider view of it than my tiny joyful companions.  I’ve snorkeled and seen what delights populate the coral reefs, I’ve walked in the desert and watched sunrises and shooting stars that maybe my fast, feathered friends haven’t had a chance to notice.  They understand the depth and breadth of their corner of creation, I can see a little larger view.  God created them, but He didn’t die for them.  He made them delightful, but He doesn’t delight in them as deeply as He does in me. They have joy in their wings and games, while I have the joy of knowing how much the Creator sacrificed in order to provide me the hope that someday, when I get Home, I can have wings.

 

Do you have any idea how hard it is to take a picture of a hummingbird?

Categories: Gypsy life | Leave a comment

“This is how you’re supposed to do church”

Posted on July 9, 2018 by Donna Coulson

 

Last year we had the opportunity to celebrate our island church’s, Frederiksted Baptist’s, 50th anniversary celebration.  While we’d only been part of the congregation for a little while, we were impressed at how much impact a small church, started by one man with vision and obedience, could have on our St. Croix community.

This past Sunday, we got to celebrate another anniversary with our other home church.  Golden Prairie Baptist Church near Burns, Wyoming is a hundred years old this month!  Golden Prairie is a small church building (accompanied by a parsonage and a row of tall trees that serve as a wind break) that sits quite literally alone out in the middle of the prairie.  In the spring, the surrounding grass is alive with yellow prairie flowers and I’ve heard that’s where the name came from. Right now, a sea of golden wheat fields surround the church.

Golden Prairie’s celebration was wonderful.  It included a terrific two-hour service (with intermission!) and then a great lunch.  I have lots of favorite moments from the day.  *Listening to Charlotte, Dave and Crystal, who Karl and I used to partner with to lead worship, led the congregation in singing In Christ Alone, (which always makes me cry) and other favorites. *Clapping and singing along as the praise band jammed through Amazing Grace and Lord I Lift Your Name on High and many others with the help of Justin on the harmonica. *Listening again to Betty sing a solo. *Having three of my favorite pastors of all my life in the same room. *Getting to listen to just one more sermon from Jim Brown. *Hugging and visiting with friends that feel like family that we hadn’t seen in a while. I could go on and on.

A man named Rick Bishop who pastors a small church in Glenrock, Wyoming, spoke briefly. I’d never met Rick before, but he grew up at Golden Prairie. He reminisced about how God used Golden Prairie Church to get his attention, and how the lessons he learned about God and life and people at the church have sustained him and led him and taken him many places. One thing he said continues to reverberate in my head. This is it: “The extraordinary things this church does are just ordinary things that become extraordinary.”  As he said this I looked around.  Children fidgeting, babies sleeping, familiar faces, faces I didn’t know, short hair, long hair, grey hair, bald heads, tattoos, and handlebar mustaches.  There were flip flops and dress shoes and lots of cowboy and work boots, some dusty from feeding sheep or doing chores before leaving the ranch. Ordinary people with ordinary lives.  An ordinary church celebrating an extraordinary anniversary. Everyone there because an extraordinary God sent His Son to live an extraordinary life among ordinary people.

So – I’m at home at Golden Prairie while at the same time I am missing my FBC home and family. Yet, I’m so thankful for the perspective I have as a member of these two pretty commonplace churches filled with just regular people.  They are so different – in latitude and altitude, music and clothing, climate, employment, color and culture. Even so, they are more alike.  What makes this true?  Well, both congregations allow themselves to be used by an astonishing Creator to accomplish important things.  This is the mystery and the joy of following Jesus.  How people so different can be brothers and sisters, one body.  Rick Bishop made one other statement that sums it up:  “This is the way you’re supposed to do church.” Amen!

Categories: Frederiksted Baptist Church | 2 Comments

My birthday card to America

Posted on July 4, 2018 by Donna Coulson

 

Dear America,

Happy 242nd Birthday! I am praying that you have a beautiful day of celebrating and smiles, counting our blessings and hugging our neighbors and friends, hot dogs and fireworks.  I know things are difficult for you right now, your people are not in a good place, but take heart.  Things have been difficult before, and you’ve always eventually triumphed. Lots of people are praying and hoping and working for that to happen again.

I know you remember the hard times.  I know you cringe to recall the day that Senator Preston Brooks beat Senator Charles Sumner with a cane on the floor of the US Senate because Sumner made an abolitionist speech.  Some people called that event “the breakdown of reasonable discourse” and consider it one of the stepping stones to our Civil War.

I know, America, that once again reasonable discourse is in peril.  Instead of respecting another’s choices, beliefs and dignity, we go out of our way to sue and protest and work to close down businesses of people who want to live according to their own moral compasses, instead of just finding a different business to employ. Instead of debating like adults, we call names, we say, “well what I do is okay because HE started it”, we think that political problems are going to be solved by embarrassing individuals outside of work hours and hounding them out of restaurants and theaters instead of showing human respect then listening and speaking with civility and being willing to compromise and work together.  We listen to biased reports and sanctify comedians who threaten public figures and their children and call it a joke or hold up replicas of severed heads and then claim to be victims when they aren’t appreciated. Somehow, we’ve evolved into a society that thinks everyone deserves a trophy and vilifies anyone who actually works for the prize. We’ve divided our society with marches and hateful aggression by claiming that some lives matter more than others or that people who break the law are somehow more important and deserve more consideration than those that abide by the rules.

It’s enough to make you cry, isn’t it, America?    On this, your birthday and any other recent days, it is easy to feel discouraged and bleak, but just for today, I hope you can block out the noise of unreasonable and uncivil discourse and recall the good. Just for today, remind me, America, to concentrate on the way that the strangers at a little church in my new town became friends with willing hugs that didn’t care about the color of my skin. Don’t let me forget that so many people willingly put themselves in harm’s way on our city streets and in foreign places every day to fight for the safety and rights of people they don’t know. Instead of the trendy and popular hate I see on TV and social media, help me to see the kindness of people who stop to help change a tire or support a friend even though that person voted differently in the last election.  Clear a path for me, America, so that I can remember how beautiful you are and how blessed and lucky we are to be here.  And then, tomorrow, the day after your birthday, help me to do my part to restore reasonable and productive discourse in my country.

Categories: America and American History | 1 Comment

Age Spots and Ecclesiastes

Posted on June 25, 2018 by Donna Coulson

Hilarious or an addition of insult to injury? I’m not sure, but I’m glad this age spot (which looks like an old woman) is on my leg and not the one on my face!

Maybe you noticed that I didn’t blog last week.  Hmm.  Here’s why: sometimes I come to the humbling notion that I have nothing of value to say.  Often that concept is accompanied by a long look in the mirror in horror at the grey in my hair, the pruney wrinkles around my mouth, and that darned age spot on my left cheek.  What starts as brushing my teeth and combing my hair some mornings becomes a full blown indictment that I’m aging and on my way out and irrelevant. There are other catalysts to my occasional bouts of no-confidence: a slight from someone I care about, reading the news, being tired.  Whatever the reason, sometimes the voice inside me turns from normal excitement about life to questioning my own worth.

Okay – change the subject, sort of.  I don’t think that I’ve never read the book of Ecclesiastes before in its entirety.  Sure, I know the words to “Turn, Turn, Turn” but that’s probably it. In the past few weeks as part of my devotions, I have been reading one chapter a day from this not so popular book of the Bible. I’ve thought most of the time it was pretty depressing, with all the ‘meaningless, meaningless, everything is meaningless’ theme.  Maybe that’s added to my overall funk and feeling I myself am somewhat passé and beyond my expiration date.

But today. Today I heard something different.  Today I read chapter 11. Let’s see, what made it resonate with me?  It all started with verse 6.  “Sow your seed in the morning, and at evening let not your hands be idle, for you do not know which will succeed, whether this or that, or whether both will do equally well.”  At first, I blew through that verse and continued. (Don’t I often crochet or do some little hand craft project while I watch TV at night?) It wasn’t until I got to verse 10 that a light dawned… “So then, banish anxiety from your heart and cast off the troubles of your body for youth and vigor are meaningless.”

What?  Oh, now I see! Verse 6 can be read literally or it can be taken as a metaphor. (Maybe my master’s in English has some worth. 😊) We are told to do our work in the morning, and then find something else to do in the evening with the hope that at least one of those efforts will do well.  I did that!  I’m doing that!  I’ve been a mom and a teacher and I worked hard at both.  Now that its evening, my kids are gone and I’m retired but I feel this irresistible urge to write. Hey, who knows which endeavor will be the most successful?  Verse ten reassures me that youth, and smooth skin, and a hip that doesn’t ache are not requisites for being productive and useful.  Both are, in fact, meaningless when you look at the job and its outcome instead of the collagen in the skin of the doer.   Yay!  Hope! Encouragement!

Categories: Random thoughts on being me | 1 Comment

Legacy or lunacy?

Posted on June 11, 2018 by Donna Coulson

My sister Nancy gave this to me, filled with carnations, when she got married. I was about ten and it was the first time anyone gave me flowers.

I’ve always, always been conscious of legacy.  I don’t hail from a family with riches and trust funds, no. I never expected a financial inheritance.  My storyteller heart has always claimed its birthright in the tales of my ancestors and of the people who have entered my life and changed me. I’ve collected stories like doubloons and kept them safe and secure. Often, there’s a trinket or physical object that goes along with the story, and those random objects remain important artifacts of my life.  I’m certainly not a hoarder, and in recent years I have been willing to part with some of those ‘trinket-memories’, but if you look at my shelves without having the backstory on the stuff, you might wonder if there’s not a tendency towards unhealthy collecting.

For example: my office bookshelves house books along with dozens of turtles.  Ceramic, crystal, wood, stone, wax, hand carved, realistic, artful, plain, colorful, old, or off the Hallmark store shelf. (I culled many out recently and threw a bunch away, but a substantial herd remains.) Every one has a story.  This one was a gift from a first grader named Jessie, that one from a naughty fifth grader. This one that looks like a troll came from Santa Claus when I was very young. Beside turtles I have a collection of little boxes.  This  glazed pottery one that says “Someone like you comes along…once in a blue moon” was a gift from my friend Lynn.

In our junior year, we had a habit of skipping school on Fridays – we were both straight A students and had we had our mothers’ permission. In fact, often one mom or the other joined us on shopping trips or while hanging out baking cookies.  Oh yeah – I also have a little candle held by a cast iron bear that I bought one Friday on an excursion to Greeley shopping with Lynn and my mom…

I could go on for days about the cache of precious memories that my dusty gewgaws contain. I get so much joy from them and the stories they keep alive. They are my memories, my legacy.  However, unlike trust funds or mansions or a stock portfolio, this accumulation of what I consider the wealth of my life probably won’t be embraced as precious gifts by those who remain when I’m gone.  When I die, chances are they will mostly go in the garbage or to the thrift store, their intense value unrecognized.  And, that’s okay. I remember shaking my head and wondering at the contents of my dad’s dresser drawers after he died.  My children and grandchildren are building their own cadre of treasures that make up the wealth of their lives.  I’ve already taken steps to safeguard the things I count as really important things by making sure those who remain know the stories behind them. I’ve incorporated my favorite memories in a family story book I wrote and in the pages of my novels and blogs.

For my daily devotions, I started last week reading Ecclesiastes in the Old Testament.  I’m sure that these ramblings in today’s blog are a result of Solomon’s claim that everything is meaningless and nothing but God’s love lasts. I see the wisdom in his assertion and I don’t disagree.  The mockingjay pin that lives on the lampshade on my desk (given to me by a fifth grader named Bayley) doesn’t matter to eternity. Yet, I’m healthy and I’m not planning on leaving this world any time soon, so I’m going to close this blog now and do some cleaning.  You know, to everything there is a season…a time to write and a time to dust!

 

Categories: Random thoughts on being me | Leave a comment

Pancake Love

Posted on June 4, 2018 by Donna Coulson

This morning’s breakfast.

I love pancakes. Two circles of doughy, warmness fill my belly and satisfy me like no other breakfast.  I like them slathered with melted butter and sprinkled generously with white sugar. (Syrup makes them soggy and, well, the taste of maple – yuck.)  When we go out for breakfast, I order crepes or omelets or eggs benedict, but here in our home, nearly every morning around 10 o’clock, Karl says to me “What would you like for breakfast?”  It’s a game we play.  He asks, then I stammer and pretend to consider before I answer, “Pancakes!”

I truly do love the taste of pancakes. I appreciate how they ‘stick to my ribs’ and carry me through the next hours. But more than anything, I love what they say.  HUH? Yes, pancakes at this house speak loudly.  They impart Truth. In reality, Karl likes pancakes, but he likes fried potatoes and bacon or sausage with fried eggs more.  Much more.  Despite this, on an average of four mornings a week, he asks what I want, I say pancakes, and he makes them.  Every morning when I sit down at the table and inhale the sweet aroma of those pancakes, I also listen to the sweet message they croon to me.  That message, of course, is that Karl loves me.

I say the magic three words to Karl quite regularly. In contrast, he doesn’t say them nearly as often (except a kind “I love you, too” in response to my frequent declarations – which really doesn’t count as him actually saying it!).  In fact, we’ve had serious discussions about that very marital issue.  I even went so far once as to set a goal for him to actually say the three magic words, unprompted, three different times each day.  I’ll give him credit, he did try to meet his goal. But that was before I began listening to the pancakes.

Now, I understand the language of pancakes, and understand what he means when he doesn’t fry potatoes each morning.  I also have learned to understand sweat (like when he is hot and tired from doing some project I’ve asked him to help me with – usually after interrupting something he was doing), and patience (when he doesn’t just bean me for being bossy or duct tape my mouth when I don’t shut up when he’s watching a movie). I will admit it, though: while I am fluent in English and tell him often that I love him, I am not as eloquent in the language of actions as he is.  But I’m learning.  In fact, I’ve set myself a goal to actually show Karl how much he means to me three times every day without using words!

Categories: Random thoughts on being me | 2 Comments

Hope

Posted on May 21, 2018 by Donna Coulson

Gardening is a lesson in hope.  What we had on our property, before the hurricanes precipitated our horrid landslide, was a verdant green slope of rainforest.  Thanks to Maria and what we had to do afterwards, much of that expanse of property was converted into an ugly slash of rock, debris, and concrete. It has been an unsightly and stark reminder of woe. A vivid image of our worry and discouragement.  Now that the construction on the retaining walls is complete, we’ve embarked on a mission to reclaim the area for beauty.  Easily said, lots of sweat and blisters to attain.  But.  On Friday and Saturday, Karl and I toiled – and it was a lot of toil – to smooth out one of the terraces that was created between two of our three new retaining walls. The first job was to remove the construction detritus – used nails, pieces of concrete forms, slags of concrete as well as dead wood and branches.  Next up was working with rake and shovel and hoe to smooth the area out and jettison or move the biggest rocks. (The whole area is mostly rock, but the biggest ones had to be dealt with!)  Then began the fun part: a trip to the plant store to buy plants, then back to the terrace to get them in the ground.

I wasn’t kidding about the rocky soil!

Since the terrace faces the west and is subject to intense heat and sun, we decided to plant agave.  We got variegated ones and also a type of agave called a century plant – which flowers once every twenty five years and then promptly dies (however, they leave behind progeny to continue their legacy so all will be well even then!).  Their hearty souls will fill in the terrace with green, and with any luck they will thrive and grow to their expected 5-7 feet tall (and equal width) expectations.  If all goes according to plan, they will accomplish this with very little attention or direction from us.  Yay!  For now, they are little, under a foot tall and wide, but we have high hopes for them.  Okay, I’ll admit that I have prayed for them.  I’m pretty sure God shakes his head a little when He hears my whispered prayers for safety, protection and blessing on a plant, but I also have no doubt that His love extends to his herbal creations and that He loves gardens at least as much as I do.

My new century plant.

As sort of an afterthought, because I had a little room left on that terrace, I also planted two frangipani cuttings that my friend Barb gave me. To call them cuttings is generous. They are just bare sticks with a few funny looking points at the top.  I have high hopes for these little guys though, because, if they grow, they will become trees that produce amazing, sweet smelling flowers.  The coolest part about frangipanis, though, is that I won’t have to wait for the entire tree before I can enjoy the flowers, because they bloom quickly.  I know this for a fact because last year about this time, I planted two other cuttings.  In just a year, one has grown to about four feet high and is currently topped with a hat of white flowers with happy yellow centers.  The other, which I stuck in the ground by our driveway and I don’t give as much care to, has only grown about six inches, but it is adorned right now with gorgeous pink flowers.  So.  Hope abounds.  The danger of our house sliding down off this hill has been (we hope!) averted, and a blank canvas awaits our labor and vision.  One terrace is done, two more need our attention.  I’ll keep you posted.

How can something so not pretty makes such pretty flowers?

Categories: Living on St Croix, Random thoughts on being me | 2 Comments

Mother’s Gifts

Posted on May 14, 2018 by Donna Coulson

 

My mother and her three daughters. I’m the little one in the middle.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day.  I love Mother’s Day, well, really, I love May.  May is a little like my own personal Christmas – one that’s all about me  – since this sweet month brings blooming flowers, Mother’s Day and my birthday.  I get awakening gardens, presents and flowers, cards and calls and texts. I am reminded that the world is a beautiful place and that I am loved.  It’s all good.

Mom came to visit me in Monterey when I was in the Navy.

On Mother’s Day, of course, I think about my own mom, and the good things she taught me.  Most importantly, she taught me to love the Lord.  Certainly, that’s the most vital legacy I have from her, but there are some other things as well.  She taught me how to clean and scrub and how to appreciate the smell of Pine Sol.   She taught me to sew and crochet.  I can’t imagine not knowing the joy these skills bring me. (Even the cleaning one, I really do like to clean!)  But I’ve had other ‘moms’ – the moms of friends, who have shared knowledge, skills and outlooks with me as well.  Let’s see… my friend Terrie Ann’s mom (I called her Ma) invited me along with her family on a vacation.  She gave me my first encounter with an ocean- the Pacific – an unbelievably generous beginning to a lifelong love.  She also helped me understand freedom and beauty by welcoming me for days on end to their ranch.  My friend Lynn’s mom (always Mrs. Cole) was different from my own mother.  She was younger and less serious.  She taught me that moms could laugh and play and be funny and also be friends with their daughters.  I haven’t seen her in years, but the pictures on FaceBook that Lynn posts of her mom assure me that she still does and is.  I’m thankful for these moms and how I am a better person because of them.

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