Master storyteller Donald Davis (who has a wonderful voice, very Southern and chewy, like caramel on an apple) recommends collecting “quilt scraps”—little snippets and details that don’t stand alone as a story, but which could become a part of a story later. The trick is to file them in such a way that they’re readily accessible when you need them. Ha! Right!
I’ve been thinking about the idea of quilt scraps lately for some reason. Maybe because I’m realizing I need to collect quilt scraps for the project about my dad, even though I’m still figuring out how to write the thing as a whole. I worked on it a bit today while Mamala was hanging out with the girls and I’ve pretty much decided that I need to write everything chronologically even though the finished product will be organized somewhat differently. That’s the only way to know where the holes are.
Anyway, here are some quilt scraps interspersed with events from the last couple of days.
- The divine miss m has a croupy cold. We went to the doctor today, who gave us a just-in-case prescription for orapred. She was perky for most of the day, but overall is quite pitiful, with constant twin tracks of snot, and this vertical line in the middle of her forehead that flashes red every time she coughs. But I think we’re past the worst of it. I don’t think we’ll need to fill the prescription.
- Miss M’s lashes clump together in glittering black triangles when she cries.
- Stinky diaper pail + warm-mist humidifier = the aroma of steamed poop.
- In the Presbyterian system, pastors are free to seek another call whenever they wish and without anyone’s permission. Similarly, churches who are seeking a pastor can contact whomever they wish, and the committees will frequently ask friends, former pastors, or other colleagues for suggestions. I’ve been ordained three years now, which must be some kind of milestone, because in the last couple of weeks I’ve received a few inquiries from churches who received my name from someone. Maybe it’s like the widower; once his wife’s been gone a year, the women start coming by with the tuna casseroles.
Aside from this not feeling like the right time to move—my work at Suburban Pres is not done (even though our work is never done, I really have much more to do)—none of them has felt quite right. Two of them were in Texas however, which will always be tempting because of the opportunity to come home. I don’t know who put my name in, which makes me feel slightly paranoid. Confidential to S: one was in Dallas. Was it you??? :-)
- Our TV is on its last legs. The other day it clicked on and off several times, and the picture bows in slightly on both sides. R wouldn’t be surprised if it kicked the bucket within the week. Which means we’ll soon be shopping for a new TV.
Ugh. Hi-def? Flat screen? Plasma? $$$$$?
Part of me wants to “kill your television!!!”—just off the thing and not look back. But as R puts it, we are judicious in our use of the TV as it is. (To which one might say, if it’s not a big part of our lives, why do we need one at all?) Double ugh.
Better sign off. I'm doing chapel for the preschool tomorrow. I think we'll do the story of Jesus stilling the storm. So I'm off to make a big jar of "waves": blue colored water with a layer of oil on top. Good times.