Random Ramblings with Vintage Song Sheet Art

Hi!

c.1905

Yep, I'm definitely having a rambling sort of day.

I realized that when I looked at the clock and realized I had been sitting here and hadn't really done much of anything.

For an hour.

Edited a few pictures.

Found a web site that has "Peace" in many different languages,

and realized that every time I was typing p-e-a-c-e,

I instead was typing

p-e-a-s-e.

Warning light! Warning light! Warning light!

Then realized that the site had down for 'peace' in

"Perce - 'eyewi nez

ummmm....,

I'm pretty sure that is supposed to be

"Nez Perce - 'eyewi"

I may be wrong on this, but I sure don't think so.

So.....

c.1907

Today I will be sharing some charming vintage songsheet covers.

These are from the Indiana School of Music.

You can find the website to the right.

They have mucho song sheets!

c.1909

Since apparently my brain and my fingers are having problems

communicating today, I'll try to keep the ramblings to a minimum!

c.1912

c.1912

c.1914

I am trying to stick to a loose theme of love

infatuation

and the plus and minus aspects of that.

c.1915

c.1916

c.1917

c.1917

c.1919

c.1921

c.1903

c.1911



c.1912

c.1919

c.1918

c.1909

c.1921

c.1918

c.1915

c.1906

c.1916

c.1918

c.1912

I hope you have enjoyed my little story,

told in vintage song sheet covers and songs.

Time to go do laundry,

let the dog out,

let the dog in,

pick up the living room,

oh

and I'm in to the new Michael Jeck's book

"The Bishop Must Die",

and it's getting really interesting.

let the dog out,

let the dog in,

I need to mount some scherensnitte I've been doing,

and frame some of my Collage Art Dolls,

and I need to list some of them on my etsy shop -

http://www.inkspired.etsy.com/

and then there's the e-mails I've been ignoring for a few days -

let the dog out,

let the dog in.

I need to call Shelly back, and see how Marge is.

I need to call Dani about the super play she directed last weekend,

and that I'll be coming back and bringing a friend.

Glenda just called, so we're fine for a few days.

Who am I forgetting?

let the dog out,

let the dog in.

Cathy, Irene and Adele of course.

sigh.

think I'll go eat a doughnut.....

c.1916

:0)

inkspired

http://www.inkspired.etsy.com/

dominoes@myinkspired.com

“Can you drink the cup?”

‘Then the mother of the sons of Zebedee approached him with her sons and did him homage, wishing to ask him for something. He said to her, “What do you wish?” She answered him, “Command that these two sons of mine sit, one at your right and the other at your left, in your kingdom.” Jesus said in reply, “You do not know what you are asking. Can you drink the cup that I am going to drink?” They said to him, “We can.” He replied, “My cup you will indeed drink, but to sit at my right and at my left, (this) is not mine to give but is for those for whom it has been prepared by my Father.” Matthew 20:20-23

I just returned from retreat—my first ever work-related retreat. Our retreat master, a nurse by profession—who for the past thirteen years has been working for our archdiocese in a service capacity—is one of those dynamic people who radiates enthusiasm and joy. She chose the above Scripture passage for our theme.

Using the analogy of ‘the cup’ as representing our own life, or God’s Will for us, we were invited to examine holding, lifting and finally drinking the cup. In the first step, we had the opportunity to see how we accept and embrace the lives we are given—in all their idiosyncrasies, mystery, pain, wonder and totality. We were entertained by many stories, some happy, others bittersweet which served to remind that God fills our cups with many varied things.

The second step, lifting or tipping the cup, was the act of community. Last night we even had a little ceremony where we held, clinked and drank from matching stoneware chalices in a symbolic opportunity which showed us visually our connectedness to each other. The beauty and vitality in this transitional movement is that to reach the point of being able to ‘drink from the cup’ we must first recognize the other. Your cup is different than mine. It may look the same on the outside—or not—but it certainly contains different things on the inside. When our cups touch, I acknowledge you and you do the same for me. Such a simple, old-fashioned notion, but oh so desperately needed in the world today.

And finally, I drink of my cup. It is in this action I am joining Christ and accepting the Father’s Will in humble, trustful surrender. Some days it is easy to drink from my cup; other days it is not. But it remains mine and mine alone to drink to the very bottom.

I’ve been trying to take a retreat ever since I started this job. I’ve needed something like this for ages. So often I say, ‘I’m too busy right now. I can’t get away. I’ve got all this work to do.’

And it’s true ... I do have all this work to do. And even more things here at home that I need and want to do. That’s my cup: full-time job which is also a ministry; good marriage I want to keep strong; a busy family life and extended family close and spread all over the country; friends in town and out; a home to care for; and many activities I like to do.

It is a very full cup, but probably no more full than most other people today. Very gingerly I lift my cup to you. Tell me about your cup. Then we can tip our cups together and drink of Our Father's Will.

Viper's Tangle

“. . . Consider, O God, that we are without understanding of ourselves; that we do not know what we would have and set ourselves at an infinite distance from our desires.” ~St. Teresa of Avila

It isn’t often anymore I finish a book in a couple of days but today I was sick and the sickbed does have one advantage: you can’t do very much but sleep and lay around. In between sleeping, I read François Mauriac’s masterpiece, Viper’s Tangle. This is the fourth novel I’ve read from the Loyola Classics series, each one excellent, but this The Best by far. It opens with the quote by St. Teresa above.

Written in 1932, Viper’s Tangle is timeless and as relevant today as ever. It begins with a bitter, but wealthy, old man’s recriminating letter to his wife of forty years. His family is waiting on him to die; he wants to let them know a few things first. M. Louis has been writing this last ‘confession’ in his mind for much of his married life, almost from the beginning when his young bride told him of an indiscretion. In many ways, Mauriac is painting an Everyman who takes a wrong turn and then continues to compound his error with more bad choices all the while lost and estranged in the drama and tragedies of family life and allowing hate and greed to motivate him. As misunderstood by himself as by everyone else, he withdraws further, increasingly cynical, exacerbated by the pious practices of his Catholic wife and children whose religiosity doesn’t transcend and transform their lives.

The title of the book refers to M. Louis’s heart which he admits was a knot of vipers. Whether or not you ‘get’ Viper’s Tangle will depend on whether or not you believe in salvation and the power of God’s Grace to transform souls. Fortunately for us readers, Louis’s diatribe gets interrupted. Things happen which bring the plot of the story from past accusations to present actions.

It wouldn’t be a believable story if everyone just “lived happily ever after” and if this novel is anything (in my heart) it’s believable. So, no things don’t just get happy-happy all of sudden. But there is an awakening, transformation and redemption, for those willing to accept it.

There was so much insight in this book, I’d love to quote you all the beautiful passages I highlighted—especially those which made me cry—but that would make this post far too long. Instead I’ll just close with this:

‘Most men ape greatness or nobility. Though they do not know it, they conform to certain fixed types, literary or other. This the saints know, and they hate and despise themselves because they see themselves with unclouded eyes.’

phase book

“Hi, I’m booklady and I have an addictive personality,” she drawls, standing up, addressing the circular group.

“Hi booklady,” the group choruses back at her.

Okay. It could be a joke. We certainly use it as a joke around our house whenever we want to laugh at one of our weaknesses.

Or it could be for real.

For many throughout the world, addictions are no laughing matter. They are real and they destroy lives ... homes, marriages, families, schools, and even entire towns.

If we laugh at them it is only because we need to keep from crying—because once we start, we may not be able to stop.

I do have an addictive personality.

Twenty-four years ago I quit smoking. I called it a Christmas gift for my husband the first year we were married. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done up until then.

I continue to struggle with addictions—and addictive-like behavior—in other areas of my life including eating, spending money, relationships, even exercise.

Recently however, I decided to give up facebook. Why? Because I liked it too much. It was wonderful, mindless escapism: collecting “friends”; “visiting” them; building cute little farms; setting up aquariums and towns; playing games; trading Christmas decorations and buddy hugs; sending cards and “hearts”, smiles and saints, chattering, chattering, on and on and and . . .

Woa! Wait a minute! I found myself slipping deeper and deeper into the delightful and colorful little world of iconography that is the spell of facebook … and I suppose other similar computer and technical other-worlds for those of us who find it hard to separate fantasy from reality.

I remembered the old-fashioned method for losing weight: doing push-outs. Push yourself out and away from the table. I’m sure there are many less drastic ways to remain ‘faced-in’ –even for addictive-types like me—but I decided I could live without facebook. What I didn’t know was how I could go on living with it.

One dear friend called me fifteen minutes after I closed my account to discover what had happened. I assured her that I hadn’t been phished or received a virus. Nothing bad had happened to me or my computer; I’d just decided to quit. She understood immediately; she’s that kind of friend.

A week later, my own family hadn’t even noticed I’d quit, nor that I was hardly ever on my computer anymore. (sigh) But then my dear husband didn’t notice when I gave up smoking either.

Well never mind.

We don’t do the right thing for the recognition. We do the right thing because it is the right thing.

That’s my story ... my phase book. Now I'll sit down.

changing pictures, passing time

One of the hardest things in the world for me to do is change out my children’s pictures. You know what I mean? When you receive the new photos which undeniably reveal they’ve grown another foot, or moved from one stage into another, you can no longer pretend time isn’t passing. Our children – and especially their annual pictures – present us with regular reminders that life is moving in one direction … and it isn’t backwards.

We’re getting ready today to leave for a Christmas trip to visit my family in St. Louis. There’s laundry, packing and a million things to prepare. The cat sleeping in my lap doesn’t know he’s about to be left behind again. Among the many things we’re bringing with us are photos of our daughters. So it seemed as good a time as any to change out some very old 8x10 pictures of the girls – dating back from when they were still in grade school – which have sat atop our living room wall unit all these years. My sister constantly teases me for leaving up old pictures of the kids. Good mother that she is, she faithfully and promptly trades out the new for old pictures of her children every year. She’s even one of those super moms who does scrapbooking and has books from present all the way back to when her oldest was born!

Not me. I started out with the best intentions, but Air Force moves, health problems, homeschooling and probably (mostly!) my own distracted, lazy personality redirected my efforts down other avenues. Or maybe it’s just that I can take the pictures of my girls but then I can’t bring myself to look at them again later. Even the ones hanging on my walls are just there. It isn’t often I really look at them.

Maybe that’s why I procrastinate updating old pictures – I don’t like to be reminded that my babies are growing up.

Today, however, it was different.

Recently I had the opportunity to visit a single person’s home. And this wasn’t just a nice place, it was a really, really nice house. It was in fact lovely: gorgeously decorated, everything new and in pristine order, like a house out of magazine. Every room was a work of art; overall, an exquisite creation of beauty and perfection, a joy to behold.

I felt sad when I left there. When I thought about my own house, I confess to more than a twinge of envy.

Well for one thing, ours is a home and it’s very lived-in. The other night my husband was working hard to get bright pink (fuchsia!) nail polish out of the living room carpet. Our daughters know they are supposed to paint their toes in the bathroom but . . . well, when you live with teenagers, you cohabit with chaos. Does that tell you anything for starters?

Moving on... most of our carpets are at least sixteen years old and they look it. The furniture is that old too, or older. Books spill off the bookshelves and there are baskets of craft projects all over the house; the girls and I love to crochet, weave, bead, draw, etc. Right now my daughter’s miniature origami nativity sets line the kitchen counter. Folded clothes cover table tops and the ironing board is set up in the living room in front of the Christmas tree. My husband and I are giving each other a new hot water heater this year for Christmas . . . and considering ourselves very blessed to be able to afford to do so. It’s certainly a lived-in home. We have many happy memories shared under the roof of this messy, old, lived-in home.

As I mentioned above, I didn’t mind so much changing out the girls’ pictures today. Yes, they are older and so am I. Yes, our home is shabbier and so am I. But I wouldn’t trade my well-worn home or self or my life with Bear and our daughters for the plushest mansion anywhere.

The girls' new pictures look very nice by the way.

From our not-so-fancy home to yours, have a very Blessed Christmas and New Year!

Enough Crosses

Tonight my husband and I were discussing our daughters and their boyfriends. As is usually the case when this subject comes up, we marvel over how different things are today—compared with how they were when the two of us were in high school light years ago. Then we review the current relationships situation and finally we move on to possible outcomes. This evening my husband took the doom-and-gloom perspective; usually that’s my role.

Listening to him, it suddenly occurred to me, “What do I want for my daughters?” Not just in these teenage romances, nor even their education objectives or career goals, but what are my dreams for my children for the rest of their lives? Do I even have any? Have I envisioned their future? How do I love and pray for them?

I thought about parents who want or expect their offspring to become doctors, lawyers, priests, mothers, musicians—without taking into account God’s plan for those children. Do I do that? I don’t think so; I hope not.

I started seeing this ‘letting go and letting God’ philosophy from a much broader and bigger vantage point. So what do I want for the girls?

I don’t know.

Some days I don’t know how to work out my own life, what I should do next, if I need to change this or get rid of that—how can I possibly be qualified for this huge responsibility of parental authority figure? In one sense I’m not qualified and never will be. But in another, I’m qualified by virtue of the fact that these children have been given to me by God.

After some thought I told my husband, “It all comes down to this: I want them to go to Heaven. I don’t know how they’re going to get there. It may be that like their silly old mom, they have to go down some dead-end streets, over a few waterfalls, even a cliff or two, take plenty of detours and always always always carry a cross ... or two.” So in the end, the ‘how’ doesn’t matter. It’s the getting there that matters.

I’m a mom who loves her children. Very much. But even so, I don’t love my children anymore than the Lady of Sorrows. Without Her Son’s Cross none of us could ever reach Heaven.

My oldest daughter collects crosses and crucifixes of all sorts. She has quite a collection as you can see. She started her collection at her First Communion when she received several crosses as gifts. Since then, we’ve continued to give her unusual crosses as gifts for other special occasions. It has made me more aware of the Cross as sacred symbol.

On this the Feast of the Exaltation of Holy Cross, I pray my children, husband and I have enough crosses to get us to Heaven.

The Icon of Initimate Love

Twenty six years ago, in July I visited a cathedral store in Galway, Ireland and found this interesting icon.

The back of my icon reads,

THE ICON OF INTIMATE LOVE. (Russian 16th Century)

An icon of great tenderness, gentleness, love! Joachim and Anne, the parents of Mary, stand together in affectionate embrace. The dignity, royalty, and warmth of their love is symbolised in their red robes. The green pallet on which they stand lifts them high above the darkness of fear and loneliness. In the background, a cloth, draped between their two houses, expresses the mantle of blessings bestowed by God; Blessings on wife and husband and on their families. This icon is frequently presented as a wedding gift in the Orthodox Churches.

Today is the feast day of Saints Joachim and Anne. Not only am I named for Saint Anne, but a year after finding this icon, almost to the day, I met my husband; we were married the following April. The icon has had pride of place in our bedroom in all eight homes we've lived in for twenty-four and a half years of marriage now. As many of you know, icons aren't just pictures, but windows into the Divine; they are deeply symbolic, rich in meaning and meant for prayer.

It is my belief that the Blessed Mother's parents brought my own dear husband to me and has watched over this poor foolish sinner all these years. Now I humbly beg their intercession for my own dear daughters. If it be their vocation to become wives and mothers, may they be as blessed as I have been and continue to be, with a husband who is wise, kind, good and above all, loving.

Dear Saints Joachim and Anne, please watch over and love my daughters as you once watched over your own child, Our Lady. Amen.