About Me

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Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!

Monday, December 20, 2010

I have the world’s best visiting teachers!

Popcorn is good. Homemade popcorn is better. Homemade caramel corn trumps that, and homemade caramel corn with white chocolate drizzles? Ambrosia!



Now, alas, only a slightly blurry memory. But a sweet one.

Our ward choir did their Christmas program yesterday. The bishop’s wife [my friend Alison’s sister-in-law] wrote the narrative, which had seven parts. Four narrators spoke, in a chiasmus that would have made Isaiah beam with joy:

Narrator 1
Narrator 2
Narrator 3
Narrator 4
Narrator 3
Narrator 2
Narrator 1

And the music, of course, was superb: the melding of mostly-untrained voices in traditional harmonies, sweetened by the Spirit.

I don’t know why, but the last verse of Hymn 205, Once in Royal David’s City, always makes me weep.

And our eyes at last shall see Him,
Through His own redeeming love;
For that Child so dear and gentle,
Is our Lord in heaven above:
And He leads His children on,
To the place where He is gone.

Just. Gets. To. Me.

In knitting news, I nearly finished Willow’s sock last night; I am within spitting distance of binding off the toe. Lark has OK’d the pattern for the beaded lace shawlette. I will call the bead shop later today and find out if they are open on Christmas Eve. And sometime this week I will cast on 363 stitches and work the first row. I will not need beads until row two.

In other news, the new guy will be eating Christmas dinner with one of his sons. (Understandable, and commendable.) So I have five days to figure out an alternate way to keep the children’s father from resuming his campaign for us to remarry. A way that will not hurt his feelings, embarrass our children, or make me look like the Wicked Witch of the West.

I guess if that's the worst problem I have to deal with at the moment, I am a lucky woman. And in its own perverse way, it’s something of a compliment.

I’ve gotten permission from the friend who snapped the mistletoe photograph on Saturday night. And I’ve requested it from the new guy, who is snoozing sweetly on the other side of Dallas, as we speak. If he OK’s it, I’ll post it here in the next day or so. And meanwhile if you know how to find me on FB, you can get a sneak preview. It’s a great one of both of us. I love any picture where I do not look like The Creature from the Black Lagoon.

2 comments:

Jenni said...

I can only speak for myself, and I know that you would never intentionally hurt feelings, but maybe in the case of dad, blunt is better. Just say it with mo wiggle room and you can move on and he can go back to fantasy land where everything is as he wants it to be, but just quietly.

Bonnie said...

Yeah, he won't let it go. I had to listen to it again when I took him to the doctor a couple of weeks ago. And I've been blunt with him. At Thanksgiving I told him, "Sorry Dad, it's just never going to happen." ...Yet he still proceeded to harass each of the other girls in turn about it. Blunt is better, but probably still won't get the point across.