Sunday Post

Hymns are balm to my soul. Poetry and music joined.  Today's hymn is over 230 years old, and it both soothes and convicts me, as any hymn ought.  Today was a strange church service for me.  The long-serving Pastor of our church is retiring and today was the 'farewell liturgy.'  And I do use the term 'liturgy' very loosly, since we aren't high church.  I've never out-lasted a Pastor in a church I've attended.  I've moved so much and attended so many houses of worship that I'm gone before the Pastor is.  This is a wholly new experience for me, and for The Husband, who is at the first meeting of the Pastoral Search Committee right now. 

But, the hymn - and the Him -  provides continuity for the congregation, and for me:

And Can It Be that I Should Gain

1. And can it be that I should gain

an interest in the Savior's blood!
Died he for me? who caused his pain!
For me? who him to death pursued?
Amazing love! How can it be
that thou, my God, shouldst die for me?
Amazing love! How can it be
that thou, my God, shouldst die for me?
 
3. He left his Father's throne above
(so free, so infinite his grace!),
emptied himself of all but love,
and bled for Adam's helpless race.
'Tis mercy all, immense and free,
for O my God, it found out me!
'Tis mercy all, immense and free,
for O my God, it found out me!

Text: Charles Wesley, 1707-1788
Music: Thomas Campbell
 
Hear it here

Ribbons and bubbles

Bob picked up Little G from school yesterday and took him out to The Lake to help with the sap collection.  Boy, it's a-runnin'.  More than 400 gallons collected this week (which is a lot for a backyard operation).   And, since my workshop in Saranac Lake ended early, I stopped by The Lake to see how the manly men were getting along. 

Here's a primer, in case you aren't acquainted with the process:

Tree -> galvanized metal sap bucket -> plastic five-gallon pail -> galvanized metal sap holding tank -> evaporator -> strainer -> bottle -> my belly

But here's what I really wanted to show you:

Grandpa (usually known as The FIL or 'Jim' around here), explaining to Little G how he'll know when the sap is done boiling and has become syrup.  The temperature, the rough amount of time, the way it ribbons off the scoop, the big bubbles on the surface...     And our boy, (who is usually completely wild and inattentive) is riveted.  

"I love the way it smells.  Smell the steam, Mama."

I think someone is going to be a syrup-maker.

He enjoys this too much

The Husband sent me these pictures with the following captions:

"Good tree, good tree"

"Syrup for the grandchildren.  Or - awwww... a baby."

(Please ignore Bob's gross coat sleeve.  He insists that work clothes are allowed to be utterly nasty. I've been known to freak out and pitch torn, threadbare flannel shirts before.)

Drip, drip, drip.... mmmmm

drip.....  drip...  Drip.... DRIP....

*do you hear that?*

That's right, baby!   It's the sap a-runnin'!

Mmmmm....   gonna be maple syrup soon! 

No! Chickens! Bob!

In a previous post, I promised an explanation of my sudden outburst about chickens and goats.  Well, here goes....

It all started when we lived in a townhouse in the suburbs of Dee-Cee, with a fenced-in postage-stamp back yard that The Husband used to mow (very occasionally) with a weed-whacker.  Exhibit one:

The Hubs hates to mow.  He finds shorn grass to be a waste of space.  (Me?  I love neat lawns, but I'm a townie.)   He announced one day that he had the answer to all of our lawn-care woes:  a goat.   The goat would eat the grass, keeping it at a respectable height, and we could rent it out and make a little money.  Because SURELY suburbanites would want a goat to chow on their lawns while they're at their high-powered jobs all day.  No?  Well, when we move north, then, by golly....

We are now north.  We will soon (did I say "soon?"  sorry.  soon-er or later) be moving out to The Lake where it will be perfect for a goat. Says he.  *snort*   (says me.)    I usually choose to ignore this bit of uncharacteristic craziness from The Husband.   And then?  About a year ago, he cooked up another idea, in addition to the goat.   Chickens.   And my father is encouraging him.  He's even considering it himself!  What is this madness?!

Now, let me back up and clarify.  I think Small Pines and others are fab-o for raising chickens in the back yard.  Philosophically I'm in agreement with the whole idea.  I would love the fresh, I-know-whence-they-come eggs.  I wouldn't mind scattering some feed once or twice a day.

But livestock is hard work.  (And hard work and I aren't currently on speaking terms.)  You have to provide for livestock when you leave for longer than a day.  You have to get out of bed when you're sick and tend them.  You have to muck out their living areas.  You have to be sure to live upwind of them.  You either have to plan to eat them or be prepared to care for them when they're past their benefit to you.  And I have taken a firm stand against my involvement in any part of the slaughtering process.   Not that I object to livestock being slaughtered.  I just don't like to be in the presence of offal.  Call me delicate.  Just not fond of entrails.

Therefore, I'm heartily encouraging my father in his backyard chicken-raising scheme, much as I encourage his gardening. 

And Bob?  NO CHICKENS!!!

Progress and Perspective, part 9

More Progress and Perspective:

January 2008

January 2009

January 2010