Port Grim, Tasmania

I was deeply interested by the contrasts in this BBC news report, and the inexplicable, unpredictable response of humans. It seems there is a question to be asked: what explains or predicts human happiness? Can one be “happy” in a poisonous environment? Obviously, yes. I love clean air and pure water and think I can’t live without it, but perhaps we need exuberance, human laughter, shared community more than a perfect atmosphere?

Insect invasion

Thanks everyone for tips on getting rid of fruit flies. We tried the plastic bag with mashed fruit, but the flies didn’t want to get in there. The overturned slightly propped up glass dish with a bit of bait underneath attracted a few, but transferring the flies to a killing field without losing them was too much for me. Obviously, the funnel and jar was a bust. Someone suggested a can of cheap beer mixed with detergent - the soap breaks the surface tension so when their little feet hit the liquid they are just sucked right in and quickly drown. That was the trigger. I’ve seen how they love red wine, the little drunken sots. So instead of beer, I just poured the wine in a glass, added a squirt of detergent, and it worked. I sent dozens and dozens of flies to their graves. It’s over now, anyway. The weather is cold and they have disappeared.

It’s probably some other kind of cosmic justice that made me feel a tickle under the sleeve of my shirt the other day. Thinking my nerve ends were a little jumpy, I scratched. A few seconds later, again, a sensation like tiny feet running up my arm. Then something pinched me hard. That's when I knew it was no nerve end. A bug was crawling around inside my sleeve. Screaming, I threw my shirt off in the living room, not caring about anything except salvation from the creepy thing that was biting me. I know Denis thinks I’m totally crazy, and was glad it was only the two of us. I ran upstairs and shook out my shirt over the bathtub and an EARWIG fell out. It BIT me with its ugly dangerous pincers. I KNEW it. I forced myself to pick it up in a tissue, squeeze it to death and I took it back to show Denis. I made him look because even though he said he believed me, I knew he didn’t. And there it was.

I’m glad I don’t know any state secrets, cuz if threatened with earwigs, cockroaches or centipedes I would tell all and not be sorry.

Packing for home

In your unfailing love you will lead the people you have redeemed. In your strength you will guide them to your holy dwelling. – Moses.

Some very dear passages from Exodus popped as I read today. Of particular interest was Miriam, Moses’ sister, who led the women in singing a hymn to the Lord. She “took a tambourine in her hand and all the women followed her, with tambourines and dancing.”
This took place after what must have looked like The End. There was no escape. They had fled into a trap, mountains on either side, the sea ahead, and the Egyptian army closing behind them. What could they do, encumbered as they were with their little ones, their grandpas and grandmas, and all those sheep and goats? The Israelites’ rescue has never been forgotten, the images are embedded in our language. Miriam sang and danced: Sing to the Lord, for he is highly exalted. The horse and its rider he has hurled into the sea.


Aside from wishing to be more like my current African Christian sisters who dance in worship, I am curious about the tambourines. Directly on the other side of this event Miriam digs through her luggage and pulls out a tambourine? If you are a refugee packing for the wilderness in a time of national crisis and hostility would you say, oh, this will probably come in handy? Not I.

Perhaps it’s a reminder that we travel home not only with bare necessities, (and remember they were fleeing for their lives) but we must also carry the things that flourish and embellish life. The extra serif on a letter, the violet on a plate of salad, the countermelody that floats above the line, and even the decorative metal etching on the rifle stock.

Our Stories

Katy sent me this song by Brandi Carlisle on a mix. I think I like best this unpolished video version from the studio. So, you probably heard it during Grey’s Anatomy, or the Olympics. I think GM used it. I may be the last person to note it. The lyrics “…all these stories don’t mean a thing if you got no one to tell them to…”
…this weekend as I lead a women’s retreat, I can’t help but think that the art of caring for one another, showing hospitality includes the sweetness and work of hearing one another’s stories in a safe place, even though they may be sad ones. But we have hope in God that even they, may one day prove to be a part of our redemption.

Bawling for God-sake

From daughter, Sember:

I too am so looking forward to Christmas. And yes I will probably cry. But it is good to cry. Especially when one is crying for such a lovely reason. It felt good to let myself realize in the moment that this is hard. And do what I needed physically in order to deal with what I was living emotionally in a way that God created me to do. So, in other words crying is Godly. And as such and because of the time I have clocked weeping, sobbing, crying, pouting, and general boo-hooing, I am damn near the most devout, Godly person I know.

You're Welcome

What’s with toadsdrinkcoffee? Well, we’ve lived in a house named Toad Hall since 1981. Toad Hall was an imaginative designation from our children who thought the old house looked like the mansion from the book, Wind in the Willows. This, in part, because they were little people and used to the low-slung adobes of New Mexico. I’ve been thinking we should’ve named our home something more chic or artful like Cascade Creek Cottage and we’d sound, if not look, a bit more charming. But we’re stuck. The “drinkcoffee” half is no surprise. We love coffee. I don’t like to think of it as a need, but I suppose if you have a nervous breakdown from accidentally drinking decaf, you need it, so I confess: regular, steaming, cold-pressed, iced in summer, laced with cream – just the sound of the grinder or the teakettle heating water for the French press – makes me happy. Coffee is a way of comforting friends and strangers. So, if you came by, I might offer you a cup of my favorite, Ethiopian yergacheffe. And finally, there is this: BLOG is a word a toad would probably like – it would sort of remind her of her damp, marshy home and she’d check it out? Right. It’s ludicrous to pretend toadsdrinkcoffee could replace a latte in real space and time, but we’d still like to think if you stepped into our living room or blog you’d feel safe, a little bit at home, and that we could talk about anything. You’ll probably get more of Margie’s voice here than Denis’. And a final warning: I’m not good with commas and I know how bitter that makes some people feel. I suggest a 20 ounce coffee with a triple depth charge, and you’ll be more apt to overlook a lot of things that upset you.