Jan Dunlap's Blog

Hey, bartender!

Do you have a bucket list?

After 2018, mine is more like a shot glass.

Last year, I crossed off two big items on my personal bucket list: vacationing in Hawaii and becoming a grandmother. Granted, I didn’t have any control over the grandmother business, but since a bucket list is filled with things you wish to experience, I’d tossed it in there. Thanks to my older son and his wife, the arrival of my grandson last October took care of that item.

Going to Hawaii happened last March. My husband and I visited Kauai and Oahu, attended a luau, marveled at waterfalls and spectacular scenery. Another huge item off my bucket list.

Warm winters and happy retirement

In 2015, my husband retired, and we moved into the Sunbelt. We raised our children in Minnesota, and while life there was good and full, I decided I didn’t want to endure cold winters in my senior years. The last winter we spent in Minnesota, I fell twice on ice walking the dog; I promised myself ice-free walking in retirement. In the last three years here in the Texas Hill Country, I’ve encountered ice on the roads once, and it was gone by 9 in the morning. Two big items gone from the bucket.

“So what’s left?” my husband asked me at the turn of 2018 into 2019.

I ran through the list in my head.

Our children grown and on their own. Check.

Good health. Thank God. Double check.

What else mattered to me?

“Spending time outdoors,” I told my husband. “And praying.” I thought for a few more moments.  “I don’t know – maybe trying to learn Spanish?”

My husband laughed. “That doesn’t sound like a bucket list,” he said. “More like a shot glass.”

“I’m going to quote you,” I threatened.

Check.

Low expectations

Actually, he shouldn’t be surprised at my miniscule list. We always joke that one of our family mottos is “Low Expectations.” That was coined after a trip some thirty years ago, when we drove across two states in a blizzard on our way home from a family holiday during which I broke out in a whole-body rash thanks to an antibiotic I was on to which I didn’t know I was allergic. AND we had four children in the minivan, all under the age of seven, which meant we listened to the same kiddie song cassette for almost eight hours straight.

Seriously, we’ve never listened to another Raffi song since. “Baby Beluga” only crops up in an occasional stress dream, thank goodness.

What a psychologist would say about our family motto is not something I care to contemplate. All I know is, it worked for me.

Speaking of low expectations, I just thought of something for my bucket – I mean my shot glass – list.

I want to ride in an airboat across a swamp.

Without Raffi music.

On second thought, make that shot-sized list of mine a double.

Bottoms up!

 

 

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Entertaining angels

I asked God to let me see angels at work in my life, but like with anything else, be careful what you wish for, right?

Especially since I know that God has a sense of humor.

A God-sized sense of humor, if you ask me. Here’s why:

Back in early December, we decided we wouldn’t set up a Christmas tree this year because we planned to spend December 22-26 in New York City.  Since our first grandchild arrived there in October, we decided to make this Christmas an event with all our kids in the Big Apple. Privately, I wondered if I’d miss a festive tree in our house; it would be the first time in our 40 years of marriage that my hubby and I didn’t put up a tree. The thought made me a little sad.

 

Seating angel?

Then we attended a Christmas dinner party for my husband’s orchid society. At the end of the dinner, the table centerpieces were awarded at each table to whoever found a winner sticker attached to the underneath of their dinner plate.

I won!

The centerpiece was a small lighted Christmas tree.

I got my Christmas tree after all, even if it was only 12 inches tall, instead of 7 feet.

Kind of funny, don’t you think?

Synchronicity? Random chance? An angel making sure I sat in the right place at dinner?

 

Poop patroller?

Another incident:

When I took the dogs for their early morning run in our park last week, I realized I’d forgotten to bring doggie bags to clean up after them. Michael, Mr. I-Always-Poop-In-The-Same-Place, immediately dumped a pile along the side of the parking lot.

“Crap,” I said, more in frustration than in observation. “I need a bag.”

True confession: As I said that, I consciously hoped an angel would hear me, but figured asking for a poop bag was really pushing the limit. The Christmas tree, at least, had spiritual significance for me. But a poop bag?

A minute later, I spotted something in the grass ahead of me. It was a snack-size empty Fritos bag.

“Too small,” I told Michael, as he sniffed at it. I could manage it, I supposed, if I had no other choice.

What the heck, I thought. Why not ask for a bigger bag?

“Could I get a larger one?” I whispered.

As we approached the playground at the park, there it was: a plastic grocery bag.

Empty.

“Thank you,” I said as I cleaned up Michael’s pile.

 

Devotional leader?

One last piece of evidence:

I ordered a book on Amazon.com, and when it came to the checkout page, I owed nothing. I’d forgotten that I had a credit on my account (from returning the ‘indestructible’ frisbee – did you read that post?). The credit was $9.74 – exactly the amount I needed for the new book, including shipping.

Mary, Images of the Virgin in Art, is now on its way to my home. At no extra cost.

A gift.

So don’t tell me there aren’t angels waiting in the wings. I know they’re there. And I’m going to make it a habit to invite them into my life. The only thing I wonder: who’s doing the entertaining?

 

 

 

 

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Wrapping up Christmas

Wrapping with shipping tape is what scares me the most about Christmas.

I always conveniently forget this fact 11 out of 12 months of the year, until we get to December again. Then I spend days wrapping and mailing holiday gift packages, and I remember I hate shipping tape. You know the kind I mean: the heavy duty clear shipping packaging tape that comes on a roller you can never make work.

Here’s why I hate that tape: I am emotionally and physically unable to mail a package unless I’ve got it so well secured with shipping tape that it takes a chain saw to open it. This is an inherited trait. My father used to wrap packages like this too – you couldn’t find a single exposed edge anywhere on a package he sent.

“Mom,” my kids would say when we got a package from Grandpa. “How do we open it? Where does the tape start? Where does it end? Is this a trick?”

“Of course not,” I told them. “It’s the work of a master. Grandpa is the best packager in the world. I’ll get the chain saw.”

Mission: secure package with shipping tape

So naturally, I wrap packages the same way — with layers of shipping tape. The problem is that while heavy duty shipping packaging tape is the only way I can be sure a package is securely wrapped, it is also the most frustrating way to achieve the desired result. Let me demonstrate:

I take the nicely wrapped gift and then wrap it again, but this time in brown paper. Holding the edges together with one hand, with my other hand, I attach the end of the shipping tape to the point at which the edges overlap. Then I draw out the tape sharply and smartly down the seam where the two edges of the brown paper meet. (I admit it, I love the ripping sound the tape makes as it lifts off the roll. Cheap thrill, I know.)

With a quick flip of my wrist, I then snap the tape dispenser down to cut the tape.

But it doesn’t cut.

Then I twist the tape dispenser so the tape dispenser’s nice little teeth will cut the tape.

It doesn’t cut.

I twist in the opposite direction.

Again, it doesn’t cut. The tape dispenser is now hanging onto the package, held securely in place by its roll of heavy duty tape.

With my other hand, I grasp the edge of the tape and try to cut it by pulling it over the teeth of the dispenser. It still doesn’t cut.

Mission: impossible?

By this time, I realize the tape will never be cut by the teeth because it’s twisted over on itself and is now a sticky tangle of tape. I give up on the dispenser, go find the scissors, and cut the tape. Then I have to pull the tape back off the package because the sticky tangle won’t hold the seam. I redo the seam, this time smoothing the tape carefully over the paper and cutting the end with scissors. I liberally apply shipping tape over all the edges, the ends, and once around the package. I discard about three feet of tape because despite my best efforts, they still twist over on themselves into a sticky tangle while I’m trying to attach them to the package.

I tell myself I will never mail another package in my life. I run out of shipping tape with two seams to go.

At this point, I’m determined to mail this package no matter what. So I decide to go for the big guns. I go out to the garage and get the duct tape.

A work of art…and tape

When I am done, the package looks like a home construction project gone bad: bits of shipping tape stick up at the ends and the duct tape is patched over it; if I glued on a little strip of drywall it wouldn’t look out of place.

That’s when I take it to the post office to mail.

“First class?” the clerk asks me, obviously with a great deal of hesitation.

“You bet,” I answer. After all, this is a masterpiece of packaging I’m mailing.

Ah, Christmas. ‘Tis the season to be jolly… and warm up those chainsaws, folks.

 

 

 

 

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Change the sheets – PLEASE!

Change. It’s what everyone thinks about as a new year approaches.

“I’m going to change my diet. I’m going to change my job. I’m going to change the sheets on the bed.”

Ewww. I hope you change your sheets more than once a year.

New Year – new you?

A friend of mine says that she wants to make some big changes in the next year. She wants to meet new people and maybe get a job in a fresh field.

‘Fresh field’ as in a profession distinctly different from her current job of teaching online. Not ‘fresh field’ as in plowing or farming. We’re not talking Green Acres here.

 

As long as she doesn’t head out to assume a new life in the Himalayas as a Sherpa, I’m excited about her resolve. Granted, becoming a Sherpa would definitely be a change, but I would miss her, since hiring on as a mountain guide isn’t in MY plans for next year.

Change as a rule, not an exception

I admit that I’m prejudiced about change. I think it’s a good thing. Growing up as an Army brat, I experienced change on a regular basis as my family moved for my father’s posting assignments around the United States and Europe. When someone talks about the castles in Germany, or Vatican City, I recall my own adventures in those places. The changes I enjoyed as a child helped shape me into the person I am today.

For better or worse.

On second thought, let’s not go there…

Just this morning, though, I was reminded of how much my life has changed in the last three years since we left Minnesota to retire in Texas. The thermometer read 49 degrees when I took Gracie for her morning walk, instead of a brisk 20 degrees that used to greet us on a mid-December morning. I swim in our neighborhood outdoor pool from late March to early October; in Minnesota, I braved the lake from June to early September. Every night, I pick fresh spinach and lettuce from our raised beds for dinner. And yes, I’ve even learned to line dance to “God Bless Texas.” (No, I’m not in this video…but I could be!)

But here’s the real proof of the change in my life-pudding: I gave my neighbor a sun-bleached deer skull this morning.

Not something I ever would have done in Minnesota.

New place, new eyes

Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t know that I knew anyone in Minnesota who would know what to do with a bleached deer skull, let alone be excited to get one.

My neighbor, though, was really excited about it, because she makes beautiful art out of natural objects. Living in the rural Hill Country, we’re surrounded by natural objects, like rocks (lots of rocks), cedars, berries, nut trees, limestone (lots of limestone), and wildflowers. Since we also share our neighborhood with a gazillion deer, coyotes, armadillos and vultures, animal skeletons show up now and then. Knowing that my neighbor can turn them into art is cool; if I can give her something to work with, that’s cool, too.

Never thought I’d consider a skull as a gift.

My, my, how things can…and do…change.

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Move over, dinosaur

I’m a dinosaur.

(Dinosaur roaring sound effects, please.)

Though I’ve suspected it for some years, I confirmed it this week when a radio station in Cleveland banned the old Christmas standard “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” because its lyrics offended women and advocated date-rape.

What???

Gee, I feel stupid. I always thought it was a flirty little song about a holiday romance. In fact, it was always one of my favorite secular songs of the Christmas season, and it brought me a smile whenever I heard it on the radio. My youngest daughter’s high school choir performed a cute rendition of it during their Christmas concert seven years ago. The singers earned a hearty round of cheers and applause from an appreciative audience.

Now, apparently, it’s anathema to a portion of the population. Clearly, I’m no longer swimming in the mainstream of culture. My expiration date must have come and gone years ago, and I didn’t even realize it.

Move over, T-Rex. You’ve got company: me.

(Although judging from the mix of media I’ve seen in the last few days, others share my opinion, too. Looks like the dinosaur contingent is growing by the day.)

 

Etiquette

Another clue to my rapidly-growing-antiquation became apparent to me when we recently visited New York City. Growing up in the 1960s, I learned to greet people with a smile and say “hello.” Being pleasant and kind was a virtue I was encouraged to cultivate. In NYC, smiling at people and saying “hello” is bad form.

“You don’t make eye contact, and you don’t speak to people on the street,” my son, the urbanite, explained to me.

“We do all the time in Texas,” I replied.

“This isn’t Texas,” he reminded me.

Roger that.

It’s also no longer 1965.

Or 1975.

Or even 1995.

When did good manners expire?

 

Rants, rants everywhere

And don’t get me started on how rude people can be these days. The social platforms we’ve come to depend on for so much of our interactions glorify divisiveness and anger. I swear that people say things online that they would never say in person. Every time I read a post blasting someone else’s religious perspective, political stance, or even personal food preferences, I can only think of one thing: Bambi.

In the Disney classic, Thumper the Rabbit says that his mom always taught him that “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all.” (Okay, the incorrect grammar of that phrase has always been an issue for me, because I am neurotic about using the English language properly, but in lieu of the kindness of the sentiment, I can, for this instance, give it a pass.) Thumper’s maxim remains a guiding light for this old dinosaur, and I find myself increasingly unfollowing people online for their rudeness, and sometimes, downright mean-spiritedness. What ever happened to common courtesy?

 

Everything old is new again

Funny thing about dinosaurs: they might have died out millions of years ago, but they still enjoy popularity with humans, especially kids and Jurassic Park fans. Seriously, you can find dinosaurs all over the place if you know where to look: toy stores, Dairy Queen blizzard cups, wine coasters, costumes, and tortilla chip holders. I kid you not. Check out this link.

Who knows? Maybe, one day, innocence, good manners, and courtesy will experience a similar revival in our culture.  Instead of people shutting each other out or down, being kind and considerate will be the norm. Sort of like heaven on earth, I guess.

Love, not war.

Hope, not despair.

Peace, man.

Hold on. I bet I still have a peasant dress and a tie-dyed t-shirt with a peace symbol on it somewhere around the house…okay, I’m a dinosaur.

And I like it that way.

 

 

 

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Indestructible…not

Alas, the indestructible dog frisbee does not exist.

Michael, our 2-year-old German Shepherd/Lab mix, bit right through the new frisbee I’d ordered from Amazon within the first hour of playing fetch. In its product listing, the manufacturer claimed that the frisbee was ‘indestructible,’ backing it up with a lifetime replacement guarantee.

With that kind of confidence in their product, I figured the company might have the frisbee we’ve been looking for ever since Michael demolished his first (and every succeeding frisbee) in the past two years.

Worse case, they could send me another frisbee…every week for the rest of Michael’s life.

 

What were they thinking?

I wondered if the company realized what it was promising. Given Michael’s appetite for frisbee play and destruction, he might bankrupt the manufacturer.

Long story short(er), by the second day, Michael had enlarged the small hole into a long tear along a third of the rim. The frisbee now wobbled badly when I threw it, and I renamed Michael “The Destructor,” which made me want to watch the original Ghostbusters movie that evening.

(If you’ve forgotten, the Ghostbusters are challenged to choose the shape of the Destructor as they battle the supernatural enemy in the final showdown of the movie. They end up with the Marshmallow Man. Michael is far from being supernatural, but he is definitely talented in the destruction department. I’ll never forget the day we came home from church after leaving our feisty puppy in his kennel with his dog bed. You really can’t appreciate how much stuffing goes into a dog bed until you find a kennel filled with shredded foam; we could hardly see Michael in his kennel thanks to all that released stuffing.)

 

Not the only tough dog on the Amazon block

Back to the frisbee.

I decided it was time to check out the guarantee, so I called customer service at Amazon, and I have to say, they were very helpful. Though Michael had played constantly and joyously with the toy since it had arrived, I opted not to receive a replacement. I didn’t want to spend my time chatting with a customer service rep every three days for the foreseeable future. I accepted the full refund, sadly acknowledging that the frisbee was not ‘indestructible’ as portrayed.

Of course, that’s when I finally took the time to read the customer reviews. Sure enough, Michael was not the only tough dog consumer. Other folks had posted about their own disappointment with the ‘indestructible’ frisbee. Though many wrote that the frisbee had lasted longer than others they had tried, the end of the story was always the same: another one bites the dust.

And that reminds me of seeing the movie Bohemian Rhapsody a few weeks ago. I’m still trying to get “Mama Mia! Mama Mia! Galileo! Galileo!” out of my head. Not having been a big Queen fan before, I hadn’t realized the band wrote the song “Another One Bites the Dust.”

But I know it now.

Man, do I know it now.

Every time I throw the not-indestructible frisbee and it flops onto the ground, “Another one bites the dust” plays in my head.

I can only hope it doesn’t hang around as long as “It’s a Small World” did after we took our kids to Disneyworld almost 30 YEARS ago.

Oh no, I can’t believe I just thought of that…

No!

NO!

“It’s a world of laughter, a world of……..”

 

 

 

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Awe and hope

Awe and hope floods over me as I watch the launch of the Parker Solar Probe. The boosters erupt in fire, and a massive rocket lifts into the sky. Humankind has done this. We have mastered enough physics and enough of the unknown to fly a probe through space to investigate a star, our sun.

Another wave of awe washes over me: the human drive to explore, to discover, to continue to wonder and to seek out the mysteries of the universe, is alive and well. This, for me, is also a clear sign of hope.

No matter how horrible everything else may seem in the world, the human spirit can thrive. We can make the world a better place. We can lift up each other and plow through hardships. We can learn and change and grow. Hope is the fuel in our rockets.

 

Hold on to hope

A very precious fuel.

So precious, in fact, that I’m learning how to fight to hold on to it. I’m done with letting the world steal my hope. And who better to go to for help with hope, than Jesus who defeated death itself? “A thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I have come so that they may have life and have it in abundance,” Jesus reminds his disciples in John 10:10.

In the last year, I’ve taken to memorizing bits of Scripture to strengthen my hope. One of my favorites is Lamentations 3:24, which reads “The Lord is my portion,” says my soul, “Therefore I have hope in Him.” Repeating the words comforts me when I hear about shootings, natural disasters, wars, famine, and all the other bad news with which the media bombards us. When faced with what’s happening in the world, hope is clearly a decreasing commodity.

Or at least an ignored one.

 

The facts of hope

Which brings me to Factfulness: Ten Reasons We’re Wrong About the World – and Why Things Are Better Than You Think, a book by Hans Rosling.

If you think the world is a mess, READ THIS BOOK. It will bring you hope. It will bring you perspective. It will educate you about the reality of human experience around the world. It presents facts that media doesn’t report, because as we all know, headlines have to bleed to lead. In this book, Rosling outlines the ten human instincts that distort how we look at the world. Most importantly, he gives solid evidence that the world is NOT getting worse as most of us think, but that, instead, slow and steady progress occurs. Rosling also points out that there is still much room for improvement, but by confronting our distorted worldviews, we can then put our best efforts where they can do the most good.

THAT would be awesome, don’t you think?

 

 

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Summer happy!

Yes, it’s hot. We’ve got a string of 100 degree days. Then again, this is central Texas, where, as my hubby keeps reminding me, it’s supposed to be either dry and hot or flooding with rain. Weather and geology works together to create the climate; funny how that works, huh? In a lot of ways, we humans really are just passing through.

 

Traded in my parka for tank tops

Remember, I spent 29 years in Minneapolis, where the icy winters and bitter cold always found me dreaming of warmth. (True, I did get four years in Scottsdale, AZ, in the mid-nineties, while my husband worked at Motorola. I considered it as my time off for good behavior.) When Tom began contemplating retirement four years ago, we both named warmer climate as a top priority. Finding our place in the Hill Country on a scouting trip a few years back sealed the deal, and here we are.

Hot. Happy. Blessed. I wouldn’t trade my spot with anyone else, even if I drip with sweat after walking the dog in the morning.

And after lunch.

And after dinner.

Air conditioning is a wonderful thing, and we aren’t afraid to use it.

 

Going native

So I’m digging out my sunhats, my sunglasses, my tank tops and shorts, and making lots of lemonade to mix in with my iced tea. The hummingbirds and butterflies and dragonflies provide plenty of aerial entertainment, and the sound of the water in our fountain refreshes the soul…if not the body. For that, I head down to the community pool on a regular basis. You should see our water aerobics class on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Now that’s a party in itself…

It’s summertime and the livin’ is wonderful! Who needs another iced tea?

 

 

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Orchids, orchids, everywhere – even on my coffee cup!

Thirteen years ago, my sister gave my husband an orchid as a Christmas present. He’d always enjoyed gardening outside until his knees and back called a halt to it, so she thought an indoor bloom might appeal to him.

Oh man, did it ever.

 

A wonderland of beautiful blooms

Today, I see a greenhouse with almost 700 orchids in it, sitting in my backyard. My husband raises dendrobiums, cattleyas, phaleonopsis, angraecum and a whole lot more types of orchids. The greenhouse fan runs in sync with the humidity registers and a filtered water system feeds a wet wall. My husband follows a strict regimen of watering the orchids on a systematic basis, depending on their natural habitat requirements. He tests them for disease and feeds them nutrients when needed.

The result? Breath-taking displays of blooms almost year-round, and an endless supply of gorgeous orchids for my home.

Who knew that a single orchid could grow into a beautiful obsession?

I didn’t.

 

My new hobby

But now, I’ve caught the bug, too, except that my interest involves photographing the orchids. In fact, I love the virtually infinite variety of shapes and colors of the orchids so much, I want to surround myself with them in the house, as well as the greenhouse. I even uploaded a bunch of photos to FineArtAmerica so I could get coffee mugs made with my orchid photos on them.

Hi, I’m Jan. I’m an orchid addict.

Certainly, there are worse obsessions. Unlike chocolate, orchids don’t ruin my diet. Unlike psychological thrillers, which only depress me (really, how many more books does anyone need to read about serial killers, cheating spouses and twisted evil?), orchids awe me with beauty and God’s divine artistry. The delicate blooms, the floral scents, the sheer robustness of life evidenced by plants thriving and producing flowers…this is faith and hope made manifest.

If you ask me, the world could use a lot more orchids.

What do you think?

 

 

 

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Unexpected gifts from my sister

“I can’t find my travel mug!”

My sister Kathleen frantically checked around the kitchen amidst packing boxes and bags of recyclable items. We’d both arrived a few days earlier – Kathleen from Colorado and I from Texas – to put our late sister Joanne’s home on the local California housing market. As a result of our clearing and cleaning, we’d transformed the kitchen table into our primary base of operations. That meant that somewhere among the piles of itemized lists and dishes to be donated, a certain travel mug sat hidden.

On this particular morning, though, Kathleen had an 8 am appointment at the local Department of Motor Vehicles, and arriving late was not an option. Acting as the trustee for Joanne’s estate, Kathleen worked on a list of tasks that all seemed to require immediate attention. One of those tasks included transferring the title of  Joanne’s car to its new owner. Dreading the red tape that invariably lay ahead, Kathleen knew she was going to need coffee to get through the appointment.

“I saw another travel mug in the cabinet with the mug collection,” I said, moving across the room to snag it for her.

I pulled out the sturdy Grand Canyon travel mug I’d noticed yesterday on the shelves in Joanne’s extensive display. As soon as I lifted it, however, I realized it wasn’t empty. Snapping off the lid, I saw a clump of tissue paper nestled inside. I pulled out the little bundle and unwrapped it, revealing an intricately painted gourd in the shape of a bird.

Kathleen and I both took a surprised moment to admire it, despite her impending appointment. As she left a moment later, she said, “You were meant to find it. You’re the birder.

“It’s clearly yours…from Joanne.”

 

 My sister’s souvenirs

After Kathleen rushed off to the DMV, I studied the lovely piece of artwork in my hand. Silently, I thanked my absent sister for tucking the beautiful little bird safely away. Always the world traveler, Joanne accumulated treasures and curiosities everywhere she went and took great joy in her adventures. She often kept diaries of her journeys and shared them with Kathleen and me, along with our older sister Karen and brother Bob. I confess I wasn’t always interested in her travel reports over the years; raising my children absorbed my attention and time. Joanne’s experiences in Australia or Easter Island or Mallorca were far removed from my daily routine as a suburban mom of five. Consequently, I often didn’t understand – or appreciate – why she collected so many quirky souvenirs from her globe-trotting.

 

Dancing with God

Now, though, as I contemplated the gourd-become-bird, it occurred to me that my sister knew a side of life – and God – that I didn’t: the diversity of cultures created by God. Whereas I found joy in my family-centered life of the local and familiar, Joanne had experienced God in the hidden corners of far destinations. Her souvenirs reminded her of where He led her on her earthly journey. And while it was true that cancer had cut short my sister’s years, her life had been a dance of discovery with the most wonderful Partner of all.

“Draw me after you and let us run together! The king has brought me into his chambers.” Song of Solomon 1:4

Thank God for quirky souvenirs…and my sisters.

 

 

 

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