Word of the Week

I confess, I was feverishly seeking out a word of the week with a more autumnal meaning, but apparently there are very few synonyms for autumn.  You have fall, harvest, equinox...and not much else.  Oh well, so much for an inspiring vocabulary this fall.  I guess we'll have to adapt our weekly word to fit into our harvestly mold.  This week's word is:

dapple: n. a spot or mottled marking, usually occurring in clusters.

One can also use the verb form of the word, meaning 'to mark or become marked with spots.'  If any of us ever contract the chicken pox, I'll make sure to use the verb form.

On to today's sentences.

The air was dappled with color as the nippy wind blew up through the large, leafy tree.   (This has been happening all week.  We've enjoyed watching the leaves fly through the air during school time every day!)

Cynthia woke, stretched, then stared in horror as she spotted the fresh dapple of acne, prominently adorning her nose.  (Alas, poor Cynthia will spend the next hour of her existence trying to camoflauge the dapple, which will only irritate both her skin and her siblings, who also need the bathroom.  Thank goodness we're not at that stage of parenting yet!)

Add your dappled sentence to the mix!

Word of the Week: It has returned

Well, it may be more realistic of me to create a word of the month section, but I'll give a weekly post a go.  While recently rereading some of my previous postings, I remembered how incredibly fun it was to do the word of the week, as well as how useful it was.  In fact, it was just the other day that Andy asked me to elaborate on the word schadenfreude.

The word of this week is 

crepuscule:  [kri-PUHS-kyool] n. twilight, dusk.

Gaze with me through the crepuscule at Mount Vesuvius.  This painting is by Abraham Pether.  It's called, A View Of Mount Vesuvius Erupting.  It would have gotten your attention more if crepuscule were included in the title, but after all, Pether was a painter, not a grammarian.

This strikes me as a very fitting addition for this autumnal week.  Besides, who isn't excited by a word that has a guttural burst of <<PUHS!>> in its midsection?

Okay, enough with the abdominal puns.  I promise to move on.

There actually is another pronunciation, but it isn't nearly as fun.  Perhaps the other pronunciation would sound a little less scabby, but nevertheless...

Here we go for the sentences.  Have I mentioned that my kids look forward to my sentences with each new spelling list?  That's why I can no longer deprive my loyal audience.  Stop laughing, both of you.

She peered into the crepuscule, hoping to see the silhouette of her beloved's car humming into the drive.   (Yes, many days this is quite true, and on a particularly harsh day at home with the children could possibly involve a slight twitch and strange look about the eyes.)

The crepuscule greeted them briskly, as they closed the door on the poor teenage babysitter's silent screams.  (This one doesn't usually happen actually.  The screams are usually excited child screams whenever we leave.  Little do they know, we are more excited than they are.)

Baby in the Baseline

(A story for my Scott, to commemorate the many evenings at the ballpark with the little girls in tow!)

It was early in the evening's game, and I was all covered up, from head to toe with my catcher's pads.  I creaked along to home plate, where I bent over, ready to catch the first ball headed my way. I could hear my sisters nearby, giggling and singing to Mom.

Strike one.

I threw the ball back to the pitcher and knelt down again in the dust.

Strike two.

The ball nearly hit me this time.  I adjusted my mask and got ready for the next pitch.

Crack!  My mask flew off and I shielded my eyes against the sun.  Phew!  It was only a foul ball.  I grinned over to third base where my good friend Austin was ready to defend...and I saw something I never thought I'd see when I came to the field tonight.  There was a baby--my baby sister--crawling quickly to third base!

The pitcher threw the ball too high but I hardly noticed, because I was watching my baby crawl past Austin's waiting glove and crouched legs.

"Ma ma!  Ma ma! Ma maaaa!"  she squealed.

I was so scared that someone would run over her I began to move forward and landed squarely in the path of the batter's bat.  Onto my helmet it clunked, knocking me right off my feet.  I saw the warmly glowing sun seep between the cage of my mask and felt the dust settle on my face and teeth.  The coach was shouting to me, "Are you okay?".

"Yes."  I answered, as I stood up.  Then I remembered what had frightened me enough to walk straight into the batter--my sister!  Where was she?

I could hear her groaning from somewhere on the field, "MMMMmmmmmm.   Ga.  Ga.  Ga.   MMMmmmmm...".  I jumped up and squinted at Austin on third.  No baby.  He looked back at me, shaking his head, wondering why I kept staring at him.  I tried to mouth, baby.  BA-BY!

"I'm not a baby, Scott!"  he grumbled to himself.  He kicked third base before he turned his attention back to the batter.

I felt terrible.  I hadn't meant to call my friend a baby, but where had baby Megan gone?  The groaning of before I couldn't hear any more over the noise of the cheering.  The pitcher threw another high ball.

"Where is she?"  I whispered to myself as I threw the ball back to the pitcher.  Then I spotted her again.  She had crawled over second base,  hit it two times with her chubby hand, then continued crawling toward first.

The pitcher threw a fast ball straight into the strike zone.  Just as the batter hit the ball, baby Megan tagged up on first base, laughing and blowing spit bubbles the whole time.  She sat down on first base and began to clap as the ball rolled toward her.  Bryson, who was guarding first base slammed his cleat down on the base just as Megan crawled off.  She was really crawling now.

I took of my catcher's mask and called to her, "Come here.  Come here, little Meggie."  The first base coach thought I was crazy, talking to him like that!  What he didn't know was that my little sister was crawling at top speed, heading home.

The batter was tagged out at first, thank goodness, and just before the next batter came up to the plate, Meggie planted her dust-stained knees on home plate and grabbed my legs.  She stood up and said, "Da Da Da!".  Then she screamed in happiness.  I picked her up, and the crowd cheered for the mini base runner..  Meggie began to clap for herself again and say all kinds of things I didn't understand, and the umpire yelled, "She's safe!".

Meggie liked to slap her hand on my pads, and she smiled and opened her mouth to give my nose a big, wet smooch,  "aahhh-MWAH!".  Coach came up to me and ruffled my hair.

He said with a smile, "That's the first time I've EVER seen a runner give the catcher a kiss on the nose!".

I had never seen that before either, and I hoped that I never would again!

A Glimpse of the Man

Our lives are currently overrun with batting helmets, baseball schedules and even a catcher's mask on occasion.  It's been a bit busy, but very enjoyable, especially for the little old man, who of course spends most of his off-school hours practicing, practicing the batting and catching skills he so wants.  I know this is a real shift to boyhood, this fascination with sports, but recently I caught a glimpse of the man inside.

It was totally unrelated to his baseball fantasies, in fact.

For the last year and a half, he has been begging to try pushing our very heavy, bagged push mower around our somewhat substantial yard.  I've resisted.  He's 'helped' push in the past, and it usually makes the already difficult task even more cumbersome.  This year I gave in a bit and let go of the mower handle.

I watched as his tanned, resolute arms struggled and exerted.  He broke a sweat and tried with all the muscles in his lean little form, and he pushed the mower.  No matter how mother henly I clucked next to him, wanting to save him from this sharp corner or that little slope, the determined boy finished the front lawn by himself.  I was shocked and promptly rewarded him with a Pepsi from Daddy's forbidden stash.

The next mowing I figured he'd remember how hard it was and shy away from any involvement.  I was very mistaken.  As I laced my mowing shoes, he got ready and even beat me outside, pulling out the mower to get started even faster.  I asked my little guy why he was so excited to work, of all things.  His reply brought tears to my eyes.

He wants to mow to get strong enough to mow the whole lawn every time, so I wouldn't have to work so hard; so I could spend some time doing something enjoyable.

And that's what it means to be a real man.  Thoughtfulness.  Self-sacrifice.  Doing something hard to spare the ones you love.

Some day I'll hand him over to a lucky young lady, and I'll remember this day.  I'll remind him of what it means to be a real man.

A Quote On Happiness

I am casually reading through Philip Yancey's book Where Is God When It Hurts?, an exploration of pain and its purpose.  Here is a quite a truism which I ran across this morning:

     "If I spend my life searching for happiness through drugs, comfort, and luxury, it will elude me.  'Happiness recedes from those who pursue her.'  Happiness will come upon me unexpectedly as a by-product, a surprising bonus for something I have invested myself in.  And, most likely, that investment will include pain.  It is hard to imagine pleasure without it."  (Chapter 4)

Although he is specifically speaking of physical pain, the quote is quite applicable for any type of pain.  We all go through difficult times, some of us live in pain of a physical or emotional nature constantly, but it is a comfort to know that the hard times sharpen our senses to the real joys and rewards of life.  God's consolation for the valley is the sharp contrast of the mountain top.

To Kick Off The Season...

I was in Michigan recently because, contrary to popular belief, mother-in-laws can be cherished friends.  In the early morning, I took a drive past a local high school.  The tick-tacking of a drum cadence caught my attention.  The tenor drums ponged and pinged, and the bass drums thunked as I drove by. (That brought back fall memories to me.  Every fall my high school marching band would terrorize the neighborhoods surrounding the school with their early morning practices.  Nothing like whistles and drums for a great wake-up call.)
     
I waited at a light and turned to see a herd of young men in full game gear stretching and sprinting, readying themselves for practice on the dewy field.  A cool morning breeze floated through my car and I thought of my hubby, and the scores of careers that he had seen start on these Michigan football fields. 

It is practically fall, the season of cool breezes and football and leaves.  Let's hunker down and prep the fire place for the months to come.

Contraband

It's been less than a week since we've been done with school.

We've worked hard to accomplish this goal, and to be free to enjoy summer in all its splendor.

How then can it be possible that my little old man asks me for school work to do every day?  I've explained to him how exciting it is to have no school work, and he seems thrilled every time.  And yet...around the house I consistently find papers he has privately assigned himself.  His stashes are littered with penmanship practice, arithmetic problems and reading books.

A love of learning is a beautiful thing.  It's just kind of humorous that he hides his interest so stealthily, honing his skills in secret.  Perhaps he doesn't want to burst my bubble, but I'm on to him nonetheless.