Eleven Things You Should Know About Saint Patrick

 During March,
we hear much about leprechauns
and pots of gold
and rainbows
and green beverages
but there is more to Saint Patrick's Day than that--
 there's Saint Patrick himself!
 Here are eleven things you should know about Saint Patrick.

1. Patrick wasn't Irish.
He was born and raised in Britain
and called Patricius.
When he was sixteen
he was taken to Ireland by Irish pirates,
or as they say on the Emerald Isle,
"Oirish" pirates.
He was sold as a slave to Miliucc
and watched sheep.

2. Patrick prayed. A lot.
While he watched Miliucc's sheep
he was hungry.
Cold.
Alone
(except for hundreds of sheep)
and lonely.
Patrick says that he sometimes
prayed a hundred times
day and night.
The bad news is:
Patrick was a slave.
The good news is:
while being a slave,
Patrick met God.

3. Patrick trusted God for miracles.
A voice said, "Look, your ship is ready!"
so he left the sheep,
ran away,
and got on a ship leaving Ireland.
It landed in a desolated place
with no food.
The ship's captain taunted Patrick:
"How about it, Christian?
Pray for us.
We're starving to death!"
Patrick prayed
and a herd of pigs appeared.
Pork chops!
Though sadly, probably no bacon.

4. Patrick loved his enemies.
Even though he loved seeing his family again,
in a dream,
a voice from Ireland
said, "We beg you to come."
And. He. Went. Back.

5. Patrick used what the Irish already believed
to teach them about God.
The people in Ireland
had been worshipping the sun.
Patrick told them
about the God who created the sun
and sent his Son, Jesus
who died
on a cross
for them.
The two symbols,
the circular sun
and the traditional cross
were combined to make a Celtic cross.

6. Patrick's followers taught stories from the Bible
by carving pictures on the Celtic crosses.
They did this
because most people couldn't read.

This carving of the feeding of the five thousand is going to take all night!

 7. The part about Patrick
chasing the snakes out of Ireland
is not true.
Have you ever tried to chase snakes?
It's almost as hard as herding cats!
Actually,
there were no snakes in Ireland
but he devil is sometimes portrayed as a snake
and Patrick did all he could
to chase the devil out of Ireland.

8. The part about Patrick
using a shamrock
to teach about the holy trinity
may not be true, either.
But shamrocks grow in Ireland
and sometime he may have used a shamrock
in his teaching
and just didn't write it down.

9. We celebrate Saint Patrick's Day on March 17,
but March 17 is not Patrick's birthday.
It's his death day.
Though that's KIND OF like a birthday
because Patrick look his first breath in Heaven that day.

10. Patrick may have written a famous prayer
now called "Saint Patrick's Breastplate."
Some people have turned parts of it into a song.
Want to hear it?
Click Christ Be All Around Me.





11. Actually, I was kidding about there being eleven things.
There are only ten.
Or maybe twenty-three.
You can learn more about Saint Patrick
by reading
How the Irish Saved Civilization
by Thomas Cahill

 or Saint Patrick of Ireland
by Philip Freeman

or
if you like pictures
and are short on time,
the children's book
Patrick: Patron Saint of Ireland
by Tomie dePaola.

Many blessings,
Irish blessings,
this season and always.

Sue

PS. Don't want to be done yet with Irish thoughts?
Try Robin Mark's Irish worship song Ancient Words.
Den and I have visited Robin Mark's church in Belfast
and have sung this song in worship.
It ties us in to the centuries.

How about celebrating with traditional Irish music?
The Chieftains play O'Sullivan's March,
a music video whose opening shots
are of the above-mentioned Celtic cross
and Croagh Patrick,
Saint Patrick's mountain
that Den and I climbed
but not barefoot like some traditionally do.
Sharp rocks!

Or a song from my growing-up years,
the Irish Rovers'  Unicorn Song.

Or Northern Irishman James Galway's  Danny Boy.

Still reading?
I close with the traditional Irish blessing:

May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
the rain fall soft upon your fields
and until we meet again,
may GOD hold you in the palm of his hand.

Now go eat a potato.
                        

Perfect Gifts

In the last three months
I have received three perfect gifts:
1. a Big Bad Wolf doll
that eats Grandma
that Paul's family found at IKEA
2. a book titled "What If?"
that answers bizarre questions like
"What would happen
if the earth stopped turning?"
from science-son Luke
3. a remote-controlled,
battery-operated candle
from Uncle Jack
so I won't set the house on fire again.
Never leave a burning candle unattended.

Last week
I received yet another Perfect Gift:
Heidi gave me a t-shirt
emblazoned "Dances With Squirrels."
It came with a card that said
"To appreciate nonsense
requires a serious
interest in life."




Heidi and I started our nonsense in elementary school.
We sat beside each other,
skinny sixth graders
in the condemned Second Avenue building,
spending our spare time
writing notes in code
for the guys behind us to crack.
We were partners
on the class trip
to the Hershey zoo.
In junior high,
we cultivated new friendships
as she became the cheerleading mascot
while I spent hours with the band
and our paths diverged.

Forty five years later
we are again together in school,
she in third grade
and me in first grade
at Penfield Elementary.
It didn't take long to renew our friendship.
We were two old dogs,
circling and sniffing,
tails tentatively wagging,
catching up.
We have much in common
besides DAHS class of '74:
Cat dilemmas.
Aging mothers.
Love of quotes.
Goodwill bargains.
Appreciation of Einstein.
Children's literature.
We ask each other doggy questions:
How was the cancer?
Ruff.
Why is the hall wet?
Roof.
What do you think of Kate DiCamillo?
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr... great!
We compare doggy brains
and find that both are powered by squirrels.
Her squirrel runs nicely in her wheel,
analyzing situations,
neatly making to-do lists.
My brain hosts a family of hyperactive squirrels
who take their wheel apart
to see how it works
and then crank up the music
and boogie.
Heidi organizes
Read Across America Night
while I dress up as Clifford
and pelt kids with snowballs.
She reads the morning announcements
in a calm, quiet voice
while I make my loud, annoying math puppet Claw
read when it's my turn.
She catalogues the book room;
I greet kids dressed as Mother Nature
when the seasons change.
She makes me think.
I make her laugh,
and I love that
she appreciates my humor.

This week
when I took down our cardinal pictures in the hall
I could not bring myself
to throw away the ripped-paper letters
so I rearranged them instead
and added my own picture.
Heidi laughed,
shook her head,
and said I should blog about it.
And I have.


May your squirrels dance this week
as you contemplate perfect gifts.
Friendship is one of them.
 

Pennywhistles, Painted Nails, and Prayers

Last night
we braved the icy roads
and took the jeep to State College
to see the Chieftains,
Ireland's premiere musicians,
in concert at Eisenhower Auditorium.
We arrived early to visit the grandgirls.
Den taught six-year-old Anna
how to play Kings,
a checker game he learned from his mom,
while I assisted three-year-old Lucy
in using silly putty
to make grapes
and grilled cheese sandwiches
for her sick stuffed animals.
Then Anna showed me Shelby's bucket of nail polish.
"Would you like to do my nails?" I asked.
Anna was thrilled.
"Wow! Yes!
I've never been allowed
to do the painting before!"
We sat down at the dining table
with paper towels
and a wide selection of polish.
"What color would you like, Grammy?"
"You choose for me."
Pale yellow and orange
alternated on the left hand,
plain with sparkly blue on the right.



I used to wear nail polish in my teens and twenties
as my mother had encouraged me
in the small habits of ladyhood,
but one day my friend Janet observed
"Your polish is always chipped.
Your nails are different lengths.
Why do you bother?"
She had a point.
From that day on,
I gave up polish.
Until yesterday.

I went to the Chieftains concert with flashy nails.
We sat at the edge of the first tier,
Den in his Aran fisherman's knit
and me in my green Donegal Irish sweater.
I leaned over the edge to see if anyone else had dressed thematically.
Two people in green.
Three guys in wool driving caps.
I then estimated the auditorium's seating capacity
and also had fun
with my green laser pointer
until Den encouraged me to put it away.
Then Paddy Moloney
carried in his pennywhistles and uilleann pipes
and Matt Molloy his flute.
There was a bodhran
and a guitarist
and two fiddles
and a harp
and a mandolin player.
There were Irish dancers
and a Scottish vocalist
and the Nittany Children's Choir
and a local step dance class
and Jaffa bagpipers 
and a family from Canada,
The Next Generation Leahy
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QXd_dSkScvg,
whose amazing dancers just kept getting tinier.

We closed our eyes
and we were back in Ireland
in Matt Molloy's pub in Westport.
We could almost smell the whiskey.

Irish instrumental music
is the happiest
and the saddest
in the world.
The bodhran thumps in your chest
and the vibrations hit your toes.
The pennywhistle wavers in your ear
and your eyes mist.
And not a word is spoken.
Perhaps music is interpreted in a different part of the brain,
having no interface with letters
or words.
It is a language all its own.
Our friend Barry said
that perhaps the Psalms
are the Irish music of the Bible.
Great joy
and lament.

During the night's final number,
audience members were encouraged to hold hands in a line
and dance their way through the aisles.
I dashed from the balcony to join them.
As we stomped enthusiastically across the stage,
the lady behind Den asked,
"Which one is your wife?"
"The one in the green sweater
and tan boots."
"She looks like a leprechaun."

Today I decided to start wearing nail polish again--
but only on my left little finger.
The polish will remind me
of Anna's first try at polishing
and of that pennywhistle night
of joy and lament.
When I notice my little fingernail
I will pray for my grandgirls,
for Anna
and for Lucy,
that they will live lives of much joy
and encounter grace in the sorrows.





P.S. Not to be outdone by her older sister,
Lucy
(with help from Shelby)
painted Den's toenails
bubblegum pink.

P.P.S.  Want to hear the Chieftains?
Click below.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7pDiO52xSs

The Cow Almost Jumped Over the Moon

It's been an interesting 24 hours.

1.     11:30 AM Friday
For Valentines Day,
I wanted my class to read  
The Missing Tarts by B.G. Hennessey,
a story about the Queen of Hearts
and various nursery rhyme characters.
The problem was that
current first graders don't know many nursery rhymes
so I read Mother Goose
to my group of littles
before we went off on our tart hunt.
"Hey Diddle Diddle,
the cat and the fiddle,
the cow jumped over the moon..."
and many others,
the same rhymes
my grandma Maud
had taught me
long ago.

2.     1:30ish PM Friday
Paul and Kate and the grandgirls
fly over the North Pole
enroute from Hong Kong to Newark
coming home from Kate's brother's wedding in Manila,
perhaps the longest flight possible
over The Top Of The World.

3.     9:30 AM Saturday
I find an old frame,
a Goodwill purchase that I had hoped would fit an African print
but didn't.

4.     10:30 AM, Saturday
Upstairs, an unused heating pipe cracks in two places
due to cold temperatures.
Water pours into the study and the basement.
As we drag accumulations
of the stuff of life
from the wet closets,
I find Paul's second grade entry to a PTA art contest.
He had tried to draw a fox
but it looked better as a cow.
He put it on the moon
because not all cows can actually make it over the moon.

5.     11:30 AM, Saturday
The cow, 4,
is now in the frame, 3,
that reminds me of voyages over planets, 2,
and my grandmother's nursery rhymes
and Valentines Day
and the pleasure of sharing memories with small children, 1.

The framed cow now looks down on the parlor
reminding us
that life is a trip
and not all trips go as planned.
Today, if you find yourself like the puzzled cow,
far from where you thought you'd be,
take a minute
and sit down
and enjoy the view.

Eulogy for Gilda the Adventure Car 1990-2015

I met Gilda when she was already middle-aged.
Paul's friend Aaron
made an overnight stop in 2004 on his way to Houghton.
When we walked out to greet him,
my heart flopped.
His car looked like it was wearing a tuxedo and sneakers.
"I love your car," I said.
 A few years later,
we made a donation to Aaron's move to Africa
and the brake-challenged car was mine.

It earned the name "Gilda"
on one of our first trips
when the clutch was pressed to the floor
and it stayed there,
after Gilda "It's always something!" Radner
of Saturday Night Live fame.
And it was always something.
Brakes.
Muffler.
Trim? Flapping.
Paint? Luckily the same color as the metal underneath.
Chipped windshield.
Ripped seats.
Inconsistent locks.
Gilda's axle apparently stumped NPR's Car Talk guys
as they never returned our call;
the axle replacement
made her odometer and speedometer inaccurate
so I drove at the speed of traffic
or my inner squirrel.
I can only estimate that she got 30+ mpg--
she was great at coasting down the mountain in neutral--
and had adventured over 300,000 miles.

During the Juniata Elementary years,
Gilda had a preferred spot at the Tannery Dam
where she dropped her mud
and showed off jokes
and political commentary--
often the same thing.
One boy said that she looked like an adventure car
and that was added to her name.
I printed it below the driver's window in Sharpie marker.

A few weeks later I thought,
"Why not write on her some more?"
and she soon sported a variety of quotes
covering the spectrum
from the Irish blessing "May the road rise to meet you...."
to C.S. Lewis's "You don't have a soul.
You are a soul. You have a body."
to John Wayne's "Life is tough.
It's tougher if you're stupid."
Friends were occasionally invited to use the Sharpie;
our granddaughter Anna spent a summer hour 
drawing her family
and writing Joshua 1:9
"The Lord your God will be with you wherever you go."
on Gilda's tailgate.

I often returned to find someone reading her.
Interesting conversations
started that way.
The boy pumping gas
thought "The woods are lovely, dark and deep,"
referred to a CSI episode.
He received a mini-lesson on Robert Frost
and a granola bar.

Gilda could take on all comers.
A student teacher bumped into her--
no worries.
A belligerent young redneck
once backed his enormous truck into her
and damaged his light and hitch--
not a scratch on Gilda.

Gilda hauled marsh marigolds and skunk cabbage,
bikes and chairs and Goodwill finds,
and every spring she would be packed
with hanging baskets and flats of seedlings.
Her regular cargo included tall rubber boots,
work overalls,
shovel and bucket,
markers and paint,
wire and clippers,
duct tape,
swimsuit,
granola bars and dog treats,
cement mix and water,
a kite....
She was always ready for an adventure.

Google Earth provided adventures.
I would look for back roads to travel.
What looked like a passable road on the computer
may have us in someone's driveway
or dodging huge mudholes
or stuck at a gate.

Gilda was not only a car.
She also functioned as a workbench,
holding doors for varnishing
and tools for meat cutting.
She was a daily step stool
for cats descending
from high sleeping spots.
We would back out of the garage
in a blizzard of fur.



Gilda enjoyed
dressing for the seasons,
jauntily wearing a fall leaf
under her non-functional
rear windshield wiper,
a flag for Veterans Day,
and in December
magnetic lights,
a wreath,
and a "got reindeer?" license plate.
Her front wipers functioned
but when shut off
they paused mid-windshield
like a dead beetle's wings.
Rainstorms made her seem normal
as the windshield wipers efficiently did their job,
but there was a trade-off:
every time she turned right
the water that had accumulated behind the dash
dripped on my leg.
It was OK.
Old friends are sometimes incontinent.

Though she once had a great stereo system,
in the end she was mute
leading me to a better prayer life,
thoughts to blog about,
and occasional yodeling forays.

We were thrilled when she recently passed inspection
and celebrated with new winter tires,
but in December
she began drinking too much oil
and leaked all over the floor nightly.
Two weeks ago,
Gilda the Ancient Volvo
fell prey to the economic Law Of Diminishing Returns
and now rests in peace in the woods.
Newt,
a friend who got ordained so he could marry us,
will come to transplant her seats and tires
and the good news is
there may be a friend-of-a-friend
who will bring her back to life.
The bad news is
she would be in Ohio.

Gilda started as a car
but ended as an enabler.
She made
friends of strangers
and prodded me to be more creative,
to ponder philosophy,
and to take the road less traveled by.

I am guilty
of feeling sadder at the loss of Gilda the Adventure Car
than some human tragedies.
Forgive me.
She was my friend.

How to Make Bear Bread and Honey Butter

How to Make 
Bear Bread 
and Honey Butter
by Anna Shaffner, age six

Bear bread Ingreedeents:
frozen bread dough.
raisins.

Instroctions

1.   Thaw the bread dough
2.   Spray the bakeing sheet  with non-stick
3.   Get the dough out of the package
4.   Choose size dough I chose half a loaf we wantaed to make 10










5.   Cut in half









6.   Pick the belly And put on bakeing sheet










7.   Cut in half again
8.   Pick the head and Put on Bakeing sheet

9.   Cut in half again and make Brige Btween The head and belly It is the nose

10.  Cut in half again. Cut Both into 3 equals 6!

11.  Make balls. Put two as ears, two as arms, And two As legs!

21.  Cut holes for raisins.
13. Put raisins in holes
14. Let rise

15  heat oven 350 dugrese bake bear for 15 minuts

16. Push raisins back in
17. Spread butter on it to keep it soft



How to make honey butter:

ingredieints
1. honey
2. butter

instroctions:
1. soffen Butter.
2. mix butter.
3. Put in honey.
4. Taste the mix. if you Think you need more honey Put it in.

Don't Fall in the Spring

Last week, my first graders studied consonant blends
and this week, the "-ing" ending was reintroduced.
Tuesday we put them both together
to make the word "spring."
I passed out long coiled plastic springs,
an anything-you-can-fit-in-a-basket Ollie's find,
and we cut them up
and used them for hair
on our construction paper veterans,
gym decorations for next week's Veterans' Day assembly.
Vets, we thank you for your service.

We then donned our coats
and tripped outside to find another kind of spring,
where water comes out of the side hill.
It is about ten feet into the woods.
I had glimpsed it
earlier in the fall
when trampling down a path
for kids to explode touch-me-not seed pods,
the bubble wrap of earlier generations.
I led my class toward the spring along the dry side hill.
We climbed over a log
and under a deadfall
to reach the weepy site.
"This is a spring.
Water comes right out of the ground here."
I then extended a hand to each child
to make sure they didn't slide into the spring
as they passed over it.
The kids were reforming the line behind me
when I heard "Whoa!"
" Look!"
" Cool!"
There was a second spring,
rimmed in giant, moss-covered cut stones,
built perhaps a century ago
when settlers used springs for refrigeration.
We were all so excited.
We had discovered Penfield's version of Machu Picchu.

Wednesday at recess
I told the kids that I would be going into the woods
to take a picture of the spring
but that I would still be able to watch them play.
I put on my kneehigh rubber boots,
took a shortcut through the mowed wet area
and entered the woods with my iPad.
Click.
Nice picture.

 

I turned to watch the kids at play,
then started back across the wetness.
Slurp.
One boot went calf-deep.
Hmmmm.
I tugged.
I wobbled.
I stepped on my coat.
The next step sunk the other boot to within an inch of the top.
Stuck.
I considered abandoning the boots
and walking out in my stocking feet
but then I remembered high school physics
and mass
and surface area
and figured I may end up even more stuck.
And even muddier.
I decided to call the office for help.
I reached for the walkie talkie on my whistle lanyard.
Hmmmm.
In remembering the iPad,
I had forgotten the walkie talkie.

I called to M,
the star student of the day,
and asked her go to the office
and tell them
to ask the custodian
to pull me out.
She was off like a shot.

Over dashed J and T,
two curious little boys.
"Hey Teacher! Are you stuck?"
"Yes.
It's very muddy.
Don't get close.
Back up."
Three more boys raced over.
I used my teacher look
and teacher voice:
"I SAID BACK UP!"

Meanwhile,
as soon as M entered the building
she saw the custodian.
"Mr. Doug!
Mrs. Shaffner is stuck in the mud!
You need to come!"
Doug smiled his teasing smile
and started for the door, saying
"Tell her I'll be there in forty-five minutes."
M's eyes got huge
and her voice,
bless her heart,
got a bit bossy.
"Mr. Doug!
You need to come RIGHT NOW!"
 
One long tug and one boot slurped out.
The second was more stubborn.
In the end,
I was bear hugged
and carried from the mudhole.
Mr. Doug's sneakers were no longer white.
He and M
are now sharing hero status
at Penfield Elementary.

Every day has adventures
and opportunities to be thankful
and maybe even heroic.

Today if it doesn't rain we are going for another walk.