Mandy

On June 12, 2013 By AnnIn Family3 Comments

Spring. The season of re-birth. Germination. Gardens flourish. Wildflowers stud the hilltop pasture in an explosion of beauty. It’s ironic how many times this season of life is marked by farewells. Sad, poignant, permanent farewells. This year, we said good-bye to another pet, Mandy, our twelve-year-old teagle.

Visions play in my memory. We picked her out of a litter born to a beagle mama and a terrier sire. Essentially a long-haired beagle, this short-legged calico dog fit well in the family. I’ll miss how she’d lay at our feet during piano practice, squeaking her squeaky toy as if to say, “You make your music. I’ll make mine.”

I chuckle still to recall her staring at her own image in the hall mirror after her first haircut. Those haircuts transformed her from a wire-haired terrier into the beagle. Her coat always felt soft and luxurious after a haircut.

I’ll miss the way she jumped over the gate in the front yard. Or how, grinning from ear to ear, she’d make a flying leap over the back of our sofa to greet a student at lesson time. Or how she never gave up hope to be allowed onto our bed and would leap quietly onto the covers and curl up, her dark eyes sparkling into mine.

How she’d come running when she heard the jingle of a lead, or my car keys. Ever ready for a walk, she never lost hope that all my departures would include her.

I miss the patience with which she regarded my two-year-old grandson. In my mind’s eye, I see how proudly he helped Grandpa walk the dogs one morning, his small stature marching alongside Grandpa’s six-feet, each with a dog in tow. Grandson handled Mandy. Grandpa took the bigger, excitable spaniel.

Fearful of thunder her entire life, Mandy would hide at the first little boom from above. If we forgot to confine her before the annual Independence Day fireworks, the only way we’d find her was to follow the puddles of wet carpet as she anointed any and every room in her distress.

Her fear of booms became a legend. One occasion, my better half overlooked the fact that Mandy was outside when he took his rifle to hunt a skunk. Later, she was nowhere to be found. Not in the barn snuffling in the horse manure, not digging up cat doo along the driveway (her favorite activities). She had disappeared and was absent overnight. The next morning we received a phone call about her. She was in town, four miles away. A kind lady had seen her tearing alongside the highway a mile from our drive. She picked up the frightened dog to keep her safe from traffic (and rifles) and transported her to town. This friend found our identity from the dog tag, after a call to the veterinarian. Mandy had jumped the front yard gate at the first rifle report and sped down the driveway without a backwards glance.

The month of May this year started as the previous eleven Mays began. Mandy got her spring haircut. About the time for her annual checkup, she started to refuse her food—highly unusual for this chubby pet. At her appointment, we checked some swelling on her neck. A biopsy and x-ray follow up convinced us all Mandy had come to the end of the road. We brought her home to baby her as long as she was able to enjoy life. She took a little milk and human baby food for a few days, but eventually refused even those. We walked our favorite walks one last time, until she would walk no more and I ended up carrying her. Her swollen, blood-shot eyes begged for release. At the end of May, we took her for a final visit to the vet. Even then, as I carried her in, she mustered a little wag to greet the clinic staff.

Here’s to you, Mandy. Our sweet Mandeth. My Mandyble, now jumping gates in the afterlife. You reminded me that in all seasons, even spring’s season of birth, the entire cycle of life can be found. Without the ending, there is no beginning. For new life springs from the old.

Rolling Up the Sleeves of Hope

On June 9, 2013 By AnnIn Earth care, Letters to Septanna2 Comments

A few days ago, I attended the annual meeting of our state Interfaith Power and Light. The guest keynote speaker, founder of the national organization, was Rev. Sally Bingham of California. She delivered an inspirational message.

Key points included the notion that climate change is the most important and serious challenge facing this generation, and those to come. It is a spiritual and a moral issue. All faith traditions include tenets of stewardship for our God-given world. If our habits, our lifestyles, generate waste products which ultimately will destroy the basis of life as we know it, it is our moral responsibility, our sacred duty, to do something about it. In the Christian tradition, we must acknowledge that “What you do to even the least of these, you do to me.”

Creation care is a matter of faith. It is as important as love for our neighbors, and the mission of saving souls. For there will be no souls to save if we don’t protect our air and our water. Ultimately, another way to care about people is to care about the environment.

Climate skeptics suggest the threat is over-rated. What if they’re right? What if we clean up our act to stem a crisis that may never happen? At the very least, we’d accomplish some good things: our children would enjoy a future world where people could live healthier. Wealth would be more equitably distributed. Our air and water would not be for sale to the highest bidder, but would be clean and plentiful for all.

What if the environmentalists and climate scientists are right and we sit back and do nothing? We face a bleak future, one in which this lovely planet will no longer provide a home for humanity and countless other life forms that God created.

It makes a great deal of sense to act in a way that insures a future for life on Earth.

Bingham concluded her address with an invitation to say yes to the call as stewards of creation. “Hope is a verb with its sleeves rolled up,” she said. We are called to respond actively toward a vision of hope for our future. There’s a lot of work to do. Let’s get busy.

Remembering Vic McClung

On May 27, 2013 By AnnIn My Favorite Giants6 Comments

There are some people who continue to impact the world long beyond their days here. Vic McClung was such a person. ALS stole him away from his family, friends and community too soon. Gone now two years, he is hardly forgotten. This Memorial Day post is dedicated to Vic, with love for his family.

Vic with his four beautiful daughters. Photo courtesy of Allison Hughes.

What kind of man was Vic McClung?

He was a listening man. Never himself one of many words, Vic listened carefully whenever others spoke or provided answers to his thoughtful questions.

A perceptive man. Not prone to jump on anyone’s bandwagon, Vic preferred to study all sides of an issue. When he did offer his unique insights, they often lent fresh perspective to a divisive situation.

A fun-loving man. He enthusiastically supported, planned and hosted various social get-togethers for his church group, as I’m sure he must have for other groups to which he belonged. We enjoyed holiday parties, picnics at his house, a hay-rack ride to tour significant locations in the western part of the county, and a delightful afternoon at the Eastman cabin overlooking a bend in the Walnut River.

Vic did not lose his sense of humor even when faced with the diagnosis of ALS. Early on, our group was studying a book called “If You Want to Walk On Water You Have to get Out of the Boat”. Another friend in class was dealing with the loss of her husband through cancer and mentioned how her boat was sinking at the time. She turned to Vic and asked if he didn’t feel his boat also was sinking. He replied, “Takin’ on a little water.” When he introduced his new Dynavox voice to our class, he was asked if he had a choice of the voice that pronounced his words. Through the box he said, “I wanted a Scottish dialect, but it was not available.”

Vic McClung was a quiet man. Yet when he did express himself the words were filled with insight. He could even communicate without words. He made you feel valued and needed with nothing more than a glance in your direction accompanied by a little smile.

He was a hugging man, and was quick to bestow bearhugs on young and old alike.

Vic was a welcoming man. He made a point to greet all who participated in the ALS walk on his “Strangers on Tractors” team. He and Jan greeted every guest at the reception for his daughter’s wedding. He made each person in our adult New Beginnings class feel important and needed.

A caring man. Often Vic’s questions delved into a personal nature that would let you know he cared about you and your family, but in an unassuming way. The concern he showed others, however, was dwarfed by his love and dedication to his family. With intent, he searched for ways to help Jan and the girls adjust to a world without him in it. Though faced with incredible challenges personally, his greatest concern was for the well-being of his family.

A giving man. Vic’s caring nature was not more evident than in his generosity. From serving as video photographer at various of our family’s celebrations, to loaning a stock trailer so we could move a grand piano to an outdoor stage, to helping extricate Walnut Valley festival campers from the campgrounds as the river rose one year, to donating pumpkins from the McClung pumpkin patch for a Halloween youth party, to leading our church group in numerous projects like helping folks move from one home to another, sponsoring dinners to raise money for missions, and donating the meat for such fundraiser events. The list of McClung generosity goes on and on, to the very last donation of his body to research that would benefit others struggling with ALS.

In short, Vic McClung was a cultivator. He was able to transfer his passion for raising healthy crops and livestock into other areas of life. He cultivated a wonderful, loving family. He cultivated friendships. In his own words, he “cultivated his thought processes” as his questioning led to a deeper understanding of our world. He nurtured the many groups he served, encouraging each of us in those groups to become better people. Vic was a cultivator.

It was a great honor to call this man a friend. His gentle leadership will always be remembered.

What is a Piano Lesson?

On May 21, 2013May 24, 2013 By AnnIn Music and pianos4 Comments

I like to think that anyone who works in a leadership or teaching role with young people is in the business of making memories. In addition to helping our students develop skills, we provide experiences that we hope will make good memories for the rest of their lives. Exactly how does this happen in a piano lesson? Last week’s spring recital reminded me once again the real reasons to teach. Have you ever wondered exactly what parents receive for the lesson tuition paid to a piano teacher?

Certainly, we teach the elements of music. From melody and harmony, to rhythm, tempo, dynamics and music theory, we share an international form of communication with our students. Music notation is one of few things that is consistent worldwide. The notes our students learn will be the very same as those learned all around the world.

We teach techniques specific to mastery of our favorite instrument, the piano. With keyboard choreography (otherwise known as fingering) and articulation styles, we teach young fingers to dance on the keys. We help them coordinate foot pedaling techniques to achieve desired musical effects. But we teach so much more than this. A piano lesson is really a small lesson in life. We cover personality traits like dedication, commitment, perseverance and concentration. We help students learn the value of repetition in the mastery of a difficult task. (Play it again. And again. And yet again.) We help students learn the value of being flexible, and the satisfaction of a job well done. Nothing else can top that feeling.

We share other tidbits about life too. In just a minute or two at the beginning or end of a lesson, I have explained my collection of instruments from around the world, or my collection of rocks and how they were formed. I have discussed the direction of earth’s rotation with students and tiptoed with them to a nest of baby bunnies in my garden. I have even, on occasion, shared my favorite remedy for hiccups.

In return, the students share things with me as well. Through our weekly meetings, we come to know each other well. We develop a relationship that has the potential to become a lifelong friendship. After all, how many other teachers stick by their students season after season, year after year?

I hear about family celebrations. I know where families head for summer vacations, or for the holidays. I know who’s coming to visit and how long they will stay. I know what is planned for birthdays. I hear about good days at school, and bad days as well. I hear about contests won. And contests lost. I receive invitations to participate in the lives of my students. I am invited to school performances, church functions, and community performances. I am invited to participate in school fundraisers, youth club fundraisers, and symphony fundraisers.

I have helped prepare students to perform at weddings; I hold their hands as they deal with the loss of a grandparent—sometimes even the tragic loss of a close friend.

So, sure, we piano teachers serve as teachers. We teach music and the skills needed to play a piano. But relationships with our students, over the years, hold so much more—teacher, coach, cheerleader, confidante, and friend. For me there is no greater reward.

Recital 2013: The calm before the storm.

Recital 2013. Photo by Carl Shultz. — Recital 2013. Creating memories. Photo by Carl Shultz.

Mother’s Day Tribute

On May 12, 2013 By AnnIn Family, My Favorite Giants1 Comment

Last evening my grandson came for an overnight visit. When he finally settled down, he crawled up between his grandpa and me on the sofa. We cuddled a few minutes before he willingly headed to bed. I felt like a link in a chain, a connection between generations, made more poignant because today I’m thinking of my own mother. It’s been a decade since she was here to celebrate Mother’s Day with us.

Helen Peterson was born in 1918, the youngest of Franklin and Mary Peterson’s four beautiful, daughters. When she was five, her father unexpectedly died. The rest of her childhood was marked by hardship and sacrifice. Her mother bravely struggled to raise her family. Many of Helen’s lifelong habits of thrift originated during her childhood as she watched her mother’s efforts to raise her family, a single parent in the twenties and thirties.

I vividly recall her devotion to her own mother. The rest of her youth I sometimes have a hard time imagining. Helen as a young college student frolicking barefoot in the snow—in a swimsuit—I did not know at all. I did not know the young career woman who worked as an engineer at Western Electric, as a physicist at the Naval Research Laboratory in Washington, D.C. during World War II, nor the college physics and mathematics professor. Mother gave up all these phases of her life when she married my Dad in 1950 to become a full-time wife, mother and homemaker. That is the Helen I knew.

Mother did a lot of preserving with garden produce. It became a matter of pride to see how much of a meal could be produced from the seed to the table, especially Thanksgiving dinner. Other dishes which became family traditions include her apple coffee cake, cherry chocolate cake, and pecan pies at the holidays. These became favorites of my own family.

Determined that her daughters would have opportunities she did not have, as well as be exposed to things she had grown to love and appreciate, my sisters and I fell asleep listening to classical music that Mother played at bedtime on the record player. Sometimes she even played her favorite pieces on the piano. We took years of piano lessons. And we rose early to practice before school every morning. For a few months when we were without a piano, she marched us to a neighbor’s house two doors down for our daily practice sessions.

Mother had never learned to roller skate or ride a bike, but she was determined that her daughters would have those experiences. She spent hours running beside us as we learned. We took swimming lessons every summer so that we’d be at ease in the water.

And we traveled. Our folks began to camp with us with we were still toddlers, when my younger sister was still in diapers. This was before the day of disposable diapers. Our camping trips continued as we grew. By the time we left home, we’d enjoyed treks through every state west of the Mississippi River, except California and Hawaii.

Mother loved people. She made two solo treks to England to look up distant relatives during her geneology searches. We were always on the list as a host family whenever any kind of touring group came to our hometown. She participated eagerly in the regional and international foods interest clubs. She enjoyed preparing meals for guests. She would do anything to help people. Being of service in some way was her greatest joy in life.

Mother was rarely sick. She was in remarkably good health most of her life. When she became ill in late 1999, we were quite shocked and expected the worst then. We rallied together, wrote our memories, and . . . she got better. My mother has the unusual distinction of being admitted and released from Hospice care, not once, but twice. She got better and read the thoughts we had jotted down and the obituary notes my Dad had put together. And she corrected them. Red ink all over our memories.

On this Mother’s Day, I remember my own mother with love. She never met my grandson, and he never met her. But I can surely tell him about her and how much she shaped my life. Happy Mother’s Day!

A Letter From My Mother

On May 11, 2013May 12, 2013 By AnnIn Family, Music and pianos, My Favorite Giants1 Comment

I’m convinced that one of the hardest things to do is to switch piano teachers during the formative years. It’s hard on a student. And it’s hard for the new teacher to assess prior skills and develop a rapport with a transfer student. I know this from both a student’s and a teacher’s viewpoint. Recently I stumbled across a letter from my own mother. She wrote in response to a long epistle I had penned as a teenager. I waxed eloquent in my plea to stop my own private study in piano after we moved to a new community. Her letter smacked with impact. I could have written it to my own daughter a few years ago. Since tomorrow is Mother’s Day, I remember Mother with love. Here are her timeless words, from another time and another place.

Dear Daughter,

Last evening while thinking about the situation, I felt your father and I should no longer ask you to take lessons on the piano and resolved to discuss this with him. Upon reading your letter to us this morning, I wondered if your thought waves had influenced my thoughts. If you change your mind at any future date, please let us know; I had hoped that your experience with lessons under an inexperienced person would not preclude all future lessons. But in any case, do return to playing the piano for your own pleasure (and mine) and don’t hold a grudge against Chopin.

There’s little that I can say but to caution you that while you feel you are an adult, you still have much growing and learning to do. You have many “do-it-yourself” interests but I’m sure that after an initial learning stage you may find it wise to turn to someone more skilled or knowledgeable in that interest in order to keep improving. Try to keep an open mind. There are many things or ideas to which you have not been exposed. In the meantime, we should all keep learning and improving in the fields of religion, music, writing, drawing, painting, speaking and personal development. No matter what one’s vocation, life will be richer and more complete because of these experiences.

Yes, darling, we are biased parents—biased in favor of our daughters. But we’re conscious that we have failed you in many ways. We love all of you very much and are proud of you.

Love always, Mother

Life: The Journey Continues

On May 5, 2013May 11, 2013 By AnnIn Writing1 Comment

At a recent writing workshop William Bernhardt asked us to identify three important values in our lives. This being an exercise I had completed in a different chapter of life, my three qualities were easy to list.

I value creativity, both divine and human. My passion for the earth nestles within this category. Additionally my environmental activism, love for wildlife, nature, artistic attempts by my friends and family, music composition, and the process of writing fall under this heading.

I value harmony, in which individual elements fit together pleasantly into a whole. My passion for music and keyboard instruments is included here, of course. But I also list human relations, cooperation, love, honesty, integrity, generosity, service, and commitment.

Third on my list is education, the quality of being a student for life. Openness, a willingness to learn, to explore and to seek new adventure cluster under this heading.

On the rare occasion when facets of all three collide in one place at one time, I feel euphoric. The past weekend at the OWFI annual convention in Norman, Oklahoma was such an event. Opportunities to learn new techniques and consider alternative viewpoints filled the education criterion. Everyone I met, totally involved in the creative process, affirmed my own aspirations. New friendships, laughter, frolics, and plans to meet again created a joyous cloud on which we practically floated home. Education, harmony and creativity—a weekend of bliss.

To have a publisher request to see samples of my writing topped the experience. A new corner has been turned. A new chapter in life has started. Whether the request leads to a published book remains to be seen. For now, I will enjoy the notion that someone wants to see what I have to offer.

Many thanks go to Bill Bernhardt for coaching my pitch and query, as well as instruction on the elements of manuscript creation. Thanks also to my writing friends for reading and offering constructive criticism to polish the words. We are indeed word weavers. The process—the journey—continues! Such is the creative life.

Sanctuary: A Photo Essay

On May 2, 2013May 11, 2013 By AnnIn Earth care, Letters to Septanna, Nature, UncategorizedLeave a comment

“A picture is worth a thousand words”. I wonder how many scenes can be pulled from just one word?

Sanctuary

Sanctuary

Holy

hOly

HoLy

HOLY

Sanctuary

nctuar

y

Sanctuary

sanctuary

reverence

sanctuary

Sanctuary

SANCTUARY

Sanctuary

“A picture is worth a thousand words” but how many scenes can be pulled from just one word?

s a n c t u a r y

sanctuary

SACRED SACRED

SACR SAEEED

SAC R RED

sanctuary

s a n c t u a r y

Sanctuary

s a f e

sanctuary

sanctuary?

courtesy Rebecca McCutcheon, The Winfield Courier

sanctuary?

s-a-n-c-t-u-a-r-y-?

S-A-N-C-T-U-A-R-Y-Y-Y-!!

s-s-s-a-n-k-ch-ch-ch-u-r-e-e-e-e-e

Snt–ay anu–rySnca–y nct r–actr –ntuy ––ncta-tu– r – y

aaghh!

Sanctuary

SaNctuary

Sanctuary

SancTuary

Sanctuary

SanctuaRy

SancYtuary

s-s-s a n c h u r e -E – E !

Sanctuary

Sanctuary

IS IT IS IT IS IT IS IT?

sanc . . . .

SAFE SAFE SAFE

sanc . .sanc . . . .

nc . . . . sanc . . . .BE

sanc SANCtuary. . . .SANCtuary

S A C R E D

S A N C T U A R Y ! ! !

And Jesus went into the temple, and began to cast out those that sold and bought in the temple, ond overthrew the tables of the moneychangers . . . . And he told them, “Is it not written my house shall be called a house of prayer among all nations? But you have made it a den of thieves.” Mark 11: 15, 17

For more information, see

http://www.vjsexoticsafaris.com

http://www.rideforrenewables.com

http://350.org

http://www.tarsandsaction.org

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LpfWCpRvY9c&sns=fb

http://www.winfieldcourier.com/archives/article_e9faf415-cec6-562c-963e-98c3916b12c3.html

Sanctuary (annchristinefell.wordpress.com)

Once there was a Rooster

On March 13, 2013May 11, 2013 By AnnIn Letters to Septanna, Nature2 Comments

Dear Septanna,

Perhaps it was predictable that I should become an environmentalist, an earth-lover, a tree-hugger, defender of Nature from encroaching civilization. I was born in the month of May, the green month. May’s stone is deep green emerald, the color which has always been my favorite. Green represents life, renewal, constancy, dependability. And hope. Green, the cool background color, frames splashes of vivid prairie blossoms during May. Just as the foliage of a wild rose bush catches and holds dew at night, green is a beautiful color, but in a quiet way.

Like me. I’ve always been a quiet person. Public appearances never come easily to me. I am much more comfortable alone on my prairie, pen and notebook in hand, dogs panting happily at my feet after a run through the native pasture. The only sounds I hear besides their panting are wind whistling through bare branches on the trees surrounding our nearly-dry pond, and the screech of a hawk circling high above our heads.

Gentle and kind-hearted, I wouldn’t hurt a flea. Well, maybe a flea. But you get the idea. I am the calm greenness surrounding today’s flashy and assertive personalities.

So what happens when my prairie is in peril from the short-sighted choices of billions of people? What can I do to shake my fellow humans awake? You wouldn’t think there’d be much a timid, background sort of person could do. Those who have great wealth seem to possess the power on our planet today. They seem to be seduced by the prospects of even greater profits and will wield significant influence to exploit our finite planetary resources for short-term gain. At your expense, dear Septanna. But what can one shy grandmother do about it?

Just when I feel all is lost, I recall the rooster. And I find hope.

Once there was this rooster.He was supposed to be a hen, an araucana hen, no less. He should have laid eggs with pastel green shells. Several years ago I bought three araucana pullets for the novelty of having green eggs. Two of those pullets turned out to be roosters. There was only one hen. Pullets are supposed to be female chicks so all three should have laid eggs.

Somebody made a mistake. Twice.

As these two roosters grew, they began to crow. One turned aggressive. He terrorized his brother, his sister, and every other hen in our chicken house.

I exiled him to fend for himself outside the chicken yard. You may be wondering why I didn’t just make some chicken noodle soup. Well, that’s me—prisoner of my own soft heart, I was incapable of harming this fighting cock. I couldn’t kill this rooster. But I wouldn’t have stopped a coyote from hauling him off. He was exiled. He paced the chicken yard perimeter day after day, month after month, even (yes) year after year. He plotted in his wee bird brain how he might gain access to the hens again.

I’d scatter some grain for him every morning—couldn’t let him starve either. But I wasn’t going to let him terrorize my hens.

So he charged me. Imagine that! I was the person who let him live, the provider of his daily food. But he charged me. He seemed to wait until I turned my back and, with a rush of feet across the ground and a flurry of wings, he launched himself toward my legs, spurs outstretched.

I took to carrying a child’s plastic bat with me to do chores. If I thumped the bat on the ground as I approached, he seemed to get the message. He left me alone. Most of the time.

There were still instances when I heard the rush and thunder of his charge behind me. Then some interesting things happened inside me. My heart rate jumped to double in about two seconds. I’d turn toward this fighting cock, raise that bat and swing with all my might. No thought process was involved, simply act and react, a mere instinct to fight my aggressor. On more than one occasion, the bat connected squarely with this rooster’s head. I knocked him silly. He’d stagger around and slump to the ground, quivering and jerking in spasms.

I felt instant remorse. “Oh my God, I’ve killed him!” I thought. As if that would be a bad thing. For me, though, kind-hearted timid little me, it was a bad thing. I dropped the bat and retreated to a safe distance. I watched until he struggled to his feet and dragged himself around the corner of the hen house.

Eventually this rooster met his fate, but not at my hands. However, because of his aggression, I learned that somewhere deep inside of me, I have the instincts and the adrenaline to fight when I feel threatened. I think that’s applicable to our world today, Septanna. My intuition tells me that many of the choices made by my fellow human beings pose a threat—not just to me, not just to my prairie, but to you as well. And there’s nothing more dangerous than an angry mother, be it a bear or a human being. Maybe it’s time to start carrying my bat again and fight for you in every way I can imagine.

Letters to Septanna

On March 12, 2013 By AnnIn Letters to Septanna4 Comments

Contemporary American culture is notoriously short-sighted. We can’t see beyond the tips of our noses, or into the next hour, let alone the next century. Gratification must be instant–because after all, we deserve it.

Yet there is a growing need to evaluate our lifestyle choices for the consequences forced onto unborn generations. Native Americans put it this way, “In our every deliberation, we must consider the impact of our decisions on the next seven generations.” (From the Great Law of the Iroquois confederacy.)

Just how long would that be? It would vary from family to family, of course, but in my own, seven generations covers about 200 years. Could my great- ancestors-times-seven have imagined life in the twenty-first century? I doubt it. Nor can I visualize everyday life in the year 2213. But perhaps there will live a child two hundred years hence, the great-granddaughter of my yet non-existent great-grandchild. She’s the thread of an idea right now, but I’ll call her Septanna. “Sept” for seven and “Anna” for my progeny. What would I tell Septanna about life in my time?

This new category will include letters to the twenty-third century.