More Lia videos

Curse you shiny glare! A decent part of the days leading up to the wedding were spent looking for a good, fair-sized monitor for showcasing our daughter and son-in-law in slides. We ended up using our old television (I think Urg carved it out of granite right after he finished his prototype for the wheel; feels like it, anyway). After we got it set up it was clear that it wasn’t clear; everything was obscured by the reflection of the beautiful flowers in the garden. It’s hard to curse the flowers so I’ll curse the light. Anyway, I’ve included the slideshows below for your entertainment.
Kyle and Lia from birth to ‘tween years

Kyle and Lia from their ‘tween years to couple-hood.

And a bonus clip just for fun.

Engagement photos

As you can guess, things have been a bit crazy around here lately. Right now, my eyes are spinning counter-clockwise while Judy’s are spinning clockwise, which means that we can still look deeply into each other’s correspondingly spinny eyes and say: “Why did we have kids?”

But as I was looking back through our family pictures to harvest photos for Lia’s slideshow, I remembered. And for those of you who can’t be there, or who want a sneak peak, here is one that I put together from the engagement photos that Rob took (isn’t he great?).

The secret life of rocks

Last summer we finally made some changes at our house. As you probably have observed (as I’m sure our neighbors have), I don’t really enjoy yard work. It’s not that I don’t like being outside or that I don’t particularly like physical labor (okay, maybe that has something to do with it), it has more to do with inertia and the fear of getting into a project and ending up over my head. I’ve found that if I start thinking my way through the steps that it doesn’t seem so bad and I might, but by then I’ve thought myself into a nap (and that feels so much nicer and I don’t need a shower afterward).
Anyway, Judy started insisting that we make some changes with the landscape in front of our house. We thought it over, made some drawings, and looked at options. We decided on enhancing the current grass motif with a rock garden/desert motif. Just as I was settling down into going-over-the-steps mode, Judy said, “Well, let’s go.” She obviously didn’t understand that I was still processing the steps; she was ready to get the rocks and I hadn’t even closed my eyes yet. Forty-five minutes later we were wallowing down I-15 in Dad’s truck (he likes cool cars, but I don’t think he ever envisioned his truck as a low-rider, and fortunately he wasn’t around to witness it). By the end of the day, we had a layer of rocks snaking up the side of our front stairs, taking care of that patch in the front yard that would always brown in the summer.
 
So, here you see our rocks; stream bed leading from the down spout; drought-tolerant, native plants; and rustic, period lamp post. Now Judy’s only concern was that the neighborhood kids would walk off with all of our pretty rocks. Yeah, right. As if.
Well, our rocks haven’t exactly walked off, but it does appear that they have walked. Now, I’ve studied biology and seriously don’t remember rocks being classified with a genus and family. Hindus, I’m pretty sure, don’t lay awake at night worrying about returning as a chunk of granite in some ornamental garden. But these rocks move! I’m constantly returning rocks of all sizes from their excursions into the gutter or onto the lawn, although that doesn’t surprise me too much. But I took literally minutes positioning larger rocks carefully selected random spots, only to have them change places with other rocks.
One day, I caught them in the act. The beauty of our front window is not that we have an unfettered and superior view of our neighbor’s front window, it’s that we can view nature as it happens naturally around us without having to go outside. I was thus observing one morning (probably just starting through the steps of the next big project I needed to avoid) when two neighbor girls, around 3 or 4 years old, wandered into our yard and right up ONTO our newly planted rocks! They proceeded to consider my streambed and random accent stones. They would pick one up, examine it from all angles, and then carefully place it down somewhere else, as though tucking it into its rightful bed. They then started rearranging my streambed, as though they knew better what a randomly placed, naturally occurring streambed should look like.
I know the proper technique for discouraging cats and dogs from decoration my lawn (and through years of experience have learned to do it without breaking windows), but I don’t think that it’s the same technique to use on little girls. “Scat!” doesn’t seem appropriate, somehow. So I let them continue with their rearrangement, knowing that I could remedy their amateur arrangements later when they weren’t looking. Judy is a bit wiser, however, and fell upon the perfect plan: she committed the girls to police the rock garden and prevent other girls from messing with it.
Still, my rocks wander daily. I wonder if they dream.

The tornado in Tuscaloosa

Back when Judy and I were first married, the Gulf War broke out (it had nothing to do with our marriage, I think). CNN was still new and all of the networks wanted to make sure that they weren’t scooped, so they each were showing around the clock coverage. Although we stayed up until 2 AM watching the reports, we weren’t any more informed than we would have been reading the paper in the morning. In fact, most of the reports presented were speculative and premature. The storylines were still playing out and needed more complete vetting and composition before it would be ready. I would have been better off sleeping.

The nature of breaking news was brought home Wednesday night when Judy’s brother Darrell called and asked if we had been following the reports of the tornado that had gone through Tuscaloosa. Judy has family (her mother and sister) and friends in the area and so we were instantly concerned. Judy tried calling her mom (Marilyn) several times but didn’t get an answer, so we were instantly concerned and turned to the news. (For those of you unwilling to read this long post, Marilyn and James her husband are fine.)

The media has changed a lot since the early 90s, and so have we. Now, instead of turning to the TV (ours isn’t even connected) we turned to the Internet. 20 years ago, we would have to rely on whatever news the major networks would provide. Because of the locale, the size of the storm, and number of tornadoes, the news was broad and didn’t give the detail that we wanted. So we ended up filtering our own news from smaller sources; one of the best was a University of Alabama sports message board. The drawback is finding those smaller sources in the first place and then filtering their content for something useful.

We got the news from Darrell round 9:00, five or 6 hours after the tornado had gone through. Because we couldn’t reach anybody in Tuscaloosa, we relied on the reports of which areas were affected. The sports board focused on landmarks important to Alabama alumni. First and foremost: the tornado went close to the stadium, but there was no damage (communal sigh of relief)! Next, Taco Casa, Krispy Kreme, and some barbecue place were completely destroyed. 15th street was a shambles. The tornado destroyed part of the mall. Most of the student housing was fine. What that meant to us was that the tornado’s path was close to Judy’s mom’s house, but we didn’t know how close. If the tornado followed 15th street, she would probably not be affected. Some reports implied that it followed 15th out of town, so we were hopeful. It was now getting past 10:00 pm.

Tuscaloosa News apparently had photographers and reporters on the scene soon after the tornado had left the area. We looked through the pictures and were amazed at the destruction from the storm. In one picture we saw a beat-up street sign and looked up the intersection on Google maps. It was south of campus, well away from Marilyn’s house. Krispy Kreme and the other businesses, however, were somewhat closer. We kept going through photos and found a few more landmarks that we couldn’t identify, then we found another damaged street sign: University Avenue. Marilyn’s house is between 15th and University. Our hearts sunk a little.

All through this, Judy continued to try to get in contact with her mother with no success. She did finally contact a friend of hers who lives in Northport, just across the river from Tuscaloosa. It was late, however, and she couldn’t do much for us. We also understood that electricity and phone were out in most of the city and many cell towers were also affected.

Finally we started calling hospitals in the area. Considering the HIPAA laws, I thought they were very cooperative, but they didn’t have any record Marilyn or James; they might not have been entered into the computer and we should call back in the morning. The police station didn’t answer the phone.

Now we were desperate for information, but there just wasn’t any more to be found, so Judy suggested that we start mapping out the places we could identify. We printed out a map from Google and started marking the places we could identify from the pictures in the Tuscaloosa news. We marked Forest Lake, Krispy Kreme, Big Lots, Hobby Lobby, and Druid City Hospital. Each place was closer to Marilyn’s house. Then we saw a sign for a Physical Therapy office and looked it up: less than half a mile from her house. Another street sign was in the same area. By that time it was 1:00 am and we were out of leads. We couldn’t reach Marilyn and there was nothing more we could do, so we went to bed.

In the morning, we did our best to get the kids off to school and I went to work. Judy was immediately on the Internet and the phone trying to contact her mother and answering questions from family and friends. Her friend, Jan called and let her know that they would go to the house and see how it was. Still no word from Marilyn.

I went to work, but spent my time searching the Internet to see if there was anything new. I finally found a video of a flyover of the area. The first time through I didn’t recognize any landmarks until Forest Lake. When it came up, I realized that Marilyn’s area would be at the beginning of the video. I went back to the beginning and noticed a plaza that should be identifiable on a map. I looked it up on Google and found the location. I continued with that until I could predict where I might see her house. I went back and forth a few times until I saw it about a minute into the video. It was grainy and pixelated, but it was definitely the location I was looking for. I took a screen shot of it and sent it to Judy.

I called Judy. She opened the email and opened the image. As you can tell, it’s not very good quality. The house is highlighted in the red box. Apparently, the tornado went almost directly over the house. Judy broke down, and I realized that she would probably need me at home. I wasn’t going to get anything done at work anyway, so I left.

It takes me about 10 minutes to drive home from work. When I walked in the front door, Judy was on the phone and crying, but not because she was sad. Jan’s husband had located the house and didn’t have much hope because of how it looked. A policeman was in the area and asked if the house was his. LeGrand told him whose it was and the officer looked them up on a database and found them. He was able to contact them and they were safe. LeGrand told Judy that they had gotten out before the storm and found safety at a shelter.

As I said at the beginning, news continues to change as it is still fresh. We didn’t get the story from Marilyn until later that day, and it didn’t match what we were initially told. Here’s the email that Judy sent out to here family:

Dear family,
I'm afraid I gave out some misinformation earlier because I was trying to fit pieces together with limited information.
Okay, so I finally got to talk with Mom for more than a minute. Evidently when Jan went to get Mom she just stayed there with her where her house had been, helping her see what was left. Here's what I understood from mom:
Mom (Grandma, Aunt Marilyn) came home Wednesday afternoon very tired. She went to sleep and the phone kept ringing and she kept lifting it up and hanging it up because she was tired. Finally she answered it and it was someone from DCH taking a survey. She hung it up and went to talk to James. As she entered the room the storm hit. James was lifted up in his chair as the house started to twist and the windows started cracking and Mom went face down on the floor and "lumber" started to cover her up.  As the room twisted James fell out of the chair (which was a few feet in the air) and it fell on top of him. He said "where are you?" Mom said "get this lumber off of me".

James pulling boards off of her. Their house was gone, except for the bathroom and part of the back room. "If I'da stayed in my bedroom I'd been dead!" she told me. Their shed and carport were gone. Nearly everything around them was leveled and she could see a long ways because the buildings were down. The windows were blown out of their truck, the tires were flat and it was pinned in by fallen trees. The car was upside down.
The man across the street took mom by the arm and said "come on we gotta go" and they were taken to the basement of the Methodist church across the street. There they met some people who drove them around in their vehicle with no windows until they found a place to sleep. They were turned away from two places but the third gave them and the people driving them each a room. The power was out at all the hotels but the Hilton took them in. They were given BBQ to eat and plenty of water and juice. Also, the people who brought them gave them a loaf of bread a big package of  wieners to eat on the way to the room.  They were allowed to sleep there for free last night, but have to pay tonight.

James has some cuts on his head and mom has a black place on her leg but nothing is broken. Her hand is bruised up. She hasn't talked to the insurance companies yet but plans to tomorrow with Ellen (who is on her way there right now with Amy and Mathew).

Of course Mom has already made some good friends there at the Hilton. They're here from Jackson, Mississippi. They've been really helpful providing rides form Mom and James.
Hope this clears things up a bit.

The attached pictures are courtesy of my dear friend, Jan Hutchison, who sent them to me on facebook. Jan, her husband LeGrand, her son Garrett, his wife Rhada, and their friend Will Johnson were a big help to mom and James today.

Setting the record straight

I was catching up on my family today through blog posts. I’m not very good at keeping in touch and so I’m usually the last to know anything. So, to find out what my family is up to I check their blogs. I’m sure you haven’t noticed, but I don’t post blogs often. Life is too hectic to take time to write about it, and my life hasn’t been blog-worthy for a while now.

Today I caught up on my sister’s blog and now I feel I need to add my version of history. There is more than one of my siblings who enjoy buttermilk. I’ve enjoyed buttermilk since I was a kid. My dad used to indulge at dinnertime on occasion and I, eager to solidify my place in the family, would join in. (I’m coming close to cementing my claim of Dad’s favorite middle son; I think I’m getting close) At that time, we would add salt for flavor. I don’t know if he still does, but I now drink it straight. So, Rae Anne is not the only child to obtain the buttermilk gene.

Because of the cost, we don’t constantly stock buttermilk. We buy it primarily for buttermilk pancakes, and often don’t have it at all. Lia was about 6 when she finally decided to give that funny-looking thick milk a try. I let her know it was good. Judy tried to warn her it was nasty. Being an independent spirit, she decided to . . . um . . . decide for herself. Her reaction was a bit like my nephew Spencer’s reaction: with contorted face she claimed, “It’s yucky . . . and yummy!” Her genes kicked in (she gets it through both the Christensen and Wheat sides {recessive in Judy}) and has become a buttermilk lover. When she is home and we have buttermilk in the refrigerator, we remind her that it is liquid gold and reserved for breakfast ingredients, but we’ll let her have some when we need a favor.

Ethan also enjoys buttermilk. He didn’t have a good quote like Lia; he just always enjoyed it. So I’ve passed it on at least twice.

So, this post is a really a veiled message to Grandpa Christensen that he cannot award the favorite grandchild award yet, because there are others who share his buttermilk passion.

Local Honey

yellow jacket: Any of 35–40 species (genus Dolichovespula or Vespula) of social wasps, principally of the Northern Hemisphere, named for the black bands on its yellow abdomen. Vespula species build concealed nests underground or in protected cavities; when a nest is stepped on, the colony may erupt in an angry, stinging swarm. (Encyclopedia Brittanica, www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/652626/yellow-jacket)

Back in July of 2009, Jenny and her kids were visiting. I was sitting in the kitchen when Kyle and Tyson came in from the deck crying. Not only were they crying, they were yelping because they were being repeatedly stung. They ended up with three or four stings each. While Judy tended to their stings, I was sent out to locate the bees nest and take care of the threat. I scouted out the back yard and finally located a bee. I followed it across the yard until it headed over the fence. I’m not good at going over fences, so it was fortunate that I had been fixing it (in other words, had torn it down and left the remnants on the ground until I could work up the motivation to put it back up semi-straight).

bee: (tribe Apini), any of a group of insects in the family Apidae (order Hymenoptera) that in a broad sense includes all bees that make honey. In a stricter sense, honeybee applies to any one of four members of the genus Apis—and usually only the single species, Apis mellifera, the domestic honeybee. This species is also called the European domestic bee or the western honeybee.(Encyclopedia Brittanica, www.britannica.com/bps/search?query=european+honey+bee)

As I approached the fence, I noticed that there were more bees buzzing around. Across the fence, they were crawling up into the eaves of our neighbors’ empty house. They didn’t seem that upset, however, and they were all the way on the other end of the deck. Besides, these looked a lot like honeybees, not hornets (which we all erroneously refer to as “bees” because . . . I don’t know why we do that).

Anyway, I kept searching until I found a hornets nest under our deck. Feeling brave, I went to the store and bought a can of industrial strength insecticide and emptied its contents on the 2-inch nest. Mission accomplished. However, there was still that bee hive next door.

Agriculture depends greatly on the honeybee for pollination. Honeybees account for 80% of all insect pollination. Without such pollination, we would see a significant decrease in the yield of fruits and vegetables. (Back Yard Beekeepers Association, www.backyardbeekeepers.com/facts.html)

“If the bee disappears from the surface of the earth, man would have no more than four years to live." ~ Albert Einstein

You’ve heard, of course, about the colony-collapse syndrome that has been plaguing honeybees lately. I had, so Judy and I decided to call our neighbor and suggest he call a beekeeper to relocate the hive. He agreed with us but didn’t know any, so he asked Judy if she could locate one. Of course she could, so she scheduled with a 12-year-old in our area who had recently bought a beekeeping business from an imminently-leaving missionary.

Because this was the 12-year-old’s first attempt to relocate a hive, the soon-to-be missionary came along as well. They took a look at the house brought out their equipment, and donned their traditional protective suits. Our neighbors had moved from their house a couple of months previous to this incident, so we were the contacts to the beekeepers. Fortunately, I hadn’t decided yet to rebuild my fence, so there was easy access to our yard and any equipment they might need from us. We quickly established an observation point about 15 yards.

They borrowed a couple of crowbars and pulled down the soffit to locate the hive. 

Now that they could see what they were up against, they had to decide on a plan of action. To move a hive, all you really have to do is move the queen. So locate the queen, move her to a box, and the rest of the bees will follow.

The queen bee can live up to 5 years and is the only bee that lays eggs. She is the busiest in the summer months, when the hive needs to be at its maximum strength, and lays up to 2500 eggs per day. (Back Yard Beekeepers Association, www.backyardbeekeepers.com/facts.html)

The process took a long time and gathered quite an audience. The beekeepers had limited space to work in where the hive was, so it took them quite a while. In the mean time, we peppered them with questions and learned a few things about bees. At one point, the younger beekeeper came by and put this bee on my hand.

Larger than the worker bees, the male honey bees (also called drones), have no stinger and do no work at all. All they do is mating.

Only worker bees sting, and only if they feel threatened and they die once they sting. Queens have a stinger, but they don’t leave the hive to help defend it. (Back Yard Beekeepers Association, www.backyardbeekeepers.com/facts.html)

This was obviously a drone. We were bonding. There was also plenty of honeycomb to go around.

Soon, however, the sun started going down and the audience dispersed. We hung around because we don’t have anything better to do and helped out. It started getting dark, so I went and grabbed my shop light from the garage and held it up for the beekeeper as he scraped out the honeycomb.

It didn’t take long till I felt something on my arm. Being the he-man that I described earlier, I shook violently. The bee flew away and the bulb went out. It took two more incandescent bulbs and a bee sting before I resorted to a compact fluorescent bulb and rolled up my sleeves.

Work was going slowly, so the beekeeper finally decided to vacuum out the bees. He borrowed our carpet cleaner that has the clear bucket. I was hoping that some of the bees might be saved that way, but it didn’t look very promising.

He finally finished and we washed wax and honey from all of our stuff. He gave us a few combs and instructed us how to extract and filter the honey.

We boiled it, and strained it, and boiled it, and strained it, and put it in bottles. You can come over and try it if you’d like. The one thing we didn’t do is centrifuge it (couldn’t find our centrifuge) so there are a few bee parts in it. But it tastes really good.

The TP Dilemma

Public restrooms are an interesting place, not that I care to spend that much time there. But as I age, I find that biology has a way of placing me there for extended periods on a regular basis. There’s something to be thankful for in that.

Before my Clie days, it would give me time to ponder on the minutiae of my existence. Deep questions, such as, “Should the toilet paper roll out over the top or from below?”, or “How did they get that on there, anyway?”, or “If someone is on his cell phone, is it impolite for me to flush?” (this last one I resolved by determining that if he [it’s always a “he” for some reason] feels that his conversation is public enough for a restroom, then he shouldn’t be embarrassed by any ambient noises; I flush with impugnity).

The first two perplexed my for years. When I discovered how to change the rolls in restroom of my workplace, I would often change it to my preferred arrangement: over the top. It made sense to me: the soft, quilted design is embossed so that it shows when the paper rolls from the top, not the bottom. For years, I felt that was all the explanation that I needed. Recently, I discovered differently.

A week ago I was doing a search on “paper” to find a graphic for a flyer for Judy. Among all of the photos of paper of different sizes, textures, and grades was the following illustration.

I was intrigued.  Someone actually took the time not only to look into the mechanics of toilet paper roll placement, he also made a graphic to illustrate the tearing action and result! In fact, there is a complete article on it, including a second illustration, at http://www.treehugger.com/files/2008/07/green_your_toil.php. I can’t vouch for the site, but I don’t want to neglect citing my source.

Believe it or not, this wasn’t my discovery. It happened while I was at work, in the restroom (to clarify, the restroom was at work; I wasn’t working in the restroom). Where I work, the toilet paper rolls don’t have a tube in the middle. Instead, the roll is tightly wound all the way from the center. That means, by the time the roll is down to the last few feet, the roll resembles a fat, squiggly white worm shedding its skin. Obviously, by the time it  gets to that point, nobody wants to handle it, let alone spend the time unraveling it. The other day as I entered the stall I found one of those remnants dangling disrespectfully, albeit artfully, from the handicap support bar. But I digress.

The toilet paper holder has a nub on each side that extend about 1/4 inch into the center of the roll. It’s loose enough that the roll turns when pulled without breaking the paper prematurely. Overall, it puts more paper on the roll so it doesn’t need to be changed as often. It works until the roll devolves to the “worm phase,” when it falls off and either gets desparately unraveled or disposed of. Ingenious, really. I like ingenious.

Well, on this particular day, the roll was not quite at worm stage. Unfortunately, it was positioned for the below-the-roll delivery. I didn’t attempt to correct it because for this particular system removing the roll can be difficult. Besides, I’ve matured past that stage. In fact I thought nothing of it until it was time to leave. My first pull proved that the roll was a bit stiff in its holder. On the second, harder pull, the roll jumped from the holder and fell to the floor. Now, because it was unrolling from the bottom, the roll was spinning so that when it hit the floor it would continue rolling, or unrolling, in the direction of the holder, which was placed on the divider between the two stalls. Its velocity took it underneath the divider to a stop mid stall, between the feet of my neighbor. It sat there, a paper trail flowing behind it, much like a snail’s trail but with not so much mucous.

So what do you do in that situation? I waited. My schooling didn’t cover this. But I had to say something.

“Do you need any toilet paper?” I offered.

Pause.

“No, I’m good.”

I thought of trying to retrieve the roll, but was afraid that with each tug on the tail, the roll would unwind and roll further into my companion’s stall.

“Sorry about that.” I offered in my most conciliatory tone.

Pause.

“No worries.”

I finished what I was doing and left him to take care of my stray roll, trusting that if I said no more that I might retain what precarious anonymity a bathroom stall ensures. What else could I do? But now I have my justification. It goes beyond aesthetics. It goes beyond saving paper. It’s about saving face.