With wheels screeching, this blog is taking a drastic turn into another direction. Blog post after blog post has been a menagerie of different post, ideas, suggestions, and devotions. I have tried to blog in order to help others grow and learn. (I have started another website which will host over 35 years of my sermon notes, handouts, and studies I have taught. I will publish the website in a few weeks.)
But, now my writing will be centered on different experiences and events I have enjoyed throughout my life from my childhood to present. Maybe no one will read them, but I will enjoy writing and hopefully my children and grandchildren will one day smile and remember.
I read one of the most profound statements in a book on ancestry. The author said, “Most memories die with the person because they are not written down.”
How sad I know very little about my great, great grandparents other than their birth date, marriage date, and death! Nothing was written down about their lives. I hope these writings will leave something for my children to remember and enjoy.
Case of the broken stein:
When I was about 8 years old, Robert 10, Felicia 6, and Ricky 2, mother had a large stein she had painted and fired in ceramic class she was attending. When she brought it home, it was enormous and very colorful and decorative. She placed it on the floor just outside the kitchen in the living room.
If my memory serves me correctly, it was sitting on the carpet very near the kitchen door. When you came in the front door, you walked through the living room into the kitchen and out the other side to the den. Someone running through the house probably kicked the stein causing it to break. Just surmising as to what might have happened since I did not see what happened.
While holding the broken stein, Mother rounded up her four children and interrogated us as to who broke her stein. No one confessed. No one cracked under the pressure of the interrogation. Mother heard from her four children “It wasn’t me.”
Even to this day, fifty something years later, no one admits to breaking her ceramic stein. Not a single one of us is willing to admit to committing the dastardly deed of breaking the beautiful, colorful ceramic stein she spent hours painting and firing.
All I can confess is this, “I know for a fact it was not me!”
The mystery of who broke the stein will probably go to the grave with the guilty party. I am just glad it wasn’t me.
Maybe it was the ghost “Not Me” who committed a lot of mischief in that little house on Sunset street.
Did your house have the ghost, “Not Me”, running around like mine did?