Mulch Anyone?

So ... Santa Barbara County offers free mulch and I needed some for my new raised-bed planter box, so I ordered some. The mulch guy told me the minimum order was 8 yards. Real men do not hesitate and carefully do the math, so I did the math quickly... and got it wrong. I thought I was ordering a pile of mulch 8 feet square and 1 foot high. Somehow, however, I got feet confused with yards. Boy did I ever!

Early Tuesday morning our street began to tremble as this HUGE dump truck rumbled toward our house. Ten minutes and one dumbfounded signature later there was a pile of mulch in my driveway ... 8 cubic yards of the mucky stuff. That's a pile six feet square by six feet high, or 216 cubic feet, three and a half times more than I really needed.

And it is decaying, or composting, warm mulch that smells like Eucalyptus trees and steer manure, from as far away as the bend in our cul du sac! One neighbor dropped by to say she really likes the smell. The other neighbors have said nothing (to me, that is).

So Jeff and I have been shoveling mulch into wheelbarrows and wheeled garbage cans in the early mornings and evenings and distributing it all over the top half acre of our property. Who knows, maybe the property values around here will drop as a result and our kids can afford to move in. 

Pain: Weakness Leaving Your Body

I saw the above title on a tee shirt last Saturday. I am not sure it is true, but it seemed to work for me today on the last three holes at Ocean Meadows Golf Club. I was terrible on the first six, but redeemed myself a bit thereafter, actually driving as far as son Jeff twice and making some commendable second and third shots from the fairway (as opposed to crummy shots from the rough). What could have made the difference? Well, for one thing, my legs felt like lead weights, my feet were killing me and I was generally out of breath. I was in pain, but was a stronger golfer. Don't get me wrong ... the word "stronger" in this context is pretty relative.  I didn't enter my score at the end of the round  because 1) the scorecard only accommodated two-digit numbers; and 2) I was ashamed.  Jeff carded three over par.

Enduring to the End, Happily

I can count thirty-one times in latter-day scripture where saints are constrained to “endure to the end.” The promised results of such endurance are glorious: we shall overcome; be lifted up, saved, blessed, and held guiltless; we will enjoy the remission of our sins, and shall inherit eternal life, receiving thrones and dominions. 

We are also told throughout scripture “to rejoice” and be happy, filled with joy. And well we should, given the reasons: the love of God, the plan of salvation, the Atonement of Jesus Christ, the blessings of the Gospel and eternal families.

I often struggle a bit to put these two gospel concepts together, probably because the modern definition of the word “endure” does not seem to me to be consistent with “rejoicing” as I understand the word.

Endure - verb

1 - to undergo (as a hardship) especially without giving in: suffer <endured great pain>

2 - to regard with acceptance or tolerance endure noisy crowds>

3 - to remain firm under suffering or misfortune without yielding endure>

 

Rejoice – verb intransitive

1 - to feel joy

2 - to experience gladness in a high degree

3 - to have pleasurable satisfaction

4 - to be delighted.

 

Not to worry, however, for my story has a happy ending. Yesterday, I discovered a better definition for this scriptural kind of endurance. It was furnished by one of our latter-day apostles who said, “ … in order to reap eternal salvation, [we] must press forward in obedient devotion to the truth until [we] make [our] calling and election sure …” (McConkie, Mormon Doctrine, pp. 216-217.) This gets me out of my dilemma. I like pressing forward in obedient devotion to the truth. Yes, I do.

 

$55 a Tank - No Kidding

Today we filled up the Avalon. The gas gauge had been in the red zone for several miles so it took 14.6 gallons to top off the tank. The tab was $55.71. I could hardly believe it, but it was true. More than $50 ... a half a hundred. As if to assuage my astonishment, there was a small note printed on the bottom of the receipt stating, "You saved $0.03 per gallon." I think that is because we are full-fledged members of Vons' Club, whatever that is. I have never been to a meeting of this so-called club, paid any dues or elected any officers, or anything like that, but, Gosh! today I saved the tidy sum of forty-three cents. I feel so much better.

We Are Not Alone

It was 3:00 a.m. Our room was dark, as it ought to be, or was it? Something else shared the room with us. From every corner tiny lights glowed and glimmered. I counted 19 of them ... red, green, amber and blue ... ubiquitous, silent, waiting.  

They were our LED's (light-emitting diodes) that adorn every electronic device that we own. They tell us that the device is either working or on stand-by, waiting for a mouse click or other switch to summon the device into its intended action, a call to serve as it were. Our LED's are here to stay, a presumptive, primal part of this generation of technology. The only way I know to to render them lightless is to power them down at the end of each day. But then we have to power them all up again in the morning ... all 19 of them. I guess we'll just share our room.

I Also Like Crab Legs

I have seen and passed up King Crab on many menus in my day, but today was different. I didn't know that I really even liked King Crab Legs, but when Maureen and I dropped in at the local Enterprise Fish Company for a late lunch and noticed that they were today's special, I decided to be adventurous: One and a half pounds for $30. I asked our server if Maureen and I could share an order. She said we could. That brought the cost of our lunch to $15 each ... not as winceable as $30 apiece. Soon a very large platter arrived at our table, bigger than the one in the picture here, laden to overflowing with huge crab legs, a bowl of cole slaw and a cup of drawn butter. We got bibs, extra large napkins, two shell cracking tools and tiny forks. What a delight! (I'd have said 'gastronomical' delight, but I don't know how to spell it.) The meal took us an hour to eat. Every bite was scrumptious.  I am indebted to my wife for her spur-of-the-moment suggestion that we do the EFC before our SBCC class. Thanks, Mo!

I Like Grits!

I really do! I like them more than Cream of Wheat. I like them more than Quaker Oats. I like them more (but not much more) than steel-cut oats. I cook my grits with raisins, brown sugar and a generous slather of "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter." I usually do not add milk. I always make two servings. That is because if Brian Steck happened to be in the neighborhood, I would share my grits with him. But he's usually not in the neighborhood, so I eat both servings myself.  As you can see, this morning I added a sausage patty, some canned pear slices and fresh-squeezed orange juice. It was delicious! And to add to the eye appeal, I served my breakfast in Maureen's Portmerion China that she purchased in The Potteries.