A Mottern Miracle

James T. Mottern, Jr.

1944 - 2014

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Some people are destined to be unforgettable. Jim Mottern was one of those people. His obituary states that he "cherished God and country," and I know for a fact that he did indeed do that. But wait. There's more.

Speaking of forgetting: He had forgotten more about photography than I'll ever know, yet he was kind enough to "talk camera" with me when I could still only dream of owning a DSLR.

In fact, the first Nikon DSLR I held in my hand belonged to Mr. Jim. (I'd been working with a Nikon, but it was a point-and-shoot.) And yes, he let me focus it out the window of his studio, and even press the shutter release. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

On the Christmas Day I opened my Nikon D3100, a gift from my husband and my children, before the wrappings hit the floor I was on the phone to Jim and Donna.

I knew they wouldn't mind my calling on Christmas. I was crying for joy and excitement and they shed a few tears of happiness too. (At least, I know Donna did.) They understood the emotion of the moment, and they rejoiced with me.

Mr. Jim was not the type to sugar-coat anything. Nevertheless, he knew what mattered and he never minimized the potency of dreams. I think that's why I liked him so much.

That, and his cooking. On the day in October of 2010 when I first had the pleasure of visiting with Jim and Donna in their East Tennessee cottage, Grey Havens, he made us a bodacious salad that featured almonds he'd toasted in the microwave.

He taught me how to do that, and I still toast those almonds exactly like Mr. Jim did. It may not sound like much to you but it's much to me. And yes; there's a trick to it.

The last time I talked to Mr. Jim, it was by phone. He wasn't sick yet, and like always, we talked camera. He helped me by not necessarily rubber-stamping my every inclination. He was honest and forthright.

My kind of people.

I'm grateful for all the good -- and even a few of the not-as-good -- things that these years of blogging have brought me. I haven't deserved any of the benefits but I am fiercely protective of them.

Nobody who does not lovingly tend a blog is able to understand what the friendships -- yes; genuine friendships -- formed through it, are really like. They're special.

The folks I have met (and a few I haven't) as a result of sharing the experience of blogging -- as well as having other interests in common -- have enriched my life in ways I'm not sure even I, with all my many ready words, could fully describe.

Jim and Donna have been a large part of that for many years. They've listened and never made me feel as though I owed them anything in return. (That's huge.) They've encouraged me and they've challenged me. I am forever in their debt.

Mr. Jim was so proud of his wife, his beloved Donna. She'd taken up photography later than most and became an instant artist with a talent so original, he told me he could pick out her photos in a lineup, if he had to. He was as passionate about what he loved as he was unpretentious about everything else.

They were enthusiastic globetrotters, and they'd hoped to see more of the world together. It's not to be, but there is a trove of memories I know Donna will process and share in time. She lost her mother only weeks ago, and now this blow, on the day after Christmas.

It's hard to imagine the depth of her grief, so we give her to the One Who knows.

Miz Donna, faithful friend, photography maven, proprietress of Cottage Days and Journeys, and now widow of an extraordinary man whom I know you'll miss every moment of every day, I offer my condolences -- along with my friendship and love, and my gratitude for all that you and your husband shared with me. I haven't said it enough.

You and Mr. Jim were a great team, and that hasn't changed. You will always be a great team. He's gone on ahead but in lots of lives, lots of hearts, he made a difference. The sort of difference that never dies. And you're part and parcel of every last bit of that, both then and now.

My thoughts and prayers are with you on this New Year's Eve, as they will be throughout Twenty-Fifteen and beyond.

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Is there a home where heavy earth

Melts to bright air that breathes no pain,

Where water leaves no thirst again,

And springing fire is Love's new birth?

If faith long bound to one true goal

May there at length its hope beget,

My soul that hour shall draw your soul

For ever nearer yet.

= Dante Gabriel Rossetti =

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Speak for yourself

I was reminded last Friday of something that happened a long time ago.

I've told you about it before, I think, but I'll re-summarize for those of you with that Who-me? look in your eyes.

It was when our eldest daughter turned fourteen during the Indian-summer days of 1994.

To honor her birthday, I threw a tea party for Stephanie and two or three of her friends.

After the girls had arrived and were seated, since I was busy preparing plates, I pressganged Audrey into service as waitstaff.

Our guests sat at a table in the window and were served their meal and what-not, all semi-formal and proper-like.

Serve from the left, I instructed my second daughter, and she obeyed.

At one end of our long kitchen, farthest from said guests, as the first part of the meal was concluding, I delivered one last mini-lecture to an aproned Audrey.

It went something like this:

Go to the right side of each girl. If she is talking, wait until she's finished. When you get her attention, ask whether she would like her dish removed. If she says yes, remove it from the right side and bring it to the sink.

My ad hoc employee appeared to listen carefully but what I failed to realize was, being age eleven, she was officially over her budding career as a server/caterer.

I know this because when I nudged her toward the table and she approached the first girl, without waiting to make eye contact and with zero ceremony, she said:

You done?

I still laugh when I think about it. I don't like to laugh alone so feel free to chuckle alongside me.

So it was that last Friday, a self-imposed rest day when I on purpose decided to do as little as possible, I wandered into the kitchen and spotted the ingredients of an as-yet-unmade loaf of banana-nut bread on the counter.

Specifically, a loaf of banana-nut bread I had intended to make that morning, to give to our postman that afternoon. The last banana-nut bread loaf of the season, as it were.

The mail comes at varying times but usually between three and five.

The ingredients had been grouped together on the counter after dish-doing the night before so that I would see them when I came into the kitchen on Boxing Day -- when, by the way, we do no boxing* -- and be reminded to get the banana-nut bread loaf made in the morning so it would be ready when the mail came.

But if I saw those recipe components as I made coffee, nothing about them induced me to so much as touch the ingredients, much less assemble them into something edible. And now it was all but too late.

Undaunted, I activated the oven and quick as a wink had the loaf in there, baking. It started to smell good.

Audrey and Dagny arrived for a visit. Then Erica joined us. We all went out to sit on the front porch because it was a very fine day indeed, all sunshiny and warm, and Dagny loves that.

At the appropriate time I went in to check my loaf of banana-nut bread, which was all but done. I went back outside for a few more minutes.

Then I said, I'll bet the postman (who loves to receive my banana-nut bread both at Thanksgiving and at Christmas, and who had assured me he would be delivering the route on Friday) will be here any minute.

So I went inside and spread out a length of tin foil and got the loaf out of the oven and set it aside on a silicone heat-safe square, to cool.

That's when I heard Erica's voice.

Mom, he's about three doors down, she said.

So naturally I began obsessing (it's how I roll) about the fact that the bread was still hot and I couldn't possibly wrap it in the foil yet because if you do that, it sweats and the top of the loaf becomes soggy and when it's unwrapped (no I don't use that easy-release stuff, step off), the bread is sort of swampy and not just right.

So I said to Erica, Go down there (to the mailbox) and ask if he can come back!

Erica began wandering (very non-committally, I might add) down the steps toward the sidewalk which leads to the driveway which leads to the mailbox. I could see the little white truck inching towards our address.

What am I saying? I thought. He doesn't have time to come back. He wants to go home when he's finished.

So I quick-quick grabbed a spatula and in seconds the perfect (albeit very hot) loaf was on its tinfoil runway and I was wrapping it and shoving it into a leftover Christmasy bag with Andrew written in Sharpie on the bottom.

(No; the postman's name is not Andrew. Well; it may be Andrew. Even after all these years, I don't know his name. The bag had, the day before, held a gift for my son.)

I ran out the front door yelling for Erica, who had by then sidled down maybe three (of fifteen) steps. She is not by nature a hurrier, and even less so when on orders from me.

I handed my quasi-reluctant helper the bag from which too much banana-nut scented steam emanated, and I began issuing detailed instructions.

Tell him it just came out of the oven and I didn't have time to wait for it to cool because we just happened to see him coming down the street just now and since I'm sure he doesn't want to come back later for it, when it would have had time to cool, I've just wrapped it up hot and thrown it into this bag and I would never normally do that because now the loaf will sweat as it cools. So when he opens it and the top is soggy, please tell him I'm so sorry that I sort of blew it and didn't get the loaf into the oven earlier today so that it would be completely cool before I wrapped it in the foil and put it in the bag and handed it over to him, because I sort of forgot and I'm so so so sorry. Oh and tell him I said Happy New Year.

Or words to that general effect.

I think Erica may have ignored all but the first few words, this not being her first rodeo.

So then I stood anxiously beside the greenery-swagged front door to see that my directives were followed to the letter and that some other mailman hadn't taken over the route that day, in which case I could sing out that Erica need not bother after all, it was the wrong guy.

I don't dole out my loaves of fresh-baked banana-nut bread -- sweaty or not -- to just anyone, Christmas or no Christmas.

(I'm inclined to be far more Dickensian: Are there no grocery stores? Are there no bakeries?)

But indeed once I had a visual, it was confirmed that the postal employee who loves my banana-nut bread (it takes me back to my grandma's kitchen when I was a boy, he always says) was, as promised, the one driving the truck.

Erica reached the end of the driveway mailbox just in time to hand over the bread and just as I was beginning to form the trite-but-true thought Timing is Everything -- albeit with the caveat Almost, in light of the fact that the bread hadn't time to cool -- I heard my daughter say:

She just took it out of the oven!

Real bright and enthusiastic, like that was a good thing. And she handed over the bag of bread. Done and done.

I waited for her to explain why, in the case of the bread in that particular bag, it may not be such a good thing that it just came out of the oven.

But that was the sum total of her commentary. Erica, like her sister two decades before her, was disinclined to acquiesce to my request of further and most detailed explanation.

Pirate offspring.

Then: Thank you! The mailman, spotting me lurking by my front door, hollered. And he waved, and I waved, and he was gone. Trundling away down the street with his loaf of nostalgia becoming stickier by the house number.

Proving once again, if you want it said correctly (and using five hundred words when five would suffice), speak for yourself.

And that is all for now. Go and eat some leftovers.

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*I'm aware it's nothing to do with pugilism, but rather with putting stuff back into boxes. We do neither.

One small child

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D a g n y 's   F i r s t   C h r i s t m a s

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One small child in a land of a thousand

One small dream of a Savior tonight

One small hand reaching out to the starlight

One small Savior of life

One small Savior of love

One king bringing his gold and his riches

One king ruling an army of might

One king kneeling with incense and candlelight

One King bringing us life

One King bringing us life

See the shepherds kneeling before Him

See the kings on bended knee

See the mother praising the Father

See His tiny eyelids fall

One small child in a land of a thousand
One small dream of a Savior tonight
One small hand reaching out to the starlight
One small Savior of life
One small Savior of life

= David Meece =

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For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given:

and the government shall be upon his shoulder:

and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor,

The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.

Isaiah 9:6

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M e r r y   C h r i s t m a s

Baby gifts

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There fared a mother driven forth

Out of an inn to roam;

In the place where she was homeless

All men are at home.

The crazy stable close at hand,

With shaking timber and shifting sand,

Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand

Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes

And strangers under the sun,

And they lay on their heads in a foreign land

Whenever the day is done.

Here we have battle and blazing eyes,

And chance and honour and high surprise,

But our homes are under miraculous skies

Where the yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable,

Where the beasts feed and foam;

Only where He was homeless

Are you and I at home;

We have hands that fashion and heads that know,

But our hearts we lost -- how long ago!

In a place no chart nor ship can show

Under the sky's dome.

This world is wide as an old wives' tale,

And strange the plain things are,

The earth is enough and the air is enough

For our wonder and our war;

But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings

And our peace is put in impossible things

Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings

Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening

Home shall men come,

to an older place than Eden

And a taller town than Rome.

To the end of the way of the wandering star,

To the things that cannot be and that are,

To the place where God was homeless

And all men are at home.

= G.K. Chesterton =

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Merry Christmas

Signed, sealed, delivered: It's me and it's mine

Always be yourself. Unless you can be a pirate. Then always be a pirate.

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So you won't believe what I'm about to tell you. But I can prove it.

My black-hearted pirate self has been thoughtfully and humorously rendered, caricature style, in an intricately-detailed custom-made hand-carved figure so marvelously authentic, so brilliantly wrought, that upon receipt of same into my hands, it became an instant heirloom.

A classic, as it were.

When the undertaker closes the lid on me? My kids will fight over who inherits this.

Not all treasure is silver and gold, mate.

To avoid confusion -- and a potentially irreparable rift in the family -- I shall amend my Last Will and Testament immediately, bequeathing said objet d'art to the Columbia Museum of Art, which institution shall likely display it in a permanent collection devoted to local noodles.

There, for all of posterity, not only those who survive me but the public at large may view and marvel at this extraordinary creation.

Allow me to explain how it came to be.

For several years -- practically my whole blogging life -- I have read and enjoyed the blog of one Mari Bruins of Allendale, Michigan.

Reading My Little Corner of the World is a delight because of the friendship I treasure with its owner, a kind and special lady whom I have never had the honor of meeting in person but who, for several reasons, is important to me nonetheless.

Those fortunate enough to have become acquainted with Mari through her blog have seen many instances of the enormous God-given talent of her husband, Bob, in the area of wood carvings.

He makes furniture and stuff too. Yeah. Bob's skill is not confined to whittling, no matter how elaborate.

In his meticulously-kept woodworking shop, I do believe Bob Bruins could make just about anything except maybe an atomic bomb.

So it was that, years ago upon marveling at pictures of Bob's wood carvings displayed and discussed on Mari's blog, I may have mentioned that I sure would like to someday own a pirate carving.

As in, wouldn't it be neat if Bob carved a pirate that I could maybe buy, if I could afford it? Because I don't know what it costs to commission a Robert Bruins original carving, but if it isn't a lot, it should be.

I promptly forgot all about the whole thing. Until last Friday night.

That's when I came home to find a box on the floor beside my desk where TG had put it after retrieving it from beside the front door, where FedEx had put it.

I could tell by the return address that the package had originated from a business in Allendale, Michigan. A business where, from reading his wife's blog, I know Bob Bruins is a manager.

Still, you could have blown me down with a feather when, upon unwrapping the box and a second box contained within the first box, my own pirate self in effigy emerged.

A hand-carved Jenny the Pirate standing approximately ten inches high, with a plate affixed identifying said treasure as such.

An original signed Robert Bruins art piece. My very own original signed Robert Bruins art piece.

I was a touch overwhelmed. TG and Erica were present when I opened my gift and honestly, their peals of laughter told me that Bob and Mari Bruins had pulled off a major coup.

So naturally I summoned the two miscreants on me pirate cellie and we had a conference call in which Mari revealed amid much chuckling on all sides that she'd never forgotten my stated wish to own a Robert Bruins carving in the form of a pirate.

And at some point in time this now quickly-waning calendar twelvemonth, Mari suggested to her beloved that this be the year when he created said pirate.

Bob chimed in, claiming he enjoyed making the pirate so much (using a photo of me to approximate my eyebrows, my rouged cheeks, my red-lipsticked lips, my black hair, my large-ish nose, and my curmudgeonly gaze, if not technically my normal wardrobe), that he was amused to the point of laughter multiple times during the process.

Robert Bruins is positively an elf! Aided and abetted by his sweet but cagey wife. She/they may be pirates same as me.

But don't you love my pirate attire, non-standard for me as it is? The coat, the crossbody belt, the red vest, the white ruffled blouse? Also I am sporting gold pirate swag on each hand. 

Jenny the Pirate's sword is magnificent, and the hat -- well. Pirate perfection.

You'll notice the boots, clearly of well-traveled genuine leather, a must-have for any pirate worth his/her salt, and the wood planks on which they are poised -- the deck, no doubt, of a beautiful boat. Ship.

Uh-oh. One or two pieces of eight seem to have escaped from the pirate's well-stuffed parcel of pelf.

Apparently there's a leak.

Even so, never shall I be without my effects. And the whole thing has that wonderful wood-and-varnish smell. I love it to the entire ocean and back.

When you have a moment, check out Bob's website By His Hands: Caricature Carvings by Robert Bruins.

So named due to Bob's giving all the credit to his Creator for the talent in his own hands.

In fact, Bob places a minuscule but significant handprint somewhere on each of his custom creations.

A special card affixed by a bit of twine to my pirate's leg reads:

When God formed man he figuratively left his hand prints on his creation. Genesis 1:27 says we are made in the image of God, reflecting his attributes and ways.

"By His Hands" carvings are the outcome of the creative gift God has given me. The mini hand print you will find on my pieces is there to give credit where it is due, to God alone.

Indeed. 

Jenny the Pirate's tiny symbolic handprint is strategically placed on its shoulder, where I most often need gentle nudges in the right direction.

As it should be.

Ever shall this magnificent and unique gift be displayed with love and pride in my home.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Bob -- you're a diamond, mate -- and Mari too. I may be a black sheep and a really bad egg, but I'm a truly grateful pirate.

Now bring me that horizon.

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Happy Monday ~ Merry Week-Before-Christmas