Warm With A Whisper Of Cool (continued)

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How far had she driven that morning? She wished she had paid closer attention to that little detail; but then she remembered the gloriousness of Fall that she had paid attention to and promptly forgave herself. Except. She gazed ahead at the road in front of her, briefly glanced back at the turnoff which had led to the hiking trails, and sighed. It was going to be a long hike home.

A car slowed behind her and stopped. She looked over her shoulder and saw a black Maserati.

“Do you need a lift?”

Should she answer or quicken her pace? The fleeting thought of racing a Maserati both amused and alarmed her.

“I,” she turned and found herself staring at a man near her age but clearly not her league.

She cleared her throat. “I was hiking and my car wouldn’t start.”

Great. Lovely explanation.

“I could try to start it.”

As she wondered how safe it would be to backtrack to a hiking trail with a stranger, he added, “Or I could give you a lift home.”

It is an inexorable fact of life that one choice always leads to another. She wished that just now her choice wasn’t between a proverbial rock and hard place. The sun was setting, and hiking along a deserted highway wasn’t remotely appealing even on this warm fall evening. Boring had its own appeal just now.

“I won’t hurt you and,” he squinted at the setting sun, “I hate the thought of you out here by yourself.”

She nodded, slid into the passenger seat, and directed him to the turnoff she’d taken earlier.

“It’s a beautiful evening – warm,” he remarked.

“With a whisper of cool.” She couldn’t seem to help herself.

He smiled. “I like that. Yes. A whisper of cool. Complementary features of Fall.”

He pulled up next to her car, jumped out, and looked under the Pontiac’s hood. Pulling a gadget from his pocket, he hooked it up to her car battery, waited a few minutes, and motioned for her to try the ignition. Her jaw dropped as her car roared to life. He smiled, waved, and pulled out ahead of her.

There really were angels who walked the earth, she thought as she neared her cozy, boring, beautiful duplex. She would make it home before night’s dark made fitting her key in the lock more a matter of touch than sight.

What?! Lights filled the other side of the duplex that had stood vacant for so long. Of all the days for her to have been gone. Someone must have moved into the attached unit. She grabbed her things and pulled a note from her screen as she unlocked her door. The note explained her landlord would be staying for an unspecified amount of time.

Landlord? Well at least she might put a face to the heretofore featureless recipient of her rent.

Apologies for missing my new neighbor, the note continued. Arrived later than anticipated. She studied the handwriting. The block letters suggested it wasn’t a little old lady who received her rent. Other than that, she couldn’t tell.

After making the first cocoa of the fall season and changing from hiking boots to fuzzy slippers, she peeked out her back window to the duplex garage. She used it only during winter months to save on rent. But she concluded with no car in the driveway, the landlord must’ve parked in the garage.

It was probably too late to go next door and introduce herself, but her curiosity got the better of her. What did he – or she – drive? A truck – maybe Chevy? Ford – probably. She opened the door a crack, then swung it wide. There it stood. A Maserati – black as the oncoming night and anything but boring.

Image: pexels-mike-977003-scaled.jpg

Warm With A Whisper of Cool

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She kicked through the orange leaves, their crunchy response somehow reassuring. How far was it? Five miles? Yes, she thought, five or nearly that from her deserted car to who knew where. A balmy fall evening had wandered seamlessly into the dawn of what promised to be a replica of the day just past – warm with a whisper of cool undertones. How could she sit at home on such a day? So before the sun had barely announced it’s presence, she’d hopped in her old Pontiac. She’d tossed her favorite merino wool blanket into the back seat along with a turkey sandwich, an apple, and large bottle of water in an insulated lunch bag.

Just that week she’d been accused of being (gasp) boring. She knew she shouldn’t pay attention to an accusation coming from someone she barely knew. Who knew where that co-worker’s opinions came from? The worker’s own insecurities, no doubt. Still, it had bothered her enough to lead to the day’s impromptu outing. And, really, her usually preferred choice of sitting at home on her reclining lawn chair reading a book could stand a little shaking up. The little duplex she called home was a sanctuary to her, though. The other side of it hadn’t been rented for years which was just fine with her. In fact, she’d never laid eyes on her landlord. A rental company had shown her the place, and she simply mailed her rent each month to the address provided. The peace and quiet suited her.

The trees seemed almost luminescent as the sun’s rays nipped their red and yellow leaves. The miles had flown by on the untraveled country road, and she didn’t care. Why should she on such a day? She turned last minute toward what appeared to be some decent hiking trails. And they were. Decent. But a few miles’ hike was suddenly enough. She was ready for a quick picnic and drive back to the little duplex she called home. After all, anyone who thought she was boring didn’t know squat about her cozy sanctum.

She made quick work of her lunch, and turned her key in the ignition. Her car’s whine grew louder with each effort and then stopped altogether. She rubbed the tender spot where she’d bumped her head when she’d lifted the hood of the car and peered at the engine. Who was she kidding? She had no idea what to look for. Everything always looked the same when it came to cars. She squinted at the sun and guessed the time that was left before dusk.

to be continued . . .

Image: wikimediacommons.jpg; blanket: Pendleton-usa.com

HOPE

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There are people in nearly every circumstance who are the servants. They might not immediately stand out, but eventually we notice who they are by their dependable help. Are they born that way or do they cultivate that character? Or, perhaps, a little of both and more. In times of trial and trouble, they are the ones who keep going. They don’t throw up their hands in futility, rather they put one foot in front of the other every minute of every hour of every day.

What makes a person like that? Besides sterling character, one of my favorite authors would say it is hope. Victor Frankl said, “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms – to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” Being a Holocaust survivor he should know. He also cautioned:

“Those who know how close the connection is between the state of mind of a man, his courage and hope, or lack of them and the state of immunity of his body will understand that sudden loss of hope and courage can have a deadly effect.“

We, none of us, can know the future. When things are bright and pleasant, we imagine the same is ahead. Likewise, when we are in the middle of tough times, it can be easy to imagine only darkness in the coming days and years. And that’s where the importance of hope arises. It gives us just enough glimmer of light ahead to keep going; to keep putting one foot in front of the other. That glimmer can even help us recall better past days so that we can imagine brighter future ones.

Some people scoff at optimists. I’ve always wondered why someone would do that. But hope isn’t optimism. Maybe it’s just the knowledge that none of us knows the future, and that knowledge removes the certainty of dark days as surely as it nudges us to understand the road is never always straight, but, rather, turns here and there and even loops around. We keep on because one of those bends in the road might erupt into light and beauty. It didn’t happen at this turn? Maybe it will at the next.

There are a lot of choices in life. Among your selections, might I offer one? Choose hope.

Man’s Search for Meaning, 1946, by Viktor Frankl; Romans 5:1-5 (Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ: By whom also we have access by faith into this grace wherein we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God. And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience, hope: And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.); Image: pexels-gift-habeshaw-3415211

Survivor

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Back when the television show, Survivor, had its first season, our family was immediately hooked. The finale landed at a time we were on vacation in a little cabin. No problem. Despite limited reach, the tv got the channel we needed. Except it didn’t. That particular week, it didn’t get any channel. What to do? We could drive to the nearest town and watch it through the window of an unsuspecting Ace Hardware, but what if they didn’t have a tv in the window? Or if it was turned to a different channel?

My long-suffering husband used the better part of a day to drive back to our house and bring our little television to the rescue. We plugged it in and turned it on. Except it didn’t. No!!!

We were desperate. My husband now drove not a little distance to the closest town that could accommodate us with a very small portable television that ran on batteries. We were ready! The night of the finale we gathered around that little tv in great anticipation and watched as our least favorite contender won the whole thing. Nooooo!!!! And that, dear ones, has gone down in family lore as the time when. . . We try to comfort my husband by telling him at least he survived. Just between you and me, I’m not altogether sure he’s comforted or even ever got over it. Ah, life.

These days – ohhh, what should we call them? These unusual days? These anxiety-laden days? These help me I’m in a sci-fi horror show and I want out days? Whatever it is that you choose to call them, it would be prudent to think ahead just a bit and plan for just in case. You know. Like your mother used to tell you. Just in case you’re in a car accident. Just in case you’re at a party and you need a ride home. Just in case you get lost. (Although with GPS these days, I guess no one gets truly lost – at least to the overlords that know our every move.) Just in case you want to survive. Maybe it won’t happen. But just in case . . .

With the an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure attitude, here are some ideas for just in case prices go through the roof, food and gas are scarce, and you find yourself longing for the good ol’ days of 2020. This is not a definitive list nor is it even a very good list. It’s what I’ve read and am sharing with you. Please, dear survivorino (may I call you that?) do your own research.

Some sites recommend long-term food storage include: grains, canned foods of all types (veg, meat, milk soup), oils, beans, and (hallelujah!) sugar. Try to eat food that is no more than a year old. Store it in a cool, dry place. Don’t use food in swollen or corroded cans.

Get a lot of water. If you live near a water source and can get some way to purify it, you’re good to go. Otherwise, buy a lot. They say a gallon per person per day is good. That seems like a lot to me, but what do I know.

Get a generator if you can. Store gas. How much do you need for your vehicle to go to a safe place. Okay, I know. “Safe” is relative. Maybe you want to buy 5, 10, or even 15 five gallon gas cans. And fill them with gas.

Kerosene lanterns were good enough for the old days. They’ll be good enough for us. Additionally, stock up on batteries for your flashlights or whatever you use batteries in. No, not fortnight. What is wrong with you?

Get a book on what weeds and plants are useful for health issues. Plant a garden if possible.

As much as I love the color blue, it might be prudent to get away from cities or states of that particular persuasion. There is a globalist system we’ve grown to accept. You can disagree with that statement. That’s fine. But I’m stickin’ to my guns here. Time to unhook.

As I was reading about this, I read some comments as well. One delightful person said, “Well I guess I die”. I love dark humor, don’t you?

Finally, keep your Bible. And might I suggest – read it. Talk to Jesus. If you don’t know Him, introduce yourself and you’ll find some reassuring convo you never dreamed you would have. After all, whether we survive or not, God wins. God always wins.

ezprepping.com; eatwild.com; https://youtu.be/0_UnZdkLgHg image:pexels-emre-kuzu-4820763; nathan-dumlao-ajAj3-55G2A-unsplash

Nondescript

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He couldn’t figure it out. He’d been careful. Beyond careful. He’d left his apartment at different times each day. He’d taken varying routes. His meetings with his contacts had been quick and discreet, the notes and thumb drives tucked in a slim, black bag identical to the one he exchanged with his contacts. He’d even found a nondescript shop at which to meet each one. The shop was nothing, really. It sold scented candles with names like Cozy Evening and Misty Rain. Along the wall were two shelves of used books for sale. Garden art items were tagged to sell quickly. And it sold teas made of herbs, flowers, and mushrooms, with curious names like Meetme, Gotcha, and Moribund. There were other names, too. He’d read them often during meetings at which no word was spoken and a hand-off was imperceptible. Rosalie and Mill Stream were two other names he recalled. The rest scattered from his memory just now; not that it mattered.

The shopkeeper sat the back of the shop with a cup of tea and a book. Always the same teapot, sometimes a different book. Whenever he entered, she’d barely raise her eyes other than to acknowledge him. One time she startled him by asking if she could help him, but he pretended to browse, and shook his head. Foolish woman, he thought – with nothing to do but sit all day hoping to sell a dollar’s worth of goods. He wondered how she made enough to live. She fit the shop perfectly.


But the game was up now. He’d been discovered, along with notes he’d copied and quietly shared. It wasn’t actually embezzlement, he’d reasoned, because business ideas were fair game. How could they be trade secrets when they were no longer secret? He’d quietly laughed over that joke. It was worth it. They were paying him enough to buy a country house and take an island vacation.

Someone higher up had somehow gotten wind of the scheme, though, and just when he and his associates were patting themselves on the back, they’d been yanked up short. He sat in his office, wondering if his future held anything worth salvaging and waiting for his lawyer to get him out of this mess.

“Mr. Stears sent me to ask if you would like anything,” his secretary looked both sorry and scared.

He looked up briefly.

“Here. He left this for me this morning. It’s pretty good. Why don’t you try it?”

She offered a cup of tea, the bag still steeping.

He took it and she left. He set it down, pulled the tea bag from the cup, and glanced at the saucer. Then he froze.

A familiar voice floated down the hall. “Thank you again, Rosalie. I don’t know what we’d do without you. Here’s your check. You take that long vacation you’ve been promising yourself.”

His eyes drifted down to the tiny tea tag labeled simply: Gotcha.

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Brave Words by Brave Men

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Have you bought your brats and hotdogs? Your hamburger? Your pulled pork? Do you have the corn on the cob shucked? The lemonade stirred?

It was around this time, July 4, 1776, when some brave people did more than enjoy good food on a pleasant day. I’ll bet they worked up a sweat. I’ll bet they experienced some anxiety along with determination. They worked on a document which to this day holds our nation firm. It begins:

 When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.–That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, –That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.–Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

I wonder how many rough drafts and rewrites were involved in writing this great document? I wonder if private questions kept them up at night: thoughts of how high the cost would be for them and their families when they signed their names to it? Because there was. There was a great cost.

It’s a good thing to be brave. Courage gave us a free nation. And we need courage to keep it. Lives. Fortunes. Sacred Honor.

Declaration of Independence quote can be found at: https://www.archives.gov/founding-docs/declaration-transcript; A Quick Hello: Brave Words by Brave Men on BitChute

 

Oh I Remember Now

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You know that feeling when something’s on the tip of your tongue? It’s right there. It is. But you just can’t identify it at the moment. The good thing is that what we’re trying to recall really is there in our memory, and if it’s not tangible at the moment – well – it’s in this pile of mind matter somewhere!

That experience actually has a name. Lethologica, not to be confused with Lothonomia which has to do with not recalling a correct name. Both are derived from Greek mythology: the river Lethe in Hades was thought to cause oblivion or forgetfulness of the past.

The past. We focus a lot on the present; maybe even the future. Who wouldn’t, the times being what they are? Yet if we neglect the past, we are certain to stumble around as if we’ve lost our balance. Because that’s exactly what we do when we forget where we came from, what we stand for, and who (and Whose) we are.

If you are a Deist, you believe God exists, but that He isn’t involved in world affairs. In the “hallowed” halls of academia, some folks teach that America’s Founding Fathers believed that. However, it’s flat out false.

Those brave men used the Holy Bible in writing the Declaration of Independence, including references to our Creator giving us unalienable rights and nature’s law, that God is the Supreme Judge and that He protects us. They relied on the work of John Locke, Two Treatises of Government. If you read it, you will discover the Bible is cited over 1500 times. 

In addition to those courageous souls who pledged their “lives, fortunes, and sacred honor”, many after them have relied on God for wisdom, direction, and protection. You’ve heard the phrase “there are no atheists in foxholes”. That’s because deep down most people know that their very breath comes from the breath of God, Himself. By the way, those soldiers in foxholes might not take kindly to the carelessness with which we now live out, or I should add give up, our freedoms.

If we investigate efforts to revise American history, such as the 1619 Project, we find an erroneous claim being pushed; a narrative that the United States was not founded on noble principles, but evil ones; anti-liberty, not pro-liberty. No, I don’t know how they explain “with liberty and justice for all” in our nation’s Pledge of Allegiance. Take heart. The 1776 Commission calls on us to fight against that false narrative and those like it, such as Critical Race Theory. Of all the ridiculous things it teaches, one is to put people in boxes according to skin color, sex, etc – in essence, teaching racism, sexism, and social statism in a repackaged system. Some people fall for it. Please don’t be one.

So while we get up out of our La-Z-Boy and rummage around the library and internet looking for real history, not rewritten history, we would do well to remember, too, the history we’re living out this minute and those who gave their lives so that we are free to do so. Oh, my friends, cherish it. And that thing on the tip of your tongue? It’s called Memorial Day. But then you knew that.

Dictionary.com; https://truthandliberty.net/ Evidence Shows The Biblical Foundations of Our Nation by Richard Harris

The Day After Mother’s Day

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A tiny voice at her bedside whispered, “I had a bad dream”. Opening her eyes, she held out her arms and helped her little one into bed with her. As he snuggled and fell fast asleep, she ran through a list of things the coming day held.

 

After waiting for her little fashionista to choose the day’s clothes, then change her mind – twice – she helped the parts of getting dressed that little hands could not quite manage. A glance at her watch told her there would be just enough time for a dawdling breakfast and another change of clothes before preschool.

She pulled her jacket closer as she watched tee-ball practice on a cold May morning. The excitable players threw balls that managed to land halfway to their destination, swing bats at a batting tee, and run as fast a short legs could carry them. She opened her large bag to doublecheck the after-game snacks she had brought. Yes, there would be just enough.

An irritated voice shouted from the bedroom. Her heart wanted to give way, but she stood her ground. Make-up at this age would pave the path for the next life step to be premature. The morning promised a sullen breakfast and silent car ride to school.

 

Tears and despair. She’d heard stories about this particular class. Leaning over, she asked, “Could you do it this way?” NO! came the hopeless answer. Why was math even a thing?

 

 

Car lights shown down the street as she watched them light the late night dark. They passed by the house. It wasn’t her. She sat down again. She was glad the Good Lord never slept and that He was up at this time of night as she prayed over her fears. Car lights flashed on the wall and the sound of a car in the driveway diminished her worry. She picked up a book and pretended to be engrossed in it as her child crossed the threshold on the dot of curfew.

 

“Remember, stop if you get too tired. It’s a long trip.” Her son gave her a goodbye hug. She could feel his college road trip excitement and held back her tears until his car disappeared down the street.

 

 

“Mom? I just thought I’d call and wish you a Happy Mother’s Day. Sorry I’m late! Did you do anything special?”

Anything special? She pondered the question. No. Nothing special at all.

 

Images: pexels-anna-shvets-3845456-2.jpg; pexels-kelvin-octa-1096141-1-scaled.jpg; pexels-pixabay-207756-scaled.jpg; pexels-masha-raymers-3721098-scaled.jpg; pexels-tatiana-twinslol-5444918-scaled.jpg; pexels-adrianna-calvo-4615136-scaled.jpg

Living in Monet

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Claude Monet was the founder of French Impressionist painting, also known as Impressionism, in the late 1800s to early 1900s. With a grocery-store owner father and a mother who was a trained singer, I imagine he had a little bit of practicality mixed in with his artistic abilities. Although . . . and maybe this is just me . . . oh who are we kidding? Rembrandt, Vermeer, Gauguin, Van Gogh, Wagner, Sibelius, Debussy, Puccini . . . let’s stop now before we join them in their depression. Have you ever noticed that the artistic temperament in such a person usually wins out? C’est la vie. Actually, someone called Monet’s painting style “Impression” with the intention of disparaging it. Little did the critic know that name would become a badge of honor. By the 1920’s, cataracts affected his vision, but he continued to paint. They say cataracts affected how he perceived colors. Although he was no stranger to poverty, today his paintings hang in museums the world over.

Compare his artistry with that of more defined and deeply colored art by Michael Wagner or Georgia O’Keeffe. We certainly don’t have to guess what their paintings are; that is to say, the lines are more sharply delineated and colors clear. And, as I’m writing, I’m thinking of yet unknown but very talented artists such as Stacy Andrews Inglorian, who is skilled in various mediums, and maybe even Tricia Schield, who shows great promise.

I don’t know much about art, but we all know a thing or two about impressions. It used to be that when we read something, we could be fairly certain of its veracity. Except we couldn’t. We just thought we could. We were under the impression that news-bearers were truthful. Now we can read or listen to any number of information sources and at the end of the seemingly reasonable item or news still ask ourselves whether it was true. Or, at least, what parts of it were true.

For instance, when I first heard that “they” (who I guessed was the medical establishment, perhaps big pharma; and some of you will think deep state) had been keeping treatments and cures from the population, it seemed believable. Hold back the cure, and reap continual drug profits. If you have no moral standard, it makes sense. I hoped such cures would be revealed soon. Who doesn’t want a cure for diabetes, Parkinsons, or cancer? Bring on the wonder drugs! Then I started hearing more curious things about suppression of treatment. I unfollowed a podcast that talked about medbeds (not the medbeds that alert the nursing station to a patient’s need, but medbeds that can provide cell-regeneration and healing without surgery or drugs) because it seemed to me to be the stuff of sci-fi. But information continued. And one day last week, a fellow who works in the pharmaceutical industry and who I’ve found to be level-headed and trustworthy talked about them. He went on to say there are other, smaller devices, too. Imagine your doctor scanning you with a hand-held device and receiving healing then and there! Oh I know what you’re thinking. I thought it, too. But I’m going to keep watching and listening.
In the matter of the 2020 election, there is all sorts of information and impressions to form. Who won? Who really won? Why is a prominent news network so upset about an audit in Arizona? Who wouldn’t want to make certain a vote was true and sure and not finagled? Why in the world is the federal government trying to insert themselves into a state’s authority? And yet information about it is flying fast and furious. No, not that fast and furious. Well, maybe that, too.
What about the latest virus? Or masks? Or treatment? Or immunization? What about the New World Order, the Bilderbergers, the Trilateral Commission, or the Committee of 300? What about the Rapture? Or Great Tribulation? Or mark of the beast? Or thousand year reign of Christ? What are we to believe?
         

 

We find ourselves in more of a Monet painting than that of O’Keeffe. While I like both artists, I’d rather have the lines I live in well-delineated and colors clear. The truth will set us free, after all. But we are not free, and we are not living in those times. We are living in Monet. And it is our responsibility to keep searching for truth regardless of disparaging critics.

https://www.claudemonetgallery.org/biography.html; https://www.biography.com/artist/claude-monet; https://www.therichest.com/poorest-list/10-famous-artists-that-died-penniless/; https://www.classical-music.com/ https://fineartamerica.com/art/bright+colors; stacylynnandrewsfineart on Instagram; pexels-harrison-macourt-6599771.jpg; https://americaoutloud.com/the-quantum-healing-technologies-of-med-beds/; pexels-photo-356056.jpeg; https://www.nationalreview.com/2016/01/fast-furious-obama-first-scandal/; AZAudit.org; DominoesFalling-medium.gif; pexels-pixabay-221164.jpg; pexels-download-a-pic-donate-a-buck-^-54379.jpg; Iron Mountain Report; Revelation 13:16-17; Revelation 20; Micah 4:1-7, 5:4-5; John 8:31-32; The painting on this blog post is not Monet, but it reminded me of him. It is by: nick-fewings-FRM8_MzE_YQ-unsplash.jpg 

Tigers’ Milk

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You haven’t been exhausted lately, have you? There’s nothing about a year of “I can’t believe this” added to “what now?” on top of “I didn’t think it could get any worse” that saps the energy right out of you, is there? Me too. Not that me too, just the run-of-the-mill me too. Last week I decided to resurrect something I used when I was birthin’ babies. It’s from a book my own mother gave me and though I, of course, (being a normal daughter who knew more than her mother) favored more current information, I depended on a recipe from the book called TIgers’ Milk. For those of you who are bothered by the placement of the apostrophe, I can’t help you. That’s how it’s written. The writer apparently believed more than one person would read her book. Add it to your 2021 list of disgust and disbelief, if you like. At any rate, if you drink this on a regular basis, it might give you renewed energy, even if it doesn’t make you a tiger mom. Mind you, I’m not making promises. I’m simply sharing an idea.

Tigers’ Milk

Beat together: 1-2 c. skim milk

1/2 c. powdered skim milk

1-4 heaping Tbsp brewers’ yeast

1-3 tsp blackstrap molasses

Add to the remainder of a quart of milk (which is 2 c.)

You will have a quart total.

Now sit down – no, don’t stand at the sink – sit down and enjoy it if you can. (Depending on how much Brewer’s Yeast you use, it could have a bit of a kick.) Don’t turn on the mainstream media anything. Ask the Good Lord above what He has for you to do today. Ready? You’ve got this! Go get ’em, Tiger!

Tigers’ milk recipe in Let’s Have Healthy Children by Adelle Davis, Harcourt, Brace and Co.: New York, 1951; Tiger mom is a phrase coined by Yale Law School professor Amy Chua in Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, 2011; image: pexels-ryutaro-tsukata-6249388.jpg