MISS MOOX: money

There's no doubt that our culture is a consumer culture. With the wide variety of goods available, and greater amount of money to spend at leisure and on non-necessities, young singles like me with greater stretch in their spending power particularly tend to drop a lot of cash.

It surprises me how often my, and our, activities revolve around purchasing. Get bored: spend an hour or so at the mall, and end up buying some item of clothing you neither need nor really want. Go out with friends: drinks or a meal plus tip and you've just spent times what you would if you made it at home. A movie will cost you 6 bucks minimum, and that latte you crave, more than four dollars for twenty minutes' caffeinated pleasure. See an ad, and you're subtly but powerfully convinced, especially as you think about it, that you have a new "need" you never realized before.

Marketing, and our culture, focuses on creating a want and then compelling you to spend your money to satisfy that want. Whether it's a specified product or just a general attempt to fill some psychological need with the latest techy toy or newest shoes, we always seem to feel we need more.

Of course, I would say it's more than simply cultural: it's a product of human nature. "The lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life", as an older translation of the Bible puts it, is still alive.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, as a spending freeze forced on me by current joblessness and the expenses of Christmas has kept me from spending anything but the bare minimum. It's made me realize how much I carelessly drop a few dollars here, several dollars there: and how many of my daily activities revolve around money. I tend to spend as much as I have. That is to say, if I have money in the bank I don't see any problem with a mocha latte, or a gratuitous trip to Goodwill to find some funky vintage clothing; but the truth is that I have no savings account and many of my purchases are impulsive, ill-thought-out, and completely unecessary.

Much of the time I feel vaguely guilty when I spend, but can often rationally justify it. It wasn't really that much, I do deserve a few pleasures, I'm generous to others, and so on. But in reality, when the rubber meets the road and I'm jobless and penniless, were any of those purchases greater value than a fuller bank account now would be? Did they demonstrate foresight, or simply living for the moment?

I don't have any real answer; I'm rambling, simply because it's a problem I'm facing and I'm not sure of the answer. It can't be simply an ascetic avoidance of all purchases and a fanatical counting of every penny; but at the same time, I recognize a need for more discipline and restraint than I've hitherto exercised. What the answer will be, I'm not sure. I'm as much in need of grace with this as with anything.

Dear Sirs and Madames,

Sometime in the last half-century (or more accurately probably, in the last decade), one of your number awoke from a lobotomy (or direct physical attack to the head, or alien abduction, or something equally drastic), and thought, "Low-waisted trousers! The next thing in fashion!"

And somehow, out of all the hare-brained and idiotic ideas which are perpetrated in fashion designers' heads and parade down runways thankfully never to be seen again in the world of humankind, this one survived. And made its way to every single tiny little clothing store on the planet, to become de rigeur for jeans and trousers of every cut. That is, if they are designed for anybody under fifty.

And now, thanks to this unknown genius, it is impossible to buy pants which have more than about two inches of waist. There is not only low, but ultra-low and super-low. And you have no choice but to succumb to this ridiculousness, if you want to buy trousers which are Not Dorky.

Standing up, they rest directly on what I believe are known as the pubic bones. Which is all very well and good. Until you attempt sitting down or bending over, upon which they slide down nicely to reveal about fifteen inches of skin, half of your underwear, and certain anatomical details I won't describe except to say they are commonly known by the same name as those lines that occur at regular intervals in the sidewalk.

Which may be fine for some people. I, however, subscribe to the old-fashioned theory that clothing is actually supposed to cover you. When I buy pants, I want them to be pants. Not leg covers. Anything less may be called Decorative Bits of Hanging for the Human Body, but not clothing. And I don't want to shell out my hard-earned money for it.

There must be other people in the world who find it ironic that trousers cover every single inch of your leg, but up top, where it really counts, they leave you hanging. Literally.

So: Messrs. and Mesdames Fashion Industry, a plea: please, please, by all the Fashion Power invested in you by goodness knows who, would you please come to your senses and determine that the next thing in fashion is going to be jeans with normal waistlines! That are actually cool! That are marketed to people younger than fifty! That cover you not only when you are standing upright but in every other possible contortion of the human body! I'm not talking about the above-the-belly-button styles that were popular up until the eighties, but it would be nice to come closer to that ideal.

Good sense, and irritated consumers everywhere, demand it of you.

Sincerely,
A Shopper

Yesterday I was working at a friend's farm. As I cleaned the horse stalls, I started thinking about my relationship to horses, about the enormous part they played in my childhood.

Growing up, I was a horse fanatic. It began when I was about two or three, when my mother told me about the horses she'd had as a child. From that moment, my passion for horses was ignited.

My first actual exposure to horses came when I was about five years old. My father took my brothers and me to the pony ride at the carnival. When I was asked which one I wanted to ride, I pointed. Not to the one standing directly in front of me, but to the very tallest horse standing just behind him. As I rode around the ring at a walk, I felt like the king of the world.

Unfortunately, for most of my growing-up years, my parents did not have the money for lessons. My longing for horses had to be confined to the realm of imagination. I checked out all the horse books in the library: Misty, Flicka, John Steinbeck's red pony, and the illustrated factual books about horses were my friends. I collected Breyer model horses and dreamed of a real stable full of such beauties as my friend and I acted out imaginary scenarios with our plastic steeds. I cut thousands of pictures of horses out of magazines and taped them all over my walls. I subscribed to Horse Illustrated. I read about riding techniques till I knew everything about how to handle a horse except the feel of one beneath me.

Finally when I was nearly twelve, a friend of my mother's mentioned a friend of hers who had a pony. He was rather old, but she thought the owner would be willing to let me ride. The answer came back: Sarah was glad to let me come over and give me a few pointers.

That was one of the most exciting days of my life. Finally! My mother's friend brought me and took along her camera: there are pictures of me, looking stiff and awkward, holding the horse's head and looking back over my shoulder as I ride him.

Sarah's pony was a good first taste, but ended up being unsatisfactory. It was a distance, I couldn't travel there myself, Sarah didn't have a lot of time to spend with me, and the pony was rather elderly and stiff. I never got beyond a trot and my legs swung wildly as I tried to post, far off the beat.

But it was a kind gesture and an opening to the world of horses.

For my twelfth birthday, my grandmother gave me the most priceless gift she could: a series of eight riding lessons at a local stable. My then-best friend Kathleen and I went together. Somewhere, I have pictures of us standing mounted in the middle of the ring, smiling triumphantly beneath our helmets as the rest of the class cantered around us. We were never deemed advanced enough to go faster than a trot.

That taste of riding was sweet but all-too-short. I begged for lessons but my parents couldn't afford either the money or the time. I contented myself again with reading, collecting, and dreaming. One day, I'd have my own horse. One day, I'd be able to ride as much as I wanted. I read tack catalogues obsessively and mentally outfitted my future horse in all his gear.

When I was fifteen, my younger sister began taking lessons with a friend who had a horse. That was the last straw. My younger sister, who had no real interest in horses except copying me, got to ride and I didn't! This time, I succeeded in being persuasive. I started lessons at Toraj Stables, the same place I'd gone when my best friend and I were twelve.

For four years, I rode at least once a week. When I got my own car, I was completely independent. I began working at the stable for a couple of hours early each morning before my "regular" job, mucking out stalls and feeding and watering to pay for lessons. In addition, it gave me a bit of extra income each month and meant that I could ride whenever I wanted.

I was a barn brat. I rode a lesson at least once a week; but at the end of the week, I'd take my favourite horse, Lucky, a big red chestnut Quarter Horse gelding, out on the trails for a wander. During lessons, I rode English. For trail rides, I slapped a big Western saddle on Lucky and took off. We'd roam the extensive acres of fields and orchards and watch wildlife and feel the sun on our backs. We'd ford streams and push through treelines and rocks. We'd climb hills, Lucky's back working hard. We'd pass migrant fruit pickers and wave hello.

And at the end of the ride, the biggest treat: a long, smooth, grassy stretch running along a field of apple trees. Lucky knew what this meant and became fidgety as soon as we reached it. I'd give him his head, kick his sides, and kiss. Off he'd tear, his Quarter Horse hindquarters working like pistons to thrust and drive, legs flashing, head down, mane and tail flying. I'd stand up in my saddle and lean forward as he sprinted at his fastest gallop, hooves thundering, grass whispering as we passed, again, feeling like king of the world. Finally at the end I'd slow him down gradually to a gentler canter, break him down to a trot, and as we reached the edge of the stable property, a slow walk to cool down. He loved it and so did I. I was free.

I groomed horses. I was the first to discover our broodmare's tiny chestnut baby standing in her stall the morning after she was born. I got kicked, bit, and stepped on. I fell in love and had my heart broken. I learned to communicate with horses and rode a mare named Suzy better than her owner did. I longed to buy King and was deeply saddened when he went away. I cried when a beautiful two-year-old that I'd been working, the first horse to ever buck me off, had such bad leg problems that she couldn't be ridden anymore. I loved my horses. They were the best part of my life, the ones who accepted me as I was, the ones who gave me a feeling of power and relationship.

When I went away to college, it spelled the end of my riding adventures. Toronto, like any big city, is not extraordinarily amenable to riding. I had no spare time as I threw myself into curricular and extra-curricular activities. Riding became something that happened, at best, once or twice a year. Something that had been an enormous part of my life passed away, just like that.

It's been seven years now since I left home, seven years since I have ridden regularly. The horse-bug has subsided. I doubt now I will ever own one of my own. Despite living with a horse-owning family for six months, I saddled up only a few times. Horses have become something I love but do not feel compelled to spend time with. When I visit the farm now, I nuzzle and pet and talk to them. They are my friends. But I don't need them anymore.

I still love to ride. One of my greatest pleasures is a leisurely trail ride through woods and fields. I love the beauty of horses. I still collect lovely photographs of horses, this time as desktop wallpapers or Flickr favourites, not tattered cutouts on my wall. Horses will always be a part of my past and a big element of who I was growing up. I will always appreciate them. But the horse-craziness has gone away. Maybe that's sad. Maybe, it's just part of growing up.

I have an aunt who has an amazing talent.

You know how some people are really great at picking out presents that you love? That are so perfectly "you" that even if you hadn't known you wanted them, you wonder how you ever lived without them? Consistently, birthday after birthday, Christmas after Christmas, they succeed in picking out the perfect gift. Their track record is flawless.

Well, my aunt has the opposite gift.

My aunt is a dear. Even now that I am grown and well past the stage that she could be considered obligated, she still faithfully buys, packages, and sends gifts every birthday and Christmas. And not just to me, but (I believe) to each of my brothers and sisters. That's five nieces and nephews, all of whom live on the opposite side of the continent to her, but whom she never fails to remember on special occasions. I'm astonished by it.

However, what I'm equally and consistently astonished by is the sheer inappropriateness, time after time, of all of her presents.

I would never, ever, of course, say this to her. I am floored by her generosity, which goes far beyond the call of duty. I faithfully send her thank-you notes and disreetly re-home her presents.

But they are nearly always so completely out of place that the excitement of getting a packet in the mail is almost totally balanced out by the sad realization that I will probably have to give it away.

This has been the case as far back as I can remember. When I was seven years old, my aunt sent me a Barbie doll for Christmas. And not just any Barbie doll, but a pink-tutu-clad ballerina Barbie with a dazzling frozen smile and tight pink plastic ballet shoes stuck on her impossibly-pointed feet.

The irony of this was not lost on me even then. For you see, I was the quintessential tomboy. I rough-housed with my brothers, played in the dirt, and never touched dolls. In fact, one year when my brothers got Tonka trucks and I got a dainty doll tea set, I cried until I was given a Tonka truck too. Pink ballerina Barbies, and the girls who played with them, were the objects of my scorn.

This Barbie would probably have been the dream of any other little girl my age. But I was so completely disappointed by it that it's the only present I remember from that Christmas.

I didn't throw that Barbie out. But I didn't know what to do with it either. I hid it away in a bottom drawer and it went with us when we moved the next year. In fact, my well-meaning grandmother even bought me more outfits for it the next Christmas, which I promptly lost. I think she was trying to turn me into a girl.

A couple of years later, that poor Barbie became the object of my agressions. I stripped all of her clothes off, cropped her long blond plastic hair down to the absurd plug lines in her scalp, and threw her back in the drawer. Eventually, she was thrown away in a cleaning binge.

But my dear aunt has continued her track record, for example one year sending a painted slate plaque with some kind of inspirational verse on it; another year sending a flag with a chicken on it and "God bless this home" designed to be flown outside a house (I don't have a house?). I abhor knickknacks and decorative items; am not domestic; and keep my possessions to an absolute minimum. Anyone who knows me well, knows that I can't abide clutter or kitsch.

One year, she actually veered away from the trend and sent me quite a pretty necklace, a small turquoise-and-silver charm strung on a delicate silver chain. Though it isn't normally the style of jewelry I wear, it's truly lovely and it's still sitting in my jewelry box.

So I continue to receive the presents, and send grateful thank-yous. Why? Because in this case, it really is the thought that counts. And while I wish the money to buy the gifts and the postage to send them wouldn't be wasted, there's no way I'd ever say so to her. In the meantime, there's always Goodwill. Or friends, who have the same taste she does. God bless my aunt.

Last night, I watched a heartbreaking documentary called "Invisible Children". This movie was filmed by three American college students who went to Africa in 2003 intending to document refugees in the Sudan. Instead, they ended up in northern Uganda, where they heard about an even more alarming situation. For 20 years, a civil war has raged there between the rebels of the "Lord's Resistance Army", led by a demonically-inspired man called Joseph Kony, and the government. This army's purpose is purportedly to fight the government and help the Acholi people. Instead, it terrorizes them. Tens of thousands of children (no one is exactly sure how many) between the ages of eight and fourteen have been forcibly abducted, often by other children, and spirited away into the bush by Kony and his rebels. There they are made to participate in senseless brutality so evil it would make you weep to hear it described. Children are tortured and killed violently if they cannot keep up, or if they are suspected of rebellion, or simply at whim. Children are made to kill other children, and told they themselves will be killed if they refuse to participate. Girls are made into sex slaves for lieutenants and commanders, and often come back from the bush, if they escape at all, with one or more children and sexually transmitted diseases, including AIDS.

Some of the children manage to escape. But if and when they do, they are scarred for life. Their drawings are all of soldiers, death, bloodshed. They have missed much or all of their education and their childhood is gone. They live in fear of being hunted down and killed or re-recruited by the rebel army. Many of them are permanently crippled or maimed. Many of the girls have children. They have seen things no child should ever see and been forced to participate in things no child should even know about. They are in desperate need spiritually, emotionally, and physically.

The Lord's Resistance Army has all the trappings of a cult: spirit possession, weird religious practices, and brainwashing. The soldiers are told that if they smear shea oil on their bodies, they will be invincible to enemy bullets. If they die, it is because they were "unclean" or somehow disobeyed orders. Children are systematically desensitized by being forced to participate in violence, and psychologically damaged by having weird "mind games" played with them. It is dark and demonic in the most real and insidious sense.

In a perverse double injustice, the children who escape are often ostracized by their community. Haunted by a past that none of them chose, they are unable to reintegrate, to continue their schooling, or to find work. They live under condemnation for actions that they were forced into under threat to their lives. The children born to the girls by rebel fathers face double shunning.

As a result of all of this, children in northern Uganda live in terror for their lives. Because most kidnappings happen at night, children who live in rural areas participate in what is called the "Night Commute". Each evening they walk, sometimes for miles, from their homes into town centres, carrying only their bed mats, and sleep, packed like sardines, on the floors of hospitals, bus parks, or anywhere indoors that is perceived to be safe. Each morning they get up before dawn to perform the trek back home. Each one repeats the same mantra: "We don't want to sleep at home because it is not safe. We fear being abducted by the rebels."

One can only imagine the disruption, both to the school life (when can they do homework?) and the emotional and mental life of these children who grow up having to commute every night because sleeping at home is not safe. Even upon those who are not abducted, the toll is taken.

So what can we do? These three college students started an organization called Invisible Children to document the plight of these boys and girls. They could not forget, and neither should we. Their aim is to educate the American public, to create a groundswell of support, and in turn to pressurize the American government to act to end this war. A humanitarian crisis of terrible proportions is happening in Uganda, and the West is mostly ignorant or uncaring. What we need is for people to learn about this, and from knowledge to do something. As one of the adults in the documentary I watched last night cried, "Are we not human beings?" Another, a bishop, forcibly reiterated that Africans are made in the image of God and that justice is for all, regardless of colour.

One concrete action that everybody can take will be happening on April 29th. That night, in cities all across America, a "Global Night Commute" will be held. People are asked to spend one night sleeping on the ground in their city centre, in solidarity with the children of Uganda. If it is a big enough event, the media will have to cover it. If the media cover it, the government will know that this is an issue that Americans care about. So please visit the website, www.invisiblechildren.com, find out if there's a Night Commute in a city near you, and sign up. It's only one night. It's a small price to pay to help raise awareness and stop this hideous war.

The website also contains many other ways in which you can help, including buying the DVD of the documentary, or buying a bracelet made by a former child soldier in Uganda accompanied by a DVD of that child's story.

I know the people who read this blog are few. But we all have spheres of influence. Read the website. Learn about the situation. Buy the DVD. Show it at your church or youth club or school. Make other people aware. Get involved. Pray about how to help. Just as faith without action is dead, knowledge without action is dead. Do something. Even if it's "just" giving money. The children of Uganda will thank you.

Welcome Back...
Yes, it's another episode of my "Cottage Tour"! 


"There is room in the smallest cottage for a happy loving pair."
Friedrich Schiller

"Just as there comes a warm sunbeam into every cottage window,
so comes a loveborn of God's care for every need."
Nathaniel Hawthorne

Vintage Toys that have lived their days outcheerfully in the hands of a little child.

By the sea...By the sea...By the Beautiful sea!

"I can envision a small cottage somewhere, with a lot of writing paper, a dog and a fireplaceand maybe enough money to give myself some Irish coffee now and then..."Van de Geer

Creative Cottage Ideas

Just in case it rains...Brightly Colored Umbrellas At the Foot of the Stairs

"There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place where colors are brighter, the air softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever before."

Come Fly With Me!
Kite Flying is a favorite past time on the Oregon Coast.

HURRY BACK! THERE'S MORE TO COME!
Blessings, Carolynn xoxo
"Let the heavens be glad and let the earth rejoice; and let men say among the nations, The Lord Reigns." I Chronicles 16:31

My darling friend, Jann, at "Have A Daily Cup of Mrs. Olson" features each week
"Share Your Cup Thursday". I posted and hope you will pop over and say hello to her!www.jannolson.blogspot.com

I added this post to "Feather Nest Friday" on www.frenchcountrycottage.blogspot.comI love following this beautiful blog...and, I know you will, too!
I just love visiting www.fishtailcottage.blogspot.com and I know you will, too!I posted on her "Cottage Garden Party".
I have discovered the most beautiful blog. Lynnie of "Vintage Gal Style" is new to the blogging world...like me.I hope you will stop over and say hi. She is having a lovely giveaway and I'm sure you won't want to miss it!

www.vintagegalstyle.blogspot.com