Changling

When I was thirteen, my grandma took my brother Luke and I, along with my Aunt Shirley, to the circus for a joint birthday gift. THE GREATEST SHOW IN THE WORLD!

Grandma even bought us a program, slick and glossy. It was more like an oversized book, really, and I pored over its pages for hours and hours. For a provincial country girl who'd never been to the movies, who didn't watch television, and who hadn't traveled much past the end of her nose, it was the most exotic, exciting thing I'd ever seen outside of a National Geographic. It was about that time that I decided I would become a clown. I knew that the trapeze was beyond my abilities (though I wished otherwise), but clowning seemed within my grasp. I had an amazing, stretchy face, I already made faces at myself in the mirror for more time than anyone would consider healthy, AND the program featured a two-page spread on the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey clown school in Florida.

I tacked the circus-poster insert to the wall at the foot of my bed from that point on, and I'm sure it seeped into my dreams. I thought a lot about this future, and even into college, I considered it a serious possibility, along with going to theater school and traveling the world.

Then my best friend told me he intended to marry me, so we had a circus-themed wedding reception, instead. I moved the circus poster from the foot of my bed to the wall behind the reception head table, where it provided a festive backdrop to John and I as we celebrated. It was WAY better than clown school, and what I've been given in the last ten years eclipses all of the above. I still have the program and the poster, though, and I wonder if the circus accepts highly motivated 80-year old clowns.

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When Susannah was 2 weeks old, John surprised us with a trip to the circus. He'd received tickets through his work, and my girls were dazzled as I had been. Since that time, he's taken us two other times, thanks to tickets through his work, and it never gets old or stale.

This time, we had to pay for the adult tickets because of a glitch, but it was more than worth the cost.

And we went with friends, which made it all the more merry!




I didn't take many pictures. Having a squirmy baby on my lap while trying to adjust manual settings that I'm not entirely competent with yet hampered any excess, which meant there was more time to stare wide-eyed at all the wonder and glitz.

More time for Luci to eat elephants.

More time for Pip to wonder why I'm taking her picture.

More time to watch the trapeze artists with awe and wistfulness. (A small part of me still wishes my mom and dad had been circus people, so that I'd have an excuse to swing up so high.)

They were the best trapeze artists I'd ever seen, and I can't even remember the name of their troupe. (Rebecca?)

More time to envy the woman who rides elephants.

And more time to watch the real Human Cannonball shoot through the air and land at the opposite side of the arena. I'm sorry that I have no picture of this new-to-me marvel; I was too busy watching, but it was exciting.

Then we walked across the bridge to normalcy, where women don't swing through the air by their hair, Tiger Men don't pace a ring filled with striped beasts, dogs don't willingly rush down slides, spangles don't shoot out of every corner, and where cotton candy doesn't cost 3 bucks a bag.






We drove home through beautiful rain.

It's a good life, this life of mine

Cat Up a Tree

When enjoying a leisurely stroll along the wall, keep these wise words in mind.

What goes up must also come down.

And make sure your chum's kind mama is taller than your puny one. (It's not MY fault, girls! I always wanted to be taller!)

We Are a Non-Royal Nuisance

It's good to have gracious friends who host you as company at the very last post-circus minute.

Friends who feed you a feast on their sunny patio.

And who, because you have none of your own to gather, send you home with fistfuls of bluebells.

Thank you, Missus. You are lovely and kind.

These Pictures are Here

Because she was here.

And here.

And here.

Coloring with the Owens

They turned out beautifully, especially Piper's. She dipped hers in the lellow, followed by the lellow, and then, lastly, a dip in the lellow. The older girls seemed to favor blues and greens; at least their hands attested to such.

Egging with Abigail in a Dozen Easy Steps

Steps 1-8:

Poke holes in eggs, blow out the insides, and give said insides to husband as he prepares a breakfast feast. Mix water and glue in a bowl, and let little girls coat eggs with glue. Eat your breakfast feast and love your husband. As a finishing touch, roll the eggs in a bowl of blue glitter (or, as the bag that originally held the glitter proclaims, "FAIRY DUST.")

Steps 9, 10, & 11:

Admire your eggs. Take pictures. Admire some more.
(The dusted eggs looked so pretty on the table it seemed a shame to hang them.)

Step 12:
But hang them we must, and hang them we did.

Egging With Abigail, Part Deux

This is a stop along the journey to which readers may not wish to follow. Its name is Crazy Town.

Even though I know it's foolish and I never intend to do so, my recent holiday (Holy Day) pattern has been to stay up all night doing silly things that don't need to be done. Rather than a time of stress and anxiety, however, these nights have become a peaceful time of contemplation and thankfulness. So when you scroll past the pictures of ridiculous place-card eggs, please know that as I glued felt and googly eyes onto eggshells, my heart sang the praises of a risen Lord. Rejoice!

The idea of filling eggshells with chocolate-- like Kinder-eggs, only not so professional-- is something I've wanted to do for a while now. During the day, I blew out the insides of eggs, cut off the ends with a sharp knife (I said I was stupid), boiled them to get rid of any clinging germs, and then let them dry. (I found inspiration here.)

I'd been saving some colored chocolate melts my mom-in-law had left over from a Christmas project for something special. "As opposed to eating them plain?" you ask. Yes, as opposed to eating them plain.

I saved them for such a time as this.

After melting dark chocolate and coating the insides of the eggs, I let them harden, open-end down, on cooling racks before coating them with a second layer of colored melts. After they were dry, I washed 0ff all the drippy, hardened mess.

Here's the fun part. I was grinning so big as I stuffed the eggs, imagining how much fun it would be to be surprised by such on Easter morning. I tucked jelly beans, one quarter, one dime, one nickel, and one penny into each egg, as well as one tightly rolled message of joy.




Enter my stash of felt from Great Aunt Betty-Jo. Sixteen cents for a square of felt?! I thought those were the good ol' days, but felt must have been hard to come by.

I cut circles out of felt that would overlap the edges of the hole by a bit and then hot-glued the felt over the opening. Then I decided to turn the eggs into chicks, so I snipped rectangles of felt into grass and wrapped them around the egg, hot gluing them into place.

Googly eyes and beaks soon came tumbling after.

And here's the part where I unveil the glory of my dorkiness to the universe. I wrote PUNS on the back of the eggs in order to use them as place-cards. Not only did I write puns, but I giggled- GIGGLED- as I thought of them. At three o'clock in the morning, I thought I was the funniest creature alive. At seven o'clock in the morning, doubts crept in, but I took a picture, anyway.

That's Mildregg, Annicluck, Cock-a-doodle-Sue, Peeper, and Luchicka.
I'm so funny!
(I'm so ashamed.)

The next morning, they rested beside the chocolate bunny pops that I made around 1 in the morning. Give me chocolate, and I'll be productive.

The girls were so curious about them, and when I told them to peel off the shells, I eagerly leaned over their shoulders, waiting for the reaction. They loved them.

I think we've got a new tradition on our hands.

Feaster Eating. I Mean Easter Feasting.

Before we left for church on Easter Sunday, I took these boring pictures of the table. Boring. Pictures. Table.

Because I care about these things more than I should, I have to tell you that everything on the table, plates and cutlery included, cost six quarters. (Math whizzes, that's $1.50!) Stores LOVE me.

Our church service starts after lunch and ends right before supper, so we had an Easter dinner (supper). Here is one boring picture I took of our meal, for the sake of the eggshell candles. Thanks, Martha! (Martha's a close pal of mine who sometimes has clever ideas. Her directions were too fussy, though, so I simply washed some coffee-grounds-covered-eggshells from the breakfast compost bowl and stuffed a cheap votive candle inside.)

And here's Pip, salting her roll. She's her Papa's daughter, for sure.

A Sorry Excuse for a Hand-Written Note

I shy away from dispersing shotsnaps in the murky Internet ocean. I don't link up to linky-thingies, I don't join blog parties, I don't comment on blogs I run across of people I don't know (unless they've first commented on mine), and if I do happen to comment on a stranger's blog, I leave my name without a link back to shotsnaps. You can analyze this wallflower approach to making internet connections if you like. (Or you can spend your time doing something more fun.)

This preamble serves to explain why I'm so surprised when people DO stumble here. It's fascinating to me that people I've never met in other parts of the country and/or world happen upon this spot and come back from time to time. I love the ways in which humans forge ties to one another in unlikely ways, and, even though I'm often reticent to do it myself, I think it's cool when (kind, not creepy) people comment here.

I think of you, Torie, nearly every time I snap your cloth diapers on the baby-- of your generosity even though we've never met-- and I know it's possible for great good to spring from the odd, modern ties that come through electronic screens. I'm not talking about the loot I've been sent, either! (Okay, not JUST about the loot, anyway...)
Molly is a sweet reader who sends me encouraging messages, and she found her way here via buildabelly through an internet search for pesto lasagna! The internet baffles me; it truly does. I probably won't change my practice of staying secluded in a little corner of the internet just because a reader who unexpectedly found my blog sent a giant box filled with goodies for the girls, but we're grateful for it nonetheless!

I took these pictures, Molly, 'cause I thought you'd like a bird's-eye view of the girls opening the package.

Susannah immediately claimed the African doll and hasn't let go since. She LOVES her, as do all the girls, though they respect Susannah's obvious connection with her. The picture on the left shows her about 30 seconds after they opened the box. The picture on the right captures her epiphany that "When I go to Africa, I can take her WITH me!!!"
*Side note: The doll needs an African name. I told Susannah that I have a friend who lives in Africa and that I'd ask her for some suggestions. Sandy, that means you, if you're willing!

There was much trading of lotions and chapsticks, and Millie and Annika had to examine the doll, too.

Piper latched onto the singing frog and jealously guarded the use of his paw (hand? foot?). This is no surprise, nor is it a surprise that I've been belting out "I'm singin' in the rain...Just SINGIN' in the rain!" for the last few weeks.

Millie and Annie share the two huskies, tho' they think they're wolves. I haven't corrected them, because I imagine it's more fun to have a wolf ride around on one's shoulder than it is to have a husky dog do the same.

Thanks so much! I'll mail the real thank you tomorrow.

Slave-Labor Crafting

The title is for those who notice an ugly truth to these crafting posts. Please believe that when I say, "Here, dearies, you can cut out dozens of circles for me!!!" my children are actually happy to do so.

Because I love bacon, here's a confusing and misplaced analogy: Never give an Abigail REAL bacon, and she'll happily lick a spoon of bacon grease.

Everything's clear now, of course.

To make a flower garland from tissue paper, gather these essential supplies.

-tissue paper in colors of your choice
-four pairs of scissors
-a needle
-string/ribbon/yarn
-fingers for twisting (Look at your hands. There should be some attached.)
-a copper teapot (or a small circle for tracing)
-a stout pig creamer (or a medium circle for tracing)
-a colorful tin cup (or a large circle for tracing)
-four children to use the scissors

Trace many circles of varying sizes on the tissue paper. Call four children (any four will do) into the room and say, "Here, dearies, you can cut out dozens of circles for me!!!" After the children express their happiness to do so, they will cut circles of varying sizes and colors. Then layer the circles in groups of three, with the large circle on bottom, the medium circle in the middle, and the small circle on top. Pinch the bottom of each stack and use your fingers (see above list of supplies for ordering info.) to twist the circles into ruffly flowers. When the four children express their desire, let them also pinch paper into flowers.

Take two pictures.

When you realize that you can complete the next part more easily than can four children, sigh. After sighing, sit down with your ribbon/string/yarn and needle and begin threading the flowers thereon.

Hang the garland in the threshold of your choice and take a picture.

The End.