Another year is dawning, dear Father, let it be
In working or in waiting, another year with Thee.
Another year of progress, another year of praise,
Another year of proving Thy presence all the days.
... Another year of mercies, of faithfulness and grace,
Another year of gladness in the shining of Thy face;
Another year of leaning upon Thy loving breast;
Another year of trusting, of quiet, happy rest.
Another year of service, of witness for Thy love,
Another year of training for holier work above.
Another year is dawning, dear Father, let it be
On earth, or else in Heaven, another year for Thee.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Real Analysis for Music Majors
Well, I guess this is becoming "Mostly Math" instead of "Mostly Poetry." Of course, I think they're the same thing, so . . . . and right now I think this version of "poetry" is better as my husband was getting a little tired of and concerned about the series of dark poems I was putting up a while ago.
This post is actually in honor of Anthony who gets to take his Real Analysis final Thursday after taking his philosophy final later today. This video was recently created by the student of a friend of mine. My only question is how wealthy he must be to jump into a swimming pool with his Real Analysis book. Those things are EXPENSIVE!
Click here to see video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSBquYIXHns
This post is actually in honor of Anthony who gets to take his Real Analysis final Thursday after taking his philosophy final later today. This video was recently created by the student of a friend of mine. My only question is how wealthy he must be to jump into a swimming pool with his Real Analysis book. Those things are EXPENSIVE!
Click here to see video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSBquYIXHns
GOOD LUCK ON YOUR FINALS ANTHONY!
AND JACOB! (who has calculus tomorrow - I mean later today!)
AND CALEB!
AND JACOB! (who has calculus tomorrow - I mean later today!)
AND CALEB!
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Escher
I'll be giving a talk this spring titled "Infinite Possibility: The Importance of Mathematical Play." One of my three topics will be M. C. Escher's work with tessellations. I was sharing about this with a friend today and was surprised to learn that Escher is not universally known. His work has been a part of my life so long I thought everyone was familiar with it, so I decided to post a few of my favorites of his work - each having some mathematical aspect to it.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Monday, November 07, 2011
Floods Have Slit the Hills
The Brain, within its Groove
Runs evenly-and true-
But let a Splinter swerve-
'Twere easier for You-
To put a Current back-
When Floods have slit the Hills-
And scooped a Turnpike for Themselves-
And trodden out the Mills-
Runs evenly-and true-
But let a Splinter swerve-
'Twere easier for You-
To put a Current back-
When Floods have slit the Hills-
And scooped a Turnpike for Themselves-
And trodden out the Mills-
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
It's All About Caleb!
Caleb has taken on cross-country this year as well as his studies - in which he is maintaining excellence. I've been wanting to get a post up - but I've taken on a 33% overload at work and haven't had a chance to "celebrate" Caleb in this way as much as I'd like. So here's a beginning:
Looking sharp in his uniform.
With his teammates before the race.
Chillin' at the start line - getting ready to go.
And they're off!!
Cheering on his teammates!
We're proud of you Caleb!!! And we're cheering you on every step of the way!
More to come when I get another moment!
More to come when I get another moment!
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Friday, October 07, 2011
My New Office :-)
This semester - after a year in portables - we got to move into newly-remodeled "Founder's Hall." My new office is beautiful (and also my third move in as many years), so I'm sure hoping to stay in this one a while!
Teaching is a lot of work, but once in a while there's time for fun in the midst of it - gaming with my totally awesome colleague Ross:
Teaching is a lot of work, but once in a while there's time for fun in the midst of it - gaming with my totally awesome colleague Ross:
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Be as Branches
Mortal flesh, is not your place in the ground?--Why do you stare so
At the bright planet serene in the clear green evening sky above the many-coloured streaked clouds?--
Your brows drawn together as if to chide, your mouth set as if in anger.
Learn to love blackness while there is yet time, blackness
Unpatterned, blackness without horizons.
Beautiful are the trees in autumn, the emerald pines
Dark among the light-red leaves of the maple and the dark-red
Leaves of the white oak and the indigo long
Leaves of the white ash.
But why do you stand so, staring with stern face of ecstasy at the autumn leaves,
At the boughs hung with banners along the road as if a procession were about to pass?
Learn to love roots instead, that soon above your head shall be as branches.
Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Something
"We're all lonely for something we don't know we're lonely for. How else to explain the curious feeling that goes around feeling like missing somebody we've never even met?”
― David Foster Wallace
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Parker
Résumé
Razors pain you; Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give;
Gas smells awful; You might as well live.
Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give;
Gas smells awful; You might as well live.
-- Dorothy Parker (1893-1967)
Friday, September 16, 2011
Millay
“CURSE thee, Life, I will live with thee no more!
Thou hast mocked me, starved me, beat my body sore!
And all for a pledge that was not pledged by me,
I have kissed thy crust and eaten sparingly
That I might eat again, and met thy sneers
With deprecations, and thy blows with tears,—
Aye, from thy glutted lash, glad, crawled away,
As if spent passion were a holiday!
And now I go. Nor threat, nor easy vow
Of tardy kindness can avail thee now
With me, whence fear and faith alike are flown;
Lonely I came, and I depart alone,
And know not where nor unto whom I go;
But that thou canst not follow me I know.”
Thus I to Life, and ceased; but through my brain
My thought ran still, until I spake again:
“Ah, but I go not as I came,—no trace
Is mine to bear away of that old grace
I brought! I have been heated in thy fires,
Bent by thy hands, fashioned to thy desires,
Thy mark is on me! I am not the same
Nor ever more shall be, as when I came.
Ashes am I of all that once I seemed.
In me all’s sunk that leapt, and all that dreamed
Is wakeful for alarm,—oh, shame to thee,
For the ill change that thou hast wrought in me,
Who laugh no more nor lift my throat to sing!
Ah, life, I would have been a pleasant thing
To have about the house when I was grown
If thou hadst left my little joys alone!
I asked of thee no favor save this one:
That thou wouldst leave me playing in the sun!
And this thou didst deny, calling my name
Insistently, until I rose and came.
I saw the sun no more.—It were not well
So long on these unpleasant thoughts to dwell,
Need I arise to-morrow and renew
Again my hated tasks, but I am through
With all things save my thoughts and this one night,
So that in truth I seem already quite
Free and remote from thee,—I feel no haste
And no reluctance to depart; I taste
Merely, with thoughtful mien, an unknown draught,
That in a little while I shall have quaffed.”
Thus I to Life, and ceased, and slightly smiled,
Looking at nothing; and my thin dreams filed
Before me one by one till once again
I set new words unto an old refrain:
“Treasures thou hast that never have been mine!
Warm lights in many a secret chamber shine
Of thy gaunt house, and gusts of song have blown
Like blossoms out to me that sat alone!
And I have waited well for thee to show
If any share were mine,—and now I go!
Nothing I leave, and if I naught attain
I shall but come into mine own again!”
Thus I to Life, and ceased, and spake no more,
But turning, straightway, sought a certain door
In the rear wall. Heavy it was, and low
And dark,—a way by which none e’er would go
That other exit had, and never knock
Was heard thereat,—bearing a curious lock
Some chance had shown me fashioned faultily,
Whereof Life held content the useless key,
And great coarse hinges, thick and rough with rust,
Whose sudden voice across a silence must,
I knew, be harsh and horrible to hear,—
A strange door, ugly like a dwarf.—So near
I came I felt upon my feet the chill
Of acid wind creeping across the sill.
So stood longtime, till over me at last
Came weariness, and all things other passed
To make it room; the still night drifted deep
Like snow about me, and I longed for sleep.
But, suddenly, marking the morning hour,
Bayed the deep-throated bell within the tower!
Startled, I raised my head,—and with a shout
Laid hold upon the latch,—and was without.
. . . . . .
Ah, long-forgotten, well-remembered road,
Leading me back unto my old abode,
My father’s house! There in the night I came,
And found them feasting, and all things the same
As they had been before. A splendour hung
Upon the walls, and such sweet songs were sung
As, echoing out of very long ago,
Had called me from the house of Life, I know.
So fair their raiment shone I looked in shame
On the unlovely garb in which I came;
Then straightway at my hesitancy mocked:
“It is my father’s house!” I said and knocked;
And the door opened. To the shining crowd
Tattered and dark I entered, like a cloud,
Seeing no face but his; to him I crept,
And “Father!” I cried, and clasped his knees, and wept.
Ah, days of joy that followed! All alone
I wandered through the house. My own, my own,
My own to touch, my own to taste and smell,
All I had lacked so long and loved so well!
None shook me out of sleep, nor hushed my song,
Nor called me in from the sunlight all day long.
I know not when the wonder came to me
Of what my father’s business might be,
And whither fared and on what errands bent
The tall and gracious messengers he sent.
Yet one day with no song from dawn till night
Wondering, I sat, and watched them out of sight.
And the next day I called; and on the third
Asked them if I might go,—but no one heard.
Then, sick with longing, I arose at last
And went unto my father,—in that vast
Chamber wherein he for so many years
Has sat, surrounded by his charts and spheres.
“Father,” I said, “Father, I cannot play
The harp that thou didst give me, and all day
I sit in idleness, while to and fro
About me thy serene, grave servants go;
And I am weary of my lonely ease.
Better a perilous journey overseas
Away from thee, than this, the life I lead,
To sit all day in the sunshine like a weed
That grows to naught,—I love thee more than they
Who serve thee most; yet serve thee in no way.
Father, I beg of thee a little task
To dignify my days,—’tis all I ask
Forever, but forever, this denied,
I perish.”
“Child,” my father’s voice replied,
“All things thy fancy hath desired of me
Thou hast received. I have prepared for thee
Within my house a spacious chamber, where
Are delicate things to handle and to wear,
And all these things are thine. Dost thou love song?
My minstrels shall attend thee all day long.
Or sigh for flowers? My fairest gardens stand
Open as fields to thee on every hand.
And all thy days this word shall hold the same:
No pleasure shalt thou lack that thou shalt name.
But as for tasks—” he smiled, and shook his head;
“Thou hadst thy task, and laidst it by,” he said.
Thou hast mocked me, starved me, beat my body sore!
And all for a pledge that was not pledged by me,
I have kissed thy crust and eaten sparingly
That I might eat again, and met thy sneers
With deprecations, and thy blows with tears,—
Aye, from thy glutted lash, glad, crawled away,
As if spent passion were a holiday!
And now I go. Nor threat, nor easy vow
Of tardy kindness can avail thee now
With me, whence fear and faith alike are flown;
Lonely I came, and I depart alone,
And know not where nor unto whom I go;
But that thou canst not follow me I know.”
Thus I to Life, and ceased; but through my brain
My thought ran still, until I spake again:
“Ah, but I go not as I came,—no trace
Is mine to bear away of that old grace
I brought! I have been heated in thy fires,
Bent by thy hands, fashioned to thy desires,
Thy mark is on me! I am not the same
Nor ever more shall be, as when I came.
Ashes am I of all that once I seemed.
In me all’s sunk that leapt, and all that dreamed
Is wakeful for alarm,—oh, shame to thee,
For the ill change that thou hast wrought in me,
Who laugh no more nor lift my throat to sing!
Ah, life, I would have been a pleasant thing
To have about the house when I was grown
If thou hadst left my little joys alone!
I asked of thee no favor save this one:
That thou wouldst leave me playing in the sun!
And this thou didst deny, calling my name
Insistently, until I rose and came.
I saw the sun no more.—It were not well
So long on these unpleasant thoughts to dwell,
Need I arise to-morrow and renew
Again my hated tasks, but I am through
With all things save my thoughts and this one night,
So that in truth I seem already quite
Free and remote from thee,—I feel no haste
And no reluctance to depart; I taste
Merely, with thoughtful mien, an unknown draught,
That in a little while I shall have quaffed.”
Thus I to Life, and ceased, and slightly smiled,
Looking at nothing; and my thin dreams filed
Before me one by one till once again
I set new words unto an old refrain:
“Treasures thou hast that never have been mine!
Warm lights in many a secret chamber shine
Of thy gaunt house, and gusts of song have blown
Like blossoms out to me that sat alone!
And I have waited well for thee to show
If any share were mine,—and now I go!
Nothing I leave, and if I naught attain
I shall but come into mine own again!”
Thus I to Life, and ceased, and spake no more,
But turning, straightway, sought a certain door
In the rear wall. Heavy it was, and low
And dark,—a way by which none e’er would go
That other exit had, and never knock
Was heard thereat,—bearing a curious lock
Some chance had shown me fashioned faultily,
Whereof Life held content the useless key,
And great coarse hinges, thick and rough with rust,
Whose sudden voice across a silence must,
I knew, be harsh and horrible to hear,—
A strange door, ugly like a dwarf.—So near
I came I felt upon my feet the chill
Of acid wind creeping across the sill.
So stood longtime, till over me at last
Came weariness, and all things other passed
To make it room; the still night drifted deep
Like snow about me, and I longed for sleep.
But, suddenly, marking the morning hour,
Bayed the deep-throated bell within the tower!
Startled, I raised my head,—and with a shout
Laid hold upon the latch,—and was without.
. . . . . .
Ah, long-forgotten, well-remembered road,
Leading me back unto my old abode,
My father’s house! There in the night I came,
And found them feasting, and all things the same
As they had been before. A splendour hung
Upon the walls, and such sweet songs were sung
As, echoing out of very long ago,
Had called me from the house of Life, I know.
So fair their raiment shone I looked in shame
On the unlovely garb in which I came;
Then straightway at my hesitancy mocked:
“It is my father’s house!” I said and knocked;
And the door opened. To the shining crowd
Tattered and dark I entered, like a cloud,
Seeing no face but his; to him I crept,
And “Father!” I cried, and clasped his knees, and wept.
Ah, days of joy that followed! All alone
I wandered through the house. My own, my own,
My own to touch, my own to taste and smell,
All I had lacked so long and loved so well!
None shook me out of sleep, nor hushed my song,
Nor called me in from the sunlight all day long.
I know not when the wonder came to me
Of what my father’s business might be,
And whither fared and on what errands bent
The tall and gracious messengers he sent.
Yet one day with no song from dawn till night
Wondering, I sat, and watched them out of sight.
And the next day I called; and on the third
Asked them if I might go,—but no one heard.
Then, sick with longing, I arose at last
And went unto my father,—in that vast
Chamber wherein he for so many years
Has sat, surrounded by his charts and spheres.
“Father,” I said, “Father, I cannot play
The harp that thou didst give me, and all day
I sit in idleness, while to and fro
About me thy serene, grave servants go;
And I am weary of my lonely ease.
Better a perilous journey overseas
Away from thee, than this, the life I lead,
To sit all day in the sunshine like a weed
That grows to naught,—I love thee more than they
Who serve thee most; yet serve thee in no way.
Father, I beg of thee a little task
To dignify my days,—’tis all I ask
Forever, but forever, this denied,
I perish.”
“Child,” my father’s voice replied,
“All things thy fancy hath desired of me
Thou hast received. I have prepared for thee
Within my house a spacious chamber, where
Are delicate things to handle and to wear,
And all these things are thine. Dost thou love song?
My minstrels shall attend thee all day long.
Or sigh for flowers? My fairest gardens stand
Open as fields to thee on every hand.
And all thy days this word shall hold the same:
No pleasure shalt thou lack that thou shalt name.
But as for tasks—” he smiled, and shook his head;
“Thou hadst thy task, and laidst it by,” he said.
The Suicide by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Fitting Tribute
"To laugh often and love much; to win the respect of intelligent persons and the affection of children; to earn the approbation of honest citizens and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to give of one's self; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to have played and laughed with enthusiasm and sung with exultation; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived . . . this is to have succeeded." (Ralph Waldo Emerson)This quote fits Al so well, and he will be greatly missed.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Friday, September 09, 2011
Gone Too Soon - EB and AH
WITH rue my heart is laden
For golden friends I had,
For many a rose-lipt maiden
And many a lightfoot lad.
By brooks too broad for leaping
The lightfoot boys are laid;
The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
In fields where roses fade.
A. E. Housman 1896
Friday, September 02, 2011
Letting Go Again
Well, last year at about this time I was scanning and posting pictures of Anthony from babyhood to age 5. This year I'm working from the other end and putting up recent ones - from this summer's excursions to one of his favorite places, Knight's Ferry. I guess this will be my annual mother's therapy session as I say "good-bye" and he travels a couple thousand miles away to go to college. I absolutely know he is going where he needs to be and is absolutely thriving there in every possible way - and I'm so excited for him, but I don't know if I'll ever get used to my kids leaving the "nest." I miss him like crazy!
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Belated, Etc.
Bet ya didn't know I was 451 years old, didja?! I owe my youthful appearance to large portions of dark chocolate consumed at regular intervals!
In my old age my memory is failing a bit, and I forgot to send birthday greetings to my "twins" before our shared birthday was over. Belatedly but wholeheartedly wishing a good new year of life to:
NETHE
KEITH
LAWERENCE
JOAN
And may you all live as long as I!
KEITH
LAWERENCE
JOAN
And may you all live as long as I!
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Destiny with Men
'Tis all a Checker-board of Nights and Days
where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates and slays,
and one by one back in the Closet lays.
Omar Khayyám (1048-1131)
Sunday, August 07, 2011
Self-Abdication
People think that a liar gains a victory over his victim.
What I've learned is that a lie is an act of self-abdication, because one surrenders one's reality to the person to whom one lies, making that person one's master, condemning oneself from then on to faking the sort of reality that person's view requires to be faked. And if one gains the immediate purpose of the lie -- the price one pays is the destructions of that which the gain was intended to serve.
...there are no white lies, there is only the blackness of destruction, and a white lie is the blackest of all.
Ayn Rand Atlas Shrugged
True 60 Times Over (and then some)
Sometimes there's wisdom even in a card game.The flavor text (italicized) says it all!
Friday, August 05, 2011
while i am away
as any(men's hells having wrestled with)
man drops into his own paradise
thakfully
whole and the green whereless truth
of an eternal now welcomes each was
of whom among not numerable ams
(leaving a perfectly distinct unhe;
a ticking phantom by prodigious time's
mere brain contrived:a spook of stop and go)
may i achieve another steepest thing--
how more than sleep illimitably my
--being so very born no bird can sing
as easily creation up all sky
(really unreal world,will you perhaps do
the breathing for me while i am away?)
man drops into his own paradise
thakfully
whole and the green whereless truth
of an eternal now welcomes each was
of whom among not numerable ams
(leaving a perfectly distinct unhe;
a ticking phantom by prodigious time's
mere brain contrived:a spook of stop and go)
may i achieve another steepest thing--
how more than sleep illimitably my
--being so very born no bird can sing
as easily creation up all sky
(really unreal world,will you perhaps do
the breathing for me while i am away?)
e. e. cummings (1894-1962)
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Miles to Go
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost (1874-1963)
Monday, July 25, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
I'd Rather
I would not paint--a picture--
I'd rather be the One
Its bright impossibility
To dwell--delicious--on--
And wonder how the fingers feel
Whose rare--celestial--stir--
Evokes so sweet a Torment--
Such sumptuous--Despair--
I would not talk, like Cornets--
I'd rather be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings--
And out, and easy on--
Through Villages of Ether--
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal--
The pier to my Pontoon--
Nor would I be a Poet--
Its finer--own the Ear--
Enamored--impotent--content--
The License to revere,
A privilege so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With Bolts of Melody!
I'd rather be the One
Its bright impossibility
To dwell--delicious--on--
And wonder how the fingers feel
Whose rare--celestial--stir--
Evokes so sweet a Torment--
Such sumptuous--Despair--
I would not talk, like Cornets--
I'd rather be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings--
And out, and easy on--
Through Villages of Ether--
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal--
The pier to my Pontoon--
Nor would I be a Poet--
Its finer--own the Ear--
Enamored--impotent--content--
The License to revere,
A privilege so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With Bolts of Melody!
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Thursday, July 07, 2011
Summer Meyer Family Pics
With all the configurations of pictures we took you'd think it was a wedding, but it was just the Fourth of July!
Here's the whole fam - well, sans Dale :-(
Siblings - with Mom then on their own:
Grandkids - with Grandma, then on their own:
And my kids:
Here's the whole fam - well, sans Dale :-(
Siblings - with Mom then on their own:
Grandkids - with Grandma, then on their own:
And my kids:
Sunday, July 03, 2011
Leap Before You Look
The sense of danger must not disappear:
The way is certainly both short and steep,
However gradual it looks from here;
Look if you like, but you will have to leap.
Tough-minded men get mushy in their sleep
And break the by-laws any fool can keep;
It is not the convention but the fear
That has a tendency to disappear.
The worried efforts of the busy heap,
The dirt, the imprecision, and the beer
Produce a few samrt wisecracke every year;
Laugh if you can, but you will have to leap.
The clothes that are considered right to wear
Will not be either sensible or cheap,
So long as we consent to live like sheep
And never mention those who disappear.
Much can be said for social savior-faire,
Bu to rejoice when no one else is there
Is even harder than it is to weep;
No one is watching, but you have to leap.
A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear:
Although I love you, you will have to leap;
Our dream of safety has to disappear.
The way is certainly both short and steep,
However gradual it looks from here;
Look if you like, but you will have to leap.
Tough-minded men get mushy in their sleep
And break the by-laws any fool can keep;
It is not the convention but the fear
That has a tendency to disappear.
The worried efforts of the busy heap,
The dirt, the imprecision, and the beer
Produce a few samrt wisecracke every year;
Laugh if you can, but you will have to leap.
The clothes that are considered right to wear
Will not be either sensible or cheap,
So long as we consent to live like sheep
And never mention those who disappear.
Much can be said for social savior-faire,
Bu to rejoice when no one else is there
Is even harder than it is to weep;
No one is watching, but you have to leap.
A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear:
Although I love you, you will have to leap;
Our dream of safety has to disappear.
W. H. Auden (1907-1973)
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Song Making
My heart cried like a beaten child
Ceaselessly all night long;
I had to take my own cries
And thread them into song.
One was a cry at black midnight
And one when the first cock crew--
My heart was like a beaten child,
But no one ever knew.
Life, you have put me in your debt
And I must serve you long--
But oh, the debt is terrible
That must be paid in song.
Ceaselessly all night long;
I had to take my own cries
And thread them into song.
One was a cry at black midnight
And one when the first cock crew--
My heart was like a beaten child,
But no one ever knew.
Life, you have put me in your debt
And I must serve you long--
But oh, the debt is terrible
That must be paid in song.
Sara Teasdale, 1916
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Friday, June 03, 2011
Go Grand Rapids!
This looks like a happenin' place. I think we'll take our vacation here this summer!
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Caleb's 8th Grade Graduation
Caleb Jon Meyer of the Hickman Middle School class of 2011! :-)
Caleb receiving the award from the Daughters of the American Revolution
Caleb receiving the President's Award for Academic Achievement
And now for the diploma 
Brothers!
Buddies and fellow graduates: Curtis and Caleb
Yummy cake!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
