Outside the Box

Sometimes my box was a bakery. All sorts of cookies, cupcakes, and pies were available. At other times, it was an office, where I’d set up a small “desk” inside with a typewriter and paper—and of course, a phone (it was pink), which I’d answer repeatedly throughout the day, taking “messages” when necessary. Sometimes it was a kitchen—complete with shelves of baking ingredients and canned foods. My box could also be a reading nook—a study, if you will, with pillows to rest against; a nursery, complete with beds and chests of baby clothes; a miniature playhouse for small children who would sometimes visit, complete with windows of course. Or a festively decorated puppet theatre.

There was no end to the imaginings one could explore with a gigantic cardboard appliance box. My parents and I (an only child) moved from a run-down apartment building in Portland, Oregon to a slightly more desirable house in Florence, on the Oregon coast. It just so happened that our landlord was a manager at the Sears catalog store, just a couple blocks away. So we could, from time to time, secure the coveted cardboard “dream” box that I would become simply ecstatic about.

As a solitary child, I developed a strong sense of imagination through play, even taking on multiple roles if more characters were needed for my envisioned “script.” With my box as a backdrop—a starting block, I could be anyone. And the box could be anything.  A car, a spaceship, a library. Even a doctor’s office. I could modify it as needed and add atmosphere and accessories as desired. I never let my box box me in.

My parents may not have realized what a great gift they had given me—what parts of my brain these box sessions were causing to grow. I will always be grateful for the childhood that I had. I may not have had many popular amenities, but I had something even greater—a tool for exploring, and this was a freedom that took me, delightfully, outside the box.

The Progression of Popcorn

Archaeologists have established proof that popcorn had been around since before the arrival of the Europeans in the New World—and that the ancestors of most Native American tribes were eating popcorn prior to the birth of Christ.

In 1519, the explorer Cortes caught his first glimpse of popcorn when he met up with the Aztec Indians, for whom it was an important food. They also used it in ceremonial headdresses, statue decoration, and the like.

The use of popcorn as a snack would seem to be confirmed by the writings of the Spaniard Cobo, in 1650, in reference to the Peruvian Indians: "They toast a certain kind of corn until it bursts. They call it pisancalla, and they use it as a confection."

But it was the use of the moldboard plow in the mid-1800s that led to the widespread planting of maize in the U.S.—it could not only cut furrows but could turn the soil as well, reducing the time needed to prepare a field of maize for planting. This “popping corn” expands from the kernel and puffs up when it is heated.

By 1900, Charles D. Cretors had introduced the Special, the first large horse-drawn popcorn wagon, which was an immediate success. Cretors also invented the first popcorn machine with an electric motor. Commercial popcorn poppers in theaters and the like gained popularity following his invention. In 1949, Gold Medal came out with the 6-ounce Pop-A-Lot^® kettle, and who can forget Jiffy Pop of the 1960s (I was mesmerized). But it wasn’t until the late 1970s that hot air popcorn poppers became available for home use.

And--it would seem--the final step in the progression, microwave popcorn was introduced by General Mills in 1981. Of course, one can also buy pre-popped, packaged popcorn produced by such companies as Rocky Mountain Popcorn, Smartfood, and Cracker Jack. Many varieties and flavors are available.

Popcorn has come a long way since the kettle variety Ma Ingalls probably made. There’s no real effort required anymore. No mystery inherent in that first popping sound. I still hope that my grandkids can one day experience homemade (not microwave) popcorn so they can watch those kernels burst before their eyes and marvel over the physics of it.

Americans eat an average of eleven gallons of popcorn a year—yes, that’s per American. Popcorn is high in fiber and low in fat, making it an arguably healthy choice…depending, of course, on what one puts on it. One thing is for certain—popcorn is a popular snack.

The MONSTER Moniker

The definition of “monster” is most likely something along the lines of “a creature that is overpowering or menacing in nature.” Over time though, its definition has expanded to encompass size of an item and severity of a situation as well. There are monster trucks, monster cookies, even monster burgers. One can have a monster headache, a monster work-out, or a monster test. There is even an energy drink called Monster—it makes me wonder if the effects might be likened to the events in the Jekyll and Hyde story.

Some of Henson's memorable monsters.

 It was Jim Henson’s Sesame Street that made “monsters” cute, funny, adorable, and non-scary. I can’t help but wonder if perhaps Grover, Animal, or Oscar the Grouch might be offended at the word being so carelessly used. Instead of a harmless celebration with root beer floats and the like on Sesame Street, a “monster party” takes on the connotation of raucous behavior and too much alcohol. Such negativity has even found its way into familial references with the coining of the term monster-in-law, probably with the release of the 2005 movie by the same name.

A monster sundae

  

A monster pumpkin, weighing over 431 lbs.

Perhaps we should come up with a better adjective for some of these “larger-than-life” types of things so that we don’t give “lovable, furry old Grover” a bad rap.  One could also conclude, of course, that a “monster” this-or-that is simply in the eye of the beholder, and that he or she must choose whether or not to be influenced by monster claims (of bigger, better products) or their negative counterparts.

Light Socket Love

When I still lived in my parents’ home and would wake up with crazy hair, my mom would sometimes say to me, “You look like you stuck your finger in a light socket.” It was that frenzied-ly unkempt, Einstein-eque look she was referring to.

But it got me to thinking…what if our countenance looks like we’ve stuck our finger in a light socket? We’ve all seen it—that rather dazed, borderline panicky expression that says things are not quite right—too much stress, too many unfortunate events, or even tragedies have probably contributed to this look. It’s a look that says I’m holding it together…but barely. This person has been through so much, he or she doesn’t know what to do next—or in many cases even how to feel.

As one who can only mask emotions for so long, I’ve worn this look before. It can be scary to onlookers—they may be afraid to approach the frazzled individual, unsure of the response they will get. But this person needs to be approached, in love. He or she needs to be reassured that everything will be okay, that God remains faithful and true, that support of loving brothers and sisters is available and will be given freely.

Sometimes getting to the “light socket” stage means one is in a bit of shock. Life has been turned upside-down somehow, and it’s hard to put one foot in front of the other. If you think of it in terms of the natural equivalent, putting one’s finger in a light socket would generally result in a shock, leaving one feeling unsettlingly tingly and perhaps a bit unsteady. There might even be pain involved. The person experiences not only the physical shock but the mental surprise as well—‘whoa, how did that happen? I was not expecting that.’

For the brother or sister who’s struggling in the realm of after-shock, the spirit has been affected. And the mind is no doubt reeling. He or she may be asking lots of questions, feeling a myriad of un-sortable emotions, and feeling unable to ask for any kind of help. After all, a person in shock doesn’t know what to ask for and is somewhat disoriented.

You may not have experienced precisely what this member of the Body of Christ has been through or is going through, but you are members of one body. So reach out. It’s too late to say “Don’t stick your finger in the light socket.” The damage has been done. Healing is needed. And the love of God brings healing. It can shed light on the darkest places in someone’s heart—where the shock of life has flipped the breaker, and the hope of the Lord needs to be re-lit.

Whether you fall into the category of “friend” or of “brother,” love is the key. “A  friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.” – Proverbs 17:17

The time to come to a brother’s or sister’s aid is when the effects of the “light socket” are being experienced, not after a recovery has been made on his or her own. It’s during the trial. “Carry [share, bear] each other's burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” – Galatians 6:2. And the law of Christ is to love—it is the greatest commandment.

Be sensitive the Holy Spirit. Whose finger just came out of the light socket—or is still in it?—help them to safety through the love first given to you through our Lord Jesus Christ.

Mural Musings

I told my daughter, Kristiana, in an IM conversation that my next blog topic was going to be ‘murals’ and asked if she had any thoughts. She whipped this out in about five seconds:

“Murals are not just a painting that moves you. They tell more of a story. And no one can blatantly disregard them. It's like what's painted on a wall somewhere for all to see is there because it wants to be remembered. To put a dent somewhere in history.”

In the 70’s it became popular top ut up “paper murals.” These were like gigantic wallpaper that formed a large picture when sections were appropriately placed. They typically featured some sort of nature scene. But the more artistic types were those that were actually painted on walls, either inside or outside a building.

In my high school, there was a mural in the main hallway. I passed by it every day, starting in seventh grade because the junior high and high school shared the two adjacent buildings. Since Mapleton was known for logging, boating, fishing, and mill work, it featured all of these elements—lots of trees, water (the Siuslaw River), and boats. It may have been my junior or senior year that it was decided this antiquated mural should be painted over and “updated”. I, for one, did not feel this was right—this was a piece of history—it defined not only our town’s roots but our school’s.

My alma mater, Mapleton High School, Mapleton, Oregon.

Online one can read multiple articles of schools or city buildings in which murals of the past have been painted over and replaced with a new artistic expression. It is true that times change, styles change, history itself changes. But is it enough to preserve murals through photographs? Perhaps they should be painted on temporary walls that can be moved when that mural becomes “outdated.” These aren’t happy little snowmen someone has quickly painted in a holiday store window—they’ve taken hours, days, weeks to complete, and through that time investment, the artists have invested pieces of themselves. It seems a sad mockery for a piece of artwork once so prized to be one day painted over in the blink of an eye.

I have to admit that I once painted over a mural myself. In the house we once owned, someone had painted a ghost town scene in the downstairs hallway. Though interesting in many ways, the colors were drab (mostly gray), and the scene itself evoked sad, depressive feelings. But I did find myself wondering about the person who painted it—what caused he or she to choose that particular scene? When was it painted? What conversations ensued as it was being created? I felt a bit guilty about covering it. And maybe that’s what happens. Preferences change, culture changes—what was once truly vogue is now outmoded. Up-and-coming artists have new ideas that demand a fresh canvas.

But once something is painted over, it is lost forever in its purest minutiae and character. A photograph cannot capture a brushstroke the way it can be seen up close, in its original form. And so it begs the question…or questions—should murals ever be painted over? Should we re-evaluate the practice of immortalizing works of art on walls? What is lost when a mural is “wiped out”?

Does one need to have become famous in order for his or her mural to remain? If Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel masterpieces were covered over, how would the populace react? Or the world at large? Of course, his work in its intricacy, difficulty, and immense time commitment cannot be compared to a high school hallway mural, but it is something to consider that Michelangelo himself may have painted unknown works that got painted over before he became a name known ‘round the globe. Is it possible? What determines the stability and value of something created as art? Food for thought.