Thursday, October 3

Spine Poetry

Spine poetry is created when you rearrange the spine of books so that their titles form a poem.

The Hobbit
On the Road
Around Another Corner

Everyday Food: Fresh Flavor Fast!
A Raisin in the Sun
A Slice of Paradise

Linking up tonight at

Wednesday, October 2


We weren't supposed to paint our nails, do our make-up, or dye our hair. Those things would make us look too worldly, a sign that our lives were not consecrated to God. But the seed of rebellion lives in each heart and flourishes with just a drop of reason.
She had started painting her nails with a clear coat of polish, nothing too visible. Soon, clear turned to a faint soft color, like a morning dew. Eventually, the brush stroked crimson on fake, plastic nails. She had become a modern woman. The kind with fake nails, and nail boards in their purses. The kind who press their colored lips on toilet paper before going out and who click sharply down the sidewalk on the way to their too important jobs in the middle of the city.  
At first no one said anything. Mom pretended not to see and Dad definitely was not alerted. Eventually she would pan out of it. After all, "Train up a child in the way he should go..." One day, she'd snap out of it, tie her hair up in a bun, marry a decent man and have ten children. There was no need to worry.
That is, until she started painting my nails. "Shhhhh," she whispered. "Don't tell Mom. You'll get me in trouble." Seven year old me giggled and shook my head earnestly. "I won't tell! Can you do my make-up too? I want to look pretty like you!" 
Kaitlyn complied, giving her little sister a head-to-to make-over that would rival that of any five-star beauty salon. "There you go, Sherry. Now remember, not a word to Mom!"
I nodded and smiled as I walked out of my big sister's bedroom and was on my way to my own room when conviction hit me like a rock. What if what my sister was doing really was bad? And I dared let her paint my own nails? 
"MOM!" I shouted as I stomped up the stairs, two at a time, to the kitchen. "Kaitlyn painted my nails and did my make-up!" 
"Kaitlyn! Get up here, right now! How could you do such a thing to my baby? I know that you don't care about anything anymore but you can't corrupt your sister like that! I am throwing away all of your make-up, right now!"
And with one sweep, it was all gone. At least one hundred dollars worth of cosmetics bought at Chicago's finest department shops was now sitting at the bottom of a garbage pail alongside rotting chicken skins and potato peels. 
Needless to say my sister was furious. 
And I, the tattle-tale? Let's just say my sister never let me near her make-up again.

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