Watching from the Rafters

Dads and Lads, Fathers and Sons, Pop and Punk

2009-01-07T06:40:00.001-05:00

There are some stories that simply defy words; by that I mean that I have seen things that I have wanted to share with others but simply couldn't find the words to tell the story, I know that by telling what I saw will pale in comparison to what I saw. Fail as I may, there's a story that I want to share, actually the story is based on a couple of things that I've seen lately, heart rending moments for me though for many they were just every day life going on about it's business.

A few weeks before Christmas I stopped in a local cafeteria for a bite of supper, my feet were killing me and the very thought of trying to toss even a tray in the microwave at home made me think that I would probably not eat if I had to cook it for myself. I hobbled through the serving line and picked a simple meal, survival food, nothing fancy, a couple of veggies and a piece of meat. I carried the tray to a table and unloaded it and sat down, not really paying much attention to what was going on around me, my mind focused on aching feet and weariness. I think I see things going on around me better when I'm like this, when I don't have to focus on tasks and can simply sit down, it may be the mind has jumped into self preservation mode and is trying to draw me away from the fact that I want to cut my feet off and leave them under the table.

I put my plates in order and looked up, at the next table facing me was one of the most endearing sights that I have seen in ages. A young man, maybe just 30, a cute fellow, dressed rather, “hip,” if you will. He sat with a mini version of himself, the miniature model was in a high chair, dressed equally as trendy they were obviously father and son. Xerox doesn't make copies like the ones sitting before me. While daddy's hair was dark brown, buzzed as close to his scalp as possible and he had intricately tailored sideburns, his young dinner companion had lighter hair, a little longer, but it was obvious that grooming was an art form for this family. Dad had a bright smile and beautiful pearly white teeth, Lad had the makings of an equally beautiful smile in training, those tiny pearls strung in perfect alignment across the bottom and top of his grin just below bright twinkly eyes.

It was a delight to watch the two of them share dinner. Dad had a bowl of green beans, a bowl of fruit, some mashed potatoes and a bowl of macaroni and cheese and several slices of roast beef on a plate. In front of Lad there were some green beans, macaroni and cheese and every so often Dad tore small pieces of the roast beef from his plate and put it on Lad's. Dad didn't opt for the mac and cheese for himself, he meted it and the green beans out a few pieces at a time onto Lad's plate who ate them without prodding and with a very contagious smile. Dad would take the napkin from his lap and wipe his mouth and when he did Lad would turn to his father and wait patiently for the same thing to be done to him. When Dad would be tending to his own dinner and Lad's plate ran dry, he made no noise, no ruckus, he simply folded his hands on the table, not in his lap where he would have been able to smear cheese sauce on his hip black Levis.

When the main courses were cleared away, hands wiped clean Lad was ready for the the fruit course and his smile made me melt as Dad sliced large grapes and put them on a small clean saucer on Lad's tray. Dad enjoyed the pineapple and gave a very small piece to Lad whose face drew up in that international symbol for sour, then it relaxed into a smile and he held out his hand for another piece. Dad smiled as he cut another piece of pineapple and shared it with his lad.

It did my heart good to watch these two share a meal and to do it without fussing, no prodding to, “eat your green beans,” no admonishments to use a napkin, not a pant leg. There were smiles between them and now I realize that while watching them, my feet didn't seem to hurt as much as they did when I sat down.

The two young men had kept me in such wonderful amusement that I hadn't even taken time to look around the dining room to see if there were any seated there that I knew or who might be on America's most wanted. The two of them made me want to be a part of their evening meal, dinner with a bright and happy family.

When I did take the time to look around the dining room I noticed the table directly behind Dad and Lad and noticed that there was another interesting dynamic going on at that table. Because the men at that table were seated across from one another it was a little harder to see it as clearly, but it was obvious that it was another father and son combination, only this time, Father was bent with age and most likely very near 80, his son in his early 60's sat facing me. Father worked at dinner methodically and slowly, watching him was heart warming as well; old world table manners, napkin in his lap, every bite manipulated by a knife and fork from his plate. Nodding as he listened to his son make conversation. I was too far away to be privy to the topic, but it was obviously polite and it held Father's attention as he listened and occasionally responded, usually after a sip of coffee. Son, ate faster than Father and had finished his meal and was nursing a glass of iced tea and looking at the piece of pie piled high with meringue that was in front of him.

I was glad that all of this was playing out in front of me live, not on television, it would have been on two different stations had it been on television, this way it was virtually picture in a picture. Two tables held four generations, had I included myself I could have easily made a fifth.

At the table with Dad and Lad there was no conversation of words, but actions, Dad seeing to it that his young lad's needs were met in the meting out of green beans and grapes, smiles shared between them, but no words and yet they were speaking volumes to one another through their eyes, their smiles and their actions. It was hard to decide which table to watch the closest. All the while I pushed a piece of chicken and some baked squash around my plate. Father and Son sat, ate, talked as if there were no hurries or concerns in the world, nothing to dash off to do, no particular time to be home, Dad and Lad sat, ate and in their own way held conversation and yet, they too did so as if they had the rest of their lives to spend together at the dinner table.

Both tables were portraits of a dynamic that warmed my heart, loving fathers and loving sons together. It was obvious to me that at both of these tables it wasn't just a matter of being together it was also about four people who needed one another. Lad couldn't cut his meat or slice his grapes, I later learned that Father couldn't have driven himself to dinner, he needed Son to help him with that. (I learned this later when I was putting on my coat as I left, I heard Father thank Son for taking him Christmas shopping and for having dinner with him, “I just wouldn't have driven up here,” he said.”)

The scene at the restaurant of the fathers and sons made me think of the last time that I spent with my father. It wasn't as pretty as the picture that I saw at MCL, it was in a hospital room, my father's back keeping him in agony because he wasn't allowed to sit up, he was granted a reprieve for a while and he sat on the side of the bed and I slid a chair up to him so that we sat knee to knee. I remember Pop was wracked with pain, deep crevices carved in his face from pain and worry. Yet, in a tangle of IV lines Pop sat with me and talked, I know now that in many ways he was purging his soul, he asked me questions and told me about things that were eating at him. He told me of his concern for our family, his worry about relationships, his desires for my life, his prayers for me. This was the first time that I had ever heard my father say that he prayed and yet I wasn't surprised. It was our wonderful time together to think and talk, to share and yet it didn't happen in a cozy lit cafeteria on the south side. We spent time together that evening quietly, nothing being said in words and yet volumes being spoken.

Just a few hours later after my two hours knee to knee with my father he passed away. I'm not surprised really, our last couple of hours was his preparation for departure and I'm proud that he decided that I was the one that he wanted to share that time with. Since then, one of my father's prayers for me was answered, for a while. Who knows really, maybe several of them have been and I just don't know it. Pop had lots of secrets from Punk, (his pet name for me,) who knows what his prayers were for not just me, but for others.

Driving home from dinner all I could see was the tables of fathers and sons. Tears came to my eyes as I thought about how nice it would have been to have sat across the table from my father that evening and been a part of this gathering of Dads and Lads. I prayed as well, just like my father did, only I prayed that both of those sons remain ever vigilant to their father's needs, that they listen to their wisdom, that they help as much as they can and yet grant their fathers independence for as long as they can. I prayed that the sons would recognize that their father's dignity is all important and that they should honor that.
I prayed as well that the fathers would be ever mindful of their son's needs and that they would pray for them and watch over them, that they would help them understand the mysteries of life as much as they could help them to do so. What's more I hoped that each of these four men would have a respect for every person, man or woman, that they would teach one another and find joy in being together. After all, we really don't know how long we will have one another.

Before I left the cafeteria Dad was giving Lad the last wipe down before putting his coat on him. Dad said the first words I had heard him utter during dinner, he said, “good dinner.” Lad threw his arms around Dad's neck and answered, “uh huh.” It was said with enthusiasm, like it truly was the best meal that he had ever eaten, I hope it was because of the company.

My Grown Up Gratitude List

2008-11-27T08:35:00.001-05:00

I thought that maybe since I give a list for my birthday that it might be nice to give a grown up gratitude list, a list of things that I have found and find myself grateful for that have been revealed to me this year. I say revealed because some of the things on the list aren't simply the usual things that we rattle off when we are given the five kernels of corn as a favor at a Thanksgiving dinner, many are familiar with this tradition practiced in many homes where you are to offer a thankfulness for each kernel of corn on the table in front of you.

My family doesn't do this, in fact since Pop passed away in 2006 the annual Thanksgiving meal has been one that Mom and I shared while my sisters went to their in-laws or did whatever it was that they were doing that day. Thanksgiving was really not a large holiday when I was growing up, generally it was just our household at the table. I well recall my father's table grace, not invoked often but it went like this, “The Lord knows we are grateful or he would not have given it to us.” I suppose that it was my father's public prayer and not his personal prayer. I learned hours before he died that my father was a man of prayer, something that I really didn't know, but do we really know that about one another?

So here goes, my Grown Up Gratitude List:

I am grateful that when I was suffering in heart intensely after Thanksgiving last year, I found a swift kick in the Levis was the cure.

I'm thankful that I felt that swift kick a week later and followed in the direction of the trajectory.

I'm thankful that I found a place to worship where I can worship without distraction, where falling to one's knees to pray is not expected, but accepted. A posture of humbleness for me I am grateful that I came to accept that practice early on.

I'm thankful that I have a caring family, actually, I have two, one of blood and one of choice. The ones of choice are not called friends in this case, they are truly a family of choice and if they read this, I want them to know that my gratitude for them is as deep and as intense as that for my family of blood.

I'm thankful that I have a few friends who go above and beyond simple caring, they love with an intensity that could only be compared to being in that area that spans both friend and family. Thinking of a couple of them, I know that they pray for me daily, that they worry about me when things are rough and they know that I offer the same for them, I am grateful beyond measure for them and I am grateful that I can do the same for them, that God has given me strength and insight to do so.

I'm grateful to God for those who minister to me, theirs is surely the kingdom of heaven. I'm grateful to my parish priest for the way that he has been a support to me in these last few months, understanding grief and the dark nights of the soul. I am grateful for my friends Tom and Beth who have held my hand on two of the most difficult days of this year. I offer thanksgiving for Moot and Poot for the way that they minister, not just to me, but to a host of others, that goes for Tom and Beth as well. I am grateful as well for a some others who have held my hand in a virtual way through cyberspace, it's been like they were here in my living room hearing me when I could tell no one else.

I'm grateful to Troy and Duane who came to care when I needed it.

I'm so thankful that I was able to walk from one job to another without having to see one day without pay.

I'm thankful for opportunities that presented themselves in odd ways, but without a doubt in my mind where the workings of God in my life.

I'm thankful for having food and an appetite, many don't have one, the other or both. In that line I am thankful that to date I've lost about 20+ pounds.

I offer gratitude for a dry place to live, warm unless the wind beats in from the northwest. Then I am grateful for the steam when it comes and the layers that I can put on until it does. So I am grateful to have warm clothing too.

I am grateful for and to my mother, who loves me and does a tremendous favor for me each week as she does my laundry. (For those reading this, she wants to do it, I don't ask her and I see that she knows my appreciation and thankfulness.) I'm thankful for her beyond measure, she knows me so well, listens to my stories and groanings and laughs at my jokes...still.

I'm thankful that she puts my shirts on wire hangers and doesn't beat me with them. I love you mommy dearest.

I'm thankful that I have transportation and that gas has gone down.

I offer gratitude for the music that I can listen to that comforts and sooths, like the music I'm listening to as I write this.

I'm grateful that I've been able to avoid Christmas in July, August, September, October and most of November and that I've not heard Silent Night yet.

This year there is another list of gratitudes that will tell where else I've been on my journey through the last few pages of the calendar. For many this list might be cryptic, that's okay, we don't have to know everything in order to understand another's gratitude, and some of the things that we are grateful for are deeply personal and yet somehow only seem to be even more valuable when they are said aloud.

I have a great measure of gratitude for a hand laid on the left shoulder when approached from behind.

I so treasure and am so grateful for 6:30am phone calls that I still look at the clock at that time and wait for for the phone to ring, even though it doesn't.

I'm grateful for hand holding, there is no greater feeling of comfort when there is no discomfort.

I'm very grateful for the imperfections in body and yet even more grateful to God for the way that those imperfections are made perfect in his time and in his presence.

I'm grateful beyond measure that God has provided a comfort in the sunrises that I see along the interstate as I drive to work, reminders that there is another side of the sunrise where things are even more beautiful.

Equally I am grateful for the sunset that I saw on the way home from work the other day, so beautiful it defies description, I can only say that now I understand why no word rhymes with orange, it keeps poets from describing sunsets like that one, they couldn't do it justice and shouldn't try.

I'm thankful that there aren't enough hymnals in church and that sometimes we have to share.

I'm thankful for first times and last times.

I'm grateful to God that he provides a time and a place for everything, a season for everything and a measure for everything. That we can experience his plan and find knowledge, pleasure, peace and comfort in every life experience. Even in hardship he provides a time and place for us to learn what needs to be learned, even if the lesson is, “be quiet and lesson.” God in his wisdom gives us a season and a time to forget, many times we consider that an infirmity, but I'm not sure that it really is.

I am thankful that I have had opportunities to love, give of myself and share and that for an undetermined amount of time I may continue to do so.

I am thankful for tears, they come with joy, sorrow and belly laughs.

I am thankful that my first heart surgery won't be installation.

I call this a Grown Up Gratitude List as a bit of a take on the holiday song, “My Grown Up Christmas List.” That list calls for people to get a long, no war, food for everyone...and so on. My gratitude list is sincerely a list that gets pondered on so often, not every item every day, but every item sometime. We don't realize that we are grateful for somethings until it slaps us in the face, we don't know that we have enough or enough to share until we are called upon to do so and often we don't know how grateful we are for something until we don't have it anymore. Then there are times when we are grateful for things and experiences from the time we have them until the time they are gone. I am truly thankful that I can say Thank You and I'm Grateful and not have to fear that anyone will say...”for that?” I'd have to respond, “yes, even for that.”

This is my Grown Up Gratitude List.

Soul Food at the Crown

2008-11-10T20:36:00.000-05:00

Friday was a day for running errands and doing chores, well, some chores, not all of them got done. Are chores really ever done? After having run around most of the midday I decided that it was time for some soul food. I'm not talking about the kind of soul food that one savors at a table with others, I'm talking about food for the soul.

About the soul, recently I found a quote from C. S. Lewis that really speaks to me, Mr. Lewis said, “We are a soul, we have a body.” I like the way that he thinks on this subject, I like to think that it is really the way that we are created. I can see God creating our soul, our most inner being, the part of our self that he made for himself. By the same token, I can see God creating our bodies so that there would be a temporary place to house our soul until he claims it again from earth to take unto himself. I'm not exactly sure why he feels the need to share us with the world, though I feel pretty sure it is so that our soul will be fed and nurtured and ultimately strengthened. I'm no theologian, I'm just a regular guy away from home. (You have heard me say that before though.)

If you are reading this and you are not from Indianapolis you may not be aware of what Crown Hill really is, Crown Hill is the fifth largest cemetery in the United States. Crown Hill is believed by some to be the highest point in the state and while I'm not sure of the validity of that I do know that it is the highest point in Marion County. The cemetery is a place of beauty and while some people would think it creepy, I see it as a wonderful garden in the central city, a place where there are a huge variety of trees, flower beds and the resting place of some of the state's native sons and daughters, many of them people of note.

The high point that is known as Crown Hill was once known as Strawberry Hill and was a well known picnic spot when the city was growing. The pinnacle is now the burial site of James Whitcomb Riley a well known poet in Indiana and other place too, I'm sure. Atop this hill is a monument to Riley that was paid for by the children of Indiana who gave pennies in order to fund the gray stone rectangle of columns that support beams of the same stone. The custom is to leave pennies on the tablet that gives the name and dates for the poet, the coins are collected and given to Riley Children's Hospital here in the city. It is said that if one tosses a penny into the air and it lands on one of the beams a wish will be granted. Of course, I always try this and like I told a friend of mine recently, I somehow think that it doesn't work when you stand there pitching a roll of pennies one at a time in order to make the mark and then walk away feeling confident that your wish is going to come true. I have only gotten it on the first try once in the many years that I have climbed the hill either on foot or by car.

I didn't go to the hill to make a wish or visit the graves of the city's former movers and shakers, I went there because in autumn it is one of the most beautiful sights in the city. When you are standing on the concrete that surrounds Riley's monument and look out over the city you don't see what the city really looks like, you see what it could look like or maybe even would want to look like if the city had an actual soul. There is only beauty, there are no pot holes, there is no crime, there are no drugs being sold in front of my apartment, there is no government trying to figure out how to solve the previous mentioned items. There is only a sea of autumn leaves and in the distance there is the city skyline. It is an awesome view for a city the size of Indianapolis. If you look to the east you can see the Colosseum at the state fair grounds, to the west and not so far away you can see the Indianapolis Museum of Art and on a really clear day like Friday you can see the pyramids on the north side. The city's tributes to architecture are all visible from this high point. So, Crown Hill is a place to truly drink in the beauty that is Indianapolis.

There is more to the hill than just a wonderful vantage point to see the city and that's the reason why I went. I wanted the food for my soul that comes with seeing the beauty that surrounded me, but what's more I wanted the strength of the monument and the time alone in a place closer to heaven. The wind was brisk and cold and while I had a jacket in the van, I didn't want to wear it, instead I wanted the sun heated stone column to be my warmth, I rested my back against one while I surveyed the city and looked to the sky that was that shade of blue that we only get to see a few times a year. I wanted to be in a place where there was a certain amount of quiet, the street noise is muted at this elevation. I found the things that I wanted there. After my effort to achieve good luck I stood at the top of the hill hugging the warm column, my eyes closed, thinking about the strength that was the reason stone is used for the purpose of erecting monuments that are meant to last. I hugged it and thought of the strength and power of a warm hug, the only down side is that a stone doesn't hug back. While I looked to the sky in it's glory I was reminded that while we think of heaven as being just beyond the verge of sky we are really not closer to heaven while standing on a hill, even the highest one in the city.

While I looked across the vastness and drank in the autumn wind and the shining blue sky I knew that my soul was being fed and that I was going to be warmed by the love I show to others, not the granite stones that soon will be cold and hard and gray, much like the winter will be.

Visiting

2008-10-29T21:24:00.001-04:00

I've included this clip from YouTube because it is a piece of music that I've enjoyed for a long time. I like the quiet feeling that it invokes, the peacefulness of the music. The tune touches my heart and I feel a desire to sit in front of a candle and watch the flame flicker and dance because of a draft in the room. The title of the song speaks to me, Visiting.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about visiting, only I have not been thinking of it in the same term that I think of the title of this song. Recently I visited a dear friend of mine. I had not seen her in a while, but have spoken to her on the phone. She is an elegant lady, snowy white hair that is beautifully coiffed. She has a refined style of dress, simple with little jewelry. All about her makes me think that I'd like to be like her when I grow up. (That was a borrowed statement from a mutual friend.) I would like to be like her when I grow up, yet each of us have our own style, our own personality and while she and I enjoy one another's personality we will never be the same.

During our recent visit we talked about many things, she is a wonderful communicator, she knows how to draw a person out and asks the questions that makes one think about their lives, their philosophy and dare I say goals. I say, “dare I say goals,” because I have always said that I don't have goals, that I have destinations. A person who is goal oriented, in my humble opinion, tends to do what they believe needs to be done in order to achieve their goal. This often means that they will step over any body lying along side the path to get there, they often have a narrowed vision, one that sets the goal before them with nothing else on their mind but the goal. I myself prefer to think of myself as a destination minded person, there are places that I want to get to but I realize that more than one path will take me there. My terminology differs in that along the journey there is much to learn, gleaning to do, and a broader vision. Now, I don't think that there are hard and fast rules about these statements, as a destination minded person I have chosen to keep an open mind about such things and I understand that there are surely those goal oriented who do not have a narrowed vision, though they may not exactly be taking the same kind of journey to the goal. If any of that made sense to you, please let me know and explain it to me. (Actually, I get it.)

My host engaged me in a discussion regarding my decision to change churches in December. She asked a question that I didn't quite expect and have never been asked before, one that I was able to answer without much thought. My answer came quickly, but not with a knee jerk response. (From here in I'll call her Grace, because she is and she needs a name.) “I was pulled to this place by God, led may be a better term, but I had a hard time giving up what had become treasure to me. I understand that there are times when we need to leave our treasure behind in order to find another. Sometimes we have to leave in order to find what God has in store for us, as difficult as it may be to do so, yet, I felt that it was a destination that I must travel to.”

Grace said that my answer was well thought out and yet came quickly, so I surely had given it some thought. I agreed that I had. It was her next question that made my balance tilt just a quarter bubble off plumb and yet it wasn't a question that I had difficulty answering either. She asked me what I was looking for when I went to church. Before I tell the answer let me say that I have been attending an Anglican church for nearly a year now. I felt a drawing to it even though it was far from my faith tradition. There are customs there that I embrace seeing a holiness in it that I found hard to find in the place that I left. When I arrive at church I join others who are kneeling in prayer, preparing their hearts and minds for worship, they look to the cross and possibly they are like me and see the symbol of our salvation. “Grace, I can answer that question as quickly as I answered your other. I attend church for two reasons and there are two things that I seek and I feel confident that I find them there, I can worship there, I can look with awe and wonder upon the body of our savior and offer my gratitude for the tremendous sacrifice that was made for me. I can worship through the symbols of the mass, those symbols being the visual reminders of what I believe. Yet, the equally important reason why I go is because I am seeking peace. Peace of heart, peace of mind, peace that permeates my very being, that peace that is often spoken of in the benediction, the “peace that passes all understanding.” that's what I look for. I think to seek that peace is to look upon the face of God.”

Grace smiled and shook her head, “we all go for different reasons, but I agree with you, those are the reasons to be there.” She followed by telling me that she felt that I am a spiritual person. I told her that I am just a regular man away from home.

When I am in the church, kneeling and praying I ask God for that very peace that passes all understanding. I ask him to fill my entire being with it. I often feel like a beggar visiting a home and begging for a crust of bread, and here I get it. I sometimes feel as though I am visiting the courts of praise and I express my gratitude for the opportunity to visit and to be allowed to sit at the feet of the king. Sometimes I go so far as to boldly ask to be allowed to visit in person soon so that I may know the permanent peace that comes with being in God's presence.

I shared with Grace that I recently lost the best friend that I've ever had, she smiled and said, “it isn't forever.” What wisdom, what grace. I know and fully understand what she said to me is true and is something that can be counted upon as truth, just as I can count upon the Gospel being true, soul food and comfort.

As I drove home from our visit I thought about what she said, “it isn't forever.” Right then, right there at the light at 86th and Michigan Road I agreed with her with passion that it isn't forever, that all of us are just visiting here, we are on loan by God, encouraged to travel to the destination that he has planned for us, taking whatever path the journey lays before us. I was reminded that we're are just visiting, some for a long time in order to teach those of us along the path and some are here on a visit of a short time, maybe they are teaching us as well, in fact, I know they are.

We are just visiting.

Pennies From Heaven

2008-10-08T21:08:00.002-04:00

Some twenty nine years ago I met a man in the flower shop that I was working in who would visit and engage the owner of the shop in deep theological discussions. There were times when I was uncomfortable with the two of them debating the subjects that they chose. Looking back the discussions, made with great passion, were on subjects that really didn't matter in the true heavenly realm. I blamed part of it on their faith traditions. It's not important what they were, let's just say that they both came from rather fundamentalist backgrounds.

One day, someone said, “Good Grief,” in fact, the one who said it was me. Now, it should be noted that I was all of 19 when I said it, and I'm not from a fundamentalist faith tradition. One co-worker and my employer jumped me and said that grief was not good. The owners friend looked at me like I had blasphemed, though he knew that I hadn't. His faked aghast was for my sake. He didn't say anything in my defense though.

Later when he came in I heard another employee, thank God it wasn't me, say, “Good Luck!” to someone. Oh mercy, I've never heard such a dressing down. It was said, “there is no such thing as good luck, the Lord has all things in control and you cannot have luck, God doesn't believe in it.” The fellow fundamentalist suddenly proved that he wasn't going to be just a quiet observer in this case. Willy, he said, “I think it's okay to say, good luck, look at it from the standpoint that, Luck, Love and the Lord all come from the same place, God. I think that you need to let up a little. Your line about good grief seemed a bit hard nosed to me last week.” There was more debate and that was somewhat the end of the friend that came to debate all things theological.
I've long remembered those discussions, as you can tell. I've thought heavily on the statement of Good Luck, I think that Richard was right, Luck, Love and the Lord are somewhat the same. I see that God is in control, that I can't argue with, but, we tend to use the term luck in the vernacular of the day. Many of us understand that God is in control and that we don't have to rely upon luck. Love is of God, so that's easy.

Now, to be told that grief isn't good, this is where I have a real problem. We have learned over the years that grief is good for us. Of course there are times when it can be carried for too long, or is it? But when we know that there is no emotion that Jesus didn't experience on earth. His anger always comes to me first because of his action of turning the tables over in the temple because of the sales of sacrifice offerings, probably made with scrip that was good only in the temple. I think of his agony in the garden while facing his death, I think of the emotion that was surely moving through his heart in the upper room where he offered the last supper, I feel like he surely felt disappointment in Judas, that he must have felt the melancholy of knowing that he was eating a last meal with his closest friends on earth. Of course all of these things are conjecture about the last supper. One thing that we know for sure is that Jesus felt grief when his dear friend Lazarus died. When he got word of it he went to the tomb and wept. Remember that,”shortest verse” in the Bible? Jesus wept. That he wept tells all that we need to know, he experienced grief, just as we do.

I know many people who are grieving, I know that like Jesus they weep. I know that weeping can be good because it is a cleansing of our bodies, it helps us to wash the hurt from our eyes, ultimately. I've said recently that if our eyes are the windows of the soul, then tears are the Windex for those windows.

Now, a little more about Luck, Love and the Lord. We often hear superstitions and and fairy tales while we are growing up, take for instance, “Find a penny that's face up and all the day you'll have good luck.” There are times that a penny more is all that we need to complete a purchase, is that where the good luck comes in? You had the extra penny. I like the fairy tale associated with found pennies. Seems that when we find a penny it has been thrown from heaven by someone who is thinking about us, or who wants us to know that they are okay, that they are in paradise. Do I think that those pennies actually fall from heaven? No, I don't, but I like the story just as well. The tale goes on to say that you are to pick up the penny and throw it some distance so that when someone else comes along and finds it they might think that they have found a penny from heaven and will think on someone who has gone before them. Okay, this is where the story proves itself to be a fairy tale. By throwing the penny we know that it didn't fall from heaven, it fell from our hands to someone else's a little farther down the road.
I found a penny the other morning, it was face up. Now, I could have gone with the superstition and thought of it as good luck, but since I buy into the story that they are pennies from heaven, well, I like that idea, and I felt like I knew who would have thrown that penny down from heaven, if that was actually where it came from. I know it isn't true, the penny was laying in front of a gas pump, it was just a little change that didn't make it into someone's pocket.
The song that came out of the depression, Every Time it Rains it Rains Pennies From Heaven, makes me wonder if the tune might have been a reminder to some that they were being told my those who have gone before them that everything was going to be fine, that their grief, shoveled upon them by the government and the nation's economic problems were actually abated by pennies falling from heaven. No, I don't think so.

Isn't it comforting to know that Jesus proved that grief is good by showing it himself, and isn't there some comfort in knowing that when we find those pennies from heaven that it is our own mind telling us that someone is thinking of us from the heavens and that everything is okay?

Luck, Love and the Lord, maybe Richard had a better handle on it than many others do.

Looking on the Face of God

2008-10-03T06:59:00.001-04:00

Having been in the floral industry for so many years I have had the opportunity that so many haven't. I've held many varieties of flowers and looked at the beauty in their faces.

I have clutched parrot tulips in my hands in the spring that were green and white with a touch of pink on them that looked as though it was whispered on. During the summer I've looked at the center of zinnias and marveled at how their centers seemed to bear another flower, blossoms among the blossoms. The autumn months have shown to me how very botanical the world can be, dogwood trees that wore a cross in the spring carries a berry to feed the birds. The colors of the autumn flowers become a rich tapestry. When winter comes and the cut ever greens are brought into the shop I am amazed at the silver fir, deep green on the facing surface, the back of the needles looks like polished silver.

I think there are no better fragrances in spring than the early paper white narcissus and the heavenly fragrance of the Easter Lilies are the true heralds of spring for me.

To have the opportunity to see the freckles on a Stargazer Lily is to see the freckles on an auburn headed child. The leggy petals of a John Storre orchid reminds me of the quick little spiders that run through the garden, no real threat to anyone, just momentary visitors. How can a person see a chartreuse Fuji Mum and not gasp at its vibrant color.

I have been blessed to look on these bits of nature and see the face of God and to stand in awe and and wonder at the works of his hands.

It causes me to think of family and friends and how they have become the eyes, ears and hands of God. Ever watching, listening and reaching out. I've see them a lot lately and just as it has been a blessing to look at the face of God's creation and see his face, I've been blessed in watching his eyes, ears and hands at work as well.

All of God's creation working together to make every facet of life beautiful, in the sunny days and in the stormy ones, as well as the days that are deeply covered in clouds. I have looked in the face of flowers and found comfort and I know the comfort that they provide for others.

In all these things, I have seen the face of God in the heavenly realm, as much as I have seen it on earth.

The Pearl of Great Worth

2008-09-20T22:46:00.001-04:00

O my soul, bless God.
From head to toe, I'll bless his holy name!
O my soul, bless God,
don't forget a single blessing!

Bless God, all you armies of angels,
alert to respond to whatever he wills.
Bless God, all creatures, wherever you are--
everything and everyone made by God.

And you, O my soul, bless God!

Psalm 103, selected verses.

All those who know what has been going on in my life know that one of my long time prayers was answered recently. For all of my adult life I have prayed that God would allow me to meet a man that I could love and care for who would love and care for me. I always made the payer a sentence because it didn't warrant elaborate begging, I knew that God understood my request because he, “knit me in my mother's womb,” there is nothing about me that he doesn't know. Many have been the times that I have poured out my heart to Him in the darkness, always keeping my prayer simple, it didn't require any more.

About seven weeks ago I met a man in church, his name, Bob. Bob asked me on the church sidewalk if I would like to have dinner with him sometime soon, and before the words could drift from his mouth to my ears I said, “Yes!” During that week we had dinner and as we talked and listened and started to know one another I felt that this man was different. When dinner was over he walked me to my car and we talked more, we hugged and parted company. I got in the car and when I pulled onto the highway I looked to the sunset and said, “Lord, this is the one, isn't it?”

Over the next several weeks I began to feel the peace that comes with a prayer answered, a favor granted. I knew that God had put Bob in my life, there was no question about it in my mind. Bob and I agreed that we would take things slow, he told me that he had rushed into other situations and that he didn't want to repeat the mistakes of his past. I told him that being new to all of this that I didn't want to mess things up by being in a hurry and suggested that together we simply enjoy the journey. That's what we did.

After having met Bob my birthday came along and at 9:30 on the morning of my birthday he called to wish me a happy birthday and we talked about the plans of our separate days. His was the first voice I heard that day. A few weeks ago at 6:30 in the morning my phone rang, there is a descending order for me of what that means, I always fear calamity first, family ill, secondly I think, who can't make it to work? When I answered the phone, the voice on the other end was Bob's as he said, “Good morning, Sunshine.” My heart melted a little, he called to say good morning and he did so each morning after. Before bed we talked to one another and said good night and wished each other good sleep. Each time, after hanging up I would simply say, “Lord, you have sent me the one, I can tell.”

With Bob I got to do a few things that I have never done before, I got to hold hands in the movies. Silly isn't it? A teenage thing, but a thing that I missed as a teenager. On this past Sunday we stood together in church and shared a hymnal, his arm around me, not an experience I had ever had before. I was seeing that we were recognizing that we loved one another.

On Wednesday, September 17th I received my first e mail from him, telling me again that he didn't want to rush our relationship, that he hoped that I wasn't frustrated. Me? Frustrated? NO! It was all happening at a pace that to me showed that our relationship was moving toward true and honest love. “Lord, he is the one, thank you for sending him to me.”

That evening I called to tell him good night, his daughter answered the phone and I asked to speak to him, she told me that he had died that afternoon, having suffered a heart attack. Bob was gone, slipped through my fingers like sand, he was gone from my world and the world of his family, his church, his other friends, but selfishly I thought, he's gone from my life, from my hopes and dreams, GONE, damn it, why did it have to happen this way? And then I remembered, don't ask why.

Never in my life have I loved a man as much as I have loved Bob, there had not been one before, so the experience was all new to me. He had taken me the Sunday before to meet his sister and brother in law and his grandniece. Driving home in wind and mist I knew that he was tired and needed to kick back for a while. When he dropped me off at my apartment I said, “Well, I expect that I'll be the topic of conversation over meat loaf and mashed potatoes tonight, I hope I pass the test.” Bob's response to me was, “you have already passed the hardest test of all, you make me happy.”A tear came to my eye and I told him that I have never been happier in my life. A statement that I could make with every confidence.

The time that has followed has been an interesting one, I have received e mails, and now calls from people telling me how sorry they are, people from All Saints, the church we shared, people from the church that I had recently left. Family and friends all sharing their care and concern. I have been surrounded by people who have shown their love in such amazing ways. Fr. Steve and Jerry, quick to care for me, Kathy S, who when she received the news told Fr. Steve that the two of them should come and tell me in person, though I called Fr. Steve before they had the chance. Over the phone I felt his shepherds crook around me, drawing me even closer into the fold, then the next day, not his staff, but his arms. There has been a visit from some friends from my former church, men who understood the experience of first love and living in good solid relationships now.

I am truly blessed to have received calls from friends who have simply said, “tell me about it.” Opening their hearts to hear the story, through tears and with the sounds that a broken heart makes, rattling in my chest and voice.

I have repeated two things several times, they have given me comfort, the first: I have said that I was looking for the pearl of great worth and when I found it I was allowed to hold it, feel it's luster and allowed to look into the sheen of it and see that there was a sparkle in it, but pearls don't sparkle, that sparkle came from my eyes. Now, the pearl of great worth is gone, I see now that because it was so precious and so treasured I was only allowed to hold it for a moment, our relationship only lasted about seven weeks. Still, the loss has felt like the loss of a lifetime love.

The second thing that I have said is this: I was having the feelings that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Bob, now I see that he spent the rest of his life with me.

A time to...

2008-09-07T20:51:00.001-04:00

“To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven:
A time to be born, a time to die;
...A time to weep and a time to laugh;
...A time to mourn and a time to dance;
...A time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing;
...A time to gain and a time to lose;

These words that come from the opening verses of the third chapter of the book of Ecclesiastes are some of my favorite of the Old Testament. I've given only a few of the verses above, from Chapter 3:1-8, all of them are meaningful and precious to me; I've only listed a few above. They were the words that I chose to open the service of committal for my father's ashes. I chose them for that occasion because they speak of just about every event in life, and its counterpart. They seemed like appropriate words for the moment, but they speak to me as wisdom to ponder, They are words of wisdom from the pen of King Solomon and since he is considered to be the wisest man in history it only seems appropriate to think on these words.

In the 1950's Pete Seeger used the words of Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 to write the song called Turn, Turn, Turn. He added only one line to the scripture text. After the words, “A time to love, a time to hate; A time of war, and a time for peace.” he added, “I swear it's not too late.” He wanted the song to be a plea for world peace. In 1965 the folk music band, The Byrds' recorded the song and it reached the US music charts. The song has long made it easy for me to remember the words of the scripture text.

King Solomon was truly wise in saying that there is a time for every purpose under heaven, there is, it's really that simple, though we want to complicate things sometimes. I selected the verses above because they have been the ones that have moved through my life most recently, some in very serious ways, some in a more amusing way if I think about it.

“A time to be born, a time to die;” this line is really pretty simple, there have been several births in my extended family of late, my second cousins are the ones having children now and I hear about them through my mother, she has spoken of how the mothers and fathers have beamed at the baby showers that were given by their aunts. Of course there is death, daily there are those who leave this life for the next one and I often say that I am not angry for their death, I'm jealous that they are headed to their eternal home without me.

“A time to weep, and a time to laugh;” This is a daily part of my life, sometimes there are moments of sorrow that bring me to tears, moments of joy that bring tears to my eyes, look to the verse above and you'll understand. There have been times where I have lived this one backwards and I have laughed until I cried. There is certainly nothing wrong with that. I've found healing in laughing until I cried, but I have also wept knowing that there would be moments of laughter that followed.

“A time to mourn, and a time to dance;” again, see above. However, mourning doesn't have to be just attached to death, yesterday I learned that someone I know has been diagnosed with lung cancer, it is isolated to one lung and so the treatment option offered has been to remove the lung, knowing that he can live a long life with just one, while the family is in fear and mourning the event in their life, there is the very good chance that after the surgery they will have opportunity to dance for the joy of his healing. I've spoken to a friend mentioned in one of my blog entries entitled, “A Kathy-like Faith”, she has spoken of her illness as a reason to dance. I am glad that she sees it that way and she does for all of the right reasons, granted, for me it has taken a little while for me to get out my tap shoes to join her, but the longer I think on it the more I want to dance with her.

There are other things that happen in our life that cause us to mourn and when the event is brought to true light the shock is melted away then there is cause for dancing. I've experienced that lately.

“A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;” I'm going to go out on a limb on this one, for me I have often felt that I wanted to challenge King Solomon on the wisdom of putting this statement in this order; I have wanted it to be, “a time to refrain from embracing, and a time to embrace.” This is where I'm going to go a little deeper than I have on the previous selections above. I love to hug, it is a moment of physical contact that expresses a true and honest feeling, be it fraternal, paternal, familial or made of pure romance, or deep and caring love, you know what the other is feeling when they hug you. It is pretty hard to hide your feelings when you hug, a handshake doesn't show your emotions like a hug does.

There was a time where I walled myself off from the hug that went beyond fraternal, paternal or familial. I hugged my friends, with friendly hugs and I hugged my parents and family with hugs that displayed my love for them. However, there was no one to share the hug of deep and caring love for another or the pure romance hug. Now there is, and I have to say that it has brought to me a view of life that I have not seen before. To feel love in this way is new to me, and yet it is very natural, it is a feeling that I don't want to go away, there is a feeling in these hugs that I can't wait to experience again. Frankly, this is a feeling of love that I have waited a very long time for and it is a wonderful experience. I don't want to refrain from embracing and I don't want anyone else to either, I see how it can be a cure to many of our ills. The healing of a hug, we can't bottle it, we can't compress it to pill form, once given it can be returned, but doing so is a wonderful thing; there are great things that come from the time to embrace. I am finding a healing in it, in the form of a healing from the loneliness that I've experienced in my life, some of the fears that I've had that I would always be single and thus the loneliness would continue. I don't want to refrain from embracing, I hope that Solomon will understand.

“A time to gain, and a time to lose;” okay, this is where the sense of humor has to come into play. Over many years I've put on some pounds, God knows how many and frankly, I don't want to know. Lately, I've lost a few of those pounds, but I have kept in mind what Carl Hurley says, “if someone loses weight some one has to gain it or the earth will fall out of balance and we will go careening into the sun.” So I would like to take this opportunity to thank whoever has taken up my slack. Bear in mind that I am not bragging, I am grateful and I know that it is the healthy thing for me to do, something that I've needed to attack harder in the past, but it didn't work out that way, maybe it was because I was supposed to continue to do my share to keep us from being burnt to a crisp or perhaps this is the time that it was supposed to happen, I can look at it as, “and a time to lose.”

“To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven;” I see my life moving through a part of the circle that is virgin territory for me, and it is moving through some places that I've been before but a very long time ago. I know that I am seeing these paths, taking these new/renewed journeys because God is truly in charge and he has heard my prayers and granted them knowing that they were all in his good time. Exciting? You bet, because I know that I have God holding my hand, and a dear and precious man embracing me, I don't plan on refraining.

happy birthday

2008-08-23T09:50:00.001-04:00

Birthday 48: The Beat Goes On.

2008-08-23T09:44:00.003-04:00

When It comes to one's birthday, it isn't a bad thing to look at the events and memories of that life. This year my thoughts were not recorded in the bathtub as they were last year. A little more thought went into them. As I said last year, my friend Doug used to say, “birthdays are a luxury that not everyone can afford.” If you think about it, he was right, then I think about the joy that will follow my very last birthday.

When my biography is written, it will not begin, “it was a dark and stormy night...” My youngest sister's story will begin that way though.
Since last year's list, (See August Archive, 2007) I have added the faith tradition of the Episcopal Church to my list of affiliations.
I have smelled the essence of vinegar as the altar was being washed on Good Friday.
I have installed a digital TV converter with the help of four people on two continents.
In the past year I have sat at a table in a pizza parlor in Evansville where the people around it were named, Don, Don, Don and John. John did not feel left out, by the way.
I tasted anchovies on pizza for the first time that evening, they're okay.
I have crossed the Golden Gate, San Francisco Bay, Washington Street, John F. Kennedy, and Stot's Creek Bridges, though not on the same day.
I have never seen an OBGYN professionally.
I still have the brackets and wires from my orthodontics. I paid for them, they are mine and the Orthodontist gave them to me as a joke for what I gladly paid for my smile. I didn't think of it as that much of a joke, it would have made a nice down payment on a car, but it wouldn't have lasted this long.
In just a week or so I will observe the 10th anniversary of the death of one of my dearest friends.
The Widor Toccata is one of my favorite organ pieces.
I tear up at the sound of the Navy Hymn and feel a special jolt of pride when I hear the trumpet opening of the National Hymn.
I have tried digging to China, but only got as far as their tree roots.
I am not a queen and yet I have two gold crowns.
I once designed a floral arrangement that was delivered to Luciano Pavarotti on his final visit to Indianapolis.
Once I met a man who claimed that he was so in love with a particular woman that it hurt, now 15 plus years later he has gotten over the pain.
I still wonder if 2 out of 3 dentists chew gum for their patients who don't have teeth.
My marbles are not lost, I keep them in a jar in the hutch.
My favorite salad dressing is Bleu Cheese.
My favorite place to eat it is Iria's or Puccini's Smiling Teeth.
I've learned that it's true that, “kisses aren't contracts” I've also learned that handshakes aren't either.
There's no place like home.
At times I want to be alone and I want a sentry at the door to say, “No one sees the great Oz, not nobody, not no how.!” If he wears a green fur hat, it's up to him. (Though I would kinda like that.)
There are times when the above doesn't apply at all.
When Mom said, “I brought you into this world and I can take you out!” she was just kidding, but it still sounds like something that I should believe when I hear it.
Dad told me to stay out of the wood shed, I didn't and I got taken to “the wood shed.” Lesson learned.
I remember Topo Gigo, Beanie and Cecil the Seasick Sea Serpent, The Jackie Gleason Show with the June Taylor Dancers and Thirtysomething.
Getting to stay up in summertime to see reruns of Red Skelton was a treat.
I still watch reruns of Red Skelton and they are still treats.
I see the irony in an ice cream flavor called Chubby Hubby.
My favorite movie remains Mrs. Miniver.
Mrs. Miniver and Chubby Hubby can be pretty good together on a spring evening.

Birthdays are truly a time to look at the good, look at the bad and wonder if there were ways to have made each experience a wonderful learning experience. I've not always done that, but I do enjoy this time of thinking about the fond.

Questions Pondered, Do I Really Need the Answers?

2008-08-15T16:38:00.002-04:00

Every now and then there are things that happen in life that I call, “God Moments,” these are times when it is obvious that God's hand is at work, times when there can be no other explanation. They are times where one has to stop and wonder, just how did that work out that way?” Sometimes these God Moments come with what a former co-worker of mine called, “Holy Spirit Bumps,” she thought that if the Spirit of God was involved, one got what we would normally call goose bumps.

Recently I happened to be with a small group of people joined together for worship. Prior to the beginning of the service an offering plate was placed on a table for those who wanted to make a midweek gift. During the service a man, who appeared to be one of the city's homeless came toward the chapel and sat down; he fidgeted for a while and then with a measure of stealth, lifted the better part of the offering and left. He may have made off with less than $20. While others saw it as a theft, I personally saw it as a God Moment. Do I believe that his taking the money from the plate was right? No, it was what it was, stealing. Do I still think that it was a God Moment? Yes.

Why do I think that it was a God Moment? My reasons are simple really; firstly, I would like to think that he used the money for food and maybe he even used the money to feed his family, it isn't my place to say that he didn't, I don't know him. Jesus fed five thousand with a lot less, “bread, than what this visitor took. Secondly, we have a sign over the door of the church that says that all are welcome, many churches all over the city and elsewhere have signs that imply the same thing in one way or another, one of my favorites is, “visitors expected.” I say imply, but really I think that some are more sincere about it than others. I think that while he was certainly welcome, he might have made himself a little too welcome.

If we follow the teachings of Jesus we know that we are to show hospitality and caring to those who aren't exactly pretty, or just those who don't smell good, the prisoner the.... And then the epistles remind us that we often entertain angels unaware, is that what we did? Who is to say really, other than God?

The final thought in this line may be the one that brings it all home for me. Was this man sent to the church for some reason? Did God tell him that a need could be met if he visited the church at an appointed time? I don't want to send the wrong message, I don't think that it's appropriate to march into a church, walk up to the offering plate and help yourself. I do believe that it is stealing, plain and simple. My question is, are there times when it is appropriate to get help some way when you are desperate, aren't there times when we have been at our wits end as to what to do and just did something, right or wrong? At what point is the church supposed to stop helping by giving and start teaching people to care for themselves? If we turn our backs because we are inundated by those begging are we missing some angels that we are supposed to be entertaining?

Now the kicker:
A totally personal aside. I've mentioned many times here that I have arranged dates in an effort to expand my circle of friends, I have also mentioned that of the last five, only one showed up. When I have spoken to others about this they are quick to say to me that it isn't about me, it's about the person who stood me up. I have a problem with this statement because I was involved. The words, “it's not about you,” are batted about, yes, it is about me, the situation included me, willing or not.

I think that there is a parallel here, maybe the fact that the money was taken had nothing really to do with the man who took it. Maybe it was meant to be an eye opening moment for the congregation. Maybe it wasn't as they say, “all about him.” A friend of mine once, in a very joking way, held up his fist and said, “this is me, then he circled his fist with the other and said, “and this is the universe, so see, the world does revolve around me.”

Could this event have been a God Moment? A time when God was using an event to make people more aware, a time when he was opening their eyes? If it was, what did we see? Did we see someone breaking a commandment by stealing? Did we see a hungry, desperate man who simply needed some money for food? Did we just watch an addict get what he needed to satisfy a craving? Or did we see the fact that giving to and sharing with others is a blessing? Was the moment about him, or was it about us? What was God using that moment for?

While I don't have the answers to these questions, I do have another part of the story that I haven't told yet, after the service was over and many stood and talked about what had happened and the offering plate was moved to a, “safer” place so that what was left in it stayed in it, when all was said and done and the offering plate was finally carried away there wasn't just the two or three dollars that the man left behind. There was probably something to the tune of $80 or better. I think this was a God Moment, I think that it was a feeding of maybe twelve, and remember with five thousand there were considerable left overs. I think that it was a God Moment when we consider what some of Jesus' last words were; he said to a thief, nailed to a cross next to him, “today you will be with me in paradise.” Thinking on that I just got Holy Spirit Bumps.

Having a Kathy-like Faith

2008-08-07T07:07:00.000-04:00

“Weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” Psalm 30:5b

I think of these words penned by the psalmist as words of both pain and cure. For whatever reason the tears, he realized that come the morning there would be joy. This is a concept that for most of us in this day and age seems foreign. I'll be one of the first to say that whatever may have me weeping, I will most likely be dealing with it for more than just a night. I think that it seems, notice I said seems, that there are very few things in life that can be healed over night, that with a good night's sleep the rejoicing will come. There are a pile of examples and I probably don't need to list any of them because there have been some that have already come to mind while you have read this.

I'm going to share an experience where this has been the case for me, it will seem like I'm back on my death kick again, but let's just say that the story here only sounds that way until the end. I have several women friends, all of them past the beginning of their social security applying age. It dawned on me the other day that only one of the three of them has a child. Some would say that alone causes the joy in the morning. I don't think that all of them would agree though. Each of them are facing hard times right now, physically, each of them have come to the point where something isn't working like it used to...wait, I'm not talking about me here. Guess that starts at different times for different people.

One of my, “girlfriends,” as I'm want to call them gave me a ring at work the other day and covered a little business with me and then asked me some questions about her casket spray. I have no idea of her age, frankly, don't really care. I know that she has no family, only adopted family. She asked me if it was possible to add water to the spray. I told her it could be done, she wanted to know if I would move it to the church after the service, I told her to speak to her funeral director about that, but they probably would. I told her that she would most likely bury me, so she didn't really need to worry about such things. There was no change of tone in her voice, she was still what I would call a bit merry while talking about this. “Oh, I don't know about that Dear Heart,” I love it when she calls me that. “I don't plan on lasting that long.” She proceeded to tell me that she had had a mastectomy recently, that the doctor told her that her cancer was fast growing and that she didn't think that it would be wise for her to go through chemotherapy or radiation. She also told her that there may not be any pain really, she would do like so many and go to sleep and not wake up.

My Aunt Grace who lived to be over a hundred used to say that she wanted to go to bed and wake up hearing harp music, it didn't work out quite that way, but close. I suppose that it is our desire if we really think about it, we don't want to suffer, we don't want to have to go through toxic treatments and then have to recover from those, but if we think that doing so will add years to our lives and they more often do than don't these days, we tend to rethink being repaired that way. Kathy doesn't want to do that and she's been advised not to, so like she said, “I trust the doctor.”

Still with a merry voice she said, “so Dear Heart, I don't have any plans to outlast you. In fact, I'm looking forward to being in the presence of my maker, I want to be with my husband, we had a good 58 year run and I miss being with him. It really does sound good to me.”
When we got off of the phone, I cried. Frankly, I'm not ready to let go of her, I'm not ready to let go of any of my girlfriends, nor am I ready to let loose of anyone else. Selfish as that may sound. I don't want my life to change in that way.

My life changed when my friends Doug, Clarissa and several others passed from life to eternal life and there are holes in my life where they used to fit. There are no more Clarissa kisses, which means that I haven't had deep plum lipstick on top of my head for a couple of years now. Doug will be gone 10 years this year and I miss him. There are those in my family who have left several holes, my father being the biggest one and several that have been left by my aunts and grandparents. We really don't plan of these things happening, but know that they will at some point or another.

After talking to Kathy I thought about this line from the psalms, I wondered if she had thought about that very line when she received her diagnosis. Did she cry for a night only to wake knowing that her joy was coming. Now I admire her faith, knowing that she is, “going to meet her maker,” as she said, is a joyful thing. I felt a bit of shame when I thought of the line that I have said time and again, “If heaven is what we are told that it is, (I believe that it is,) then why aren't we running to it?” When I said this to a friend recently he had a simple response that is very poignant, “who says we aren't?” Good point.

So it sounds to me that Kathy has accepted the words of Psalm 30, “Weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” Frankly, that's faith.

Watch Out Bartlett's Here I Come

2008-07-04T11:25:00.002-04:00

While I am not completely sure, I do not believe that you have to be dead to be quoted in Bartlett's Famous Quotations. I feel pretty confident that there have been many folks whose words were included while they were very much alive. I”m pretty sure that such worthy notables like Mother Teresa and Pope John Paul II were surely added to Bartlett's tome while they were still with us.

I would never dare to include my words of wisdom among those I just named, nor would I put myself on the plain as Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Howard Hughes or Hugh Hefner. Put me on the list of those who agree that these people, along with Alice Toklas, Carrie Nation and
Shirley Temple-Black all had some important things to say and they should have been written down for the generations to come. I know that more than once I've thrown an extra log on the Internet to see if Van Gogh said anything that I might find of interest, as I recall, he did.

I told a fellow outside of a local church once, “The best things are learned on sidewalks, at dinner tables and in grocery store lines.” With all humbleness, I would like to believe that my statement just might be worthy of a place in the archives maintained by the folks at Bartlett's. Frankly, I don't look for them to pick this line up and call me for confirmation that I did, indeed say it.
There is truth in the statement though. I've learned many things about family history at the dinner table. It was there that I learned family secrets from three and four generations before me.

While standing on the sidewalk I have learned funny jokes. I learned a very important lesson from a four year old who shared with me what the red hand on the crosswalk sign means. (Now he's seen 21 years in the rear view mirror I wonder if he remembers teaching me.) I've learned of the illnesses of friends and their condition while standing on concrete that ran along side a city street.

On the sidewalk I've seen parades go by and it was there that I thought of the quote made by Will Rogers, Jr. who said, “We can't all be heroes because someone has to stand on the sidewalk and clap as they go by.” On sidewalks I've witnessed with joy and sorrow when tolerance of diversity works and fails.

Grocery store lines can be a place where a wealth of knowledge can be gleaned. I'm not talking about what can be read on the cover of the latest tabloid, but what you can learn from those standing in line with you.

About a year ago I was waiting in line at my local grocery store, I had placed my selections on the conveyor belt, provisions for my Sunday dinner, it was a horribly hot and very humid day and there was going to be no cooking in my apartment. The items were: Pickle Loaf, (Yes! Pickle Loaf, at least once a year.), Whole wheat bread with golden flax seed, a very small tomato, a pint of ice cream, (probably Chubby Hubby,) and Ginger Ale.

I heard the man standing behind me say, “Now you know, some folks around here and in fancier grocery stores would make snide remarks about your choices there, but think about it, you have all five of the basic food groups there.” I looked at the items on the belt and thought about there only being four food groups, but before I could say anything he went on, “you got meat, at least they claim pickle loaf has some meat in it, you have whole grain in your bread, a tomato, that's fruit or vegetable and you have ice cream, that's dairy. Then, my friend, you have soda, that's from the most important of the food groups, Junk.”

Before he could finish his statement his wife pushed the grocery cart abruptly into his hip and said, “You know what I've said about talking to strangers in the stores.”
He smiled at her and then continued, “you have all your needs met right there, everything found in once place, all a man needs with the exception of one thing,” he looked at me, then his wife, then me again, “you can't buy love here,” turning again to his wife he said, “can you dear?”

So Bartlett editors, hear my words and record them for posterity, “The best things are learned on sidewalks and at dinner tables and in grocery store lines.”

Seeing the Details in the Classics

2008-07-02T17:20:00.003-04:00

I love old movies, the classics, the not so classic, the obscure, I just like the qualities of old movies. For one, they don't move as quickly as movies do today, there usually isn't a lot of arguing in them and if there is it is brief and then the repair is quick to come also. I appreciate the fact that there may be a murder in the story, but unlike today's television shows and movies, I don't have to watch a Crime Scene Investigator or Coroner split the deceased open and look for clues. (I have the willies just thinking about it.) I like to see the use of simple stories that warm the heart, even if they do have a sad ending, for example, The Glen Miller Story. I love the movie Penny Serenade, it's heart rending, but a loving tale. One of my all time favorites is Mrs. Miniver, this 1942 story set in England has all the things that make a movie great, a haunting musical theme, a simple rivalry, the beauty of a rose and the juxtaposition of the second world war going on in the background.

There are the classics like Casablanca, if you ever have a chance to see it, look past the story and look at the background, the movement of light and darkness, the same holds true for the movie Algiers. The true art of these movies is not just in the story, but in the production values as well.
Movie makers make mistakes sometimes, and often they are blatant and sometimes they are so minuscule that they are easy to miss, no one ever notices. A case in point is the movie Double Indemnity, an example of the film noir genre, it has a little flaw in it that most people don't even think about, in this movie Barbara Stanwyck hides in the hall of an apartment building behind the door of Fred Mc Murry's flat. When he opens the door he cannot see her because the door opens into the hall. It seems that the fire code generally accepted around the United States after the Great Chicago Fire requires that doors from hall into apartment open into the apartment, the same holds true with houses. It is standard building practice I understand. Of course, in this movie it is important that the door work the other way or Ms. Stanwyck would be standing out in the open and thus it would ruin the story.

One evening after having watched this movie I couldn't sleep, so I was working on trying to find that, “happy place,” that we are often told to look for when our minds are working overtime. I thought back to the church of my teen-hood and I saw myself standing in the middle of the sanctuary and I gazed upon each of the stained glass windows, hoping that I could find some peacefulness in them and by doing so maybe whatever was troubling my mind would be abated. The window to the east was the famous picture of Jesus holding an armful of lilies, the portrayal of him as, “The Lily of the Valley,” (think of the film Elmer Gantry here,) on the west was the picture that has been printed on so many funeral home paper fans, that of Jesus as the Good Shepherd complete with a lamb in his arms. Then I looked to the south where the light was coming in the strongest, the window on the south of the church was the very well known picture of Jesus knocking at the door. I had looked at the window a thousand times, or so it would seem. No one had ever pointed out to me that in this famous picture there is no doorknob on the door.
The painting made into stained glass is based on the Biblical text from Revelation 3:20, “Look at me, I stand at the door. I knock. If you hear me call and you open the door, I'll come right in and sit down to supper with you.” I didn't realize until several years after I had sat looking at the window that the reason why there is no knob on the outside of the door is because then Jesus can't force his way in, he can't jiggle the handle, he can't pick the lock, you have to let him in. Come on, admit it, you've had moments like this where the light finally comes on and you really, “get it.”

What I really learned form this is that the building code that God uses is no knobs, doesn't matter which way the door opens. Oh, and lighting, stained glass works best with good lighting. Just like in Casablanca.

The Handprint of God

2008-06-23T06:40:00.001-04:00

I've always had an affection for hands, not to the point of fetish mind you, I just simply notice people's hands, they most often tell a story and if you look at them long enough you can begin to tell things about the, shall we say wearers, no I like users better in this case. I have heard others say that they pay attention to hands as well, many times these people are in retail, like myself, and they see these hands at their counters, that's where I see the bulk of them. In so doing I have the added bonus of being able to see some pretty handsome jewelry, some really funky faux nails and I have the added opportunity to see some really grungy ones too, once the grease goes in, I know it's hard to get it out.

By looking at some folks hands you can tell what they do for a living, case in point would me mine, there is often green stain on them and sometimes my thumb nail has a little green under it, though I try to keep that down, yes, green thumb does fit a florist. The rough and calloused hands often are the sign of hard manual labor, the hand that fits the shovel or plow. There are smooth hands, that smell of soap, maybe the hands of a nurse or doctor, someone who is involved in care giving. My sister told me once that waitresses who have their nails, “done” get better tips, she would have known. There are other signs that point to other jobs. Again, the hands tell a story. If hands smell like Johnson's Baby Magic, well, you can pretty well guess where those hands are most often.

What do God's hands look like though? I often think that God's hands are calloused from the hard work of yanking people like me from harm's way, they are surely rough and bruised and bloody from where we have all contributed to the hard work of saving lives. I think too that God's hands are smooth and soft because they have comforted so many, holding us like children against his breast. I do know for sure that God's hands are not rough from constant washing, because he hasn't washed his hands of me.

Does God's hands really look like the ones I've described? Do different people see his hands differently? I think that it is possible to miss God's hand altogether, simply over look them every now and then, possibly quite by accident. I had lunch with a minister that I knew a long time ago, he was an absolute neat freak, that's okay, we each have our thing, or to use the trite term, “issue”. He suggested a restaurant on the west side of the city, a small Chinese place. When we arrived he looked at the windows and then frantically looked at me and said, “I'm not sure we should eat here today.”

“What's wrong with it?” I asked. I didn't see anything that would suggest that today would be any different from any other day for a place like this.

“Those nasty prints on the window, they're horrible!” he replied, complete with a full body shudder. The prints that he pointed to were the smudgy greasy hand prints of a small child, probably those of a toddler just learning to walk, the prints were about knee high on the glass. They were here and there on the window, the pattern that would show that a child had probably used the glass to stabilize their newly learned craft of walking.

“Those prints,” I said, “Those? I'm not afraid of those, haven't you ever seen the hand print of God before?

The minister looked at me, the look of disgust melted from his face as he opened the door and said, “we'll eat here, I'm sure it will be good.”

Thine be the glory risen conquering Son

2008-06-15T19:26:00.001-04:00

Music Hath Charms

2008-06-15T19:21:00.002-04:00

William Congreve said, “Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to often rocks, or bend a knotted oak.” I wonder where he was when he decided that these statements were true and what music was playing when he decided their truth.

Music has a way of playing every note in our emotional scale. There is nothing more stirring than to hear our national anthem, whatever that tune might be, if it's the Star Spangled Banner, we Americans are likely to quickly agree that it is a tough tune to sing and even more so when we sing it with the emotion that it deserves. The same way with the great hymns of the church, I get quite the lump in my throat when I hear Easter hymns sung with the gusto that Christians should have when they stand in the church and bring these songs from their hearts. To sing the hymns that are associated with the second week of Easter move me just as much, the hymn Thine Be The Glory, Risen, Conquering Son; the tune from Handel's opera Judas Maccabeus stirs me and helps me to see the King of Kings rising to glory.

My late friend, Doug Sechman played as a recital piece the famed Widor Toccata from Charles-Marie Widors' 5th symphony, a complicated organ piece, Doug's health was failing when I first heard him play it, his body wracked with the ravages of respiratory problems he sat down at the Thomas organ that sat in his living room and after arranging the music on the music rack on the organ he closed his eyes as if in prayer, and maybe it was, I'll never know now. He raised his head and began the quick movements on keys and pedals that this piece requires. While the organ book was spread across the music holder he never turned a page. Doug has been gone eight or nine years now, maybe ten and yet each time I hear someone play this robust organ piece I cannot choke back the tears. Doug played it like the music was truly in him, pouring from his heart to his fingers, now after all these years I hear it pour from his heart just as I did when I was sitting in his living room.

I remember my Grandma Bryant sitting down at her spinet piano in the very small house that she and Grandpa lived in, after years of not having played the piano I was amazed when she sat down at the key board and played The Connecticut March, this rousing tune was my Grandpa's favorite from Grandma's repertoire, (she did it from memory, even though it had been ages since she had played.) I often wondered what the song would have sounded like on a large grand piano, though on the piano sized for their home it was still inspiring, you did feel like you wanted to follow the instruction of the title and get up and march.

Big Band music makes me want to dance, even though I don't know how and a waltz tune makes me want to put on white gloves and tails and celebrate New Year's Eve as those in Austria do in many places. A tango can surely only have one effect on a person, it can only make one want to throw their head back and grab a provocatively dressed Argentine woman and make the moves across the floor that makes each dancer look as though they have three legs. (It's just how I've often seen it, watch the next time you see a couple tango.)

Yesterday my mother and I attended the wedding of one of my childhood friends, daughter of one of my father's childhood friends. Judy is heavily involved in music and she met her new husband through music. Before the service started the pastor's wife sat at a high gloss grand piano and played many classical and semi classical pieces. At one point I wasn't sure if the music she was playing was what I first thought it was, and now after thinking about it through the day and I evening I realize that the music that she was playing was an arrangement of Rustle of Spring. My father enjoyed hearing his stepmother, (though she was NEVER referred to as such,) play this lilting piano piece that does sound a bit like spring breaking forth. The irony was not lost on me, my father, now deceased two years, would have loved nothing more than to see this beautiful woman walk down the aisle after seeing mother and brother enter the sanctuary, her mother a vision of loveliness in her own right was followed by the bride and her father, my dad's childhood friend.

For me, it was my father being there in a way, he loved music and it quickly brought back fond memories or moments from his past were there to be celebrated, relived. I know that music does that for all of us. I'm glad that it does, it gives life a richness, a depth, a fullness that very very few things can.

Yes, Mr. Congreve was right, “music does have charms.”

It's the little things in life, right?

2008-05-30T07:02:00.002-04:00

A friend of mine told me once that she thought it was, “the little things in life.” She stopped there because she assumed that I would immediately think of some nice little thing that had happened to me and I would be on the same train of thought that she was. Let me make it clear though, I knew exactly what she was saying, what she meant and what I was supposed to carry away from her little sentence fragment. But my off beat sense of humor made me go the other way with her statement. Yep, it's the little things in life alright, Pop used to say that a bit of pepper or a blackberry seed from the jam felt like a boulder under his dentures. That's one of those, “little things in life.”

Outside my window, closest to my bed, there is an auto with one of those long playing car alarms. When someone touches the car, even just leans against it, their small movement becomes, “a little thing in life.” It becomes a half hour symphony of beeps and whines, discord in the key of car. By the same token though, a grain of sand in the right oyster and it can produce a beautiful, “little thing in life.”

I mention these things because of the statement, “it's the little things in life.” The phrase usually is followed with the statement,”that makes life worth living,” or some other statement of conventional wisdom. There is a lot of truth to statements like the one that ends, “that makes life worth living.”

On Tuesday morning, after a long weekend, I opened the newspaper and stopped at the obituaries. I always joke that I look for my name first, if I don't find it then I figure I'll work the rest of the day, right after reading the obits then I read the comics. As a florist though, the obituaries are kind of like our sports page, we look at it first to see what the day might be like, what the score is, if you will. Since people die in the newspaper in alphabetical order, it doesn't take long to formulate a good idea of how things might work and it also lets names jump out at you because it is so organized.

On Tuesday it wasn't a name that jumped from the page and slapped me awake, it was a photo attached to an obituary that stopped me in my tracks. The fact of the matter is, I said rather loudly, “OH NO, it can't be.”

The picture on the page was of the man who owned the beauty salon down the street from the flower shop where I work. The owner of the salon, 40 years old had passed away only the day before and very unexpectedly. In fact, I had seen him on Saturday morning.

He was a handsome man, but whats more he was handsome on the inside and the only conversation that I ever had with him was at the dumpster in the parking lot where he was wrestling a large box into the dumpster and losing. I walked over and said, “let me help you.” After that we waved at each other across the parking lot and you could see his smile across that distance. It felt good to share the greetings and we shared them very often, sometimes a couple of times a day, these greetings went on for years. But the news in the paper on Tuesday was that he wouldn't be there to wave any more. I would see his bright smile in the parking lot no longer.
In this case the feelings were twofold, it is true that it is the little things in life that make it special. That wave across the marking lot made life for me better, it improved the quality of my life and yet, it was a wave, a little thing.

As Tuesday wore on, I realized that it is the little things in life. This man's passing suddenly felt like a bit of pepper under a set of dentures. This loss of a, little thing in life, had that annoying kind of pain, and was not little, it was HUGE. As time goes by I'm sure that I will look out across the lot to wave at my neighbor as he gets out of his pick up truck, but he won't be there. It will hurt like a grain of sand in the oyster, but I realize already that this man, the one who was nameless until I read it in the paper was a man who was allowing me to find a pearl in the oyster, sure that precious gem is small, built of an even smaller thing, but it's value is huge. I have lost something of great worth, but I enjoy the thought that it was the little thing in life, Rusty's friendliness that made my life better.

A Quiet Walk in The Old Northside

2008-05-26T11:00:00.001-04:00

It was very quiet when I woke this morning, that's unusual in the city. There were no clanging dumpster lids, no cars charging toward the center of town, people off to work as though they can't wait to get there, when in reality they didn't leave in time because they most likely didn't want to go at all. Today is Memorial Day and many of the city's workers have the day off, hence the quiet. In fact, it appears that even the drug dealers and prostitutes that parade past my building in constant motion seem to have the morning off. They are not yelling at passing cars simply because there are so few of them.

For me, a morning person, it seemed like the perfect time to take advantage of the quiet for a stroll through the neighborhood just to the east of me. If I walk just a block over the neighborhood changes from one that looks a bit blighted to one that is beautifully cared for and is filled with interesting sights to drink in. So, at half past seven this morning I put my shoes on and took a walk through the Old Northside. It's an area that gives me a taste of another world, so unlike the one that I live it.

Here's why I like to move a block over: across the street from my apartment is another apartment building, it is waiting for rehab, all of it's former tenants have had to find other places to live, some of them moved into my building and have been very quiet neighbors, though some are not quick to speak to you in the parking lot or at the mailbox, I try to remind myself that I'm a country boy and you wave at every car that goes by and you speak to each person that you meet. I suppose they have their reasons for shutting out the world. I can look across the street and see a small lawn area that used to be Derek's Garden, (check the archives here and you can read about his garden,) I have a feeling that if Derek were to come back to his former home he would be sickened by the sight of his garden. The grass is tall enough now that only a few inches of the tops of the park benches are visible. His hedge of Rose of Sharon is haphazard and the weeds have taken over his flower beds to the point that there really aren't flower beds anymore, they have been choked by the grass gone to seed. And yet, one block over to the east things improve and two blocks over it becomes another world, a world of beauty and charm.

On Park Avenue I met a woman who was out doing what I was doing, drinking in the quiet and the beauty of the new day. I greeted her with a good morning, nearly whispered as if we were somewhere sacred, actually I suppose we were, there is enough stained glass in the neighborhood that one could nearly call it church, but instead I would rather think of it as God's cathedral. She whispered the reply and I felt that she was feeling the same way, surrounded by the holy. There were only a few people visible around and they were walking as though they were walking through a museum, foot steps not to be heard for fear of interrupting another's view of Van Gogh's field of poppies or iris. In fact on this quiet street the gardens are running over with iris and the kinds that win awards at flower shows. I was especially taken in by one whose massive blooms were the color of a school bus. Another was the shade of peach that reminded me of bridesmaids dresses, complete with a ruffled edge. Another was the bearer of a breathtaking complimentary color scheme, pale yellow over light lavender. A hedge of mock orange bore one last bloom, the rest of the petals on the grass and sidewalk looking like the last of the snows.

The old houses on Park and Alabama truly look as though they don't belong in my neighborhood. They are classic examples of, well, classic styles of architecture and each has a tad bit of lawn and flower beds that continue to break forth in glorious bloom. But the most beautiful thing of all in this morning walk was the quiet, even the man overhead running the vacuum on what would now be called his exterior living room, (you know, a balcony with some nice furniture on it?) looks embarrassed that he has broken the quiet. He nods a greeting though and I appreciate that.

Since I work in a flower shop I might appreciate the flowers more than others, I don't know that for sure, but maybe I do. When I walk through neighborhoods such as this one and I see such sophisticated blossoms I want to pull up a chair and see what they know, they look as though they could carry on lofty conversations about the architecture, the well educated children of the area or the current state of affairs that the hellebores is having with the coral belles, speaking of them as though they were spatting neighbors. Yet, they only speak with their glory saying nothing bad about anyone around them. Maybe it's because they know the weeds are three blocks over bending to the ground in the strong winds. And quiet doesn't have the same respect on my street as it does on theirs.

Time Does Fly

2008-05-16T21:47:00.002-04:00

While some believe that time flies when you are having a good time, let's face it, time really does it's best flying as you grow older, good time being had or not. When you are a kid a ride of any distance in the car brings the thought to mind and then of course to lips, “are we there yet?” When you're a kid time and distance mean very little to you. As a kid there are exceptions to all things. When you are young and you are playing outside after dinner you suddenly have a sense of time when you see the sun fall behind the neighbor's house, you know that before long it will drop below the horizon and the street lights will come on and then you will have to go in and do the things that go with the end of the day and then you recognize time, it's time to go to bed, ready or not.

As we age the concept of time changes, as teens we feel like time is our ocean and we can play in its surf forever. The fact that the street lights have come on doesn't mean that we have to put our bikes in the garage and go in for the night. In fact, when we get closer to our twenties we think of sunset as the real beginning of our day, the time when we don't have to think about school, we can visit with friends, tuck away into our private space and put the bear buds on our iPod in and forget the world as we drift away in that infinite sea of time.

Yet, as we grow older time moves faster. In fact, I have heard our lives compared to rolls of toilet paper, the closer you get to the end the quicker the tube rolls. I think that is fairly accurate. It feels to me some days that I have no more shaved and brushed my teeth until I'm back in front of the mirror the next morning looking at my puffy eyes all over again.

All of this thought on the relativity of time stems from my thinking today of how things move so quickly for some and so slowly for others as I look the second anniversary of my father's death in the face. For me it often seems as though he died just a month or so ago and then there are times when I feel like it has been a pair of years. Today, it has felt like both.

I visited the unit that Pop was in at Methodist Hospital this evening. I do so every now and then, I drop off a note of encouragement to patients and their families. I sign them with the nickname that my father gave me, he being the only one allowed to use it. When you are in the hospital or a health care residence of any kind, time passes so slowly and there are times that you want it to go faster and times you are glad that it doesn't. Having someone leave a card on your tray table while you're napping helps to pass time in a good way.

Pop and I had a rough start, to say otherwise would be stretching the truth dangerously thin. We had a smooth finish though and for that I am so very grateful. I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to have had more time with him, what wisdom would I have heard or seen? I think I would have learned more about the things he did for others, quietly and at the right time.

That isn't how it worked out though and it's then that I think about the wisdom of King Solomon when he said, “to everything there is a time and a season to every purpose under heaven.” There is too, a time to put your bike away when the street lights come on and then later you realize that there is a time to answer the call to go to, “that house not made with hands.”

Time does fly.

The Mother and Child Reunion

2008-05-12T18:44:00.000-04:00

The school that my mother attended from first through twelfth grade is also the school where I attended first through sixth grade. By the time I started there it was no longer a high school, just a grade school. Because my mother was twenty when I was born, everything monumental in our lives seems to be based on twenty, go figure. In 1946 my mother started first grade at Union School, in 1966 I started there. (My father attended school there for the later part of his education.) He and Mom graduated in 1958 and I graduated in 1978, Union being part of a consolidated school system, you can say in essence that we graduated from the same school.

Since I graduated in 1978 the math I learned at Union will back me up when I say that this year I’ve been out of school for thirty years. I attended my 20-year class reunion and noticed that the gathering of the large class of over 300 had drifted into smaller clusters of people chatting and visiting, these groups were made up of the ones who went to elementary school together. My class from Union did the same thing as the former students of Hopewell, Needham, Webb, Northwood and Southside. Makes sense really, these are people who have shared a lengthy history. After all, we signed one another’s yearbooks and field trip permission slips for a lot of years. I often thought that I was Mrs. Brown; I did her report card signing duties for a long time. I think it’s okay to tell that now.

When I thought about the groups that gathered at our last reunion I thought about how we should have a reunion of the classmates from grade school. Union has an alumni association and each year they have a dinner at the school where each of the classes join together to reconnect, even though some of them just visited at Wal-Mart the night before. They visit and recall the good old days. Even though Union ceased to be a high school in the mid 1960s I thought it would be a good time to gather my class from the ‘70s and enjoy a visit as a part of the larger group of alums.

Remember the math thing earlier? If a student who graduated from high school in 1978 is celebrating his 30th anniversary of the event and his mother graduated twenty years prior, how many years has she been out of high school and what year did she graduate? (Trust me, this story problem, as we used to call them, is a lot easier to figure out than the ones that started with, “if a train leaving Boston…”) Yes, your 3rd grade math lesson at the feet of Mrs. Bridges, shod in sensible shoes of course, has worked! Mom has been out of school since 1958 and that was 50 years ago. My mother’s class was seated at a special table for the honor and a substantial showing from her class of 20 were there. Though there are three who were attending in spirit only as they have gone on to better seating heavenward, my father one of them. It was neat to see this long table covered in the school colors, blue and gold, surrounded by a group of people who haven’t wandered very far from home or has failed to be like family for one another. The women in the group have a Christmas get together each year and the entire class tries to do something together each summer. My mom acts as cruise director in a way, and they thank her for keeping them connected.

I could see that my mother was proud and I understand the pride that she was feeling, she was with some of the people that she has the longest shared history with short of her family. She has known many of these people since she was six years old and now sixty two years later, they are all seated at a long table visiting like it was a family Thanksgiving dinner and they hadn’t seen one another in ages.

I felt some of the same pride; I enjoyed listening to those in my group share where their lives had taken them and where they were at now, some told of where they hope to be heading. I was a bit surprised that two in the class had gone back to school, one of them missing that evening to attend her capping ceremony as a nurse.

It was a good evening, knowing that in many ways this gymnasium full of people share a common interest, celebrate a shared history and hold an old brick building full of memories in such high esteem.
So, it was a good reunion for my mom and dad’s class of 1958 and my class of 1978. Since it was on Mother’s Day weekend I like to think of it as, “The Mother and Child Reunion.”

A Bit of a Walk on the Wilde Side

2008-04-21T18:34:00.002-04:00

Lately I've been walking through the neighborhood to the east of mine, grand old homes that have been reclaimed and restored, somewhat the Indianapolis equivalent to Cherokee Circle in Louisville and I'm sure there are neighborhoods in other cities that have the same feel to them. The houses are colorful because they are the subjects of studies of the residents who researched the kinds of colors that were used in the home's original period. I dare not say during the Victorian period because I don't think that they are all of that period, in fact, some are new construction. They are colorful though, mostly muted tones, not the colors of the Grand Dames of San Francisco this is Indiana after all. Most of these homes are very well landscaped, some the victims of over growth, a sign that the inhabitant has probably been there for a while.

Yesterday afternoon I went for a walk and went a little further than I have been going. Because the weather was nice there were others walking, many pushing the modern scaled down version of prams, some with small children on foot. Some were working in their flowerbeds, others sitting on their porches on wicker furniture, wooden porch swings and some were perched on limestone rails around their porches talking to neighbors. On one porch a little one was offering a fresh daffodil to the neighbor, a little Norman Rockwellesque.

This urban neighborhood was alive with residents taking in the beautiful day; many of them I am sure took no real notice of what was going on around them. I hope that they were so entrenched in their work and relaxation that they can use those reasons for their excuse to fail to return my nod or greetings, my little waves to children in fenced yards were always acknowledge though.

My attention was drawn to two trees on one block, one in the lawn of a neglected Tudor, the tree was obviously dead and had been for several years, in fact the over grown garden had many things in bloom, scarlet tulips, radiant daffodils, while there were was beauty in the yard, the large dead tree drew the most attention, looking very out of place. The attention getter in the lawn was the overgrown vine that hid the house, the dead tree and the "come hither," beauty of the bright flowers; the combination gave the residence a feeling of having been pulled from the pages of a fairytale. Surely an evil woman lived here that hated children.

The other tree that I saw was in the corner of a lawn with impeccably manicured grass, the edges of the flowerbeds were surely cut by the hand of a well-trained surgeon. Grape hyacinths in the front, daffodils in the middle and tulips in the back, all standing at attention and looking as though they feared the wind because moving from formation would be forbidden. The lawn had a black wrought iron fence, contemporary to match the Neo-Federalist style home that it surrounded, while the lawn has the feel of being the home of stoic tin soldiers, the residents seem to be the opposite. Both men greeted me while they worked in the yard only a couple of days earlier, even being so gracious as to cut the electricity to their power tools so that I could hear their greeting. (Not everyone in this neighborhood speaks when spoken to.) The tree in the corner of the lawn looked to be a Bradford Pear that was losing its blossoms probably from a short brisk wind. The petals from the tree covered items on the ground, a lawn ornament, a little hard to identify because of the blossom shower.

As I ambled toward home I thought about how beautiful the lawn was and the contrast between the two houses that aren't far apart. The two places made me think of Oscar Wilde's fairy tale, The Selfish Giant. In a nutshell, the giant while away on a seven year visit with his friend the Cornish ogre runs out of anything to say and returns home to find his garden in full bloom and filled with happy children at play. He runs them out of his garden and posts a no trespassing sign. The children miss the garden and the happiness that they knew there. The satisfied giant has a change of heart when winter, the north wind and hail move into his garden and won't leave. After several years of living in the winter when spring and summer has come to everyone else he hears the song of a bird on his window sill and looks out to see a small place in his garden where there is spring, spring has come because the children have broken a small place through his garden wall. He breaks down the wall for the children and spring takes over. The trees blossom where the children climb and there is beauty again. There is one child who cannot reach the branches of the tree and so cannot climb it, the tree stands covered in snow, spring has not come to it, the giant sets the boy in the tree and it blooms. The giant invites the children to continue to play in his garden, but notices that the boy that he aided does not return, the children do not know him or know where he has gone.

From here I defer to Mr. Wilde:

"One winter morning the giant looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the winter now, for he knew that it was merely the spring asleep and that the flowers were resting.

Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvelous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.

Downstairs ran the giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face red with anger, and he said, 'Who hath dared to wound thee?' For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.

'Who hath dared to wound thee?' cried the giant; 'tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.

''Nay!' answered the child; 'but these are the wounds of love.

''Who are thou?' said the giant, and a strange awe fell on him and he knelt before the little child.

And the child smiled on the giant, and said to him, 'You let me play once in your garden, today you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.

'And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms."

How fortunate I am to have gone for a springtime walk, somewhat a bit of a walk on the Wilde side.

Miss Otis Regrets

2008-04-10T16:43:00.001-04:00

I had the experience again the other night that I have had repeated times now. It seems to be a fixture in the gay community according to my gay friends, but I feel pretty sure that the, "straight" folks have the same problem. (I hate the term straight used this way, but homo and heterosexual sounds so clinical.)

I was supposed to meet someone for the first time the other night, I've chatted with him on line a little and I've spoken to him on the phone at length. A very pleasant person and it appeared that we would be the kind who could sit and talk for a good while about any number of subjects. Like I've warned before though, don't get me started on quantum physics, it's just not smart to get me started. (I have no idea what quantum physics is.) I have been told though, that I'm easy to talk to and can talk about a lot of different subjects in an intelligent manner. I take that as a compliment. I've said before, "I read, therefore I am." It's nice to be able to just sit down and carry on a conversation and if the two people can talk about nearly anything short of quantum physics, well, all the nicer. I like to learn this way, it's nice to know where another has traveled, what foods they like, what their opinion is on a movie or what kind of jelly they find to be the best. Of course, "if it's Smuckers, it's got to be good."

Strong friendships can start this way, friendships that last a lifetime. We begin friendships by finding a common ground and often times that common ground can be something as simple as loneliness. I suppose it would be safe to say that loneliness can be one of the driving forces in establishing friendships. If you can find someone to talk to, then the loneliness can ebb. It always feels good to know that you are doing something about the problem of being lonely. When there is someone that you can share with, and someone can share with you, how can that be a bad thing? After all, bearing one another's burdens is supposed to be a good Christian thing to do.

There is a hitch to all of this, if you make plans to meet someone for the first time then it makes all of the talking and friendship building and burden bearing a lot easier if you follow through and show up. I can think of no lonelier feeling in the world than to be stood up.

I have told some friends over the past few years when I have been stood up, they are very quick to tell me that being stood up is all about the other person, it isn't about me. I know what they are saying, they are trying to tell me that it isn't because of anything that I said or did, it's all the other person's problem. "Their insecurities," is what one friend of mine called it. I don't know that everyone who has stood me up did so because of his or her insecurities. Let's face it; sometimes meeting new people is just plain hard. I don't argue that, and I understand it completely. I just want to point out that being stood up isn't all about the other person. It's about me as well, now I've been drug unwillingly into it. Now it's about that feeling in the pit of my stomach that makes me feel like I some how failed the other person. It's the running through the archives of my mind and replaying the conversation tapes. Did I say something that offended the other person and didn't know it? Did they keep it to themselves to protect me?

I have had the situation where when I called one guy's hand on his standing me up he said that I should have called to remind him. We had seen each other at a mutual friend's party and had touched base about time and place. When I talked to him later and he said, "You should have called me to remind me," I simply said, "you need a secretary, I waited an hour and a half at the restaurant and I ate alone.” He didn’t need to know because I didn’t want to say it or to give him the satisfaction that his being the third one in as many months helped me sink into a weeklong depression.

Some say that in this day and age that it’s just simple to forget things because there are so many distractions. There is a great deal of truth to that when you consider how many people are reading e mail and text messaging constantly, to the point that they can’t drive without the phone pressed to their ear. I often wonder how they can have so much to say to so many and how did they do it before they had these modern conveniences? I managed to make a phone call every now and then from a phone tethered to the wall before I had e mail and a cell phone, I still use the darned thing on a fairly regular basis, and I never use it while driving, the cord is too short. I have never sent a text message, I don’t even speak the language, and I think schools offer Text Messaging as a Second Language now.

So, just for the record, it is still considered good manners to call and say, I know that we had plans together this afternoon, I regret that I’m not able to make it.” Miss Manners says that an explanation is not necessary and that the recipient of the news has no right to ask for an explanation either, I can see her point. It is so much friendlier than leaving someone with a whistling kettle on the burner and fresh biscuits on the plate while the Royal Dulton is laid out on the table by the sofa. It should go without saying now that I really appreciate Bette Midler’s rendition of Miss Otis Regrets even more now than I ever did.

It's an Honor Just to be Nominated, Thank You

2008-04-04T11:33:00.001-04:00

You may think of this ether way you want to, you are allowed to think that the speech that I've been writing is either way to late or way to early. I want to be prepared and I want to have it memorized when the time comes for me to deliver it.

It's here, on my blog, that I want to polish the speech and share my thoughts behind it. The speech is for my appearance at the Academy Awards. When I am asked to attend and I'm sitting in one of those red velvet seats after having walked the red carpet and being stopped by Joan Rivers for a brief chat, I want to be prepared if they call my name for whatever accolade they wish to bestow upon me, I think that it's important to be prepared for moments in life such as this one. You just never know when it could happen to you and wouldn't you be most embarrassed if you where not prepared and you had to do your speech impromptu? Not everyone thinks fast on their feet.

When I approach the podium, statuette in hand, I'm not going to hold it in the air like I'm a drum major, I'm going to clutch it to my breast like Elizabeth Taylor did when she won Best Actress for Butterfield 8. The award deserves that kind of respect, it is a highly coveted award; the media gives it more coverage than the Nobel Peace Prize. When the crowd ceases it's applause and they have taken their seats, my acceptance speech will be one that will shock the academy as it will surely be the briefest one that has ever been given, the TV network won't know what to do with the extra time.

The speech goes like this: "it's an honor to be nominated, thank you." And then I would be led off of the stage by one of those blonds clad in a cheesy, slinky dress to the wings where I would be photographed for the papers and US magazine; then I would walk off to wherever it is the winners go, probably back to my seat. The speech is simple and yet it says it all. Now, there is a great thing about this speech, it is so versatile that it is unbelievable. This same speech is written in such a way that win or lose it can be delivered. If I don't win the golden idol for movie success and I'm being shoved out the stage door in the back of the theater, where the lesser known reporters and photographers ask me to make a very brief statement, I can say, "it's an honor to be nominated, thank you. " Then I'll dash off to my waiting yellow cab, if you lose do you leave in the same limo that you came in? For some reason I don't think that you do, you either leave in a taxi and return to the hotel to collect your things and leave down trodden for home or you pile into a Yugo with a bunch of the other losers and you head to a small diner where you look as though you were the inspiration for Hopper's famous paining, "The Nigh Hawks," only in tuxedos and evening gowns.

I really don't think that the dynamics behind the Academy Awards fit every aspect of life, I'm glad that they don't. You just scratched didn't you? You're wondering how I just took that left turn from the paragraph above to where I am now. Humor me. I point this out because in life I don't think that there should be a Best Actor or Actress category, though there are those who are working overtime to achieve that award. There are those who work so hard at giving life instruction, often on subjects that they aren't prepared to give advice on, so I suggest no Best Director Awards either. I think that there are surely other categories that the Academy has that don't fit as life Oscars either.

There are two, however, that I think are surely the only awards necessary. If we were to all vie for either of these titles there would be no choice but to expand the number of awards given for them. The Academy would be overwhelmed at the number of nominations and it would be impossible to chose who could possibly win the golden trophy, the only answer would to be give more than one. The categories of which I speak are the only life award that the Academy could apply to our daily lives; this of course is my opinion. I think the real awards should be given to the Best Supporting Actors and Actresses. Isn't that our hearts desire, really? Isn't that why we are here, to encourage and support one another? I'll be the first one to say that it's an award that couldn't possibly be won every year. There are times that we are only able to qualify as Best Supported Actors and Actresses, we couldn’t be much help to anyone that year, we couldn't get past our own pain and heartaches to be a support to others, we could only be supported.
There is just one problem with this category; I really don't see how it can work. I really want to see the Academy abolish this category as well. I'm sure that this takes you aback after I have touted it so heartily. There is a major flaw in the concept of Best Supporting Actor and Actress. While Shakespeare may have said that all of life's a stage, I think that we fail to realize the chink in this situation's armor, life really isn‘t a stage. We shouldn’t be actors, we should simply be ourselves and confess that we have a need to love and be loved; that we are in a position to help and support, but only because we have that same need for ourselves. We don't need to act as though we have a God shaped vacuum in our lives, we have one, we have a real need for someone/something to believe in, we have an inner drive to exercise faith...in something.
For the most part, I see that for myself, I put too much effort into being an actor, pretending to be someone that I'm not in hopes that the makeup and the costume will hide who I really am. While I don't want to be the one that points this out, I've noticed that there are very few on life's stage that aren't doing the same thing, it's just our nature. We don't want to admit that we are frail and fragile and that we need to be assisted by the supporters and we don't often see that when we are who we really are, we are the supporters and encouragers for others, being real makes it easier.

All that said though, isn't it a wonderful thing to visualize ourselves at the podium and giving our speech, "It's an honor to be nominated, thank you."

Spring, Cemeteries and Victory: No, really.

2008-03-26T13:02:00.002-04:00

One of my favorite places to take a walk is a cemetery, you see, most of the time when you walk in the cemetery there isn’t a soul to bother you. (Bad pun, but true.) I have walked some very well known cemeteries in Indiana and Kentucky and there are some that I would like to take a stroll in, but haven’t yet. Then there are some places that feel like cemeteries that really aren’t, I’m going to make an effort to not talk about those.

I have walked in obscure country cemeteries that I just happened upon while out walking, some of them when I was out for a drive. I have snooped around in the Nast Chapel Cemetery, I have some ancestors buried there. I have walked in the Deer Cemetery and I have combed the Harris Cemetery where my father is buried. All of them have a charm of their own, if a cemetery can have a charm, and I do believe that they can, I believe that they do.

There have been walks through much larger graveyards, I have walked through Our Lady of Peace, St. Joseph’s and Concordia in Indianapolis, I have walked through Forest Lawn where some of my friends are interred. I enjoy walking through Greenlawn in Franklin, Indiana, an old cemetery with giant trees and gravestones that are unique and amazing for the period of time that they were erected. My great grandparents, grandparents, a third cousin and several friends are planted there.

Two of my favorite cemeteries are Crown Hill Cemetery in Indianapolis, I believe that at one time it was considered the fifth largest in the country, Arlington being the nations largest, Crown Hill may still be number 5. I think my absolute favorite is in Louisville, Kentucky known as Cave Hill.

Cave Hill isn’t a cemetery really, you don’t notice the graves because of the beauty that surrounds them, there are awesome trees, magnolias, dogwood and redbud for spring viewing and when the autumn colors come the area is second only to the New England area, and I can only judge that comparison to pictures as I’ve never been to New England in the autumn. There are stones with bronze sculptures that are amazing, headstones that have stained glass encased in them, older stones of limestone and marble that are intricately carved to look like angels, tree stumps covered with ivy and many have amazing flowers chiseled into them. There is a great pond that is home to many swan, thousands of birds of many varieties, speaking of birds, I have had the unique experience of leaving a special memorial at the grave of Colonel Harlan Sanders, the famous fried chicken magnate. I left a small red and white stripe box with a few chicken bones in it. Since I’m sure that he has contributed to my cholesterol reading it only seemed like the thing to do. There are other notables, many of Kentuckian-only-knowledge and some people very famous from history, not only purveyors of chicken.

Crown Hill in Indianapolis is one of the places where I have stomped the most, so I know it better of course. Not quite the arboretum that Cave Hill, though Crown Hill boasts some 400 different varieties of trees. There are many Hoosier native sons buried here of course, President Benjamin Harrison, a stack of early history vice presidents, the man who invented the Gatlin gun is there just outside of the national cemetery section of the graveyard, the irony isn’t lost on me. The man who laid out the mile square section of Indianapolis, aka downtown; his monument has a map of the city on it, he is also famous for laying out the original, “downtown” area of Washington DC. There are doctors, lawyers and race car drivers, wife beaters, knaves and scoundrels. There are people who have their epitaphs in their native languages and of course, I can’t read them. There are the good citizens of the city and the man who played Uncle Remus in Song of the South is laid to rest there, not too terribly far from John Dillinger, famous gangster.
The high-light and if you have been there, you will see that the previous statement is a pun, there is a place known as Crown Hill and that poet James Whitcomb Riley’s grave is there, at the highest point in the city. On a clear day you can truly, “see forever” from this city landmark. At one time this hill was known as Strawberry Hill and it was known as a great spot for a picnic, actually, I have picnicked there myself.

From this lofty point in the city the downtown skyline is impressive, it’s clean and fresh looking and all the trees between the hill and the central city makes it look like the city is floating on a green cloud. From this point in the city it looks like there are no drug dealers or prostitutes or panhandlers in my neighborhood, from this point it gives the illusion that there is no urban blight. Crown Hill gives a view of a fresh and clean place to live, just a mile or so out, just don’t look down over the hill to the west where one is quickly jolted back to reality.

Thoughts and signs of spring make me want to go for a walk in Crown Hill or some little country cemetery because of the signs of life there, the blankets of dandelions, the cushions of violets, the green grass, and usually there is lots of it. I’ve been thinking about going for a walk lately, maybe to happen upon some busy robins on the ground or some squirrels dancing about in the tree branches, in the season of Easter, it’s easy to think on spring, to think about new beginnings, those tulips planted next to headstones, the magnolia trees in Cave Hill covered in pink and white blossoms, delicate dogwood flowers that bear the blood stains of the nails of Christ, per legend. The verse that comes to mind so often when I walk through cemeteries, as beautiful as they are is, “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death is your sting?” (1 Corinthians 15:55)

The answer is simple, it isn’t here, the Victor over death has risen, just as he said.