It was windy as everybody left Periwinkle County, going in all directions on their group vacation awsy from one another.
It reminded Claire Randall of when she was a little girl and asked her father to cut down all the trees so there would be no wind to blow her hair ribbons.
She grew out of thiking that the symptom is the cause. As she listened to the talk shows on the radio, though, in their 1951 Studebaker, along with the political news, she realized that the loudest voices have never grown beyond thinking that it is the trees that cause the wind.
Her hsuband, Randall, was thinking that the radio in the Studebaker was the best car radio they ever had and that Jed Bozos next invention should be an omnibus gadget that could turn any current technology into the ones before it. You could just turn the knob back to the level of technology you grew up with. It would be nice, he thought, to hear the voices of Murrow or Cronkite or Jennings instead of those of Limbaugh and Beck and O'Reilly.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Vacation Time
Periwinkle County is going on vacation. That's right--everybody at the same time. After a long winter, they are just tired of one another. They thought about taking turns, but the ones who had to wait until last would be resentful, and by the time they left, those who were back would be resentful. So they all go at the same time.
They don't worry about security, even though the sheriff and the police leave, too. They put notices in the newspaper and on Facebook that they are all going to be gone and that they are leaving all the doors unlocked. They add that they are posting sign-up sheets on the doors of all the houses and businesses. Anyone who signs up while they are gone will get all their Farmville credits when they return.
They know there is a Farmville competition between the town of Hope's Promise, 25 miles west, where Cratchit State U is located, and West Eastern, 30 miles the other way, where A&P U [Agricultural & Psychologial] is located. The town that wins gets a free performance by Circque du Agricola, plus 33 coins and an apricot tree. The Periwinklians figure there will be so many people from Hope's Promise and West Eastern in PC all the time, signing up and marking out the signatures of people from the other town, that there will be so many people watching all the houses and businesses no one could possibly get away with robbing or vandalizing.
They don't worry about security, even though the sheriff and the police leave, too. They put notices in the newspaper and on Facebook that they are all going to be gone and that they are leaving all the doors unlocked. They add that they are posting sign-up sheets on the doors of all the houses and businesses. Anyone who signs up while they are gone will get all their Farmville credits when they return.
They know there is a Farmville competition between the town of Hope's Promise, 25 miles west, where Cratchit State U is located, and West Eastern, 30 miles the other way, where A&P U [Agricultural & Psychologial] is located. The town that wins gets a free performance by Circque du Agricola, plus 33 coins and an apricot tree. The Periwinklians figure there will be so many people from Hope's Promise and West Eastern in PC all the time, signing up and marking out the signatures of people from the other town, that there will be so many people watching all the houses and businesses no one could possibly get away with robbing or vandalizing.
Monday, April 26, 2010
The History of Poetry
Some places have artist colonies. Periwinkle County is an artist jungle. In addition to jewelry makers and painters and sculptors and tractor restorers and novelists and luthiers and potters and musicians and composers and scriviners, there are poets.
Poets consider themselves the kings of the jungle [with a few queens], so their participation in the jungle is known as "the pride of poets," since a bunch of lions is called a "pride."
As good poets should, they eschew commerce. They publish their poems anonyomously by nailing them to the door of The Lutheran Church. [Actually, they tape them up with strips of masking tape that the Lutherans leave there to protect the door, which is glass.]
The following poem was taped to the door last night:
The History of Poetry
Homer was blind
so the whole thing
started off wrong,
or right
if you like lines
writ only from inner eyes.
Then came the bard
who did it for the cash
so he could prance
the boards.
Words of rhyme
to pass the time.
Then a boy named Billy
lastly, who astonished
Paris with picnic lightning.
A blind man, an actor,
a professor, entrusted
with the words of ever.
Poets consider themselves the kings of the jungle [with a few queens], so their participation in the jungle is known as "the pride of poets," since a bunch of lions is called a "pride."
As good poets should, they eschew commerce. They publish their poems anonyomously by nailing them to the door of The Lutheran Church. [Actually, they tape them up with strips of masking tape that the Lutherans leave there to protect the door, which is glass.]
The following poem was taped to the door last night:
The History of Poetry
Homer was blind
so the whole thing
started off wrong,
or right
if you like lines
writ only from inner eyes.
Then came the bard
who did it for the cash
so he could prance
the boards.
Words of rhyme
to pass the time.
Then a boy named Billy
lastly, who astonished
Paris with picnic lightning.
A blind man, an actor,
a professor, entrusted
with the words of ever.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Kate Callahan and the Whistler
Kate Callahan, the famous folksinger, was in town today. She sang at The Methodist this morning, then did a concert at the community building in the afternoon.
The Whistler was not at the service in the morning, but he was there this afternoon.
He whistles along with the prelude and postlude, with the anthem, with the hymns. He is in the early stages of dementia. It can be distracting. Some think it's downright rude. The Methodists are used to him, though. Some of the children even whistle along with him.
The folks at the community center were not used to him. They kept turning around and making mean faces in his direction and putting their fingers to their lips.
Kate took her guitar with her as she strolled down the center aisle toward him, strumming and singing "Wabash Cannon Ball." When she got to The Whistler, she sat down beside him and switched to "Precious Memories." The Whistler stayed right with her, right in tune. Then she whistled with him, all the way through "Precious Memories" and "Sunrise, Sunset."
Then she kissed him on top of the head.
Folks said it was more like being in church than being in church.
The Whistler was not at the service in the morning, but he was there this afternoon.
He whistles along with the prelude and postlude, with the anthem, with the hymns. He is in the early stages of dementia. It can be distracting. Some think it's downright rude. The Methodists are used to him, though. Some of the children even whistle along with him.
The folks at the community center were not used to him. They kept turning around and making mean faces in his direction and putting their fingers to their lips.
Kate took her guitar with her as she strolled down the center aisle toward him, strumming and singing "Wabash Cannon Ball." When she got to The Whistler, she sat down beside him and switched to "Precious Memories." The Whistler stayed right with her, right in tune. Then she whistled with him, all the way through "Precious Memories" and "Sunrise, Sunset."
Then she kissed him on top of the head.
Folks said it was more like being in church than being in church.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Academy of Professional Undertakers
Jake Newland is a little bit afraid, and a little bit hopeful.
Jake just got back from the annual meeting of The Academy of Professional Undertakers. He helped form The APU 40 years ago. The idea was to learn from others in the profession, by sharing ideas, how to serve mourners better, especially those who did not have clergy or other grief helpers. Jake and the other founders of APU felt that funeral directors had a unique access to people in times of grief, and thus a unique opportunity to provide human help for human hurt.
At first the APU grew rapidly. Everyone thought it was a great idea, to be professionals, like lawyers or doctors or ministers. FDs were proud to put the APU logo on their business cards and in their ads, noting that they ascribed to the APU code of ethics and continuing education. Gradually, though, the APU declined as its members realized that nobody cared if they were better at helping the lost and lonely, and as they realized that they were losing business to their competitors who did not ascribe to the APU code of ethics. They didn't want to learn how to be better friends in times of grief; they wanted to learn how to be better business people. They didn't want to make friends, they wanted to make money.
Jake noticed that he was the only one at the meeting wearing the APU pin and his past-president's pin, the only one with the APU crest on his black suit coat. He was not the only retired FD, though. The ONLY undertakers there were retired, hardly 30 left out of a nation-wide academy, rattling around in the big county fair building outside Denver, reminiscing, chatting over morning oatmeal and eveing meatloaf with old friends that they see only once a year. In a few years, they will all be taken under themselves, just as their undertaking on behalf of good grief instead of bad grief will also be taken under.
Jake thinks their undertaking failed because they didn't believe their own credo, that they could learn from one another. They never had a fellow undertaker or a mourner speak at their meetings. They always had professors or politicians or business leaders. Who wants to belong to an organization whose own members believe that anyone outside their profession, from social walkers to street walkers, knows more about what they do than they themselves know?
Now, though, he is free. He isn't a professional undertaker any longer. He's not even an amateur undertaker. He is free to be himself, without a pin or a crest to tell him who he is. It's a little bit scary, and a little bit exciting.
Jake just got back from the annual meeting of The Academy of Professional Undertakers. He helped form The APU 40 years ago. The idea was to learn from others in the profession, by sharing ideas, how to serve mourners better, especially those who did not have clergy or other grief helpers. Jake and the other founders of APU felt that funeral directors had a unique access to people in times of grief, and thus a unique opportunity to provide human help for human hurt.
At first the APU grew rapidly. Everyone thought it was a great idea, to be professionals, like lawyers or doctors or ministers. FDs were proud to put the APU logo on their business cards and in their ads, noting that they ascribed to the APU code of ethics and continuing education. Gradually, though, the APU declined as its members realized that nobody cared if they were better at helping the lost and lonely, and as they realized that they were losing business to their competitors who did not ascribe to the APU code of ethics. They didn't want to learn how to be better friends in times of grief; they wanted to learn how to be better business people. They didn't want to make friends, they wanted to make money.
Jake noticed that he was the only one at the meeting wearing the APU pin and his past-president's pin, the only one with the APU crest on his black suit coat. He was not the only retired FD, though. The ONLY undertakers there were retired, hardly 30 left out of a nation-wide academy, rattling around in the big county fair building outside Denver, reminiscing, chatting over morning oatmeal and eveing meatloaf with old friends that they see only once a year. In a few years, they will all be taken under themselves, just as their undertaking on behalf of good grief instead of bad grief will also be taken under.
Jake thinks their undertaking failed because they didn't believe their own credo, that they could learn from one another. They never had a fellow undertaker or a mourner speak at their meetings. They always had professors or politicians or business leaders. Who wants to belong to an organization whose own members believe that anyone outside their profession, from social walkers to street walkers, knows more about what they do than they themselves know?
Now, though, he is free. He isn't a professional undertaker any longer. He's not even an amateur undertaker. He is free to be himself, without a pin or a crest to tell him who he is. It's a little bit scary, and a little bit exciting.
Monday, April 19, 2010
There's An Old Lady Sick Upstairs
Old Joke: To loud musician: "Do you know there's an old lady sick upstairs?" "No, but if you hum a few bars, I'll try to fake it."
There's an old lady sick upstairs
that's what her neighbors said
they just want to keep her calm
keep noise from out her head
so keep those guitars strumming low
keep those horns on muted blow
they don't know the old lady wants
some music as she goes
Traveling on, with a song
that is the old lady's dream
she wants to hear those notes drift up
around the ceiling beam
she wants to dance in her memory
to Benny Goodman and Count Basie
they don't know the old lady wants
some music as she goes
She used to dance the rumba
she used to trot the fox
she used to swing on the old gym floor
in her bobby sox
she has not been forever old
she still knows words to the songs of gold
they don't know the old lady wants
some music as she goes
Traveling on, with a song
that is the old lady's dream
she wants to hear those notes drift up
around the ceiling beam
she wants to dance in her memory
to Benny Goodman and Count Basie
they don't know the old lady wants
some music as she goes
So we turn the sound down as we play
but we point them up the old lady's way
we let them curl up like a dream
those notes that follow the ceiling beam
the songs that flow through her memory
the songs that soften her reverie
the songs of Goodman and Count Basie
so she'll have music as she goes
Traveling on, with a song
that is the old lady's dream
she wants to hear those notes drift up
around the ceiling beam
she wants to dance in her memory
to Benny Goodman and Count Basie
they don't know the old lady wants
some music as she goes...
There's an old lady sick upstairs
that's what her neighbors said
they just want to keep her calm
keep noise from out her head
so keep those guitars strumming low
keep those horns on muted blow
they don't know the old lady wants
some music as she goes
Traveling on, with a song
that is the old lady's dream
she wants to hear those notes drift up
around the ceiling beam
she wants to dance in her memory
to Benny Goodman and Count Basie
they don't know the old lady wants
some music as she goes
She used to dance the rumba
she used to trot the fox
she used to swing on the old gym floor
in her bobby sox
she has not been forever old
she still knows words to the songs of gold
they don't know the old lady wants
some music as she goes
Traveling on, with a song
that is the old lady's dream
she wants to hear those notes drift up
around the ceiling beam
she wants to dance in her memory
to Benny Goodman and Count Basie
they don't know the old lady wants
some music as she goes
So we turn the sound down as we play
but we point them up the old lady's way
we let them curl up like a dream
those notes that follow the ceiling beam
the songs that flow through her memory
the songs that soften her reverie
the songs of Goodman and Count Basie
so she'll have music as she goes
Traveling on, with a song
that is the old lady's dream
she wants to hear those notes drift up
around the ceiling beam
she wants to dance in her memory
to Benny Goodman and Count Basie
they don't know the old lady wants
some music as she goes...
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Volcanic Revenge
Halt Limppaw saw Pastor Patty and Randall Nathan conferring in the back booth of The Mills of the Gods Coffee House and naturally assumed they were talking about him and his eponymous radio show on WKPC.
"No," said retired pastor Nathan, "we were talking about your hero, Rush Limbaugh. He said that if health care reform passed, he would move out of the USA. He did. He's been phoning his show in from an undisclosed location, but now we know where he is, Iceland."
"Is that true?" asked Halt Limppaw.
"Of course," said Pastor Patty, "in exactly the same way that what Rush says is true."
"No," said retired pastor Nathan, "we were talking about your hero, Rush Limbaugh. He said that if health care reform passed, he would move out of the USA. He did. He's been phoning his show in from an undisclosed location, but now we know where he is, Iceland."
"Is that true?" asked Halt Limppaw.
"Of course," said Pastor Patty, "in exactly the same way that what Rush says is true."
The Secret is in the Air
Pastor Patty and retired pastor Nathan Randall met at The Mills of the Gods Coffee House this morning. Naturally the conversation went to her sermon for tomorrow.
"Just like a trapeze act, the secret to preaching is in the air," said Dr. Nathan, [who prefers not to be called "Doctor," because he got the doctorate so he could say, "Oh, you don't have to call me doctor," which doesn't have the same effect if you don't have one]. "It's like any live performance, but I prefer to think of it as a musical, although it has elements of a drama or a stand-up comedy routine or a concert. In a musical, the singers and dancers throw their notes and their energy and their story, written first by composers and story-tellers, into the air. They drift out over the audience and fall to their heads. At this point, the bald people have an advantage, for they have less to impede the penetration of the performance into their brains, but anyone there can have open ears and an open mind and an open heart to receive the message."
"Just what does that mean for tomorrow's lection, which is: My brother, Esau, is a hairy man," asked Pastor Patty.
"Perhaps I need to repeat what I said about the advantages of bald people," said Randall Nathan. "But remember that air is thin up high, so keep the sermon down where it is most breathable."
"Just like a trapeze act, the secret to preaching is in the air," said Dr. Nathan, [who prefers not to be called "Doctor," because he got the doctorate so he could say, "Oh, you don't have to call me doctor," which doesn't have the same effect if you don't have one]. "It's like any live performance, but I prefer to think of it as a musical, although it has elements of a drama or a stand-up comedy routine or a concert. In a musical, the singers and dancers throw their notes and their energy and their story, written first by composers and story-tellers, into the air. They drift out over the audience and fall to their heads. At this point, the bald people have an advantage, for they have less to impede the penetration of the performance into their brains, but anyone there can have open ears and an open mind and an open heart to receive the message."
"Just what does that mean for tomorrow's lection, which is: My brother, Esau, is a hairy man," asked Pastor Patty.
"Perhaps I need to repeat what I said about the advantages of bald people," said Randall Nathan. "But remember that air is thin up high, so keep the sermon down where it is most breathable."
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Goebbels and Gerbils
Watching Fox News, Halt Limppaw got an idea for his eponymous radio show on WKPC.
He ended the show by saying: "Goebbels and Gingrich. Goebbels had a PhD. Gingrich has a PhD. Critics are wondering about the connection. Just coincidence? I don't think so."
He pronounced Goebbels, the Nazi propaganda minister, as Gerbils.
When he ran into Prof. Ben "Seymour" Bottoms later at the Good to the Last Slop Coffee Shop, he told him about it, since he knows that Ben does not listen to his show.
"But Halt," Prof. Bottoms said, "you're a right-wing conspiracy nut. You're implying that Gingrich is just like Goebbels because they both have PhDs. Do you really want to say that Gingrich is a Nazi?"
"Goebbels was a Nazi?"
"Yes, one of the top Nazis of them all."
"Oh, hell. I thought his name was Gerbils and I figured that meant he was one of those animal rights extremists. Newt can't be a Nazi, because Obama is a Nazi."
"You'd better correct that on your show tomorrow," said Ben.
"Oh, can't do that. That would imply that there might be other times I was wrong about something. People might even begin to think those folks at the Crescent Donut Shop aren't Muslim."
"They aren't," said Seymour. "They're Irish Catholic. The Crescent refers to The Old Crescent on the university campus. Their shop is across the street from it."
"Just a coincidence?" asked Halt. "I don't think so."
Seymour sighed. "Newt happens," he said.
He ended the show by saying: "Goebbels and Gingrich. Goebbels had a PhD. Gingrich has a PhD. Critics are wondering about the connection. Just coincidence? I don't think so."
He pronounced Goebbels, the Nazi propaganda minister, as Gerbils.
When he ran into Prof. Ben "Seymour" Bottoms later at the Good to the Last Slop Coffee Shop, he told him about it, since he knows that Ben does not listen to his show.
"But Halt," Prof. Bottoms said, "you're a right-wing conspiracy nut. You're implying that Gingrich is just like Goebbels because they both have PhDs. Do you really want to say that Gingrich is a Nazi?"
"Goebbels was a Nazi?"
"Yes, one of the top Nazis of them all."
"Oh, hell. I thought his name was Gerbils and I figured that meant he was one of those animal rights extremists. Newt can't be a Nazi, because Obama is a Nazi."
"You'd better correct that on your show tomorrow," said Ben.
"Oh, can't do that. That would imply that there might be other times I was wrong about something. People might even begin to think those folks at the Crescent Donut Shop aren't Muslim."
"They aren't," said Seymour. "They're Irish Catholic. The Crescent refers to The Old Crescent on the university campus. Their shop is across the street from it."
"Just a coincidence?" asked Halt. "I don't think so."
Seymour sighed. "Newt happens," he said.
Remington's Poem
Remington Watts, named for the painter, not the rifle, although most adults in Periwinkle County refer to him as "a son of a gun," son of Pastor Patty Niebuhr and Dan Watts, is a literary prodigy, reading far beyond his years. Since his 8th birthday conincided with the Spring Concert and Literary Fair at Raines School, Madame Rousseau thought it would be great for him to compose an original poem and read it to the assembly of students and parents and people who just like to come to Raines School because they always serve popped persimmons after each event.
Madame Rousseau teaches music at Volvo River High School, but Bok String, the principal at Raines, originator of The String Theory of Quantum Persimmons, persuaded her to take on the grade school event also.
Pastor Randall Nathan, (Retard), and Claire were in the front row with Pastor Patty and Dan. All were beaming as Madame Rousseau introduced Remington, with much praise for his advanced literary abilities. When he stood up, they realized that he had a soprano sax hanging on a lanyard around his neck. That was strange, since Remington does not play the sax. Remington didn't explain. He just stepped to the microphone and began:
The Perfect Note
by
Remington Watts
His notes were always slightly flat
Ulence was his name
in church surrounds or concert hall
his aim was still the same
to blow a note sublimely round
like no other earthly sound
[Like Randall Nathan, Remington has been reading the complete poems of Emily Dickinson, and this sounded Dickinsian, sort of. At least, Claire heard Randall humming "The Yellow Rose of Texas" along with Remington's words.]
A note from the bottom of his heart
a note from the end yet like a... start
his aim was lofty, his aim was high,
his aim was like no other guy
the hoi polloi are quickly spent
through anything that has a vent
but Ulence wanted a note to blow
that wore its own black tuxedo
a rider in the valley below
hangs his head over
to hear the wind blow
[At this point, Remington turned his beatific smile on Madame Rousseau, since the first graders would be up next to sing "Down in the Valley," but Madame Rousseau's eyes were big and getting bigger.]
in his search for the note that was perfect and round
he squatted 'til he almost touched the ground
he strained so hard he almost took a tumble
but felt deep in his soul a wondrous rumble
he blew the note so loud and hard
it silenced trains in the railroad yard
he received no applause from the Philistine hoarde
but perfection is its own reward.
The poet took a small bow. There was a moment of stunned silence, in which Pastor Patty's face turned persimmon puce. Then the crowd of students went wild. They were so loud that the persimmons started popping prematurely.
Randall Nathan turned to Claire and said, "We'd better hide him for a few days until this blows over." When he put air quotes around "blows," Claire kicked him in the shins.
Madame Rousseau teaches music at Volvo River High School, but Bok String, the principal at Raines, originator of The String Theory of Quantum Persimmons, persuaded her to take on the grade school event also.
Pastor Randall Nathan, (Retard), and Claire were in the front row with Pastor Patty and Dan. All were beaming as Madame Rousseau introduced Remington, with much praise for his advanced literary abilities. When he stood up, they realized that he had a soprano sax hanging on a lanyard around his neck. That was strange, since Remington does not play the sax. Remington didn't explain. He just stepped to the microphone and began:
The Perfect Note
by
Remington Watts
His notes were always slightly flat
Ulence was his name
in church surrounds or concert hall
his aim was still the same
to blow a note sublimely round
like no other earthly sound
[Like Randall Nathan, Remington has been reading the complete poems of Emily Dickinson, and this sounded Dickinsian, sort of. At least, Claire heard Randall humming "The Yellow Rose of Texas" along with Remington's words.]
A note from the bottom of his heart
a note from the end yet like a... start
his aim was lofty, his aim was high,
his aim was like no other guy
the hoi polloi are quickly spent
through anything that has a vent
but Ulence wanted a note to blow
that wore its own black tuxedo
a rider in the valley below
hangs his head over
to hear the wind blow
[At this point, Remington turned his beatific smile on Madame Rousseau, since the first graders would be up next to sing "Down in the Valley," but Madame Rousseau's eyes were big and getting bigger.]
in his search for the note that was perfect and round
he squatted 'til he almost touched the ground
he strained so hard he almost took a tumble
but felt deep in his soul a wondrous rumble
he blew the note so loud and hard
it silenced trains in the railroad yard
he received no applause from the Philistine hoarde
but perfection is its own reward.
The poet took a small bow. There was a moment of stunned silence, in which Pastor Patty's face turned persimmon puce. Then the crowd of students went wild. They were so loud that the persimmons started popping prematurely.
Randall Nathan turned to Claire and said, "We'd better hide him for a few days until this blows over." When he put air quotes around "blows," Claire kicked him in the shins.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Wally Explains
Wally Wagler's daughter, Bonnie, a 5th grade teacher, asked him why.
"Dad, there on April 9, at the Orioles home opener, in the bottom of the 9th, you hit that ball clear out of Camden Yards, but you veered off just one step short of home plate so you could come home. Couldn't you have just stepped on the plate and then come on home to Periwinkle County?"
"No, because then my whole legacy would have been as the oldest guy ever to play in the majors, the oldest guy who hit a home run. And I wouldn't have been able to stop at one and then come to my real home. One home run leads to wanting to hit another one. I would have been famous and probably rich, but for all the wrong reasons. I didn't do anything to be a good baseball player. It was just because Warden Lucky, the wild young lefthander from Kansas, beaned me that I was able to hit like that. But I worked all my life to be a better addictions counselor. I went to conferences and read books and did experiments and prayed. And those people did me the great honor of letting me walk with them through their most difficult times, trying to kick booze or gambling or drugs. But if I had stepped on home plate, all that would have been forgotten. My 15 minutes of fame would have wiped out a whole lifetime of hard work. If I had stepped on the plate, I would have just been a rich famous guy. No one would ever have asked why I did it if I hit a homer. Now people will always have to ask why I did what I did, and you'll be there to tell them."
"Dad, there on April 9, at the Orioles home opener, in the bottom of the 9th, you hit that ball clear out of Camden Yards, but you veered off just one step short of home plate so you could come home. Couldn't you have just stepped on the plate and then come on home to Periwinkle County?"
"No, because then my whole legacy would have been as the oldest guy ever to play in the majors, the oldest guy who hit a home run. And I wouldn't have been able to stop at one and then come to my real home. One home run leads to wanting to hit another one. I would have been famous and probably rich, but for all the wrong reasons. I didn't do anything to be a good baseball player. It was just because Warden Lucky, the wild young lefthander from Kansas, beaned me that I was able to hit like that. But I worked all my life to be a better addictions counselor. I went to conferences and read books and did experiments and prayed. And those people did me the great honor of letting me walk with them through their most difficult times, trying to kick booze or gambling or drugs. But if I had stepped on home plate, all that would have been forgotten. My 15 minutes of fame would have wiped out a whole lifetime of hard work. If I had stepped on the plate, I would have just been a rich famous guy. No one would ever have asked why I did it if I hit a homer. Now people will always have to ask why I did what I did, and you'll be there to tell them."
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
You Age 'Em, We Stage 'Em
Annamae Blanco was a stage actress in NYC until she retired with her husband, Will, to Periwinkle County. They both went to Cratchit State U, in nearby Hope's Promise, many years ago. There is something about persimmon country that brings its children back.
Naturally, the Periwinkle Players Community Theater was delighted to have a real actress in their midst. So was Katye, the activities director at The Blau Harr Home for Dessert Years Living, overlooking the parking lot of The Wandering Wolverine IGA.
Katye is required to do at least one activity per year with The Wise Acres Home for Old Men, started by Carol Wise, who no longer wanted her old man to live at HER home. There are different wings of Wise Acres so that the old men can associate with thier own kind. There is Tooth Acres for old dentists, and Belli Acres for old lawyers, and Head Acres for old teachers, and Heart Acres for old country singers.
Katye thought it would be great for Annamae Blanco to form a community theater troop of old women from Blau Harr and old men from Wise Acres. Their first performance is next Saturday night at The Historic Old Persimmon Opera House, Annamae's own adaptation of Proust's "Remembrance of Things Past," which she thought would be quite appropriate for old people, since what they do, mostly, is remember things past. She didn't remember, though, that remembrance of things now, like lines for a play, is a whole different matter....
Naturally, the Periwinkle Players Community Theater was delighted to have a real actress in their midst. So was Katye, the activities director at The Blau Harr Home for Dessert Years Living, overlooking the parking lot of The Wandering Wolverine IGA.
Katye is required to do at least one activity per year with The Wise Acres Home for Old Men, started by Carol Wise, who no longer wanted her old man to live at HER home. There are different wings of Wise Acres so that the old men can associate with thier own kind. There is Tooth Acres for old dentists, and Belli Acres for old lawyers, and Head Acres for old teachers, and Heart Acres for old country singers.
Katye thought it would be great for Annamae Blanco to form a community theater troop of old women from Blau Harr and old men from Wise Acres. Their first performance is next Saturday night at The Historic Old Persimmon Opera House, Annamae's own adaptation of Proust's "Remembrance of Things Past," which she thought would be quite appropriate for old people, since what they do, mostly, is remember things past. She didn't remember, though, that remembrance of things now, like lines for a play, is a whole different matter....
Monday, April 12, 2010
Word and Words
Every Second Sunday afternoon and evening, there is a "Word & Words Fest" at The Logos Lutheran Bible Camp at Miss Fortune Lake, named for Miss Fortunata Fortune, who deeded the lake and all the land around it to The Periwinkle County Board for perpetual camping activities.
At Word and Words Fest, there is singing and poetry reading and story telling and occasional yodeling, although no one knows exactly how yodeling fits into a festival of words.
Clarie Nathan is quite upset with Mapphew "Mapp" Watkolovich for mentioning that every Emily Dickinson poem can be sung to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas," because this morning her husband, Randall, is trying to prove him wrong. He's only up to page 43 of the 811 page volume of "The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson."
[The author is indebted to the great Matt Watroba, former English teacher and "American Roots" singer, for the correlation between Miss Dickinson and yellow roses. He's also indebted to Matt's "American Roots" partner, The Rev. Robert Jones, for the whole idea of "holy blues."]
At Word and Words Fest, there is singing and poetry reading and story telling and occasional yodeling, although no one knows exactly how yodeling fits into a festival of words.
Clarie Nathan is quite upset with Mapphew "Mapp" Watkolovich for mentioning that every Emily Dickinson poem can be sung to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas," because this morning her husband, Randall, is trying to prove him wrong. He's only up to page 43 of the 811 page volume of "The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson."
[The author is indebted to the great Matt Watroba, former English teacher and "American Roots" singer, for the correlation between Miss Dickinson and yellow roses. He's also indebted to Matt's "American Roots" partner, The Rev. Robert Jones, for the whole idea of "holy blues."]
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Liner Notes for Mahalia
She is the organ, the choir,
a whole orchestra of bassoons,
singing of prayer and hope
and Jesus rockin' in Jerusalem,
a musical Trinity.
Is there a God who cares
a whit about this world?
I don't know,
but Mahlia makes you believe
in music. For the moment,
that's good enough.
a whole orchestra of bassoons,
singing of prayer and hope
and Jesus rockin' in Jerusalem,
a musical Trinity.
Is there a God who cares
a whit about this world?
I don't know,
but Mahlia makes you believe
in music. For the moment,
that's good enough.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Washing Sins Away
It being spring, three-year-old Clara Wembley's mother thought it would be good for Clara to be outside, to get some fresh air.
It being spring, Clara thought it would be nice to walk down to Randall Nathan's house so that she could tell her friends at Sunday School that her mother had sent her to the child psychologist. That's real status.
It being spring, Randall Nathan thought it would be nice to get the car washed.
So he and Clara drove down to The Car Confessional automatic car wash. Clara was quite fascinated by the power hoses and the squirting soap and the big twirling brushes. She was also fascinated by the tokens in the change tray. Dr. Nathan put one of them into the slot at the start of the wash to cause all those hoses and brushes to do their thing. Clara thought it would be nice to have one as a souvenir.
It being spring, Clara has Shingles, the dog, on his leash, and the token in her pocket, and is walking Shingles down to The Car Confessional...
It being spring, Clara thought it would be nice to walk down to Randall Nathan's house so that she could tell her friends at Sunday School that her mother had sent her to the child psychologist. That's real status.
It being spring, Randall Nathan thought it would be nice to get the car washed.
So he and Clara drove down to The Car Confessional automatic car wash. Clara was quite fascinated by the power hoses and the squirting soap and the big twirling brushes. She was also fascinated by the tokens in the change tray. Dr. Nathan put one of them into the slot at the start of the wash to cause all those hoses and brushes to do their thing. Clara thought it would be nice to have one as a souvenir.
It being spring, Clara has Shingles, the dog, on his leash, and the token in her pocket, and is walking Shingles down to The Car Confessional...
Friday, April 9, 2010
Wally's Home Run
It was the bottom of the 9th, score tied, and the opposing manager was taking no chances. He had heard the rumors of "Waste 'Em Wally" Wagler, the Orioles fantasy camp slugger, now signed with the Orioles, the oldest man ever to play in the major leagues. Now he called on feared reliever Pedro-Jose Martinez-Rodriguez, "El Commandante," who had not given up a run in three years, to face "Waste 'Em Wally" in his first major league at-bat.
Wally took his stance, his Edd Roush model bat resting easily on his shoulder. Roush, the Reds Hall of Fame center-fielder, used the heaviest bat in the majors, heavier even than Babe Ruth's storied whacking stick, but it felt light on Wally's shoulder. El Commandante wound and threw. Wally's beanball-addled brain read the rotation immediately. He lifted the bat and closed his eyes and swung as hard as he could at the point where he knew the ball would cross the plate. Came the age-old sound of satisfaction, hickory and horsehide in collision, and the ball sailed out of Camden Yards, over the house where the raven knocked at the chamber door of Edgar Allan Poe, over The Homesick Restaurant, over Pratt Street, that had run "with patriotic gore," in the Civil War.
There was an awed and eerie silence as the ball was finally lost to sight and Wally began his homerun shuffle around the bases.
As he ran to first base, Wally thought about his friends and family. They were all at home, for he had told no one, not even Randall Nathan, his college roommate, that he had actually signed with the Orioles. What if something went wrong? What if he got beaned again, and his brain went back to being normal? No, he was alone in Baltimore as he ran the bases. From the plate to first base, he heard the awed silence of the crowd as they watched the ball soar beyond belief, and then he heard their roar as they realized he had won the game. How much better could life be than that sweet sound in his ears?
But as he rounded first base, he thought about his parents, they of "the greatest generation," who fought a good war to help people be free and who loved him so much so that he could be free, too. He thought of his wife, Julie, who had been a famous athlete as a Roller Derby queen, wreaking injury upon her opponents, but who now used her knowledge of injury to help broken bodies become whole again. He thought of his children, who had overcome dyslexia and dysnomia and general dissing to become compassionate school teachers who taught and protected children who were labled "different."
As he rounded second and headed for third, he thought about his friends, the great Clarie Nathan, who as a high school teacher had helped so many adolescents bring order out of chaos in their lives. He thought about the great Jake Newland, who as a funeral director had been more of a grief director, helping those who mourned to grieve well instead of poorly. He thought of the great Kate Bates, hostess to the world, and the great Ben "Seymour" Bottoms, who always went the extra mile. He thought about the great Edith Whistle, who made lonely people feel at home in her restaurant. And he thought about the great Clara Wembley, only three years old, but able to bring a smile to the face of anyone who sees her, [except for Shingles, the dog], and how much greater can you get than that? No, nobody else calls those people "great," but Wally knows them for what they are.
He rounded third and headed for home plate and thought about his "clients" who had become his friends. Wally has lived his professional life as an addictions counselor. He thought of Billy Don Maginnis, who struggles every day with his addiction to booze, and Nancy Owens, who struggles daily with her addiction to gambling, and Keisha Johnson, who struggles constantly with her addiction to cocaine. It takes more courage for them, he thought, just to get up in the morning and face the day than it would ever take to face the fastball of El Commandante.
One step short of home plate, Wally veered off into the stands, into the crowd, his pink beard disappearing among the fans.
Fantasy is great, he thought, but reality is better. "Waste 'Em Wally" Wagler was headed for home.
Wally took his stance, his Edd Roush model bat resting easily on his shoulder. Roush, the Reds Hall of Fame center-fielder, used the heaviest bat in the majors, heavier even than Babe Ruth's storied whacking stick, but it felt light on Wally's shoulder. El Commandante wound and threw. Wally's beanball-addled brain read the rotation immediately. He lifted the bat and closed his eyes and swung as hard as he could at the point where he knew the ball would cross the plate. Came the age-old sound of satisfaction, hickory and horsehide in collision, and the ball sailed out of Camden Yards, over the house where the raven knocked at the chamber door of Edgar Allan Poe, over The Homesick Restaurant, over Pratt Street, that had run "with patriotic gore," in the Civil War.
There was an awed and eerie silence as the ball was finally lost to sight and Wally began his homerun shuffle around the bases.
As he ran to first base, Wally thought about his friends and family. They were all at home, for he had told no one, not even Randall Nathan, his college roommate, that he had actually signed with the Orioles. What if something went wrong? What if he got beaned again, and his brain went back to being normal? No, he was alone in Baltimore as he ran the bases. From the plate to first base, he heard the awed silence of the crowd as they watched the ball soar beyond belief, and then he heard their roar as they realized he had won the game. How much better could life be than that sweet sound in his ears?
But as he rounded first base, he thought about his parents, they of "the greatest generation," who fought a good war to help people be free and who loved him so much so that he could be free, too. He thought of his wife, Julie, who had been a famous athlete as a Roller Derby queen, wreaking injury upon her opponents, but who now used her knowledge of injury to help broken bodies become whole again. He thought of his children, who had overcome dyslexia and dysnomia and general dissing to become compassionate school teachers who taught and protected children who were labled "different."
As he rounded second and headed for third, he thought about his friends, the great Clarie Nathan, who as a high school teacher had helped so many adolescents bring order out of chaos in their lives. He thought about the great Jake Newland, who as a funeral director had been more of a grief director, helping those who mourned to grieve well instead of poorly. He thought of the great Kate Bates, hostess to the world, and the great Ben "Seymour" Bottoms, who always went the extra mile. He thought about the great Edith Whistle, who made lonely people feel at home in her restaurant. And he thought about the great Clara Wembley, only three years old, but able to bring a smile to the face of anyone who sees her, [except for Shingles, the dog], and how much greater can you get than that? No, nobody else calls those people "great," but Wally knows them for what they are.
He rounded third and headed for home plate and thought about his "clients" who had become his friends. Wally has lived his professional life as an addictions counselor. He thought of Billy Don Maginnis, who struggles every day with his addiction to booze, and Nancy Owens, who struggles daily with her addiction to gambling, and Keisha Johnson, who struggles constantly with her addiction to cocaine. It takes more courage for them, he thought, just to get up in the morning and face the day than it would ever take to face the fastball of El Commandante.
One step short of home plate, Wally veered off into the stands, into the crowd, his pink beard disappearing among the fans.
Fantasy is great, he thought, but reality is better. "Waste 'Em Wally" Wagler was headed for home.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Wally's Debut
There are a lot of Butler fans in Periwinkle County, and they would feel more bereft than they do, except that this was Opening Day for one of their own, Wally Wagler.
[The posts of Feb 24, "Wally Prepares for Spring Training," and March 8, "Winter & Summer Sports." and March 9, "Wally Gets a Nickname." and March 12, "Red and Yellow, Black and White," give background for what follows.]
Wally is a life-long Reds fan, but he went to the Baltimore Orioles spring training fantasy camp because it was held in Florida, where spring training ought to be, instead of Arizona, to which the Reds absconded this year. Ths Orioles trained this year in Sarasota, in the former site of the Reds, so it was almost as good. Wally was way past the upper age limit for the camp, but his granddaughter dyed his beard and hair pink, so he got in. Then there was that beanball incident with Warden Lucky, the wild young lefthander from Kansas, and Wally's brainwaves were addled. He knew exactly where each pitch would cross the plate from the time it left the pitcher's hand. He just closed his eyes and swung hard and the balls went over the fence, so far that even speedy center-fielder "Goopy" Williams could not retrieve them. Fantasy camp manager Earl Weaver complained that Wally was wasting all their baseballs, and so the legend of "Waste 'Em Wally" was born.
Today was the home opener for the Orioles, in Camden Yards, and it was the debut of the oldest man ever to play in the majors. There was just one problem...
It is a great marketing tool for the Orioles, the oldest player ever, with a pink beard and hair, who hits every ball over the fence... but Wally can't run after he hits the ball.
It is a good thing that Wally had to go to fantasy camp with an American League team, for the AL uses the designated hitter, a position designed for old guys who hit the ball hard but can't run. You don't play a position in the field; you just bat every ninth time around. But you do have to run after you've hit the ball.
Wally can do "the old dude shuffle," which is a hit on the dance floor at The Blau Haar Home for Dessert Years Living, and good enough if you've hit the ball out of the park, but what if he hits a line-drive into the gap? These are major league pitchers he'll be facing now, not just Orioles pitchers, and major league outfielders. They could throw Wally out at first base if the ball is anywhere in the park.
So they waited to put Wally into the game, until the ninth inning, with the score tied, and they could wait no longer...
[The posts of Feb 24, "Wally Prepares for Spring Training," and March 8, "Winter & Summer Sports." and March 9, "Wally Gets a Nickname." and March 12, "Red and Yellow, Black and White," give background for what follows.]
Wally is a life-long Reds fan, but he went to the Baltimore Orioles spring training fantasy camp because it was held in Florida, where spring training ought to be, instead of Arizona, to which the Reds absconded this year. Ths Orioles trained this year in Sarasota, in the former site of the Reds, so it was almost as good. Wally was way past the upper age limit for the camp, but his granddaughter dyed his beard and hair pink, so he got in. Then there was that beanball incident with Warden Lucky, the wild young lefthander from Kansas, and Wally's brainwaves were addled. He knew exactly where each pitch would cross the plate from the time it left the pitcher's hand. He just closed his eyes and swung hard and the balls went over the fence, so far that even speedy center-fielder "Goopy" Williams could not retrieve them. Fantasy camp manager Earl Weaver complained that Wally was wasting all their baseballs, and so the legend of "Waste 'Em Wally" was born.
Today was the home opener for the Orioles, in Camden Yards, and it was the debut of the oldest man ever to play in the majors. There was just one problem...
It is a great marketing tool for the Orioles, the oldest player ever, with a pink beard and hair, who hits every ball over the fence... but Wally can't run after he hits the ball.
It is a good thing that Wally had to go to fantasy camp with an American League team, for the AL uses the designated hitter, a position designed for old guys who hit the ball hard but can't run. You don't play a position in the field; you just bat every ninth time around. But you do have to run after you've hit the ball.
Wally can do "the old dude shuffle," which is a hit on the dance floor at The Blau Haar Home for Dessert Years Living, and good enough if you've hit the ball out of the park, but what if he hits a line-drive into the gap? These are major league pitchers he'll be facing now, not just Orioles pitchers, and major league outfielders. They could throw Wally out at first base if the ball is anywhere in the park.
So they waited to put Wally into the game, until the ninth inning, with the score tied, and they could wait no longer...
Out of Place Post
I just posted "I Won't Cry" on Tuesday, April 6, at 7:20 am CDT, but Blogspot put it in between "Unholy Saturday" and "Dishes and Memories" on April 2, and now it seems to have disappeared altogether.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Missing Pieces of the Easter Puzzle
Kate Bates thought it would be a nice Easter afternoon family-building activity to work a jigsaw puzzle together. First, though, they had to find the pieces of the puzzle.
Kate had Betsy and Johnny Kendy come over on Saturday afternoon to hide the eggs, so that no one in her family would know where they were. The eggs are plastic, a hundred of them. While she was in The Happy Hare IGA Saturday morning, getting an extra ham, in case her brother, Jim, came to Sunday dinner, too, she grabbed a 100 piece puzzle off a shelf in the Wittgenstein Aisle. [Each aisle in The Happy Hare is named for a famous philosopher whose philosophical principles most closely align with the products in that aisle.]She had Betsy and Johnny put a puzzle piece into each plastic egg, along with a peep and a hollow chocolate, symbolizing the empty tomb. After Sunday dinner, she gave everyone a basket. Once they had found the eggs, they broke them open and ate the empty tombs and worked the puzzle.
Apparently, though, they did not find all the eggs. There were several important puzzle pieces missing, and they couldn't figure out what the picture was. Kate's husband, Prof. Ben "Seymour" Bottoms, had thrown the box into the trash without looking at it and had then taken the trash to the dump, so they couldn't consult the picture on the box.
Three-year-old Clara Wembley, Kate's granddaughter, knows where the missing eggs are, though. At least, she knows who has them. She watched Shingles, the dog, as he watched the family trying to work the puzzle, saw the satisfied smile on his face. She knows Shingles has hidden the missing eggs. All she has to do to be the hero of the family is stalk the dog until she tracks him to his secret lair. It may take a while, but when Shingles is involved, Clara is patient and tenacious. She still has not forgiven him for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve.
Clara doesn't know that retired pastor Randall Nathan was watching her watching Shingles. He is pleased. He knows that life is a puzzle, and that there are always pieces missing, so that you can't see the whole picture. He's also sure that some three-year-old will grow up and become a scientist or theologian and find a missing piece or two that will perhaps not make the puzzle whole but will at least make the pacture clearer.
Kate had Betsy and Johnny Kendy come over on Saturday afternoon to hide the eggs, so that no one in her family would know where they were. The eggs are plastic, a hundred of them. While she was in The Happy Hare IGA Saturday morning, getting an extra ham, in case her brother, Jim, came to Sunday dinner, too, she grabbed a 100 piece puzzle off a shelf in the Wittgenstein Aisle. [Each aisle in The Happy Hare is named for a famous philosopher whose philosophical principles most closely align with the products in that aisle.]She had Betsy and Johnny put a puzzle piece into each plastic egg, along with a peep and a hollow chocolate, symbolizing the empty tomb. After Sunday dinner, she gave everyone a basket. Once they had found the eggs, they broke them open and ate the empty tombs and worked the puzzle.
Apparently, though, they did not find all the eggs. There were several important puzzle pieces missing, and they couldn't figure out what the picture was. Kate's husband, Prof. Ben "Seymour" Bottoms, had thrown the box into the trash without looking at it and had then taken the trash to the dump, so they couldn't consult the picture on the box.
Three-year-old Clara Wembley, Kate's granddaughter, knows where the missing eggs are, though. At least, she knows who has them. She watched Shingles, the dog, as he watched the family trying to work the puzzle, saw the satisfied smile on his face. She knows Shingles has hidden the missing eggs. All she has to do to be the hero of the family is stalk the dog until she tracks him to his secret lair. It may take a while, but when Shingles is involved, Clara is patient and tenacious. She still has not forgiven him for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve.
Clara doesn't know that retired pastor Randall Nathan was watching her watching Shingles. He is pleased. He knows that life is a puzzle, and that there are always pieces missing, so that you can't see the whole picture. He's also sure that some three-year-old will grow up and become a scientist or theologian and find a missing piece or two that will perhaps not make the puzzle whole but will at least make the pacture clearer.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Easter Accountability
Jodie Kirk, from Discordia Seminary in Capitol City, the new young student pastor at Forsythia Lutheran, is delighted. He has Butler U. in the basketball championship pool, and Butler actually beat Michigan State and will play in the final game on Monday night. So now he can go ahead with his plans to preach "Butler Rolls the Stone Away" as his Easter serrmon, talking about how the excitement of Jesus' disciples on that first Easter must have been like that of Butler fans now.
Jodie is also experimenting with changing his name from Jodie to Joe D. He's not sure that Jodie is a serious enough name for a pastor, but he doesn't want to disappoint his mother, who wanted him to be a country singer, and so named him after the great Jodie Williams IV, who has had a show on public radio WKCS every Saturday night for forty years. He assumes that when his parishoners call him Pastor Joe D, it will sound to his mother like Jodie.
When he ran into Pastor Randall Nathan, (Retard), at The Mills of the Gods Coffee House yesterday, Randall said he thought the name change would work but advised against "Butler Rolls the Stone Away" as a sermon title. He suggested "The Butler Did It" as an alternative. Randall Nathan knows that "when old men become irrelevant, young men become irresponsible," and he is trying to be a relevant old man, one who holds his younger colleagues accountable.
Randall Nathan watched an interview with Tom Izzo, the head coach for men's basketball at Michigan State U. A reporter asked him how the job had changed over the last 10 years. Izzo said: "I spend more time with the players off the court, holding them accountable, because other people haven't done that as much as they used to. We look at young people and blame them for their failures, when those are really our failures for not holding them accountable. You can't be successful if you're not accountable for your actions." Izzo is famous for suspending players for even minor infractions, like missing a single class. Pastor Randall Nathan, (Retard), is glad he never had to play basketball for Tom Izzo.
Now he is sitting in Easter morning worship at The Methodist, wondering if Joe D is actually going to preach that sermon, and watching his friend, 8-year-old Jimmy MacClure, sitting with his parents and sisters across the aisle. Jimmy does not look like he is having a resurrection moment.
Pastor Nathan is the child psychologist of choice in Periwinkle County. He does not claim to be a child psychologist, but parents know he likes children, and they don't want to pay or be humiliated by their children, so they take kids of all ages to Pastor Nathan, since he's free, and there's no stigma attached to having your kid talk to a minister, the way there would be if anyone saw them taking the kid to a real psychologist.
Pastor Nathan suspects he knows why Jimmy's family looks tense this morning. Jimmy likes to sing, so in their Wednesday after-school sessions, Randall and Jimmy sing together. The old pastor encourages his young friend to make up words as they go along, to say how he feels about things. They were doing Easter hymns this week, and Jimmy came out with "Up from the grave he arose, with a booger hanging from his nose..." Pastor Nathan was not surprised. Eight-year-olds are much into booger jokes. He also figured this was a significant psychological breakthrough, but he hadn't decided where to go with it when Jimmy suggested he would surprise his family on Easter morning with his new hymn, at which point Pastor Nathan advised against it.
Now Pastor Nathan is pretty sure that Jimmy did not take his advice, and also sure that Tom Izzo would be proud of Jimmy's parents. When Jimmy gets to Michigan State, he won't have to put much time into Jimmy off the court, because it definitely looks like Jimmy's parents are holding him accountable.
But are punishment and accountability the same thing? Tom Izzo punishes his players to make them better. That's accountability. A lot of punishment is not designed to make a person better, but just because the punishers enjoy seeing others in misery, or enjoy the feeling of power it gives them. Who holds the punishers accountable for those sorts of sins?
And what about this easy grace of Easter? We do the sinning, but God punishes Jesus. "Jesus died for our sins." That doesn't hold US accountable.
That is only part of what Randall Nathan worries about this Easter morning. He knows there is a difference between resuscitation and resurrection, but he knows most people won't note that difference this morning, so there will be more confusion about Easter than necessary. The point of Jesus' resurrection, after all, is not just that a body got out of the grave, or that there is life after death, but that the Holy Spirt, the Spirit of God, the Spirit of Love, that dwelt in Jesus is now available at all times and in all places, not just in the body of Jesus or in his thirty or so years of physical life.
Randall Nathan preached 40 Easter mornings, but he still has no answers for the Easter questions. He's not expecting any from Pastor Patty this morning, either. She told him this week, "It's impossible to preach on Easter. It's all been said before, and nobody understands it anyway."
He looks now at Jimmy MacClure across the aisle as the congregation sings "Up from the grave he arose..." Jimmy's parents are bending down close to him, listening for the words he sings. But each has an arm around his shoulder. It looks to Randall Nathan like the best way to hold someone accountable, with an arm of love around each shoulder. Pastor Nathan thinks that maybe God wasn't holding Jesus accountable for our sins in the crucifixion, but maybe Jesus was holding God accountable, for that prodigal, limitless love.
Jodie is also experimenting with changing his name from Jodie to Joe D. He's not sure that Jodie is a serious enough name for a pastor, but he doesn't want to disappoint his mother, who wanted him to be a country singer, and so named him after the great Jodie Williams IV, who has had a show on public radio WKCS every Saturday night for forty years. He assumes that when his parishoners call him Pastor Joe D, it will sound to his mother like Jodie.
When he ran into Pastor Randall Nathan, (Retard), at The Mills of the Gods Coffee House yesterday, Randall said he thought the name change would work but advised against "Butler Rolls the Stone Away" as a sermon title. He suggested "The Butler Did It" as an alternative. Randall Nathan knows that "when old men become irrelevant, young men become irresponsible," and he is trying to be a relevant old man, one who holds his younger colleagues accountable.
Randall Nathan watched an interview with Tom Izzo, the head coach for men's basketball at Michigan State U. A reporter asked him how the job had changed over the last 10 years. Izzo said: "I spend more time with the players off the court, holding them accountable, because other people haven't done that as much as they used to. We look at young people and blame them for their failures, when those are really our failures for not holding them accountable. You can't be successful if you're not accountable for your actions." Izzo is famous for suspending players for even minor infractions, like missing a single class. Pastor Randall Nathan, (Retard), is glad he never had to play basketball for Tom Izzo.
Now he is sitting in Easter morning worship at The Methodist, wondering if Joe D is actually going to preach that sermon, and watching his friend, 8-year-old Jimmy MacClure, sitting with his parents and sisters across the aisle. Jimmy does not look like he is having a resurrection moment.
Pastor Nathan is the child psychologist of choice in Periwinkle County. He does not claim to be a child psychologist, but parents know he likes children, and they don't want to pay or be humiliated by their children, so they take kids of all ages to Pastor Nathan, since he's free, and there's no stigma attached to having your kid talk to a minister, the way there would be if anyone saw them taking the kid to a real psychologist.
Pastor Nathan suspects he knows why Jimmy's family looks tense this morning. Jimmy likes to sing, so in their Wednesday after-school sessions, Randall and Jimmy sing together. The old pastor encourages his young friend to make up words as they go along, to say how he feels about things. They were doing Easter hymns this week, and Jimmy came out with "Up from the grave he arose, with a booger hanging from his nose..." Pastor Nathan was not surprised. Eight-year-olds are much into booger jokes. He also figured this was a significant psychological breakthrough, but he hadn't decided where to go with it when Jimmy suggested he would surprise his family on Easter morning with his new hymn, at which point Pastor Nathan advised against it.
Now Pastor Nathan is pretty sure that Jimmy did not take his advice, and also sure that Tom Izzo would be proud of Jimmy's parents. When Jimmy gets to Michigan State, he won't have to put much time into Jimmy off the court, because it definitely looks like Jimmy's parents are holding him accountable.
But are punishment and accountability the same thing? Tom Izzo punishes his players to make them better. That's accountability. A lot of punishment is not designed to make a person better, but just because the punishers enjoy seeing others in misery, or enjoy the feeling of power it gives them. Who holds the punishers accountable for those sorts of sins?
And what about this easy grace of Easter? We do the sinning, but God punishes Jesus. "Jesus died for our sins." That doesn't hold US accountable.
That is only part of what Randall Nathan worries about this Easter morning. He knows there is a difference between resuscitation and resurrection, but he knows most people won't note that difference this morning, so there will be more confusion about Easter than necessary. The point of Jesus' resurrection, after all, is not just that a body got out of the grave, or that there is life after death, but that the Holy Spirt, the Spirit of God, the Spirit of Love, that dwelt in Jesus is now available at all times and in all places, not just in the body of Jesus or in his thirty or so years of physical life.
Randall Nathan preached 40 Easter mornings, but he still has no answers for the Easter questions. He's not expecting any from Pastor Patty this morning, either. She told him this week, "It's impossible to preach on Easter. It's all been said before, and nobody understands it anyway."
He looks now at Jimmy MacClure across the aisle as the congregation sings "Up from the grave he arose..." Jimmy's parents are bending down close to him, listening for the words he sings. But each has an arm around his shoulder. It looks to Randall Nathan like the best way to hold someone accountable, with an arm of love around each shoulder. Pastor Nathan thinks that maybe God wasn't holding Jesus accountable for our sins in the crucifixion, but maybe Jesus was holding God accountable, for that prodigal, limitless love.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Unholy Saturday
It is Holy Saturday, the day between Good Friday and Easter, the day on which Jesus descended into hell to preach to the overheated wretches there, so that we can now claim they have no one to blame but themselves for their parboiled condition, be it Fahrenheit or Celsius, since they had a chance, even though they lived before Jesus, to hear and respond and get the hell out of there, or "Get the L out of there," as they say in Chicago. Anyone who has gone to hell during the last two thousand years has no excuse, either, since they could have heard the good news BEFORE they let Original Sin get the best of them.
Pastor Patty is thinking that her desire to see the Kitchen Nazis go to hell is really not vengeful, but within the Jesus tradition of bringing good news to the hellions, since the KN would be like the busload of UMWL [United Methodist Women and Ladies] who had to be housed in hell temporarily because their bus accident was not on the schedule and heaven had no room for them at the moment and the devil called up St. Peter and told him he had to get them out of hell right away because one more bake sale and they would have enough money to air-condition the place. She was just thinking about the sad condition of hell's citizens and what the Kitchen Nazis could do to better it.
The new young student pastor at Forsythia Lutheran, who comes down each weekend from Discordia Seminary, in Capital City, which he thinks should be called a sermonary, since preaching better is what he wants to learn there, is thinking how exciting it must have been in hell the day Jesus came to bring good news, almost like having your team in the Final Four. He is contemplating an Easter sermon called "Butler Rolls the Stone Away," except he is not sure Butler can get by Michigan State, since Tom Izzo, their coach, grew up in Iron Mountain, Michigan, and so thinks of hell only as a nice place to warm up after the winter, a place where it would be nice to sit out and catch a few rays.
Pastor Randall Nathan, (Retard), is thinking that it ought to be called UNholy Saturday, since that is where most people spend the vast majority of their time. Most people don't have many Easter moments, when joy explodes like an empty tomb, or winning the bracket pool, nor do they have many crucifixion moments, when death is one's best hope. Instead, they just slog along between the two, not looking back and not looking forward, just living in the limbo of boredom. He has always known that boredom is the roof ot sin.
Jesus may be thinking that if he could get the three of those pastors to put their sermons into a hopper and mix them all together, Saturday, holy or unholy, might produce something worthwhile for Easter Sunday. Or he might be thinking of a shredder instead of a hopper...
Pastor Patty is thinking that her desire to see the Kitchen Nazis go to hell is really not vengeful, but within the Jesus tradition of bringing good news to the hellions, since the KN would be like the busload of UMWL [United Methodist Women and Ladies] who had to be housed in hell temporarily because their bus accident was not on the schedule and heaven had no room for them at the moment and the devil called up St. Peter and told him he had to get them out of hell right away because one more bake sale and they would have enough money to air-condition the place. She was just thinking about the sad condition of hell's citizens and what the Kitchen Nazis could do to better it.
The new young student pastor at Forsythia Lutheran, who comes down each weekend from Discordia Seminary, in Capital City, which he thinks should be called a sermonary, since preaching better is what he wants to learn there, is thinking how exciting it must have been in hell the day Jesus came to bring good news, almost like having your team in the Final Four. He is contemplating an Easter sermon called "Butler Rolls the Stone Away," except he is not sure Butler can get by Michigan State, since Tom Izzo, their coach, grew up in Iron Mountain, Michigan, and so thinks of hell only as a nice place to warm up after the winter, a place where it would be nice to sit out and catch a few rays.
Pastor Randall Nathan, (Retard), is thinking that it ought to be called UNholy Saturday, since that is where most people spend the vast majority of their time. Most people don't have many Easter moments, when joy explodes like an empty tomb, or winning the bracket pool, nor do they have many crucifixion moments, when death is one's best hope. Instead, they just slog along between the two, not looking back and not looking forward, just living in the limbo of boredom. He has always known that boredom is the roof ot sin.
Jesus may be thinking that if he could get the three of those pastors to put their sermons into a hopper and mix them all together, Saturday, holy or unholy, might produce something worthwhile for Easter Sunday. Or he might be thinking of a shredder instead of a hopper...
I Won't Cry...
It has been one year today since Anika Hjelmstrom died.
Arne is sitting in their living room with a cup of fair-trade coffee.
He buys the coffee at The Covenant Church, which he still calls Swedish Covenant. He hasn't gone to worship in the church since Anika died, for she was the organist for 37 years, and the organ just does not sound right now. He goes to coffee fellowship time after worship, though, to buy coffee beans, and to give little kids a ride on the electric escalator chair that is normally used to run puny and feeble members up and down the staircase from the basement to the sanctuary. Everybody else tells the kids to stay off of that chair.
Now, in his living room, he is trying to get up the courage to open the door to their back deck.
Every morning of her illness, Anika would go to that door and say, "I won't cry!"
But then she would open the door and step out onto the deck. There before her would be the gold and red leaves of autumn, or the snowcovered hemlocks of winter, or the happy dogwood of spring, or the bright xenias of summer. There she could see children and grandchildren on the swing set, or in the tree house, or building a "toman," or mourning at the funeral for a goldfish, or hunting for Easter eggs. She could see the church youth group roasting marshmallows and singing "Do Lord." She could see the whole family gathered to celebrate the 88th birthday of her father, sitting in the shade and drinking iced tea and turning the crank on the ice cream maker.
Each morning of her weakening weeks, she would shuffle to the door and stand there for a moment and then say, "I won't cry." But each morning when she stepped out onto the deck, she cried.
"I don't cry because I'm sad," she said. "I cry because it's all so beautiful."
Arne laughed at her about it. "You always say you won't cry," he teased, "but you always cry."
Now Arne tells himself that the living room is good enough. There are nice views out that big bay window. But he takes has cup, and he goes to the back door. He says, "I won't cry." He steps out onto deck, and he cries.
Arne is sitting in their living room with a cup of fair-trade coffee.
He buys the coffee at The Covenant Church, which he still calls Swedish Covenant. He hasn't gone to worship in the church since Anika died, for she was the organist for 37 years, and the organ just does not sound right now. He goes to coffee fellowship time after worship, though, to buy coffee beans, and to give little kids a ride on the electric escalator chair that is normally used to run puny and feeble members up and down the staircase from the basement to the sanctuary. Everybody else tells the kids to stay off of that chair.
Now, in his living room, he is trying to get up the courage to open the door to their back deck.
Every morning of her illness, Anika would go to that door and say, "I won't cry!"
But then she would open the door and step out onto the deck. There before her would be the gold and red leaves of autumn, or the snowcovered hemlocks of winter, or the happy dogwood of spring, or the bright xenias of summer. There she could see children and grandchildren on the swing set, or in the tree house, or building a "toman," or mourning at the funeral for a goldfish, or hunting for Easter eggs. She could see the church youth group roasting marshmallows and singing "Do Lord." She could see the whole family gathered to celebrate the 88th birthday of her father, sitting in the shade and drinking iced tea and turning the crank on the ice cream maker.
Each morning of her weakening weeks, she would shuffle to the door and stand there for a moment and then say, "I won't cry." But each morning when she stepped out onto the deck, she cried.
"I don't cry because I'm sad," she said. "I cry because it's all so beautiful."
Arne laughed at her about it. "You always say you won't cry," he teased, "but you always cry."
Now Arne tells himself that the living room is good enough. There are nice views out that big bay window. But he takes has cup, and he goes to the back door. He says, "I won't cry." He steps out onto deck, and he cries.
Dishes and Memories
Opal Harrison is getting out her grandmother's dishes this morning.
This afternoon she'll go to the ecumenical Good Friday service at The Whistle & Thistle Biker Bar and Tea Room. When the weather is good, the service is held in the John Jacob Niles Memorial Grove behind the W&T. Bad weather backup this year is the auditorium of the Borden Parker Bowne Personalist Center. Nobody expects bad weather, though, so Bob Whistle and the members of the Jesus Honor Guard Biker Gang, Inc. have been putting up the three crosses in the ampitheater, where generations of high school students, trying to imitate that high lonesome sound of Niles, have irrevently sung "Black, black, black is the color of my love's true hair."
This morning, though, Opal is getting ready for Easter dinner, and that means her grandmother's dishes. Her grandmother was born in 1883, and she received her wedding china in 1902. It was some of the first china produced by the Crooksville China Company, of Crooksville, OH, which was established that very year.
That Apple Blssom pattern china has been used on Easter Sunday for 108 years, including all the years since Opal inherited it from her mother. Each year, she tries to get one of her daughters, or the wives of one of her grandsons, to take the dishes.
It's especially important this year, to get someone to take those dishes, for this summer she and Al have to move into the assisted living wing of The Blau Harr Home for Dessert Years Living. Their apartment has a great view of the parking lot of The Startled Muskrat IGA, so that she can keep up with the comings and goings of the town, but it has no room for storing things like her grandmother's dishes.
Opal understands why no one in her family will take the dishes. They don't have enough room, or they have their own wedding china, or...there are a lot of excuses, and even some reasons. But these aren't just dishes. They are 108 years of family memories, and the hopes for the future that apple blossoms always bring.
Opal is thinking that perhaps this afternoon she'll ask Edith Whistle if she would like to have those dishes to use in the bar. After all, the folks who eat there could use some better memories and some apple blossom hopes.
This afternoon she'll go to the ecumenical Good Friday service at The Whistle & Thistle Biker Bar and Tea Room. When the weather is good, the service is held in the John Jacob Niles Memorial Grove behind the W&T. Bad weather backup this year is the auditorium of the Borden Parker Bowne Personalist Center. Nobody expects bad weather, though, so Bob Whistle and the members of the Jesus Honor Guard Biker Gang, Inc. have been putting up the three crosses in the ampitheater, where generations of high school students, trying to imitate that high lonesome sound of Niles, have irrevently sung "Black, black, black is the color of my love's true hair."
This morning, though, Opal is getting ready for Easter dinner, and that means her grandmother's dishes. Her grandmother was born in 1883, and she received her wedding china in 1902. It was some of the first china produced by the Crooksville China Company, of Crooksville, OH, which was established that very year.
That Apple Blssom pattern china has been used on Easter Sunday for 108 years, including all the years since Opal inherited it from her mother. Each year, she tries to get one of her daughters, or the wives of one of her grandsons, to take the dishes.
It's especially important this year, to get someone to take those dishes, for this summer she and Al have to move into the assisted living wing of The Blau Harr Home for Dessert Years Living. Their apartment has a great view of the parking lot of The Startled Muskrat IGA, so that she can keep up with the comings and goings of the town, but it has no room for storing things like her grandmother's dishes.
Opal understands why no one in her family will take the dishes. They don't have enough room, or they have their own wedding china, or...there are a lot of excuses, and even some reasons. But these aren't just dishes. They are 108 years of family memories, and the hopes for the future that apple blossoms always bring.
Opal is thinking that perhaps this afternoon she'll ask Edith Whistle if she would like to have those dishes to use in the bar. After all, the folks who eat there could use some better memories and some apple blossom hopes.
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