Todd Williams has a job with the census. Not just a regular census job, counting. He follows around after the census takers, making sure they actually do their interviews, with real people, and that they don't just make up the information.
That does not exactly make him popular. The counters don't like the idea that he is checking on them. The counted don't like to take the time to talk to two rounds of census people. But it's necessary, the Census Bureau says. Otherwise, how would they know if the information they get is accurate, or just estimates, or worse, of some counter who is sitting home watching "Judge Judy" while filling out false forms.
Mathama Gandhi used to say that "Americans dream of systems so perfect that nobody has to be good." There is no such system, and somebody has to regulate the regulated and govern the governors and watch the watchers.
So Todd Williams slogs on, checking on the checkers, and sometimes looks over his shoulder, wondering who is watching him...
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
The SMQ Abyss & Umami
The carpet cleaners are coming tomorrow. Claire Nathan is getting ready by cleaning all the carpets and waxing the non-carpeted floors. Randall said, "Wouldn't it make more sense to let the carpet cleaners clean the carpets and wax the other surfaces after they are done dragging their big machines over them?" Claire just looked at him. That was when he realized he had stumbled once again into the SMQ abyss. [Stupid-Man-Question]
It seems to happen more frequently as he ages, the yawning of the SMQ abyss.
Randall was helping behind the counter at Good to the Last Slop Coffee House and Colonoscopy Clinic earlier, along with Julie Wagler, since the owner is a "former" CIA operative who is on "vacation" in Mogadishu. It takes both of them since Randall can make change, having gone to school before computers, and Julie belongs to the CCC [Certified Colon Cleansers]. Most people ask that Randall hand them their muffins.
The persimmon pruners and bed wetters came in for their break. Charley Bob Diamond is working as a persimmon pruner, hoping to make it up to ionizer before the summer is over, when he has to return to college for his sophomore year. He's sweet on Quanella Kochtitzky, who is a bed wetter, so he has been teaching her what he learned in his freshman year.
Naturally, she asked Randall if the muffins contained any umami.
"Why would we put members of an African tribe in our muffins?" he replied.
Quanella archly informed him that umami is that neglected fifth sense of taste, along with sweet, sour, salty, and bitter, but it's the one that gives "body" to taste.
"Didn't I just tell you we don't put bodies in our muffins?" he asked.
SMQ.
[The bed wetters water the flower beds in Smitty Park.]
It seems to happen more frequently as he ages, the yawning of the SMQ abyss.
Randall was helping behind the counter at Good to the Last Slop Coffee House and Colonoscopy Clinic earlier, along with Julie Wagler, since the owner is a "former" CIA operative who is on "vacation" in Mogadishu. It takes both of them since Randall can make change, having gone to school before computers, and Julie belongs to the CCC [Certified Colon Cleansers]. Most people ask that Randall hand them their muffins.
The persimmon pruners and bed wetters came in for their break. Charley Bob Diamond is working as a persimmon pruner, hoping to make it up to ionizer before the summer is over, when he has to return to college for his sophomore year. He's sweet on Quanella Kochtitzky, who is a bed wetter, so he has been teaching her what he learned in his freshman year.
Naturally, she asked Randall if the muffins contained any umami.
"Why would we put members of an African tribe in our muffins?" he replied.
Quanella archly informed him that umami is that neglected fifth sense of taste, along with sweet, sour, salty, and bitter, but it's the one that gives "body" to taste.
"Didn't I just tell you we don't put bodies in our muffins?" he asked.
SMQ.
[The bed wetters water the flower beds in Smitty Park.]
Sunday, June 27, 2010
If Not, Call...
Pastor Patty told Randall Nathan on Friday, when they ran into each other at The Mills of the Gods Coffee House and Persimmon Emporium, as they always do, that she was preaching on sin come Sunday.
He told her some jokes he used to use when he preached on sin, since he thinks sin stems mostly from an absence of humor.
There was the priest who wanted to speed up confession and so installed a drive-through confessional with the blinking neon light above it, "Toot and tell or go to hell."
And there was the minister who announced that there were 127 forms of sin and was quickly besieged by those wanting the list.
Finally, there was the church bulletin board on which the pastor had put: If tired of sin, come on in." Underneath someone had scrawled, "If not, call 468-7467," which with the letters on the phone is GOT-SINS.
Pastor Patty told the last one in her sermon this morning. She couldn't remember 468-7467, so just used her cell phone number.
On the way home, she got six hang-up calls.
He told her some jokes he used to use when he preached on sin, since he thinks sin stems mostly from an absence of humor.
There was the priest who wanted to speed up confession and so installed a drive-through confessional with the blinking neon light above it, "Toot and tell or go to hell."
And there was the minister who announced that there were 127 forms of sin and was quickly besieged by those wanting the list.
Finally, there was the church bulletin board on which the pastor had put: If tired of sin, come on in." Underneath someone had scrawled, "If not, call 468-7467," which with the letters on the phone is GOT-SINS.
Pastor Patty told the last one in her sermon this morning. She couldn't remember 468-7467, so just used her cell phone number.
On the way home, she got six hang-up calls.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
People Art
Claire and Randall Nathan went to "Most Art For the Most Part" at Depression Community College today. It was named for Arthuro DePresion, but the sign painters spelled it out on the new building just as Depression, and since it's located in a really big gully...
Anyway, they have fabulous artists displaying all over the DPC grounds at MAFTMP, and great music in the big chartreuse tent, because Periwinkle County gives tax breaks to artists, writers, and jugglers. Claire bought a potholder for $14 and a pot to hold in it for a sum that Randall still doesn't know about because he was busy making google eyes at a little redheaded baby with a squinched face.
That's what Randall does at art fairs. He ignores the art and concentrates on the babies. He feels guilty. He knows that the art will last and the babies won't. They will grow up and become disagreeable adults. He ought to enjoy the art, but there's just something about the babies...
Anyway, they have fabulous artists displaying all over the DPC grounds at MAFTMP, and great music in the big chartreuse tent, because Periwinkle County gives tax breaks to artists, writers, and jugglers. Claire bought a potholder for $14 and a pot to hold in it for a sum that Randall still doesn't know about because he was busy making google eyes at a little redheaded baby with a squinched face.
That's what Randall does at art fairs. He ignores the art and concentrates on the babies. He feels guilty. He knows that the art will last and the babies won't. They will grow up and become disagreeable adults. He ought to enjoy the art, but there's just something about the babies...
Friday, June 25, 2010
Charley Bob's Biota
Charley Bob Diamond is home this summer following his freshman year of college. He's working as a persimmon pruner, the usual college summer job in Periwinkle County. There are also many locals who have never been to college who work in the persimmon paddies.
Charley Bob likes to drop into his conversations words like "biota," which means the total collection of organisms from a region or a time period, and announce to the other pruners in general that more sugar cane is raised each year in the world than all the corn and soybeans and persimmons put together.
Luke Wetzel, one of the locals, has taken to saying, especially to Charley Bob, "Biota me."
Charley Bob likes to drop into his conversations words like "biota," which means the total collection of organisms from a region or a time period, and announce to the other pruners in general that more sugar cane is raised each year in the world than all the corn and soybeans and persimmons put together.
Luke Wetzel, one of the locals, has taken to saying, especially to Charley Bob, "Biota me."
Courage
Ellen Palindro, C. Raydean Davis Professor of Poetry and Motorcycle Machinations at Cratchit State U, was in town last night for a poetry reading. She was followed as usual by her groupies, The Bikers for Buddha Motorccyle Gang, which started attending her readings because they assumed her title and their affection for Buddha [If you see the Buddha in the road, give him a lift.] was a natural junction of Robert M. Persig's book, "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," not realizing that "maintenance" and "machinations" are not really the same, "machinations" being the more creative side of motorcycling.
Ellen doesn't ride motorcycles herself; she leaves that to Grace Butcher. She figures one motorcycle-riding poet is enough.
The Bikers for Buddha are also devotees of The Kabbalah, and so refer to koans as cohens, after Raydean's Jewish aunt, Onoma Topoeia-Cohen. They are especially fond of cohens such as "What is the sound of one hog backfiring?" and "If a man speaks in the forest and there is no woman to hear him, is he still wrong?"
Ellen Palindro was quite surprised when Axel "Ace" High, the leader of Bikers for Buddha asked her to read Anne Sexton's poem, "Courage." But she did so:
It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.
Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it only with a hat
to cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you,
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love, love as simple as shaving soap.
Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a backrub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.
Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.
Ellen doesn't ride motorcycles herself; she leaves that to Grace Butcher. She figures one motorcycle-riding poet is enough.
The Bikers for Buddha are also devotees of The Kabbalah, and so refer to koans as cohens, after Raydean's Jewish aunt, Onoma Topoeia-Cohen. They are especially fond of cohens such as "What is the sound of one hog backfiring?" and "If a man speaks in the forest and there is no woman to hear him, is he still wrong?"
Ellen Palindro was quite surprised when Axel "Ace" High, the leader of Bikers for Buddha asked her to read Anne Sexton's poem, "Courage." But she did so:
It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.
Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it only with a hat
to cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you,
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love, love as simple as shaving soap.
Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a backrub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.
Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
I Wanna Poo
One of Kate Bates' old friends, Marliece Wiggs Hare, came to town to visit. She brought her four-year-old grandson, Titus, with her. Kate's three-year-old granddaughter, Clara Wembley, was there. Clara thought hanging around with an older man was quite cool until Titus went up to Marliece and pulled on her excess arm flesh and said, "I wanna poo."
"Not now," said his grandmother.
This happened several times over the next half-hour of tea and catch-up conversation. "I wanna poo." "Not yet. Wait a while."
Clara was astounded. What did this woman expect of poor Titus, anyway? Finally she could stand it no longer. "For the sake of beer and everything else that's holy, let the kid poo."
[She got the first part of that line from Jake Newland.]
Marliece sighed. "Oh, alright, Titus. Go ahead."
"You mean right here?" asked Clara. She could see that her nana was about to have a coronation, or some word like that that grownups used when people were about to blow their tops, which was better than blowing your bottom, as it looked like Titus was going to do.
"Oh, it's alright," Marliece said. "He does it on the top of the sofa."
Now Clara was sure her nana would have a corona.
Titus climbed to the back of the sofa, laid down, and began to coo softly: "Poo... poo... poo... " Finally he climbed back down
"You mean that's it?" asked Clara.
"Yes," said his grandmother. "It seems to calm him when he's in strange surroundings."
Clara perked up.
"Forget it, Clara,' said her nana. "Stick to sucking your thumb."
"Not now," said his grandmother.
This happened several times over the next half-hour of tea and catch-up conversation. "I wanna poo." "Not yet. Wait a while."
Clara was astounded. What did this woman expect of poor Titus, anyway? Finally she could stand it no longer. "For the sake of beer and everything else that's holy, let the kid poo."
[She got the first part of that line from Jake Newland.]
Marliece sighed. "Oh, alright, Titus. Go ahead."
"You mean right here?" asked Clara. She could see that her nana was about to have a coronation, or some word like that that grownups used when people were about to blow their tops, which was better than blowing your bottom, as it looked like Titus was going to do.
"Oh, it's alright," Marliece said. "He does it on the top of the sofa."
Now Clara was sure her nana would have a corona.
Titus climbed to the back of the sofa, laid down, and began to coo softly: "Poo... poo... poo... " Finally he climbed back down
"You mean that's it?" asked Clara.
"Yes," said his grandmother. "It seems to calm him when he's in strange surroundings."
Clara perked up.
"Forget it, Clara,' said her nana. "Stick to sucking your thumb."
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Spark of Divinity?
Randall Nathan has been reading John Polkinghorne, the eminent British physicist/theologian. That has sparked some new thoughts about prayer.
Why is it that prayer sometimes seems to be talking to one's self? Could it be that there really is in each person what used to be called "a spark of divinity?" If so, then prayer to the divine Other goes through that element of the divine inside to get out to the Other, the ground of all being, sort of like how each person's cell phone connects to the general ether of communication.
Who knows? Randall does know this: God gave us theology so we could have fun with it and keep out of trouble. If it's not fun and it gets us into trouble, then something is probably wrong.
Why is it that prayer sometimes seems to be talking to one's self? Could it be that there really is in each person what used to be called "a spark of divinity?" If so, then prayer to the divine Other goes through that element of the divine inside to get out to the Other, the ground of all being, sort of like how each person's cell phone connects to the general ether of communication.
Who knows? Randall does know this: God gave us theology so we could have fun with it and keep out of trouble. If it's not fun and it gets us into trouble, then something is probably wrong.
Monday, June 21, 2010
another out of place post & a possible break
I just posted "Things Are Not Always as They Seem," on Monday, June 21, but Blogger placed it on Saturday, after my notice that the episode of the rubber chicken was out of place. Sorry...
This is getting a bit irritating. I'm thinking about taking a break from Periwinkle Chronicles, anyway. I started it in part to amuse my friends and anyone else who might stumble across it, and in part to hold onto what is left of my sanity. My sanity and writing seem to be connected, much more so than my sanity and mowing the yard. But I have several other writing projects now, and only a couple of hours of mental acuity each day, so it might be best to hang my sanity on those projects rather than PC. We'll see...
This is getting a bit irritating. I'm thinking about taking a break from Periwinkle Chronicles, anyway. I started it in part to amuse my friends and anyone else who might stumble across it, and in part to hold onto what is left of my sanity. My sanity and writing seem to be connected, much more so than my sanity and mowing the yard. But I have several other writing projects now, and only a couple of hours of mental acuity each day, so it might be best to hang my sanity on those projects rather than PC. We'll see...
Sunday, June 20, 2010
out of place chicken
I posted the saga of the rubber chicken on Sunday morning, but blogspot put it on Saturday, after Jenny Newland's early father's day present to Jake. Anyway, the rubber chicken story is not exactly a Father's Day story, but happy Father's Day.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Things Are Not Always as they Seem
Pastor Randall Nathan, [Retard], had to fill in for Pastor Patty yesterday because Saturday afternoon she was called to fly to Bermuda to attend to her ailing mother.
Some folks thought this was strange, since her mother lives in Nebraska, and her former boyfriend, Chet Redzone, the Packers' running back, lives in Bermuda in the off-season, as anyone who works outdoors in Green Bay in the winter would logically do.
[Claire Nathan thinks Chet is a magician because she heard John Madden say that Chet ran around his own tight end. Claire is known throughout Periwinkle County as the "off" color commentator, and she doesn't know why.]
Everyone knows that Chet regularly shows up in PC to try to woo Patty back, even though she is married and has several children, which she usually refuses to number since there appears to be so many more on some days than on others. Patty says he is a stalker, and has nicknamed him "Celery," after the Bunnicula book, "The Celery Stalks at Midnight." She even went to court to get a restraining order against him, but when Judge Wesley Leatherhead found out who Chet was, which is always a little confusing, since he changed his name from Wetnight to Redzone in the middle of his career, and nobody in PC could understand why, the judge came down off the bench to get Chet's autograph and told Patty he was sure it was all a misunderstanding and that she should be grateful for attention from someone who could run around his own tight end.
[The judge knows Claire Randall and was instrumental in getting her a free lunch at The Bat Cage sports bar on NFL Sundays so that he and everyone else could hear her commentaries on the games.]
[The name is The Bat Cage instead of The Batting Cage, as one might suspect for a sports bar, because Lurleen Lostant, the owner and Romance novelist, keeps a cage of bats behind the bar to eat any mosquitoes that get in.]
Ophilia Banderville, Bessie's sister, was especially sure Sunday morning, and told everyone, that she knew for an absolute fact that Patty had abandoned her children and husband to run off to be with that handsome and muscular Chet Redzone. After all, everone knew her mother lives in Nebraska, and we know who lives in Bermuda, don't we? Restraing order, indeed. That was all a smoke screen. The only restraining order necessary was for the congregation to get one against their libidinous pastor. Just look at the facts and you can see the truth.
Randall Nathan heard all about this over lunch at The Buy Lingual Coffee and Language Store. He happens to know that Pastor Patty went to Bermuda to tend to her mother because her mother was on a cruise there when she got sick. So he went to see Zeke Domkowski.
He asked Zeke if he could borrow the 1956 Ford pickup Zeke uses for choring on his pig farm. Zeke has been trying to get Ophilia to go on a date for 13 years, but she refuses to ride in Zeke's truck. She also refuses to breathe when he is around. But Zeke is a kind-hearted soul and gladly loaned his truck to Randall Nathan, who waited until after dark, when everyone, especially Ophilia, was asleep, and he parked the truck in Ophilia's driveway, just across from The Mills of the Gods Coffee Parlor and Persimmon Pudding Center.
The next morning, after the breakfast crowd had gathered on the front porch tables of Mills of the Gods, he picked Zeke up, drove him down the alley behind Ophilia's house, hidden from the street by a tall stand of hollyhocks,and told him he could retrieve his truck from the driveway. Zeke walked out to his truck from behind Ophilia's house just as Ophilia emerged from the front door. Zeke heard her come out and waved and said, "Have a nice day, honey." By this time, everyone at the outdoor tables of Mills of the Gods was standing and applauding Zeke. Ophilia fled back into the house in horror.
Randall Nathan parked behind Mills, sat down with Kate Bates and Ben "Seymour" Bottoms, pulled out his cellphone, and called Ophilia.
"Things are not always as they seem," he said.
Some folks thought this was strange, since her mother lives in Nebraska, and her former boyfriend, Chet Redzone, the Packers' running back, lives in Bermuda in the off-season, as anyone who works outdoors in Green Bay in the winter would logically do.
[Claire Nathan thinks Chet is a magician because she heard John Madden say that Chet ran around his own tight end. Claire is known throughout Periwinkle County as the "off" color commentator, and she doesn't know why.]
Everyone knows that Chet regularly shows up in PC to try to woo Patty back, even though she is married and has several children, which she usually refuses to number since there appears to be so many more on some days than on others. Patty says he is a stalker, and has nicknamed him "Celery," after the Bunnicula book, "The Celery Stalks at Midnight." She even went to court to get a restraining order against him, but when Judge Wesley Leatherhead found out who Chet was, which is always a little confusing, since he changed his name from Wetnight to Redzone in the middle of his career, and nobody in PC could understand why, the judge came down off the bench to get Chet's autograph and told Patty he was sure it was all a misunderstanding and that she should be grateful for attention from someone who could run around his own tight end.
[The judge knows Claire Randall and was instrumental in getting her a free lunch at The Bat Cage sports bar on NFL Sundays so that he and everyone else could hear her commentaries on the games.]
[The name is The Bat Cage instead of The Batting Cage, as one might suspect for a sports bar, because Lurleen Lostant, the owner and Romance novelist, keeps a cage of bats behind the bar to eat any mosquitoes that get in.]
Ophilia Banderville, Bessie's sister, was especially sure Sunday morning, and told everyone, that she knew for an absolute fact that Patty had abandoned her children and husband to run off to be with that handsome and muscular Chet Redzone. After all, everone knew her mother lives in Nebraska, and we know who lives in Bermuda, don't we? Restraing order, indeed. That was all a smoke screen. The only restraining order necessary was for the congregation to get one against their libidinous pastor. Just look at the facts and you can see the truth.
Randall Nathan heard all about this over lunch at The Buy Lingual Coffee and Language Store. He happens to know that Pastor Patty went to Bermuda to tend to her mother because her mother was on a cruise there when she got sick. So he went to see Zeke Domkowski.
He asked Zeke if he could borrow the 1956 Ford pickup Zeke uses for choring on his pig farm. Zeke has been trying to get Ophilia to go on a date for 13 years, but she refuses to ride in Zeke's truck. She also refuses to breathe when he is around. But Zeke is a kind-hearted soul and gladly loaned his truck to Randall Nathan, who waited until after dark, when everyone, especially Ophilia, was asleep, and he parked the truck in Ophilia's driveway, just across from The Mills of the Gods Coffee Parlor and Persimmon Pudding Center.
The next morning, after the breakfast crowd had gathered on the front porch tables of Mills of the Gods, he picked Zeke up, drove him down the alley behind Ophilia's house, hidden from the street by a tall stand of hollyhocks,and told him he could retrieve his truck from the driveway. Zeke walked out to his truck from behind Ophilia's house just as Ophilia emerged from the front door. Zeke heard her come out and waved and said, "Have a nice day, honey." By this time, everyone at the outdoor tables of Mills of the Gods was standing and applauding Zeke. Ophilia fled back into the house in horror.
Randall Nathan parked behind Mills, sat down with Kate Bates and Ben "Seymour" Bottoms, pulled out his cellphone, and called Ophilia.
"Things are not always as they seem," he said.
An Early Father's Day Gift
Jenny Newland gave Jake an early Father's Day gift. She called up Bombay Bicycle Club and Tech Support Center and talked to Ethel, who guided her through the several hundred steps necessary to make it necessary to use only one remote for their new big Bottoms TV, rather than using Jake's work-arounds.
[If you haven't read the chronicle for June 6, now might be a good time to do it.]
Jake said, "The work-arounds were working. I'd have been just as happy with a soft rubber walker."
That's when...
[If you haven't read the chronicle for June 6, now might be a good time to do it.]
Jake said, "The work-arounds were working. I'd have been just as happy with a soft rubber walker."
That's when...
Why Did the Rubber Chicken...
Pastor Randall Nathan, [Retard],is filling in for Pastor Patty this morning. He found out about this only yesterday afternoon, when Pastor Patty was suddenly called out of town to attend to her ailing mother.
Pastor Patty is in the midst of a sermon series, "The Difficult Questions." Pastor Nathan figured he would fit right into the series with his new sermon, "Why Did the Rubber Chicken Hit the Road?"
On their way back from Randall's high school reunion, they were following an ancient Honda on winding two-lane Highway 57. The back deck and seat of the Honda were stacked to the roof with all sorts of stuff. As the car went around a curve, it hit a bump, and something flew out the back window. Randall swerved to avoid hitting it, which wasn't difficult, since they weren't traveling very fast. Claire looked out the window. "It's a rubber chicken," she exclaimed.
Thus the difficult questions of Pastor Patty's sermon series: What did this mean? Why carry a rubber chicken in your car? Was the Honda driver a chicken thief who stole from grocery stores and when confronted with the theft of a dressed chicken [which is strange, since the chickens we call "dressed" are actually "undressed"] pulled the rubber chicken from an inside pocket and said, "Oh, the clerk must have seen this, officer?" Was there a little boy who could no longer practice his magic act? Was the Honda driver a CIA interrogator who beat suspects with a rubber chicken? Was there a little girl who could not go to sleep without her rubber chicken to cuddle?
People talk about the road and chickens and rubber often. They say they "hit the road" when they are going on a trip. They say that the pavement is "where the rubber meets the road." They ask why the chicken crossed the road. But it is remarkably strange that no one ever asks the question of why and how the road and the rubber and the chicken all come together, and what happens when they do.
There are many difficult qustions in life: Why do good things happen to bad people? Why is there something instead of nothing? Why is Glen Beck not in rehab? Why is Tony Hayward not in jail? What happens when an irresistable force meets an immovable object? Why do rubber chickens ride around in cars and fall out on the highway?
There are some questions, Pastor Nathan said as he concluded his sermon, that we simply have to accept as mysteries without answers.
Pastor Patty is in the midst of a sermon series, "The Difficult Questions." Pastor Nathan figured he would fit right into the series with his new sermon, "Why Did the Rubber Chicken Hit the Road?"
On their way back from Randall's high school reunion, they were following an ancient Honda on winding two-lane Highway 57. The back deck and seat of the Honda were stacked to the roof with all sorts of stuff. As the car went around a curve, it hit a bump, and something flew out the back window. Randall swerved to avoid hitting it, which wasn't difficult, since they weren't traveling very fast. Claire looked out the window. "It's a rubber chicken," she exclaimed.
Thus the difficult questions of Pastor Patty's sermon series: What did this mean? Why carry a rubber chicken in your car? Was the Honda driver a chicken thief who stole from grocery stores and when confronted with the theft of a dressed chicken [which is strange, since the chickens we call "dressed" are actually "undressed"] pulled the rubber chicken from an inside pocket and said, "Oh, the clerk must have seen this, officer?" Was there a little boy who could no longer practice his magic act? Was the Honda driver a CIA interrogator who beat suspects with a rubber chicken? Was there a little girl who could not go to sleep without her rubber chicken to cuddle?
People talk about the road and chickens and rubber often. They say they "hit the road" when they are going on a trip. They say that the pavement is "where the rubber meets the road." They ask why the chicken crossed the road. But it is remarkably strange that no one ever asks the question of why and how the road and the rubber and the chicken all come together, and what happens when they do.
There are many difficult qustions in life: Why do good things happen to bad people? Why is there something instead of nothing? Why is Glen Beck not in rehab? Why is Tony Hayward not in jail? What happens when an irresistable force meets an immovable object? Why do rubber chickens ride around in cars and fall out on the highway?
There are some questions, Pastor Nathan said as he concluded his sermon, that we simply have to accept as mysteries without answers.
A Technical Word for Those Who Won't Change
Randall and Claire Nathan walked in the survivor lap at Relay for Life last night. Between them was their grandson. He's 11 now, and they have walked in 9 survivor laps together. As always, they were tremendously proud to walk with him, to be seen with him, just to have him there.
As they walked, Randall thought about the new predictions on cancer. Cancer deaths will double in 20 years we are told, even though we have made great progress in treatments of certain of the most common cancers.
We are making great progress in treatment of cancer, but are going backwards in prevention.
We assume the impossibility of prevention and concentrate on treatment, which is much more expensive, not only in money, but in lives.
It is a cultural phenomenon that is not confined to cancer. That cultural assumption is the acceptance of technical change while assuming the impossibility of preventing the degradations of technology.
We assume the impossibility of controlling diabetes--can't change fast food and sugar habits, and obesity. No control of cancer--can't change the increase in environmental pollution. No control of greed-can't change human nature, so there's no point in regulation of bankers or oil companies. No control of gun violence--can't change our love of guns, or the constant NRA push for "any gun for any person at any time in any place for any reason." No control of climate change--can't change our love of gas guzzlers.
There is a technical word for civilizations, and persons, that accept the impossibility of change from treatment to prevention, Randall Nathan thought, as he walked proudly with his grandson and his wife. It is "dead."
As they walked, Randall thought about the new predictions on cancer. Cancer deaths will double in 20 years we are told, even though we have made great progress in treatments of certain of the most common cancers.
We are making great progress in treatment of cancer, but are going backwards in prevention.
We assume the impossibility of prevention and concentrate on treatment, which is much more expensive, not only in money, but in lives.
It is a cultural phenomenon that is not confined to cancer. That cultural assumption is the acceptance of technical change while assuming the impossibility of preventing the degradations of technology.
We assume the impossibility of controlling diabetes--can't change fast food and sugar habits, and obesity. No control of cancer--can't change the increase in environmental pollution. No control of greed-can't change human nature, so there's no point in regulation of bankers or oil companies. No control of gun violence--can't change our love of guns, or the constant NRA push for "any gun for any person at any time in any place for any reason." No control of climate change--can't change our love of gas guzzlers.
There is a technical word for civilizations, and persons, that accept the impossibility of change from treatment to prevention, Randall Nathan thought, as he walked proudly with his grandson and his wife. It is "dead."
Friday, June 18, 2010
Ready or Not...
It's Relay for Life in Periwinkle County today, from 1 pm until 1 pm tomorrow. Survivors' lap is at 7:30 tonight. Randall and Claire Nathan will be walking it, alone with too many other people. Thinking about surviving has Randall remembering the morning after his high school reunion last week.
Will Sparks was staying at the same motel, so they had breakfast together. Claire was sleeping in, so it was just Will and "Randy." That's what the "kids" called him in high school, "Randy." It didn't last long. Randall was never one to inspire dimunitives. But Will still calls him that.
"I didn't say anything last night at the reunion, Randy, but I want to tell you. I'm dying. The docs say I've got maybe 3 months."
"I thought you looked bad, Will, but you've always looked bad, so I didn't think anything about it."
[That's the way men talk to one another, especially when the subject is deep.]
"Yeah, it's a blessing, always looking bad. Nobody bothers to ask me how I am. But I got to thinking about your speech last night. I know you didn't get to say much when the restaurant told us we had to be out in 3 minutes and they hadn't even introduced you yet, but that thing you said about how in our class we're all in that final stage, when we have to write the conclusions to our stories, and we have to decide if the conclusion will be despair or integrity, being able to look back at our stories and say they were okay because they were ours, even though we made a lot of mistakes..."
"I said all that in 3 minutes?"
"I read your book. That helped."
"So, you've got to write the conclusion of your story fast now, Will. What will you write?"
"I'm not quite sure yet, but I'm not afraid to die. The situation is, I'm ready to go, but I'm not ready to leave..."
Will Sparks was staying at the same motel, so they had breakfast together. Claire was sleeping in, so it was just Will and "Randy." That's what the "kids" called him in high school, "Randy." It didn't last long. Randall was never one to inspire dimunitives. But Will still calls him that.
"I didn't say anything last night at the reunion, Randy, but I want to tell you. I'm dying. The docs say I've got maybe 3 months."
"I thought you looked bad, Will, but you've always looked bad, so I didn't think anything about it."
[That's the way men talk to one another, especially when the subject is deep.]
"Yeah, it's a blessing, always looking bad. Nobody bothers to ask me how I am. But I got to thinking about your speech last night. I know you didn't get to say much when the restaurant told us we had to be out in 3 minutes and they hadn't even introduced you yet, but that thing you said about how in our class we're all in that final stage, when we have to write the conclusions to our stories, and we have to decide if the conclusion will be despair or integrity, being able to look back at our stories and say they were okay because they were ours, even though we made a lot of mistakes..."
"I said all that in 3 minutes?"
"I read your book. That helped."
"So, you've got to write the conclusion of your story fast now, Will. What will you write?"
"I'm not quite sure yet, but I'm not afraid to die. The situation is, I'm ready to go, but I'm not ready to leave..."
Thursday, June 17, 2010
The Absent Past
Randall Nathan went to the reunion of his high school class last week. They meet every 5 years. This was their 11th time together since they graduated.
He drove down the old dirt road to see the farm where he grew up. At least, he tried to. The road is gone. So are the house and the barn and the garden and the chicken shed and the orchard and the pond, and the woods where he picked blackberries. The pond where the cow drank, where the horse stood in the middle when he didn't want to bear the harness, and the heat and the work that went with it, where the dragonflies flitted in beauty so bright they seemed unreal, where the hen who hatched the ducklings ran along the edge in panic whenever her "children" got into the water.
It's all just part of a hideously ugly strip mine now.
In fact, all of Randall's past is gone. The hospital where he was born, his grade school and high school buildings, his college dormitory and dining hall, now the farm where he grew up, even the factory where he worked when he dropped out of high school, the factory that convinced him that he needed an education.
He knows that the absence of those buildings does not erase his memories. He knows that Tillich in theology and Einstein in physics both turned our thinking around completely and forever when they emphasized time over space. But we ARE spatial people. We cannot exist without it. Can we exist without the spaces in which we used to live but which are no longer there?
He sits and drinks a cup of coffee and remembers the way his father looked, sitting on the back step of their old farm house, drinking a cup of coffee after the morning chores. He wonders if our modern fascination with exploring outer space is just a way of avoiding the necessary exploration of inner space, that space where past and future merge into the eternal now.
He drove down the old dirt road to see the farm where he grew up. At least, he tried to. The road is gone. So are the house and the barn and the garden and the chicken shed and the orchard and the pond, and the woods where he picked blackberries. The pond where the cow drank, where the horse stood in the middle when he didn't want to bear the harness, and the heat and the work that went with it, where the dragonflies flitted in beauty so bright they seemed unreal, where the hen who hatched the ducklings ran along the edge in panic whenever her "children" got into the water.
It's all just part of a hideously ugly strip mine now.
In fact, all of Randall's past is gone. The hospital where he was born, his grade school and high school buildings, his college dormitory and dining hall, now the farm where he grew up, even the factory where he worked when he dropped out of high school, the factory that convinced him that he needed an education.
He knows that the absence of those buildings does not erase his memories. He knows that Tillich in theology and Einstein in physics both turned our thinking around completely and forever when they emphasized time over space. But we ARE spatial people. We cannot exist without it. Can we exist without the spaces in which we used to live but which are no longer there?
He sits and drinks a cup of coffee and remembers the way his father looked, sitting on the back step of their old farm house, drinking a cup of coffee after the morning chores. He wonders if our modern fascination with exploring outer space is just a way of avoiding the necessary exploration of inner space, that space where past and future merge into the eternal now.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The Limits of Genius
While on vacation, Randall Nathan has been reading H.W. Brands' biography of Benjamin Franklin, THE FIRST AMERICAN. Brands and Nathan both think Franklin was a genius. Nonetheless, Franklin thought some ethnic groups were hopeless, including the Native Americans, because they refused to adopt "civilized" ways, even when they were well exposed to them and had the opportunity. He noted that Native American children raised among European Americans always reverted to the NA way of life, whereas "English" children raised among the NAs, when given the chance to return to a "civilized" life, always elected to stay with the NA life.
To Randall Nathan reading today, it is a strange contradction in the otherwise very scientific approach of Franklin. Here was evidence before him, yet he chose to interpret it in the exact opposite way he would treat evidence in the field of science, such as electricity. He had a prior assumption of the superiority of the life he called civilized and could only assume that anyone who refused it was of inferior intellect because of something ingrained in hisher ethnicity.
To Randall Nathan reading today, it is a strange contradction in the otherwise very scientific approach of Franklin. Here was evidence before him, yet he chose to interpret it in the exact opposite way he would treat evidence in the field of science, such as electricity. He had a prior assumption of the superiority of the life he called civilized and could only assume that anyone who refused it was of inferior intellect because of something ingrained in hisher ethnicity.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Definition of a Friend
Rev. Randall Nathan, (Retard), is on the way to the 55 year reunion of his high school class. He and Claire stopped to spend the night with a former member of one of his churches, Arch Slater. ["Retard" is how they pronounce "retired" where Randall comes from.]
There are problem church members who don't produce anything; they just complain. "We don't like the pastor. We want to get rid of the pastor. The pastor doesn't do everything just the way we want it done, and what we want is far more important than what God might want. After all, we're the ones who pay the bills, not God."
Then there are problem church members who produce the best in the pastor and the church not because they complain or demand but because they require the pastor to do his best. It's a problem, because doing one's best isn't easy. Arch was that kind of problem.
Arch was recently widowed. He and Randall were up early while Clarie slept in, sitting on the porch, talking about marriage and work and how to make sense of 70 + years of living. They talked about the questions Arch always asked, the ones Randall couldn't answer, the ones about why children die young and tragically, as Arch's son did, and why good wives suffer, the way Arch's Ethel did, while bad wives flourish. Arch always trusted Randall to be his pastor and his friend, even when he couldn't answer his questions.
Randall sat beside his old problem, his old friend, and thought to himself: This man is the living defintion of a good friend, someone who requires you to be your best self, even when you don't want to be or don't know how.
There are problem church members who don't produce anything; they just complain. "We don't like the pastor. We want to get rid of the pastor. The pastor doesn't do everything just the way we want it done, and what we want is far more important than what God might want. After all, we're the ones who pay the bills, not God."
Then there are problem church members who produce the best in the pastor and the church not because they complain or demand but because they require the pastor to do his best. It's a problem, because doing one's best isn't easy. Arch was that kind of problem.
Arch was recently widowed. He and Randall were up early while Clarie slept in, sitting on the porch, talking about marriage and work and how to make sense of 70 + years of living. They talked about the questions Arch always asked, the ones Randall couldn't answer, the ones about why children die young and tragically, as Arch's son did, and why good wives suffer, the way Arch's Ethel did, while bad wives flourish. Arch always trusted Randall to be his pastor and his friend, even when he couldn't answer his questions.
Randall sat beside his old problem, his old friend, and thought to himself: This man is the living defintion of a good friend, someone who requires you to be your best self, even when you don't want to be or don't know how.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Best Driver Ever
Three-year-old Clara Wembley was riding with her nana, Kate Bates.
"Nana, you've got to be the best driver ever."
"Well, thank you, Clara."
"Yesh. You have to yell at the other drivers and tell them what to do, because they make so many driving mistakes. And they appreciate it so much they give you that good luck sign. You're the best driver ever."
"Nana, you've got to be the best driver ever."
"Well, thank you, Clara."
"Yesh. You have to yell at the other drivers and tell them what to do, because they make so many driving mistakes. And they appreciate it so much they give you that good luck sign. You're the best driver ever."
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Work Arounds
You may remember, from the Chronicle of May 17, "What Not to Say," that Jake and Jenny Newland got a new "big bottoms" TV. When they brought it home, one of them wanted to read the directions, and one of them thought that was a complete waste of time, since the Cubs were due up on Channel 14673 on the satellite dish.
The Cubs lost, which was normal, but the new big bottoms TV was not normal. Jake, however, worked it out.
The remote for the new TV will turn on the satellite box. The remote from their old TV will turn on the new TV. You can punch in the numbers for a channel, like 96728 for PBS, on the microwave oven in the kitchen, and, after a few seconds, the channel changes. You can scroll up and down through channels with the remote for the satellite box. You can get the sound off and on by pushing the doorbell button.
Jake lowered the doorbell button so that it was low enough for Eleanor, one of their potbellied pigs, to push the button, which she will do for a Trix. Franklin, the other potbellied pig, [Everyone thinks he's gay, but he's not.] will not push the button unless he's sure something by Ken Burns is coming on. [Well, maybe he is.]
Jake gets three-year-old Clara Wembley to skip pre-school and watch TV with him so that she can run into the kitchen to push the buttons on the microwave.
"See, Clara, there's always a way to work around. Reading directions is a waste of time."
"That," Clara told her nana, Kate Bates, "was when Missus Jenny axdently dropped Mr. Jake's walker on his head again."
The Cubs lost, which was normal, but the new big bottoms TV was not normal. Jake, however, worked it out.
The remote for the new TV will turn on the satellite box. The remote from their old TV will turn on the new TV. You can punch in the numbers for a channel, like 96728 for PBS, on the microwave oven in the kitchen, and, after a few seconds, the channel changes. You can scroll up and down through channels with the remote for the satellite box. You can get the sound off and on by pushing the doorbell button.
Jake lowered the doorbell button so that it was low enough for Eleanor, one of their potbellied pigs, to push the button, which she will do for a Trix. Franklin, the other potbellied pig, [Everyone thinks he's gay, but he's not.] will not push the button unless he's sure something by Ken Burns is coming on. [Well, maybe he is.]
Jake gets three-year-old Clara Wembley to skip pre-school and watch TV with him so that she can run into the kitchen to push the buttons on the microwave.
"See, Clara, there's always a way to work around. Reading directions is a waste of time."
"That," Clara told her nana, Kate Bates, "was when Missus Jenny axdently dropped Mr. Jake's walker on his head again."
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Power Corrupts
Three-year-old Clara Wembley watched TV at Jake Newland's house this morning. Jake is the retired undertaker in Mamphjus, the seat of Periwinkle County. He and Clara have the same taste in TV. They watch "What Not to Wear" and "The Penguins of Madagascar" together.
"What was the Penguins show about this morning?" Kate Bates, Clara's nana, asked her.
"Power corrupts," replied Clara.
"Uh... anything else..." asked Kate.
"Absolute power corrupts aboslutely," replied Clara. "Even Mort. He is the littlest of the lemurs in the zoo, but he got into a potion accidentally, and it made him real big, and he became a bully and beat up on everybody, even the elephants and gorillas."
"Well, that's a good lesson, isn't it?" said Kate.
"Yes," said Clara, eyeing Shingles, the dog, who still has not received just punishment, at least according to Clara, for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve. "I think I know how to make that potion..."
"What was the Penguins show about this morning?" Kate Bates, Clara's nana, asked her.
"Power corrupts," replied Clara.
"Uh... anything else..." asked Kate.
"Absolute power corrupts aboslutely," replied Clara. "Even Mort. He is the littlest of the lemurs in the zoo, but he got into a potion accidentally, and it made him real big, and he became a bully and beat up on everybody, even the elephants and gorillas."
"Well, that's a good lesson, isn't it?" said Kate.
"Yes," said Clara, eyeing Shingles, the dog, who still has not received just punishment, at least according to Clara, for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve. "I think I know how to make that potion..."
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Transition Camp
Rob Bobling is missing his own high school class reunion. Instead he is leading the Transition Camp for students who will be frosh in Periwinkle County high schools this fall. It's the last time they'll have Transition Camp, he's sure. The budget just won't allow for "frills" anymore, like things that help kids get their lives in order so that they can learn. Rob is the supt. of schools, but he's running the camp by himself, with help from his wife, Virginia. They can't afford any paid help.
Rob didn't want to be supt. of PC schools. Again. He retired 5 years ago. The board set the salary so low, though, that nobody else would take the job, so he walked off the golf course and back into the perpetual budget crisis. His first act as supt. was to cut his own salary even more. That's how bad the budget is. The teachers have foregone raises for two years now. The voters seem to think that is not enough, that the teachers should actually take salary cuts, too. The voters don't want to share in the sacrifices to educate their children, though. They want the school personnel to do that alone. They haven't approved a tax increase for the schools for over 30 years. When did "no taxes" become a greater good than educated children, Rob wonders.
But now he has an idea. The Class of 1955, his class, is having its reunion at The Gramps & Grumps Inn, right next door to Camp Wathehel. What better group to run Transition Camp? They know all about transitions. They've been through them all and are now just circling the drain, getting ready for that final transition.
Besides, kids and old people have so much in common--that enemy in the middle. He's going to tell them what he tells every old person: the first thing you should ask when you wake up in the morning is, "What can I do today to help a child?"
So he's leaving Virginia in charge and heading over to Gramps and Grumps...
Rob didn't want to be supt. of PC schools. Again. He retired 5 years ago. The board set the salary so low, though, that nobody else would take the job, so he walked off the golf course and back into the perpetual budget crisis. His first act as supt. was to cut his own salary even more. That's how bad the budget is. The teachers have foregone raises for two years now. The voters seem to think that is not enough, that the teachers should actually take salary cuts, too. The voters don't want to share in the sacrifices to educate their children, though. They want the school personnel to do that alone. They haven't approved a tax increase for the schools for over 30 years. When did "no taxes" become a greater good than educated children, Rob wonders.
But now he has an idea. The Class of 1955, his class, is having its reunion at The Gramps & Grumps Inn, right next door to Camp Wathehel. What better group to run Transition Camp? They know all about transitions. They've been through them all and are now just circling the drain, getting ready for that final transition.
Besides, kids and old people have so much in common--that enemy in the middle. He's going to tell them what he tells every old person: the first thing you should ask when you wake up in the morning is, "What can I do today to help a child?"
So he's leaving Virginia in charge and heading over to Gramps and Grumps...
Interpretive Dance
Betsy Kendy is graduating from 8th grade at Henrietta Ann Smith Memorial Middle School. For the graduation ceremony, the interpretive dance group from St. John the Agnostic Unitarian Church performed a new dance, weaving and waving to "The Answer is Blowin' in the Wind."
You know, said Betsy, on the way home, "interpretive dance" can be the punch line to any joke.
You know, said Betsy, on the way home, "interpretive dance" can be the punch line to any joke.
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