Claire Nathan returned from the “Gray Like Me” beauty shop for “ladies of a certain age.” All the hairdressers at GLM have gray hair. Unlike other hair emporia, they guarantee that if you come in without red hair, you’ll leave without red hair. The mantra among women is: “Never go to a redheaded hairdresser unless you want red hair.” That’s why certain ladies go to GLM.
“You know,” she said to Randall, “hairdressers have a peculiar sort of conversation. It sounds like they’re very nosy, very intrusive, but it’s actually quite trivial, so that it’s not intrusive.”
“I don’t understand,” said her professional talker husband.
“Well, I went in, and Graycie said, So what you been doing this summer? It allows me to answer anything I want. Then we talked recipes. When I was through, she said, So where you going to go now? It’s none of her business, but that’s not the point. I can say whatever I want. It just keeps the conversation going without getting into anything that will hurt someone, like gossip.”
Maybe, thought Randall, we could have hairdressers give lessons on how to continue to talk trivia but not be intrusive and hurtful to politicians and pundits and the ranters and ravers who fill up the air and airwaves.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
A Different Eternal Truth
Randall Nathan is still working on his speech for the summer commencement at the brand new, at least in name, Hope's Promise University. Pres. Nan Tucket told him he should include an eternal truth, as well as a piece of good advice and a persistent question. He has changed his mind about what eternal truth he should share with them. Instead of "You deserve a break today," which college students are too willing to believe, anyway, since they want to come home to live for a few years after graduation to recover from the rigors of drinking beer for four years, he is going to go with, "There's always room for Jell-O."
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Blessed Are the Peacemakers
Randall and Claire Nathan are going to see the Reds and Brewers play today. It set Randall to thinking about another time they went to a ballgame, to see the Reds v. the Giants.
Several young men in front of them drank beer throughout the game. Some were Reds fans and some were Giants fans. By the time the game was over, they were drunk and angry. As everyone crowded into the concourse to leave, the confrontation got ugly, young testosterone-laden and beer-powered Giants fans and young testosterone-laden and beer-powered Reds fans getting closer and closer, saying things about the opposing team and its fans that were less than kind.
Randall could tell that the lid was just about to blow off that pressure cooker. So he did the obvious thing—he got in between them.
He was recovering from surgery. He was on chemotherapy. He was bald and haggard. He was no longer young, and he looked twenty years older than he really was. Holding the rest of his lemonade up like a torch, he acted like he stumbled, right in between the warring parties. He was a pitiful, stumbling old man. He knew the young men wouldn’t start a fight if they had to do it around a pathetic old man.
He was wrong.
Suddenly fists were flying along with curses. He was hurled up against a concrete wall. One Giants fan had his arms around either side of Randall's head as he choked a Reds fan behind him.
That was too much for Claire. She went into the fray like a lioness saving her cub from a pack of hyenas. Claire is five feet and four inches tall. She threw six-foot muscular young men in all directions.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she yelled, in her best school-marm voice. “What would your mothers think? You cut it out right now, or I’m going to call them and tell them what you’re doing. Do you want that? Huh? Do you?”
Apparently the thought of facing their mothers was too much. They slunk off. Claire pulled Randall off the wall. He looked down at his lemonade. In the melee, the neat long red straw with the spoon on one end had come out and gotten crushed on the floor.
“Blessed are the peacemakers,” he muttered.
“What are you talking about?” Claire said. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! You did that on purpose, didn’t you? You moron! And look what it got you. You loved that straw with the spoon on the end, and now it’s all smashed.”
“Just don’t tell my mother,” said Randall.
Several young men in front of them drank beer throughout the game. Some were Reds fans and some were Giants fans. By the time the game was over, they were drunk and angry. As everyone crowded into the concourse to leave, the confrontation got ugly, young testosterone-laden and beer-powered Giants fans and young testosterone-laden and beer-powered Reds fans getting closer and closer, saying things about the opposing team and its fans that were less than kind.
Randall could tell that the lid was just about to blow off that pressure cooker. So he did the obvious thing—he got in between them.
He was recovering from surgery. He was on chemotherapy. He was bald and haggard. He was no longer young, and he looked twenty years older than he really was. Holding the rest of his lemonade up like a torch, he acted like he stumbled, right in between the warring parties. He was a pitiful, stumbling old man. He knew the young men wouldn’t start a fight if they had to do it around a pathetic old man.
He was wrong.
Suddenly fists were flying along with curses. He was hurled up against a concrete wall. One Giants fan had his arms around either side of Randall's head as he choked a Reds fan behind him.
That was too much for Claire. She went into the fray like a lioness saving her cub from a pack of hyenas. Claire is five feet and four inches tall. She threw six-foot muscular young men in all directions.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she yelled, in her best school-marm voice. “What would your mothers think? You cut it out right now, or I’m going to call them and tell them what you’re doing. Do you want that? Huh? Do you?”
Apparently the thought of facing their mothers was too much. They slunk off. Claire pulled Randall off the wall. He looked down at his lemonade. In the melee, the neat long red straw with the spoon on one end had come out and gotten crushed on the floor.
“Blessed are the peacemakers,” he muttered.
“What are you talking about?” Claire said. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! You did that on purpose, didn’t you? You moron! And look what it got you. You loved that straw with the spoon on the end, and now it’s all smashed.”
“Just don’t tell my mother,” said Randall.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Randall Nathan's Commencement Speech
Pastor Randall Nathan, (Retard), so designated because in music, “retard” means to go slower, and that is what he does in retardment, got a surprise telephone call from his old friend, Nan Tucket, the President and “J. Lamar Newsome Professor of Limericks” at Cratchit State University.
“I’ve got a special request,” she said. “We had a meeting and it was unanimous. Everyone wants you to speak at our summer graduation.”
“Who backed out?” asked Randall.
“Everybody, essentially,” said President Tucket. “But there’s a catch. Our first choice was Barack Obama, and he said he would come, but when the Cratchit family found out about it, they threw a fit and threatened to withdraw their name from the university.”
“Can they do that?”
“Turns out they can. It’s in the charter, from when we were first named for Governor Cratchit, almost 200 years ago. No one ever thought about it until now. But the family has the right to withdraw the family name if, and I quote, “a Socialist Nazi Communist racist from Kenya who wants to take away our guns is ever invited to speak.”
“And he backed out so you could keep the Cratchit name?”
“Well, no. He didn’t know about it. Turns out he was already scheduled to open a bunch of new Hummer dealerships that weekend, the government had to buy Hummer, you know, because it is too big to fail, except we didn’t know it until Wiki leaked, and Rahmbo just hadn’t told him yet, so he had to cancel because of that. But in the meantime, Jack Armstrong, our Athletic Director and ‘J. Robert Hammel Distinguished Professor of Sportiness,’ thought it would be a good thing to let them take their name back, because then our teams wouldn’t have to be The Tiny Tims, and you know what kinds of jeers that brings on from the fans of the other teams, who always outnumber our fans even in our own stadium.”
“So you’re not going to be Cratchit State anymore?”
“No. Now we’ll be HPU.”
“You’ve sold the naming rights to Hewlett-Packard?”
“No. Since we’re located in the city of Hope’s Promise, we’ll be ‘Hope’s Promise University.’ We’ll announce it on summer graduation day. You’ll be the first speaker ever at HPU, because we know how much you love your alma mater.”
“And because everybody else you asked was afraid of the Cratchits and backed out.”
“Well, yes, that, too.”
“But I’ve never spoken at a graduation. I have no idea what to say.”
“Oh, just give them some good advice and an eternal truth and mention one of life’s persistent questions. Just be sure it’s in language they can understand.”
“You mean like Uzbek?”
“Well, no, we’ve dropped the Uzbek requirement.”
So Randall Nathan is working on his speech. For good advice, he’s going to go with “When in trouble, when in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout.” For an eternal truth, he’s going to tell them, “You deserve a break today.” For a persistent question, he thinks he’ll use “Who let the dogs out?”
“I’ve got a special request,” she said. “We had a meeting and it was unanimous. Everyone wants you to speak at our summer graduation.”
“Who backed out?” asked Randall.
“Everybody, essentially,” said President Tucket. “But there’s a catch. Our first choice was Barack Obama, and he said he would come, but when the Cratchit family found out about it, they threw a fit and threatened to withdraw their name from the university.”
“Can they do that?”
“Turns out they can. It’s in the charter, from when we were first named for Governor Cratchit, almost 200 years ago. No one ever thought about it until now. But the family has the right to withdraw the family name if, and I quote, “a Socialist Nazi Communist racist from Kenya who wants to take away our guns is ever invited to speak.”
“And he backed out so you could keep the Cratchit name?”
“Well, no. He didn’t know about it. Turns out he was already scheduled to open a bunch of new Hummer dealerships that weekend, the government had to buy Hummer, you know, because it is too big to fail, except we didn’t know it until Wiki leaked, and Rahmbo just hadn’t told him yet, so he had to cancel because of that. But in the meantime, Jack Armstrong, our Athletic Director and ‘J. Robert Hammel Distinguished Professor of Sportiness,’ thought it would be a good thing to let them take their name back, because then our teams wouldn’t have to be The Tiny Tims, and you know what kinds of jeers that brings on from the fans of the other teams, who always outnumber our fans even in our own stadium.”
“So you’re not going to be Cratchit State anymore?”
“No. Now we’ll be HPU.”
“You’ve sold the naming rights to Hewlett-Packard?”
“No. Since we’re located in the city of Hope’s Promise, we’ll be ‘Hope’s Promise University.’ We’ll announce it on summer graduation day. You’ll be the first speaker ever at HPU, because we know how much you love your alma mater.”
“And because everybody else you asked was afraid of the Cratchits and backed out.”
“Well, yes, that, too.”
“But I’ve never spoken at a graduation. I have no idea what to say.”
“Oh, just give them some good advice and an eternal truth and mention one of life’s persistent questions. Just be sure it’s in language they can understand.”
“You mean like Uzbek?”
“Well, no, we’ve dropped the Uzbek requirement.”
So Randall Nathan is working on his speech. For good advice, he’s going to go with “When in trouble, when in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout.” For an eternal truth, he’s going to tell them, “You deserve a break today.” For a persistent question, he thinks he’ll use “Who let the dogs out?”
Monday, July 26, 2010
Baby's First Word
Roselina and Chet Atkinson were at The Whistle & Thistle this morning for breakfast when little Chetelina said her first word.
"Favre!" she shouted, shaking her purple rattle.
"What the..." said Edith Whistle.
"Favre!" screamed Chetelina.
"Her first word!" cried Chet, who is a great football fan.
"Dammit, Chet. I told you not to have that NFL channel on all the time. All they do is talk about whether Brett will play again this year. I wanted her first word to be Mama."
"Favre!" yelled Chetelina.
Edith shook her head in wonder.
"Even spells it wrong," she said.
"Favre!" screeched Chetelina.
"Favre!" she shouted, shaking her purple rattle.
"What the..." said Edith Whistle.
"Favre!" screamed Chetelina.
"Her first word!" cried Chet, who is a great football fan.
"Dammit, Chet. I told you not to have that NFL channel on all the time. All they do is talk about whether Brett will play again this year. I wanted her first word to be Mama."
"Favre!" yelled Chetelina.
Edith shook her head in wonder.
"Even spells it wrong," she said.
"Favre!" screeched Chetelina.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Pastor's Lament
Father Joseph Frazee, of St. Gertrude’s Episcopal Church, was one-third of the famous Treehouse Trio, back in the day. They were just three boys from the neighborhood who learned to harmonize in the tree-house that Joe’s father built between four tall pines. Their sound was so distinctive and, well, interesting,that the neighbors took up a collection to send them to NYC to look for work on the streets.
Of course, no one would know that what musical historians call “classibilly lumbago” would take off at that point, fueled by the crowds that came to the famous Bitter Grounds coffee house, and that The Treehouse Trio would be right there at the start.
As all such music waves do, however, it washed across the country and then washed on out to sea. There was no more demand for Treehouse Trio concerts, so the boys went their way. Joseph went to West Jesus Tech, the Episcopal seminary on the campus at Northwestern U, just across Sheridan Road from East Jesus Tech, the Methodist seminary, and has been an Episcopal priest for 35 years now, the last six in Periwinkle County.
He still likes to sing, though, so this morning at St. Gertrude’s he sang one of his own songs:
I’m going to a place where no one knows me
A place without a road sign or a name
Where no one makes me bend my back
Or listen to them sigh
A place where every day is just the same
I want to be bored, O Lord, I want to be bored
Save me from the clutches of the
Grasping, wailing hoarde
I want to go to be where there’s no necessity
Where no one even speaks of responsibility
I’m going to a place where they can’t find me
A place where no good Samaritans lurk
Where no one grabs me by the hem
Or stabs me in the back
A place where no one talks the talky-talk
I want to be bored, O Lord, I want to be bored
Save me from the clutches of the
Grasping, wailing hoarde
I want to go to be where there’s no necessity
Where no one even speaks of responsibility
I’m going to a place without a sorrow
A place where there’s just today and no tomorrow
Where no one has a gripe
Or expects me their nose to wipe
A place where no one confuses me with Peter Yarrow
I want to be bored, O Lord, I want to be bored
Save me from the clutches of the
Grasping, wailing hoarde
I want to go to be where there’s no necessity
Where no one even speaks of responsibility
He finished, looked around the sanctuary, decided that he probably needs to retire. But he put his guitar away and went back to his office to put the finishing touches on his sermon on Matthew 28:31-46 before the rest of the folks got there.
Of course, no one would know that what musical historians call “classibilly lumbago” would take off at that point, fueled by the crowds that came to the famous Bitter Grounds coffee house, and that The Treehouse Trio would be right there at the start.
As all such music waves do, however, it washed across the country and then washed on out to sea. There was no more demand for Treehouse Trio concerts, so the boys went their way. Joseph went to West Jesus Tech, the Episcopal seminary on the campus at Northwestern U, just across Sheridan Road from East Jesus Tech, the Methodist seminary, and has been an Episcopal priest for 35 years now, the last six in Periwinkle County.
He still likes to sing, though, so this morning at St. Gertrude’s he sang one of his own songs:
I’m going to a place where no one knows me
A place without a road sign or a name
Where no one makes me bend my back
Or listen to them sigh
A place where every day is just the same
I want to be bored, O Lord, I want to be bored
Save me from the clutches of the
Grasping, wailing hoarde
I want to go to be where there’s no necessity
Where no one even speaks of responsibility
I’m going to a place where they can’t find me
A place where no good Samaritans lurk
Where no one grabs me by the hem
Or stabs me in the back
A place where no one talks the talky-talk
I want to be bored, O Lord, I want to be bored
Save me from the clutches of the
Grasping, wailing hoarde
I want to go to be where there’s no necessity
Where no one even speaks of responsibility
I’m going to a place without a sorrow
A place where there’s just today and no tomorrow
Where no one has a gripe
Or expects me their nose to wipe
A place where no one confuses me with Peter Yarrow
I want to be bored, O Lord, I want to be bored
Save me from the clutches of the
Grasping, wailing hoarde
I want to go to be where there’s no necessity
Where no one even speaks of responsibility
He finished, looked around the sanctuary, decided that he probably needs to retire. But he put his guitar away and went back to his office to put the finishing touches on his sermon on Matthew 28:31-46 before the rest of the folks got there.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
The Persimmon Blues
Any good blues song involves waking up in the morning, a good woman, digging in a mine, shooting a man just to see him die, and some good advice. In Periwinkle County, that means…
THE PERSIMMON BLUES
I woke up this morning with my mouth in a pucker
I got a good woman but each day I gotta duck her
She’s got a fist that feels like iron and steel
Since the last time she swung I ain’t had a meal
Oh, I got those persimmon blues from my head to my feet
The pudding of persimmons is all I can eat
I’ve got those pucker-up, hunker-down, round-the-barn, teeth-on-edge, DT-shaking persimmon blues.
I’ve been digging persimmons down in the mine
I asked the lord to please give me a sign
I’ve got me some faith but I’ve also got doubt
I asked him to give me a sign with a shout
He said if you’re digging you’ve got to be daft
It ain’t much of a craft when you always get the shaft
I’ve got those pucker-up, hunker-down, round-the-barn, teeth-on-edge, DT-shaking persimmon blues.
I made a man eat persimmons just to see him die
I know that in the world to come I’m surely gonna fry
Along about the 18th rung in the inferno
Dante never even figured on that infernal Sterno
They put me in the slammer ‘til I made it right
I had to listen to that guy puke all through the night
I’ve got those pucker-up, hunker-down, round-the-barn, teeth-on-edge, DT-shaking persimmon blues.
Oh gather ‘round you children and listen to my tale
If you eat persimmons your GI tract will surely fail
They’ll rot your gut and rot your teeth and rot your faith in bacon
You’ll go through life just like a vegan with all your limbs a shakin
The devil, he don’t play no games, except for that damned futbol
For when he grabs your wretched soul you’ll hear him shout out GOOOOAAALLLL!
I’ve got those pucker-up, hunker-down, round-the-barn, teeth-on-edge, DT-shaking persimmon blues.
THE PERSIMMON BLUES
I woke up this morning with my mouth in a pucker
I got a good woman but each day I gotta duck her
She’s got a fist that feels like iron and steel
Since the last time she swung I ain’t had a meal
Oh, I got those persimmon blues from my head to my feet
The pudding of persimmons is all I can eat
I’ve got those pucker-up, hunker-down, round-the-barn, teeth-on-edge, DT-shaking persimmon blues.
I’ve been digging persimmons down in the mine
I asked the lord to please give me a sign
I’ve got me some faith but I’ve also got doubt
I asked him to give me a sign with a shout
He said if you’re digging you’ve got to be daft
It ain’t much of a craft when you always get the shaft
I’ve got those pucker-up, hunker-down, round-the-barn, teeth-on-edge, DT-shaking persimmon blues.
I made a man eat persimmons just to see him die
I know that in the world to come I’m surely gonna fry
Along about the 18th rung in the inferno
Dante never even figured on that infernal Sterno
They put me in the slammer ‘til I made it right
I had to listen to that guy puke all through the night
I’ve got those pucker-up, hunker-down, round-the-barn, teeth-on-edge, DT-shaking persimmon blues.
Oh gather ‘round you children and listen to my tale
If you eat persimmons your GI tract will surely fail
They’ll rot your gut and rot your teeth and rot your faith in bacon
You’ll go through life just like a vegan with all your limbs a shakin
The devil, he don’t play no games, except for that damned futbol
For when he grabs your wretched soul you’ll hear him shout out GOOOOAAALLLL!
I’ve got those pucker-up, hunker-down, round-the-barn, teeth-on-edge, DT-shaking persimmon blues.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Coffee and The Age of Reason
Randall Nathan was having coffee at The Mills of The Gods Coffee House and Persimmonoscopy Clinic when Ben “Seymour” Bottoms, The Dr. John C. Wilkey Distinguished Professor of Social and Other Movements, dropped into the booth across from him.
Seymour waved at Arvilla, The Dianne Bass Distinguished Professor of Kitchenology, who moonlights [actually sunrises] at The Mills. “Bring me your grandest grande’ of dark roast,” he called.
“Short on reasoning power this morning?” asked Randall.
“You’ve got it. No reasoning without coffee. That’s how the Age of Reason replaced the Dark Ages, you know, the discovery of coffee. At first it was considered sinful to drink it, but the pope decided he liked it, so he declared it righteous. Back then, everybody, including kids, drank beer or wine all day. Started their day with it and kept going. Couldn’t drink the water, you know. Kept them boozed up and thoughtless all day. Never a rational thought in that bunch. But when they switched to coffee, where the water was boiled, not only did they kick the booze, they got the caffeine. Voila, The Age of Reason.”
“So it was the pope’s fault that people started thinking and not just believing whatever he told them.”
“Yeah. He regretted that part of it, but he sure did enjoy that dark roast,” Seymour said, as he gratefully accepted his grande’ from Arvilla.
Seymour waved at Arvilla, The Dianne Bass Distinguished Professor of Kitchenology, who moonlights [actually sunrises] at The Mills. “Bring me your grandest grande’ of dark roast,” he called.
“Short on reasoning power this morning?” asked Randall.
“You’ve got it. No reasoning without coffee. That’s how the Age of Reason replaced the Dark Ages, you know, the discovery of coffee. At first it was considered sinful to drink it, but the pope decided he liked it, so he declared it righteous. Back then, everybody, including kids, drank beer or wine all day. Started their day with it and kept going. Couldn’t drink the water, you know. Kept them boozed up and thoughtless all day. Never a rational thought in that bunch. But when they switched to coffee, where the water was boiled, not only did they kick the booze, they got the caffeine. Voila, The Age of Reason.”
“So it was the pope’s fault that people started thinking and not just believing whatever he told them.”
“Yeah. He regretted that part of it, but he sure did enjoy that dark roast,” Seymour said, as he gratefully accepted his grande’ from Arvilla.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Even the Hoboes Are Expensive
Randall Nathan and his grandson, Johnny Kendy, are building a model train village in Randall’s basement. They recycle pop cans to get money for new equipment. They put the money into an old Miracle Whip jar that Claire used her label-maker to designate as “The First National Bank of Train Stuff,” Johnny’s name for it.
They have trains and trestles and a tunnel and a yard for extra cars and equipment, and a Mail Pouch Tobacco barn, and Independence Hall, in eclectic gauge.
“We need some people,” said Johnny.
So they put on their striped engineers’ caps and red bandannas and went to the hobby store. They bought a set of five hoboes for $21.20, the cheapest people available.
“What did you get?” asked Claire when they got home.
“Some very expensive hoboes,” said Johnny.
“I guess the economy is as bad as they say,” said Claire, “if even the hoboes are expensive.”
They have trains and trestles and a tunnel and a yard for extra cars and equipment, and a Mail Pouch Tobacco barn, and Independence Hall, in eclectic gauge.
“We need some people,” said Johnny.
So they put on their striped engineers’ caps and red bandannas and went to the hobby store. They bought a set of five hoboes for $21.20, the cheapest people available.
“What did you get?” asked Claire when they got home.
“Some very expensive hoboes,” said Johnny.
“I guess the economy is as bad as they say,” said Claire, “if even the hoboes are expensive.”
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The Center Aisle
Randall Nathan went to Ace Spade’s “Moo Value Hardware and Dairy Equipment Store” to get a spark plug for his persimmon pudding pulvinator. He asked the lady at the cash register just inside the door where to find an SP for a PPP. She said, “Just start down the center aisle and someone will help you.”
He did as she told. She was right. He hadn’t gotten very far down the center aisle, between hoes and rakes on the left and paint and bungee cords on the right, when a man wearing a Moo Value kilt and overseas cap said, “What do you need?” When Randall told him he needed an SP for a PPP, he asked, “What size?” Randall didn’t know there were different sizes of persimmon pulvinators, since hardly anyone pulvinates persimmons to make pudding anymore, since persimmon pudding technology has advanced so quickly since Apple got into the business and brought out the iPers, and Amazon introduced the Persimdle, but the Moo Value is one of those stores that has parts for any machine that ever existed. After Randall described his pulvinator, they settled on the 3.14 spark plug.
As he walked back to his 1956 Ford pickup in the Moo Value parking lot, carrying the surprisingly inexpensive SP for his PPP, Randall Nathan thought about how he had walked down the center aisle and how there was someone there to help him:
The important events of life happen when you walk down the center aisle, he thought. This spring all those children at the high school walked down the center aisle to get their diplomas. People walk down the center aisle in church to get married or to bring their babies for baptism or to get confirmed. They walk down the center aisle to take communion and go back by the side aisles. At your funeral, they’ll wheel your casket down the center aisle, and folks will come down the center aisle to take a last peek at you. Maybe that’s what Jesus meant when he talked about staying in the straight and narrow way—just walk down that center aisle, and there will be someone there to help you find what you need.
He did as she told. She was right. He hadn’t gotten very far down the center aisle, between hoes and rakes on the left and paint and bungee cords on the right, when a man wearing a Moo Value kilt and overseas cap said, “What do you need?” When Randall told him he needed an SP for a PPP, he asked, “What size?” Randall didn’t know there were different sizes of persimmon pulvinators, since hardly anyone pulvinates persimmons to make pudding anymore, since persimmon pudding technology has advanced so quickly since Apple got into the business and brought out the iPers, and Amazon introduced the Persimdle, but the Moo Value is one of those stores that has parts for any machine that ever existed. After Randall described his pulvinator, they settled on the 3.14 spark plug.
As he walked back to his 1956 Ford pickup in the Moo Value parking lot, carrying the surprisingly inexpensive SP for his PPP, Randall Nathan thought about how he had walked down the center aisle and how there was someone there to help him:
The important events of life happen when you walk down the center aisle, he thought. This spring all those children at the high school walked down the center aisle to get their diplomas. People walk down the center aisle in church to get married or to bring their babies for baptism or to get confirmed. They walk down the center aisle to take communion and go back by the side aisles. At your funeral, they’ll wheel your casket down the center aisle, and folks will come down the center aisle to take a last peek at you. Maybe that’s what Jesus meant when he talked about staying in the straight and narrow way—just walk down that center aisle, and there will be someone there to help you find what you need.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Hot Stuff Auction
Periwinkle County is having its annual “Hot Stuff” July auction. It’s held on Maine Street in Memphjus, the county seat. The stuff to be auctioned has all been stolen by neighbors and family members. If you want it back, you have to buy it. Whoever buys it, former owner or not, gets to designate the charity to which its price goes.
The centerpiece is the Lincoln Continental Helena Bracketer bought just before she could no longer drive. It’s been up on blocks in her barn. Her children have been arguing for years about who gets it when she dies. She got Zeke Domkowski to steal it and put it into the auction.
Now her kids are scandalized that she is putting the Lincoln into the “Hot Stuff” auction. She told them, “You want it, you can buy it.”
She has a particular contribution she wants to make to her favorite charity, and a particular way she wants it made.
Naturally her kids have been going all over PC asking people not to bid on the Continental. That, of course, has sparked a great deal of interest. Groups are forming all over the county to pool their money to buy Helena’s car.
Randall Nathan went to see Helena. “You told me,” he said, “that you told God you’d be satisfied if you got to 90, and once you hit 89 you’ve just been lying low. Now you’re calling attention to yourself. What if God hears about it and wants that car, like everybody else? You’ll be back in the crosshairs.”
“It will be worth it,” she said. “to create all this furor among my children and everybody else. I’m going to buy it back myself, though, and I’ve got the money to do it. I want to give the money to The Harvest Time Soul Savers Church and Pea Party.”
“But you disagree with everything those people stand for,” Randall said.
“Yes, but they get only half the money, and they get it only if they contribute the other half, in their name, to either Planned Parenthood or the NAACP. If they refuse, the whole amount goes to PP and NAACP in their name, and they get nothing.”
“You’re a nasty old woman,” Randall said, with a smile.
“You bet. It’s the only way, in an age when people act only on their emotions, which run the gamut only from hate to fear, to get them to think. There’s nothing as nasty as causing people to use their God-given brains. “
The centerpiece is the Lincoln Continental Helena Bracketer bought just before she could no longer drive. It’s been up on blocks in her barn. Her children have been arguing for years about who gets it when she dies. She got Zeke Domkowski to steal it and put it into the auction.
Now her kids are scandalized that she is putting the Lincoln into the “Hot Stuff” auction. She told them, “You want it, you can buy it.”
She has a particular contribution she wants to make to her favorite charity, and a particular way she wants it made.
Naturally her kids have been going all over PC asking people not to bid on the Continental. That, of course, has sparked a great deal of interest. Groups are forming all over the county to pool their money to buy Helena’s car.
Randall Nathan went to see Helena. “You told me,” he said, “that you told God you’d be satisfied if you got to 90, and once you hit 89 you’ve just been lying low. Now you’re calling attention to yourself. What if God hears about it and wants that car, like everybody else? You’ll be back in the crosshairs.”
“It will be worth it,” she said. “to create all this furor among my children and everybody else. I’m going to buy it back myself, though, and I’ve got the money to do it. I want to give the money to The Harvest Time Soul Savers Church and Pea Party.”
“But you disagree with everything those people stand for,” Randall said.
“Yes, but they get only half the money, and they get it only if they contribute the other half, in their name, to either Planned Parenthood or the NAACP. If they refuse, the whole amount goes to PP and NAACP in their name, and they get nothing.”
“You’re a nasty old woman,” Randall said, with a smile.
“You bet. It’s the only way, in an age when people act only on their emotions, which run the gamut only from hate to fear, to get them to think. There’s nothing as nasty as causing people to use their God-given brains. “
Monday, July 19, 2010
Laying Low
Helena Bracketer took Claire and Randall Nathan to lunch after church yesterday.
“Aren’t you about to have a birthday, Helena?” Claire asked.
“Shh,” said Helena. “I told God that I’d be satisfied if I could get to 90. Ever since I hit 89, I’ve just been laying low.”
“Aren’t you about to have a birthday, Helena?” Claire asked.
“Shh,” said Helena. “I told God that I’d be satisfied if I could get to 90. Ever since I hit 89, I’ve just been laying low.”
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Hog Heaven
It’s Hog Heaven time in Periwinkle County this weekend. Randall Nathan wonders why they call it that, since it’s definitely not heaven for the hogs. Hog Heaven is a bar-b-q competition.
At least, that is its reason for being. It even raises money for a good cause, finding a cure for toe fungus.
In addition to the bbq competition, there is a parade. People on floats throw cracklings and pig jerky to the people along the way. There is the greased pig competition, of course. There is the pulled pork competition, with a life-sized plastic Porky Pig attached to the tug-of-war rope, said rope manned by volunteer fire departments, especially trained to put out grill fires, from around the county. There is the wild bore competition for the political candidates. There is the dance competition, with teams vying to create new pig-related dances, such as The Herky Pig Jerky, last year’s winner, and The Piggy Hop, and The Boogie Woogie Piggy Boy. And there is the beauty contest, Miss Porky, which does not include a swimsuit phase.
Most of all, there is the noise. From 10:30 in the morning until 1:30 the next morning. Bands. Bands with names like The Barnyard Excrement, Asleep at the Trough, Livestock Serenade, The Rolling Hogs, Bacon
Bandits. Bands that cure the deaf and bring deafness to those who can hear.
Randall and Claire live on the south edge of town. Hog Heaven takes place at Smitty Park, on the north edge of town, 3.7 miles away. The bands might as well be playing in their front room, though, since that’s the way it sounds.
Randall Nathan is all in favor of finding a cure for toe fungus. Some of his best friends have it. Some people ask for toe fungus prayers in the Joys and Concerns time at church. It’s the major reason he never goes to church, or to Wal-Mart, in the summer.
He thinks, however, that a perfect fundraiser is a silent auction. He wonders why good causes have to be so loud.
At least, that is its reason for being. It even raises money for a good cause, finding a cure for toe fungus.
In addition to the bbq competition, there is a parade. People on floats throw cracklings and pig jerky to the people along the way. There is the greased pig competition, of course. There is the pulled pork competition, with a life-sized plastic Porky Pig attached to the tug-of-war rope, said rope manned by volunteer fire departments, especially trained to put out grill fires, from around the county. There is the wild bore competition for the political candidates. There is the dance competition, with teams vying to create new pig-related dances, such as The Herky Pig Jerky, last year’s winner, and The Piggy Hop, and The Boogie Woogie Piggy Boy. And there is the beauty contest, Miss Porky, which does not include a swimsuit phase.
Most of all, there is the noise. From 10:30 in the morning until 1:30 the next morning. Bands. Bands with names like The Barnyard Excrement, Asleep at the Trough, Livestock Serenade, The Rolling Hogs, Bacon
Bandits. Bands that cure the deaf and bring deafness to those who can hear.
Randall and Claire live on the south edge of town. Hog Heaven takes place at Smitty Park, on the north edge of town, 3.7 miles away. The bands might as well be playing in their front room, though, since that’s the way it sounds.
Randall Nathan is all in favor of finding a cure for toe fungus. Some of his best friends have it. Some people ask for toe fungus prayers in the Joys and Concerns time at church. It’s the major reason he never goes to church, or to Wal-Mart, in the summer.
He thinks, however, that a perfect fundraiser is a silent auction. He wonders why good causes have to be so loud.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
We Are Old
So suddenly we are old
Yesterday we ran
Danced, jumped, flew
Sometime last night
Probably around 3 am
When an old dog barked at the moon
We grew old
Yesterday we ran
Danced, jumped, flew
Sometime last night
Probably around 3 am
When an old dog barked at the moon
We grew old
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Christ in Winter blog
I'll continue writing Periwinkle Chronicles, but sometimes I have ideas that are more specifically theological, so I'm starting another blog, Christ In Winter, at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com, to share those ideas.
Romancing the Persimmon
"What are you doing, Mz Jenny?" asked three-year-old Clara Wembley as Jenny Newland's arthritic fingers tromped on the keyboard.
"I'm signing Jake up for that Romancing the Persimmon dating site. The old coot is driving me crazy. There's got to be some dumb broads out there, pardon my French, who can take him off my hands once in a while."
"What you doing, Mz Jenny?"
"Clara, I just told you... oh, here's ten dollars. Spend it some place where I'm not."
"Works every time," said Clara, stuffing the Dixie Note into the pocket of her sunsuit.
[In early Louisiana, currency was printed in English on the front and French on the back. A ten dollar bill said "Ten" on the front and "Dix" on the back. Thus, Dixie note, and eventually Dixieland.]
Clara went to see Madame Rousseau, the music teacher at Volvo River HS.
"Mr. Jake needs a broad dumb French woman," said Clara.
"What? Why, that... And, you, saying such things to a... Here's ten dollars. Spend it some place where I'm not."
Clara went home to get Shingles, the dog, and then made her way back to where Jake was sitting on his front porch.
"Let's go to Buddy Mutts, for lunch, Mr. Jake." [Buddy Mutts, the restaurant run by The Brothers Jim, requires that a dog be with you to eat there.]
"Well, Clara..."
"There's no time for 'Well, Claras.' Mz Jenny is trying to get up out of her chair. I've got twenty bucks and you've got to get out of here before she takes off your hands."
Jake figured that was about as clear as anything would ever be at his age, so he got up and pushed his walker and followed Clara.
As they went, she said, "Mr. Jake, you know how to change a diaper?"
"Why, Clara, surely you don't still wear a diaper."
"Of course not. I'm a big girl. I just don't want to have to change yours."
"I'm signing Jake up for that Romancing the Persimmon dating site. The old coot is driving me crazy. There's got to be some dumb broads out there, pardon my French, who can take him off my hands once in a while."
"What you doing, Mz Jenny?"
"Clara, I just told you... oh, here's ten dollars. Spend it some place where I'm not."
"Works every time," said Clara, stuffing the Dixie Note into the pocket of her sunsuit.
[In early Louisiana, currency was printed in English on the front and French on the back. A ten dollar bill said "Ten" on the front and "Dix" on the back. Thus, Dixie note, and eventually Dixieland.]
Clara went to see Madame Rousseau, the music teacher at Volvo River HS.
"Mr. Jake needs a broad dumb French woman," said Clara.
"What? Why, that... And, you, saying such things to a... Here's ten dollars. Spend it some place where I'm not."
Clara went home to get Shingles, the dog, and then made her way back to where Jake was sitting on his front porch.
"Let's go to Buddy Mutts, for lunch, Mr. Jake." [Buddy Mutts, the restaurant run by The Brothers Jim, requires that a dog be with you to eat there.]
"Well, Clara..."
"There's no time for 'Well, Claras.' Mz Jenny is trying to get up out of her chair. I've got twenty bucks and you've got to get out of here before she takes off your hands."
Jake figured that was about as clear as anything would ever be at his age, so he got up and pushed his walker and followed Clara.
As they went, she said, "Mr. Jake, you know how to change a diaper?"
"Why, Clara, surely you don't still wear a diaper."
"Of course not. I'm a big girl. I just don't want to have to change yours."
a test of blogger
I haven't been able to get blogger to post for a while. I'm trying a back door to see if I can get it to post this way.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
To Go or Not To Go
Randall Nathan was sitting on the back deck of his house Sunday morning, trying to decide if he could go to church. He knew he "should." "Could" was an entirely different issue. Could he stand to listen to Pastor Natalie preach again? Pastor Natalie is a Presbyterian who is "between calls," meaning no congregation will hire her, since she preaches like a cow bellowing out The Westminster Confession.
Pastor Patty is out of town, tending to her ailing mother, who has finally agreed, disagreeably, to go to the nursing home. Normally she would ask Randall to fill in at Sunday morning worship for her, but Randall and Claire have Jewish guests for the weekend. As good hosts, they thought they should go to temple with Tex and Betty Lou instead of leaving them alone on Sunday morning. So Randall declined Rev. Patriciam Niebhur's request for him to fill the pulpit, meaning she had no choice but to turn to Pastor Natalie.
But Tex and Betty Lou insisted on going to the concert by pianist Bob Milne at the restored Crystal Persimmon Opera House and VD Clinic, the trustees of the opera house apparently assuming that everyone knows that in restored opera house language, VD stands for Virtuoso Drumming, with Tex announcing that according to the Oklahoma Kaballah, a Rag Time/Dixieland piano concert was tantamount to going to temple, twice.
So Randall was sitting on his back deck, his hosting duties fulfilled, trying to discern if the Oklahoma Kaballah had anything to say about Pastor Natalie.
Then Pastor Alvin started preaching. Pastor Alvin is a chipmunk who stands on a big rock at the edge of the woods and makes that eternal infernal clucking chipmunk sound. Having awakened everyone on that side of the county, Pastor Alvin dashed across Randall Nathan's deck, right under Randall's chair, and took up his post on a big rock at the edge of the woods on the other side of the back yard, where he preached exactly the same sermon, twice.
So he's been to temple twice, and heard Pastor Alvin's sermon three times. Does he still have to go hear Pastor Natalie? Or is going to worship something other than just hearing the preacher, as bad or good as s/he may be? At his age, Pastor Nathan, (Retard), thinks he should know the answer to that already.
Pastor Patty is out of town, tending to her ailing mother, who has finally agreed, disagreeably, to go to the nursing home. Normally she would ask Randall to fill in at Sunday morning worship for her, but Randall and Claire have Jewish guests for the weekend. As good hosts, they thought they should go to temple with Tex and Betty Lou instead of leaving them alone on Sunday morning. So Randall declined Rev. Patriciam Niebhur's request for him to fill the pulpit, meaning she had no choice but to turn to Pastor Natalie.
But Tex and Betty Lou insisted on going to the concert by pianist Bob Milne at the restored Crystal Persimmon Opera House and VD Clinic, the trustees of the opera house apparently assuming that everyone knows that in restored opera house language, VD stands for Virtuoso Drumming, with Tex announcing that according to the Oklahoma Kaballah, a Rag Time/Dixieland piano concert was tantamount to going to temple, twice.
So Randall was sitting on his back deck, his hosting duties fulfilled, trying to discern if the Oklahoma Kaballah had anything to say about Pastor Natalie.
Then Pastor Alvin started preaching. Pastor Alvin is a chipmunk who stands on a big rock at the edge of the woods and makes that eternal infernal clucking chipmunk sound. Having awakened everyone on that side of the county, Pastor Alvin dashed across Randall Nathan's deck, right under Randall's chair, and took up his post on a big rock at the edge of the woods on the other side of the back yard, where he preached exactly the same sermon, twice.
So he's been to temple twice, and heard Pastor Alvin's sermon three times. Does he still have to go hear Pastor Natalie? Or is going to worship something other than just hearing the preacher, as bad or good as s/he may be? At his age, Pastor Nathan, (Retard), thinks he should know the answer to that already.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
A Friend For the Day
Rob Bottoms, Ben "Seymour" Bottoms' brother, is visiting Periwinkle County this week. He is there to see Seymour, of course, but also Randall Nathan, because they were college friends. Since his brother always had the nickname of Seymour, Rob was always called Seeless.
Randall is especially glad to be able to update his mental image of Rob, because Rob spends the day with Randall, in his mind, every month or so.
Each evening before he goes to bed, Randall picks a friend with whom to spend the next 24 hours, some friend he doesn't normally get to see in person. Some of them are dead, like Andre' Havel and Dave Goode, or uncles like Hubert or Forrest, or Aunt Norma. They stay alive or present for Randall by spending a day with him every once in a while.
He knows that friends are one of life's great gifts, and just because they are a thousand miles away or in another life doesn't mean the friendship is no longer a gift.
Randall is especially glad to be able to update his mental image of Rob, because Rob spends the day with Randall, in his mind, every month or so.
Each evening before he goes to bed, Randall picks a friend with whom to spend the next 24 hours, some friend he doesn't normally get to see in person. Some of them are dead, like Andre' Havel and Dave Goode, or uncles like Hubert or Forrest, or Aunt Norma. They stay alive or present for Randall by spending a day with him every once in a while.
He knows that friends are one of life's great gifts, and just because they are a thousand miles away or in another life doesn't mean the friendship is no longer a gift.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Pastor Labron
Like everyone else in the nation, The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), did not anxiously await the announcement by Labron James of where he would make millions next year.
Labron's decision, truth be told, is one of the major factors in the economy. To the winning city, Miami, Labron's presence will mean approximatly two billion dollars. Labron will get about one-fourth of that, which he will surely spend on good works, and the rest will go to hotels and restaurants and sellers of t-shirts. It will, of course, mean the loss of two billion to Cleveland.
Labron is a walking advertisemet to kids: stay in school and get that high school diploma and see what it will do for you.
Randall Nathan thought about all that just before going to bed. As he slept, he had a dream. In it, cities were courting him to come and preach there, just as cities courted Labron to come and play ball.
"Preaching is so much more important than basketball," they said. Being an old basketball player, Rev. Nathan wasn't sure about that, but he liked the ways they tried to get him to come to their cities.
NYC promised him he could have Harry Emerson Fosdick's pulpit at Riverside Church, or Harold Sockman's pulpit at Christ Church Methodist, or George Buttrick's pulpit at Madison Ave. Presbyterian, or Norman Vincent Peale's pulpit at Marble Collegiate. "Just take your pick," said NYC's Jewish mayor.
They even sang songs to try to persuade him. NYC came in with "We are the world, you are the preacher. We need you bad, because we are evil creatures." Cleveland tried, "We are the world, you are the pastor. We need you here, to get saved faster." Los Angeles sang, "We are the world, you are the reverend. We need you here, because we've got nothing to rhyme with."
"Randall! Randall! Wake up! Stop that snorting around!"
"Oh... I guess I was having a dream. Hmm, I wonder just how many great preachers there are in the world?"
"One fewer than you think," said Claire.
Labron's decision, truth be told, is one of the major factors in the economy. To the winning city, Miami, Labron's presence will mean approximatly two billion dollars. Labron will get about one-fourth of that, which he will surely spend on good works, and the rest will go to hotels and restaurants and sellers of t-shirts. It will, of course, mean the loss of two billion to Cleveland.
Labron is a walking advertisemet to kids: stay in school and get that high school diploma and see what it will do for you.
Randall Nathan thought about all that just before going to bed. As he slept, he had a dream. In it, cities were courting him to come and preach there, just as cities courted Labron to come and play ball.
"Preaching is so much more important than basketball," they said. Being an old basketball player, Rev. Nathan wasn't sure about that, but he liked the ways they tried to get him to come to their cities.
NYC promised him he could have Harry Emerson Fosdick's pulpit at Riverside Church, or Harold Sockman's pulpit at Christ Church Methodist, or George Buttrick's pulpit at Madison Ave. Presbyterian, or Norman Vincent Peale's pulpit at Marble Collegiate. "Just take your pick," said NYC's Jewish mayor.
They even sang songs to try to persuade him. NYC came in with "We are the world, you are the preacher. We need you bad, because we are evil creatures." Cleveland tried, "We are the world, you are the pastor. We need you here, to get saved faster." Los Angeles sang, "We are the world, you are the reverend. We need you here, because we've got nothing to rhyme with."
"Randall! Randall! Wake up! Stop that snorting around!"
"Oh... I guess I was having a dream. Hmm, I wonder just how many great preachers there are in the world?"
"One fewer than you think," said Claire.
July 4, Part 2
It has taken Pastor Randall Nathan, (Retard), several days to process what happened Sunday, July 4.
He filled in for Pastor Patty at the Sunday morning worship service, while she was at her 20 year high school reunion. He was surprised to see four persons he had not seen in church before march in during the Prelude. They were wearing red, white, and blue t-shirts that read "Guns, Guts, and God Is What Made This Country Great." He wasn't sure if they had guns, but it was clear from the strain on the shirts that they were demonstrating the "guts" part of their slogan, and they were in the right place for "God."
As he preached, he remarked on the window display at the Birch John Toilet and Plumbing Supplies, which spelled out, in red,white, and blue flowers, "For God so loved the USA, John 3:16." He thought folks should hear the real version, "For God so loved the world..."
That was when the four strangers got up and stomped out. He learned later that the SOS group, SOS standing for Second Omendment Solutions, had sent members to every church in the country with orders to stomp out if they heard anything "unpatriotic."
[He later learned that the SOS group at St. John the Catholic Baptist Church had stomped out when Brother Antoninus remarked that Jesus told us to pray for our enemies.]
Later that afternoon, in the parade, Randall noted that the SOS float featured a huge recreation of the Birch John Toilet and Plumbing Supplies window.
The Sousa Gospel Singers, who sing "Amazing Grace" to the tune of "Stars and Stripes Forever," were marching behind the SOS float, since the parade entries were lined up alphabetically. They switched to "America, the Beautiful," right in front of The Methodist, where Pastor Nathan was watching the parade. He started to sing along with them. That's when the crow bats swooped down from the belfry.
Apparently it wasn't music in general that summoned the crow bats, or Pastor Nathan's voice in general. He had gone though all that in the post for July 4, Part 1. It was his singing with which they resonated.
They were not just resonating, however. They were hungry, and they honed in on the SOS float and those red, white, and blue flowers. When the folks in the parade saw the size of those crow bats, they ran in all directions at once, and the crow bats munched the flowers off the float, keeping time to Pastor Nathan's rendition of "America, the Beautiful."
At the end of the parade, there was nothing left but a lot of satisfied-looking crow bats, a hoarse old preacher, and the skeletal remains of a float.
"Only in America," sighed Randall Nathan.
{The author did see actually see a display in the window of a floral shop just like the one in the Birch John store window.}
He filled in for Pastor Patty at the Sunday morning worship service, while she was at her 20 year high school reunion. He was surprised to see four persons he had not seen in church before march in during the Prelude. They were wearing red, white, and blue t-shirts that read "Guns, Guts, and God Is What Made This Country Great." He wasn't sure if they had guns, but it was clear from the strain on the shirts that they were demonstrating the "guts" part of their slogan, and they were in the right place for "God."
As he preached, he remarked on the window display at the Birch John Toilet and Plumbing Supplies, which spelled out, in red,white, and blue flowers, "For God so loved the USA, John 3:16." He thought folks should hear the real version, "For God so loved the world..."
That was when the four strangers got up and stomped out. He learned later that the SOS group, SOS standing for Second Omendment Solutions, had sent members to every church in the country with orders to stomp out if they heard anything "unpatriotic."
[He later learned that the SOS group at St. John the Catholic Baptist Church had stomped out when Brother Antoninus remarked that Jesus told us to pray for our enemies.]
Later that afternoon, in the parade, Randall noted that the SOS float featured a huge recreation of the Birch John Toilet and Plumbing Supplies window.
The Sousa Gospel Singers, who sing "Amazing Grace" to the tune of "Stars and Stripes Forever," were marching behind the SOS float, since the parade entries were lined up alphabetically. They switched to "America, the Beautiful," right in front of The Methodist, where Pastor Nathan was watching the parade. He started to sing along with them. That's when the crow bats swooped down from the belfry.
Apparently it wasn't music in general that summoned the crow bats, or Pastor Nathan's voice in general. He had gone though all that in the post for July 4, Part 1. It was his singing with which they resonated.
They were not just resonating, however. They were hungry, and they honed in on the SOS float and those red, white, and blue flowers. When the folks in the parade saw the size of those crow bats, they ran in all directions at once, and the crow bats munched the flowers off the float, keeping time to Pastor Nathan's rendition of "America, the Beautiful."
At the end of the parade, there was nothing left but a lot of satisfied-looking crow bats, a hoarse old preacher, and the skeletal remains of a float.
"Only in America," sighed Randall Nathan.
{The author did see actually see a display in the window of a floral shop just like the one in the Birch John store window.}
Saturday, July 3, 2010
4th of July--Part One
Pastor Randall Nathan, (Retard), didn't get much sleep last night, or much peace this morning.
He walked over to The Methodist just before the sun went down, to prepare himself for preaching this morning, filling in for Pastor Patty while she is back in Nebraska at her 20-year high school class reunion. He doesn't prepare sermons; he prepares himself. He just sits in the pews, moving around from place to place in the sanctuary, getting a feel for what it will be like for the people sitting in those spots the next morning.
He sings as he sits, sings the hymns that the congregation will sing the next morning. As he completed "This Is My Father's World," the crow bats arrived. No one knows exactly what kind of bats they are, but they are as big as crows, so everyone calls them crow bats. They live in an abandoned electron mine. The assumption is that they were regular bats whose ions were reversed by exposure to electron dust. [The same thing happened to the fax machine at the Elaine Fowler Palencia Public Library when Olaf Rodriguez, the janitor, refused to use Dust-Be-Gone on his cloth, because he owns stock in Dust-No-More, and everyone knows DNM doesn't work on electrons the way DBG does.]
At least the crow bats used to live in the abandoned electron mine. Last night, though, they came down into the sanctuary from the belfry of The Methodist, and sat on the backs of the pews, and swayed in rhythm as Pastor Nathan sang the hymns. When he sang the last "Amen," the bats lifted up into the dark recesses above. Had they moved permanently to The Methodist? All night long, he had dreams of large bats grabbing him by the hair and dragging him out of the pulpit. He was delighted when he awoke and realized that couldn't happen, since he has no hair, but still, he did not sleep well.
Then this morning Randall's neighbor in the house across the alley started mowing his yard at 7:30. It didn't interrupt his sleep; Randall was up already. But it did interrupt his soul. He was sitting on his back deck, enjoying the quiet, getting his soul ready for preaching, and suddenly the raucous sound of a mower wreaked havoc on the only quiet morning of the week. By the time the worship service started, his soul was climbing a prickly tree.
There was no sign of the bats when he went early to the church building this morning, but when the worship service started, he went dumb as the congregation started into "This Is My Father's World." What if the bats came again? But they didn't. It occurred to him that perhaps it was not the singing but his particular voice that summoned the bats, so he kept quiet during the singing. He expected all batdom to break forth when he started preaching, but no bats appeared, and only an occasional yawn from the pews. So it wasn't his voice, either. Maybe they came out only after sun down.
Or maybe not... [To be Continued]
He walked over to The Methodist just before the sun went down, to prepare himself for preaching this morning, filling in for Pastor Patty while she is back in Nebraska at her 20-year high school class reunion. He doesn't prepare sermons; he prepares himself. He just sits in the pews, moving around from place to place in the sanctuary, getting a feel for what it will be like for the people sitting in those spots the next morning.
He sings as he sits, sings the hymns that the congregation will sing the next morning. As he completed "This Is My Father's World," the crow bats arrived. No one knows exactly what kind of bats they are, but they are as big as crows, so everyone calls them crow bats. They live in an abandoned electron mine. The assumption is that they were regular bats whose ions were reversed by exposure to electron dust. [The same thing happened to the fax machine at the Elaine Fowler Palencia Public Library when Olaf Rodriguez, the janitor, refused to use Dust-Be-Gone on his cloth, because he owns stock in Dust-No-More, and everyone knows DNM doesn't work on electrons the way DBG does.]
At least the crow bats used to live in the abandoned electron mine. Last night, though, they came down into the sanctuary from the belfry of The Methodist, and sat on the backs of the pews, and swayed in rhythm as Pastor Nathan sang the hymns. When he sang the last "Amen," the bats lifted up into the dark recesses above. Had they moved permanently to The Methodist? All night long, he had dreams of large bats grabbing him by the hair and dragging him out of the pulpit. He was delighted when he awoke and realized that couldn't happen, since he has no hair, but still, he did not sleep well.
Then this morning Randall's neighbor in the house across the alley started mowing his yard at 7:30. It didn't interrupt his sleep; Randall was up already. But it did interrupt his soul. He was sitting on his back deck, enjoying the quiet, getting his soul ready for preaching, and suddenly the raucous sound of a mower wreaked havoc on the only quiet morning of the week. By the time the worship service started, his soul was climbing a prickly tree.
There was no sign of the bats when he went early to the church building this morning, but when the worship service started, he went dumb as the congregation started into "This Is My Father's World." What if the bats came again? But they didn't. It occurred to him that perhaps it was not the singing but his particular voice that summoned the bats, so he kept quiet during the singing. He expected all batdom to break forth when he started preaching, but no bats appeared, and only an occasional yawn from the pews. So it wasn't his voice, either. Maybe they came out only after sun down.
Or maybe not... [To be Continued]
Shingles and Fireworks
"Are you going to the fireworks?" Jake Newland asked three-year-old Clara Wembley.
"Oh, yes. I'm going to take Shingles."
"The dog? But I thought you still haven't forgiven Shingles for stealing your blankie on Christmas eve," Jake said.
"Oh, I haven't."
"Why are you taking him to the fireworks, then?"
"Fireworks scare the crap out of him," said Clara.
"Oh, yes. I'm going to take Shingles."
"The dog? But I thought you still haven't forgiven Shingles for stealing your blankie on Christmas eve," Jake said.
"Oh, I haven't."
"Why are you taking him to the fireworks, then?"
"Fireworks scare the crap out of him," said Clara.
Friday, July 2, 2010
The Waye and The Way
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, [Retard], is filling in for Pastor Patty this Sunday while she is attending her 20-year high school reunion. They met at The Mills of The Gods Coffee Shop & Orthopedic Clinic to exchange notes before she left.
"Say Hello to Mandy for me," Randall said to The Rev. Patricia Niebuhr.
"Mandy? How do you know about Mandy?" gasped Pastor Patty.
"It's well-known that every class from 1979 through 1998 had at least one Mandy," he said. "That's what Claire says." [Claire is Randall's wife and a retired high school teacher.]
"Mandy Waye..." Pastor Patty mused. "I haven't thought of her for 20 years. She was the star of all the school plays. We called her The Great White Waye."
She didn't get to finish, because Brother Bowater of The Bowater Baptist Church Over Troubled Waters was walking by and overheard, sort of.
"Way? Did you say Mandy is the Way? No, Jesus is the Way. He said so himself."
Pastor Patty tried to protest that she had said "Waye," not "Way," and furthermore... but Randall Nathan shook his head. "This should be good," he said.
Brother Bowater was on a roll, while eating a cinnamon bagle, which gave extra spice to his words.
"Jesus himself said, I am the Way and the Truth and the Life, so we know it's true. It wouldn't be true if he hadn't said it himself."
"But Brother Bywater," said Randall, "Jesus surely did not say that about himself. That was what people called him after they realized who he was. Wouldn't it be more true if his followers said it about him, than him saying it himself? Did Lincoln call himself The Great Emancipator? Did Washington say of himself that he was 'first in war and first in peace and first in the hearts of my countrymen,' or did he call himself The Father of His Country? Did Wayne Gretzky call himself The Great One?"
"Well," Pastor Patty mused, "Ali did say, 'I am the greatest.' And Helen Hayes was the first one to refer to herself as 'The First Lady of The American Theater."
"You're not helping," Randall Nathan whispered.
"Wouldn't it be more powerful if I said you're the best preacher in the county, than if you said it about yourself?" Randall asked Brother Bywater.
"Oh, do you really think so?" said Brother Bywater.
Pastor Patty smirked. "Now you've gotten yourself into it," she whispered to Randall Nathan.
"Say Hello to Mandy for me," Randall said to The Rev. Patricia Niebuhr.
"Mandy? How do you know about Mandy?" gasped Pastor Patty.
"It's well-known that every class from 1979 through 1998 had at least one Mandy," he said. "That's what Claire says." [Claire is Randall's wife and a retired high school teacher.]
"Mandy Waye..." Pastor Patty mused. "I haven't thought of her for 20 years. She was the star of all the school plays. We called her The Great White Waye."
She didn't get to finish, because Brother Bowater of The Bowater Baptist Church Over Troubled Waters was walking by and overheard, sort of.
"Way? Did you say Mandy is the Way? No, Jesus is the Way. He said so himself."
Pastor Patty tried to protest that she had said "Waye," not "Way," and furthermore... but Randall Nathan shook his head. "This should be good," he said.
Brother Bowater was on a roll, while eating a cinnamon bagle, which gave extra spice to his words.
"Jesus himself said, I am the Way and the Truth and the Life, so we know it's true. It wouldn't be true if he hadn't said it himself."
"But Brother Bywater," said Randall, "Jesus surely did not say that about himself. That was what people called him after they realized who he was. Wouldn't it be more true if his followers said it about him, than him saying it himself? Did Lincoln call himself The Great Emancipator? Did Washington say of himself that he was 'first in war and first in peace and first in the hearts of my countrymen,' or did he call himself The Father of His Country? Did Wayne Gretzky call himself The Great One?"
"Well," Pastor Patty mused, "Ali did say, 'I am the greatest.' And Helen Hayes was the first one to refer to herself as 'The First Lady of The American Theater."
"You're not helping," Randall Nathan whispered.
"Wouldn't it be more powerful if I said you're the best preacher in the county, than if you said it about yourself?" Randall asked Brother Bywater.
"Oh, do you really think so?" said Brother Bywater.
Pastor Patty smirked. "Now you've gotten yourself into it," she whispered to Randall Nathan.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Tie that Binds
The Bergonzi String Quartet was in Periwinkle County last night for a performance in The Pine Gulch music festival. Last week it was The Greene Clay Ramblers, who are named for Patrick Clay's brother, playing their "greene grass" music on their homemade instruments in Pine Gulch itself. The Bergonzi, though, played in the St. Limpy Cathedral, on majestic instruments 500 years old.
[The cathedral is named for St. Limbiana, but generations of four-year-olds have made the name more accessible.]
Randall and Claire Nathan went to both concerts, of course. Never, thought Randall, have stringed instruments sounded less alike or more alike than those of The Greene Clay Ramblers and The Berzonzi String Quartet.
Randall was not surprised to see Zeke Domkowski in Pine Gulch for the Ramblers, wearing his usual plaid shirt and overalls. He was quite taken aback, though, when Zeke came in to St. Limpy's at the last minute and walked right down to the front pew. He was wearing his overalls, of course, but with them, a brand new white shirt, and a narrow pink and gray tie right out of the 1950s.
Seeing Zeke in a tie got Randall looking around for other ties. He is the only man who wears a coat and tie to The Methodist on Sunday mornings and he rather enjoys that distinctive status. At St. Limpy's on a Wednesday night, though, there were six other coat and tie outfits. He couldn't believe it. Then he realized: each church has one man who wears a coat and tie on Sunday morning, and they had all come on Wednesday night to hear the Bergonzi, and since they always wore coats and ties to church, here they were. It made him feel almost non-curmudgeonly.
It got him to thinking about the preacher who did a funeral for a man who had hanged himself in his barn. As the closing hymn, the preacher chose "Blest Be the Tie That Binds." He wonders why so many men think that ties bind; he's always thought it was a sign of freedom. Then Bartok struck and dissed all thoughts about anything, including ties, from his brain.
It was the piece before intermission, Bartok's Quartet # 1, Opus 7. Randall is a narrativist, and he does not suffer Bartok gladly, since he wouldn't have recognized a melody if it jumped down his throat. At intermission, he was pacing the courtyard out front, muttering about dissonance, when he realized someone was pacing with him. He looked up. It was Zeke.
His face was aglow and aghast at the same time. "Have you ever heard anything as magnificent as that Bartok?" he rasped. "That's why I came, to hear that live."
Of course, Randall thought. Bartok and Domkowski are tied together over the centuries by that dissonance of unrequited love. That was what happened to poor Bela' that caused him to eschew the melodies of love for the jumbles of hopelessness, and it is what Zeke lives with each day, his grandly unrequited love for Ophilia Bandervilt. Zeke was there to hear the music of his life, and it required a tie.
"Sometimes," Randall said to Claire on the way home, "it is dissonance that provides melody and narrative."
"Your tie is crooked," she said.
[The cathedral is named for St. Limbiana, but generations of four-year-olds have made the name more accessible.]
Randall and Claire Nathan went to both concerts, of course. Never, thought Randall, have stringed instruments sounded less alike or more alike than those of The Greene Clay Ramblers and The Berzonzi String Quartet.
Randall was not surprised to see Zeke Domkowski in Pine Gulch for the Ramblers, wearing his usual plaid shirt and overalls. He was quite taken aback, though, when Zeke came in to St. Limpy's at the last minute and walked right down to the front pew. He was wearing his overalls, of course, but with them, a brand new white shirt, and a narrow pink and gray tie right out of the 1950s.
Seeing Zeke in a tie got Randall looking around for other ties. He is the only man who wears a coat and tie to The Methodist on Sunday mornings and he rather enjoys that distinctive status. At St. Limpy's on a Wednesday night, though, there were six other coat and tie outfits. He couldn't believe it. Then he realized: each church has one man who wears a coat and tie on Sunday morning, and they had all come on Wednesday night to hear the Bergonzi, and since they always wore coats and ties to church, here they were. It made him feel almost non-curmudgeonly.
It got him to thinking about the preacher who did a funeral for a man who had hanged himself in his barn. As the closing hymn, the preacher chose "Blest Be the Tie That Binds." He wonders why so many men think that ties bind; he's always thought it was a sign of freedom. Then Bartok struck and dissed all thoughts about anything, including ties, from his brain.
It was the piece before intermission, Bartok's Quartet # 1, Opus 7. Randall is a narrativist, and he does not suffer Bartok gladly, since he wouldn't have recognized a melody if it jumped down his throat. At intermission, he was pacing the courtyard out front, muttering about dissonance, when he realized someone was pacing with him. He looked up. It was Zeke.
His face was aglow and aghast at the same time. "Have you ever heard anything as magnificent as that Bartok?" he rasped. "That's why I came, to hear that live."
Of course, Randall thought. Bartok and Domkowski are tied together over the centuries by that dissonance of unrequited love. That was what happened to poor Bela' that caused him to eschew the melodies of love for the jumbles of hopelessness, and it is what Zeke lives with each day, his grandly unrequited love for Ophilia Bandervilt. Zeke was there to hear the music of his life, and it required a tie.
"Sometimes," Randall said to Claire on the way home, "it is dissonance that provides melody and narrative."
"Your tie is crooked," she said.
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