CHRISTMAS AT 50% OFF

                 

On Christmas morning, I went with friends to Mass at a nearby Roman Catholic Church.  In his homily, the priest noted that  "tomorrow Christmas will be 50% off and likely by Friday, it will be 90% off."  He went on to predict that

soon we will be seeing Valentine cards and candy. 

As a commentary on our commercialization of the season, he was spot on.  (And lest this seem self-righteous  carping, I acknowledge that I found a couple of sweaters at a 'bargain' yesterday ,December 26.)  A widespread

awareness of the Christmas Season has little resonance in our Western culture. "The Twelve Days of Christmas" is a catchy tune (played interminably pre-December 25) but the liturgical observance is a religious relic.

Whether one's understanding of 'religious' Christmas (separate from 'cultural' Christmas) is that of an historical narrative or as 'Parabolic Overture' (to use Marcus Borg's phrase), it seems to me that  fair questions become "What comes next?" or "What difference does it make?" And, news reports of violence yesterday in shopping malls across the United States can add to the erosion of 'joy to the world'.

CHRISTMAS, then, is counter-cultural. Rather than railing against the "Christmas at 50%", there remains that which the late Rev. Dr. Howard Thurman called The Work of Christmas : 

When the song of the angels is stilled,

When the star in the sky is gone,

When the kings and princes are home,

When the shepherds are back with their flocks,

The work of Christmas begins:

To find the lost,

To heal the broken,

To feed the hungry,

To release the prisoner,

To rebuild the nation,

To bring peace among people,

To make music in the heart.

Satchel

WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES ON SUNDAY

     O.K., it's not a Biblical era manger; but there is a story here.

     As you likely know, Christmas is on Sunday this year.  That confluence occurred twice when I was a parish minister.  Both times I heard something like, "Preacher, Christmas is on Sunday this year. Are we going to have church? [If that phrase sounds foreign, it translates "have worship service".]  And, each year, we did indeed 'have church'.  The first time was in 1988  and I have scant memory of that one.  The service of 1994 in another parish still resonates.  It happened this way:

    I was 'Senior Minister' . . . alright, 'only minister' . . . of a three-church United Methodist parish in central North Carolina.  Throughout the year, each congregation had a Sunday morning worship service - - - one place at 9, another at 10, and the third at 11, on an annual rotation.  The churches were several miles apart so my inter-church travels were often 'fast'.  Our tradition of 11 p.m. Christmas Eve joint service had been established and always filled the largest sanctuary among the three. 

   While some Christian denominations have a Christmas Day worship service regardless of the day of the week, that had not been our tradition.  Well ahead of December 25th, I announced that we would have a joint Sunday morning service at another of the churches at 10 o'clock. I do not remember whether I announced that we would also observe the Eucharist but that became the plan early on.  

    Avoiding gimmickry (always antithetical to worship services), the service was designed to incorporate all five senses.  We sang many of the traditional hymns and I preached a brief homily whose title and content are long forgotten.  It was  the Eucharist that remains memorable.  After consecration of the elements, the chalice and paten were placed in the cradle much like the one pictured above.  As each communicant approached the elements, it was necessary to lean or bow to reach the  bread and cup.  Several persons later noted the theological appropriateness of the gesture.  At a slight distance, an offering plate was set.  Ahead of the liturgy, I clearly indicated that this was not to "pay" for the gift  received; rather, a response.  The offering was made to a single Benevolence rather than be divided
among individual church budgets.

     That same service could have occurred on any day of the week.  But I remain convinced that its being on Sunday made its symbolism and significance even stronger. 

    Satchel

WHAT'S YOUR (OUR) NAME ?

   Do you recognize these names ?
     This first one might take you back a few years to the 'King of the Cowboys'; if you had said 'Roy Rogers',  ok.  But would you have known 'Leonard Slye'?
   How about . . .  Marion Morrison ? (John Wayne). Or John Dussenburger (John Denver).  And the one that some have speculated had the name not been changed from Adolph Schikellgruber there might not have been a Nazi Party and hence no World War II (Adolph Hitler).

    A few years ago there was a young man named  Michael Jordan playing in a college basketball tournament.  He was not the same  MJ who played for UNC and the Chicago Bulls.  And he was about 4 years old when UNC won the national championship in 1982.  Understandably, he took a lot of teasing. Why not change it?
He said the name was given him by his mother and to change it would be like slapping her.  

   Beginning as   children, one of the first things we ask someone: "What's your Name?".  Persons at gatherings wear tags with a greeting like: "Hello. My Name is _________".  Baptismal liturgies often include the question: "What Name is to be given this child ?"
And, wedding liturgies, "I (NAME) take you  (NAME) to be my wedded __________"

   NAME can convey a Basis Identity . . .Who We Are. . .  and "represent" us and distinguish us from others.   Should you doubt that, just notice what happens within yourself when somebody mispronounces yours or calls you by an incorrect Name.
Never give a person a first name by which they will not be addressed.  When I am called "William", I know that it is either by someone "official" or someone who does not know me. Once I was with my mom in a medical waiting area when the nurse paged her by her first name and we almost missed the call.  And, I have never understood why her sister Ruth had a  gravestone indicating that "Esther" was interred there.   We want to be called by our own Name because we have become what we were named . . . We  are our NAMES.

   And, then, our Name can connect us with family .  Our extended family is probably not unusual in having children carry part of their ancestors' names.  Further, our names also suggest what our fore bearers did to make a living: Baker, Smith, Carpenter, Cooper, Miner, etc.

   Do you think that I am making too much of this "Name" business? Consider: Several years ago, a client told me that her eldest daughter had been named for her husband's former girl friend.  That's reminiscent of what a woman, who as an adult, learned that her father had also named her for a girlfriend he had while still married to her mother.  She changed that first name and by doing so was able to put to rest a number of family issues.

  Shakespeare wrote that a rose by another name would have the same fragrance, perhaps suggesting that name does not matter.  Johnny Cash's song, A Boy Named Sue, would suggest otherwise.
So, I believe we need to be respectful with someone else's name as well as with our own.  When greeting a new client, I say something like "I go by Ron. How do you prefer to be addressed? My mom told us not to to call someone by their first name without permission."

    Let's take it a step further.  Our Name can convey a sense of purpose, what we believe we are called to be and/or do.  For example the Old Testament story of Abram and Sarai who had become their Names, her especially. In a culture that honored childbearing, she had no children and her Name meant Mocked.
After many years, God's promise of many descendants became reality and Sarai became Sarah, or Princess.  And he became known as  Abraham, literally Father of a multitude of nations.
By the way, when she as an old woman heard that she would have a child, she laughed and the son was named Laughter, or, in their language, Isaac. 

    Allow me to segue briefly onto a larger arena for a connection between Name and Purpose.  Regardless of your political affiliation and vote in the recent Presidential election, I sense there is a need for deep reflection about our NAMES and PURPOSE in current America.  Without delving into the whole matter of "American Exceptionalism", over the years our people have held some rather lofty and hopeful Names and aspirations for this country, among them : "Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave";
    "We hold these Truths to be Self-Evident, that all [people] are created equal . . . "; 
       "We the People . . . "; 
             "Democracy" ; 
                  "In order to form a more perfect  Union . . . "; 
                         "Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal . . ." . . .  and these Names have been lived out in many impressively compassionate ways, domestically and internationally.  

  In his 1941 State of the Union Address as war was already encroaching upon this country, President Roosevelt articulated the "Four Freedoms": freedom of speech, of worship; freedom from want and from fear.  He continued, "As men do not live by bread alone, they do not fight by armaments alone" and he further spelled out the benefits of democracy: economic opportunity, employment, social security, and the promise of adequate health care. (Yes. Just as we have not always lived up to our individual Names, there are far too many illustrations of times when America has failed to live by our national Ideals)

 In his Gettysburg Address, President Lincoln noted the huge test posed by the Civil War as to whether "this nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure."  During these times, I believe that his concluding words can help us remember and live our National Name: "It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us--that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause  for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion--that we here highly resolve  that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people , by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

   I have met persons who sadly could respond to the calling of their Name but had lost their memories and with that, their Identity.
Two words point to such a phenomenon . . . Amnesia and Identity Crisis.  According to Merriam-Webster Dictionary, Identity Crisis indicates a "state of confusion in an institution or organization regarding its nature and direction." And, a Mayo Clinic site defined Amnesia as "a loss of memories, such as facts, function, and experience" and that while such persons are usually lucid and know who they are they "may have trouble learning new information and forming new memories."

   So that our Name --- identity and purpose --- not be forgotten, I suggest that we often look to our National Birth Certificate ---the Constitution adopted after the successful War for Independence.

Our National Birth Certificate

      Satchel

'ROTTING LEAVES' or . . .

      A friend told me last week that she dislikes Autumn because it means vegetation is dying and 'Winter's coming on'.  We were talking about my annual mountain vacation to admire the wide-pallette display of leaf colors.  Instead, she said, she sees 'rotting leaves', bespeaking the transitory nature of things. An imprecisely remembered snippet from a Shel Silverstein poem catches her sentiment: "Must we always have Winter; can't Springtime just last".

    Well, this season certainly evokes awareness of change.  "It seems like only yesterday" that we were in the mountains of Virginia watching the hills become green again.  And, actually, it was as  recently as April . . . only 6 months ago. 

  [ A side-bar of free association: Writing sometimes takes an unanticipated direction of its own . . . I began this musing with the intended theme of Change.  Then, having noted the contrast of Spring and Autumn in 'the hills', I began reflecting on how mountains seem to be a magnet, particularly at this time in my life.  Perhaps the thematic difference is not so great . . . to me, this terrain bespeaks Durability akin to near-permanence.  Aware that a move to another location is improbable, my wife and I have occasionally compared the allure of the beach or the mountains were we to relocate. (We currently live about equidistant to each.) We have concurred that while we enjoy occasional trips to the coast, the mountains are our preference.]

    The pace of life in  the Western world can leave us breathless and out of step with the latest ... news, fad, technological gadget, fashion, . . . just 'the latest'. Designed obsolescence someone called it. And, even these beloved mountains have not escaped "Development" and "Modernization".  

   'What, then, endures ?' seems a legitimate enquiry in the face of sic transit gloria mundi . . . "thus passes the glory of the world" ---  or, as my friend might express it, "Rotting leaves". The always changing world of external phenomena provokes cynicism for some persons . . . "Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow you may die".  For others, there is a tugging toward an interior world . . . dare I call it a Spiritual Life . . .  that can broaden our horizon beyond the transitory events of 'now'.  Someone called this the "eternity factor", not as a form of Escape, but for a 'panoramic view of time' that can enhance both personal growth and a grateful giving back to future generations on Planet Earth.

    Accessing and living from this perspective can get us closer to the fundamental question of MEANING.  This week I read a book that has been on my shelf for several years.  While I found some of the visionary viewpoints utopian, there is much in From Age-ing to Sage-ing: A Profound New Vision of Growing Older that can point to deeper ways to live life. I anticipate re-reading with benefit several portions of the book.  But for now, there are beautiful leaves to admire !

    Satchel

    

A MID-LIFE 'CRISIS'

           A 48 year old client, Phillip, (he asked that his real name not be used and I am HIPPA compliant) has been struggling with 'mid-life transitions'.  Recently he has been doing a lot of 'soul searching', attempting to sort through the rubble . . . professional as well as personal . . . in his life. Being something of an introspective, poetic bent, he recently attempted (to use his words) "to get a handle on where I am and where I am going".  He showed me the following 'essay' and consented to my request to use it in a blog. Without editing, here are his 'ponderings' :

    " 'Once upon a time . . .'
         'once upon a time . . .'
            'once upon a time . . .'
  Good Lord, how many times had he heard 'once upon a time' ?!  Well, 'once upon a time' was here.  And there was no Fairy God Mother anywhere around. Plenty of toads though. 'So much for ^Happy Ever After^', he complained to himself. 'It's more like 
^Huff and puff and blow your house down^.'

    And what made the situation more galling was the recollection of how he had (he thought) been so precise in putting that dream house into position.  Sitting amid the rubble now, it felt more like a jerry-built lean-to. Wrong floor plan? Probably. Faulty materials? Maybe. Better yet, improperly chosen, arid location? Even more likely.

    The metaphors kept rolling even after he had scolded  himself that 'enough of this tripe is just enough'.  Then the zinger came slipping into his consciousness, 'When had the fault-line in the foundation become apparent?  What caused the shift and why had he not spotted and corrected it earlier?'
Over-confident early adulthood?  More likely it was seeing the turkies get the raises, recognition and promotions and realizing that competence wasn't its own best defense after all.

    'Some gonna win, some gonna lose . . .' came from the softly playing radio.  Even the appliances seemed to remind him. A quarter turn of the wrist choked the old Zenith radio in mid-syllable.  He wishfully thought how perfect it would be if all the problems and confusions could be solved that summarily.  Feeling the irresponsibility wrapped in that impulse, he backed off pdq.

    Then here came 'Once upon a time' again.  Unlike in the fairy tale, the shoe did not fit Cinderella and too many years of short-sightedness and wrong-turns and bad calls reminded him that he wasn't exactly the handsome prince either.  More like Grumpy or Dopey all too often.

    Stirring the  stuff of the past and a looking for the 'might have beens' held all the promise and allure of a one-way ticket to the boonies on a World War II vintage Greyhound.  Maybe the better route lay in the implications of what his just graduated 18 year old child told a mutual friend when he had cooly met a challenging crisis: 'Welcome to the grown-up world!'  Then he felt the defenses to up almost on their own and the immediate rejoinder, 'Back off; nobody's implying you've acted less than as a responsible adult.'

    'Grin and bear it'; 'This, too, shall pass'; 'every cloud has its silver lining'; 'where there's a will, there's a way' . . . now the cliches started.  Who turned those on? Where did they come from?  He recalled once hearing someone say that there had to be some truth in all these aphorisms for them to have endured.  Shallow-thinking band-aids when he had just been through major  emotional surgery was closer to his own evaluation.

    Look ahead, set goals, lay out game plans . . . that was what the self-appointed  gurus of positive thinking and get control of your rainbow 'experts' were always hyping.  And he had tried it . . . more than once.  Even bought a book about beating procrastination. 'Never got around to reading it,' he joked, feeling somehow that the joke was on him.

    Maybe the experience was still too fresh. 'Naw', he decided. He'd made his peace with all that. What he couldn't seem to get the handle on  was 'What comes next ?'
   'Tomorrow', he decided. "

Any wise words of counsel that I can pass on in our next session ?
    
              Satchel

        

Family Treasure

    Today is Aunt Rachel's 89th Birthday !

I have written about her in previous posts and today seems a good time to tell her (and you) what an extraordinary gift she continues to be for all of us.  The youngest of mom's siblings, she keeps a pace of life and interests that inspires.  Still drives herself 'most anywhere she chooses, maintains her own residence, cooks, converses around a broad range of subjects and exudes love for numerous family and friends.  And, now there is a new great-grandson .

     Cooking has long been one of her great talents.  When her son operated a restaurant in their hometown, Rachel's chicken and dumplings were a once a week menu item and were always sold out.  Perhaps she has prepared them too many times; now she insists that she does not even particularly enjoy them.  However, "If you cook them, they will come . . ."  Within the past few years, she has twice prepared appreciated feasts for my brothers and our wives and other family members.

"We will have chicken and dumplings . . ."

She and I have an ongoing age reminder between us . . . for about half a year there is but a ten year difference in our ages.  Consequently, she has been a blend of aunt/big sister for me over my 78 years. Last Spring, I wrote about her giving me her parents' grand-father clock which is now  faithfully keeping time and chiming on a table to my right.  It's a nice reminder that we, like it, have been ticking away for a long time.  May we  remain "wound up" for a long time to come !

   Her immersion in life continues to remind us that "when you have seen one older person, you haven't seen them all !" 

With two of her nieces last Spring

With her son (in green shirt), my brothers and me last Spring

Happy Birthday, Rachel ! Keep on ticking . . . 

     Satchel
   

BIRTHDAY FOR A BROTHER

  My older younger brother just had a milestone birthday.  
(I am the oldest of three brothers; he's the second one, so doesn't that make him my 'older younger brother' ?) At any rate, this week he had THE birthday . . . 75 . . .  that some gerontologists say is the demarcation line separating us from the 'young old' . . . which is the category in which our 'baby brother' at 67 currently resides.  Neither of the three of us can quite fathom how we arrived here so quickly.

   I have a clear memory of riding with our parents and Uncle Frank Durham on the day he came home  from his birthing hospital.  However, I remember only through  hearing repetitive parental narrative how, in time, I allegedly inquired as to when they were  'going to take that kid back to the hospital?'

They decided to keep him

Even though our growing up years were "a while back", there are lots of memories that provide retelling of old stories whenever we are together.  

In high school, Den excelled in athletics.  At UNC Chapel Hill, he was pre-med and after Internship, did his Residency in Orthopedics  at Yale-New Haven Hospital.  There is a kind of stereotyping of medical specialist according to personality and temperament.  Whether correct or not, Orthopedics is the domain of athletic types and Den fit the profile, being the physically strongest and most athletic of the brothers.

UNC undergrad

After spending time practicing 'Army medicine', including a year at Saigon General Hospital,  Den spent his entire medical career in New Hampshire.  He arrived there by the circuitous route brought on by needing a job after his college Freshman year.  I asked the owner of the boys' camp where I had spent a couple of Summers if he would hire my brother.  While there, he met Irena, a Syracuse University undergrad, whose family owned a nearby summer cottage.  And, as the saying goes, "the rest is history".  They raised three remarkable and accomplished children and are now the doting grand-parents of six --- three boys and three girls. He retired a couple or so years ago and spends time traveling, catching up on missed golf games and enjoying their place on Lake Winnepesaukee.

1965

Newly weds with younger version of older brother in background

50 years later 

Soon to be Major with wife and oldest child, ca. 1970

One story that is often retold is how he scared the bejeebers out of a camper who had been exiled to the lakeside while the other kidders were preparing for bed.  My brother put on his sunglasses, trench coat and army helmet liner and was sneaking up on the young hellion.  The kid saw Den at the same time that a loon cut loose with a cry.  I was 500 yards away in center camp and I heard the scream.  The Head Counselor ... 50  + years to my 22 ... outran me down the beach to the scene.  

While our parents paid for the two of us to have piano lessons, neither of us has musical talent. For that matter, neither of us can carry a tune in the proverbial bucket, that talent having gone to the youngest brother.   Several years ago,  he attended a Bluegrass concert and at intermission asked the band leader if they would sing Life's Railway to Heaven, an old Gospel song.  The man replied, "We don't sing no spirichul songs."  Subsequently, I made a recording for him that included every version that I could locate.

Now we get together primarily at family Thanksgiving gatherings.  He lives too far away.  He dislikes North Carolina's Summer Swelterings and has acclimated to New Hampshire Winters.  

When he and his family are here this coming Thanksgiving, no doubt some of the same old stories will be told again (to use dad's long ago phrase) for the 'fortyleventhbluemillionth time'.  But then, old stories are a kind of mortar that help bond folks together.

"The Way We Were" . . .   3 brothers ca. 1962

"The Way We Are" ... Thanksgiving 2015

So, "Happy 75",  'Little Brother' and 'Welcome' to this phase of the journey.

                                  Satchel

SADIE'S LEMONADE STAND

   Did you have  a lemonade stand when you were young?

  Well, this is a story about a special lemonade stand and the young 'mastermind' behind it.  Sadie is our niece's twelve year old daughter who is a bundle of energy, accomplishments and kindness.
An "A Honor Roll" student, she also excels as an athlete on community softball and basketball teams.  She and her older sister, Abby, have won numerous awards and recognitions as members of a dance/gymnastics troupe.  However impressive these endeavors are, it is her 'kind heart' that is especially endearing.

    Given her energy and creativity, we were not surprised when the above picture appeared on social media last night.  The 'surprise' came when we learned the reason for her entrepreneurial endeavor.
. . . more about that momentarily.  This morning wanting to support her initiative, we drove the few miles to her 'business'.  What we experienced far exceeded the usual table, chair, pitcher and cups that are the staple of juvenile lemonade businesses.

    

"The Boss (in yellow shirt) and her Assistants"

While the idea had originated with Sadie, she had enlisted the help of her parents, her siblings (Luke and Abby), and several friends. I counted five other youth actively assisting her. As the above picture suggests, this was no 'small-time' operation.
And, when we left, we saw this advertisement at an intersection about a quarter of a mile away :

Discussing our experiences and observations afterwards, it seemed to us that several good things were occurring at the lemonade stand.

There was a strong spirit of cooperation among the youth and Daddy Steve was strongly encouraging the efforts by painting and erecting the large sign in the above picture.  No one was  distracted by an electronic device and no unkind words were spoken.  Regardless of the size of their orders, customers were treated respectfully.  The responsibilities of accepting payment and making correct change proceeded smoothly for these young merchants.  As the end of summer vacation nears, these youth undoubtedly could have been enjoying another trip to the pool.  And . . . here is the remarkable part:

They were raising money not for themselves but to assist someone facing a major health and financial situation.

Sadie's 'cash register'

A friend of Sadie's mom recently received a diagnosis of an auto-immune disorder that has caused the loss of her liver and the incurring of extraordinary expenditures.  Without insurance, the family already has medical bills in excess of forty thousand dollars and further expensive procedures remain.  (To learn more, go to Jamie Boisvert's "Go Fund Me" site.)

Sadie's lemonade business occurred because she decided to help someone in need.  At the end of 'the business day', the lemonade stand had generated $253.50.  

No doubt, that caused her to leap for joy  !

Satchel

"HOTTER 'N . . . "

. . . In the event you do not decipher the Southern  drawl . . . the  post title can be translated  "Hotter than . . . ", leaving it up to your personal comparison to complete the sentence.
Nominees that I have heard over the years include: "Hell"; "Hades": "Blue Blazes"; "Whiz Bang"; "a Firecracker", and there are others that will not go into this overall "G" rated blog.

    The heat at this time of the year seems to be a consistent theme in my writing.  Maybe it's a not so subtle way to honor the Winter-time promise of not complaining about Summer-time heat.  Noting or indicating are not the same as complaining, are they?  So here we are in almost mid-August, the time of year that my New Hampshire brother has pledged to remain at some distance from his home state.  The forecast high temp today was only 89* F but in mid-afternoon, I saw 96* on a sign.

  (And as I think of fahrenheit, I remember that a colleague who holds both  DMin and MD degrees said that his daughter had given him that as a nickname. When he inquired Why?, she told him that it was because he has 'so many degrees'.)

   Adapting to the temp has followed varying preferences. Friends and family have posted many pictures of fun in the sun and surf at their favorite beaches. Others indicate their preference for the cooler mountain areas.  We have made several trips to frozen yogurt parlors. Friends indicate that there is less 'stove top' and oven cooking happening at their homes. And, in this part of the world, Air Conditioning units seem to go full time.

    This AC dependency is largely, of course, a "First World" phenomenon. Denizens of many areas would consider us  going 'soft'  when we are without Mr. Carrier's invention. The mother of Detective Mick Belker on the long ago television program, Hill Street Blues, often called him at inopportune times. On one episode when he was booking someone, mom telephoned with the dilemma of how to keep dad cool in their non-air condition tenement.  As Belker's frustration grew, the one being booked interrupted, "Tell her to fill the bathtub with cold water and put him in it."  The detective shot the man a withering look and then repeated the suggestion to mom.

    Well, we did not resort to tubs of cold water, but recently we revisited the pre-AC experience.  The 'keep the windows open for the breeze' approach proved futile. We resorted to recliner and sofa on the lower level.  It took a couple of days for the repairman to arrive. He said  malfunctioning of a particular component was occurring in many units in town.

    Recently I mentioned to a young colleague that prior to the 1960's, most motor vehicles were equipped with  4-60 air conditioners. Noticing that the expression was meaningless, I explained that we opened 4 windows and drove 60 miles per hour. I did not even attempt to explain the vents on the front windows that directed the breeze onto passengers in those seats.

    However you do it, Stay Cool.  In less than six months we will be complaining that it's Colder 'n . . . 

       Satchel

    
   

The Pitcher is a Potter

Have you ever been to Whynot ?  Well, why not ?  Quite likely it's because you knew not that the place even existed.  Located along 'Pottery Highway' near the central North Carolina town of Seagrove 
(another place that has not been on your travels ?), there is little there that you would notice except the  highway sign.

It's almost in the center of the State.

According to local tradition, several years ago residents gathered to choose a name for their 'town'.  After several suggestions had been    rejected, someone recommended, "Why not name it Why Not and let's just go home?"

The Seagrove area is frequently called the "Pottery Capital of North Carolina" and sometimes, less modestly, the "Pottery Capital of the World".  I will leave it to 'authorities' to resolve the matter. . .See Wikipedia for "Seagrove, NC".  But leaving downtown Seagrove and just before the above sign is our favorite pottery, Dirtworks and our friend, Dan the Potter.

A few years ago, Our State Magazine (North Carolina) did a cover story on Seagrove and featured a two-page spread including full page photo of Dan.

{And this is where I indicate that this post is neither a requested nor paid commercial.  As a matter of fact, Dan will probably see this at about the same time you see it. If interested, put "Dirt Works Pottery" in your search engine.}

Ian is our ten year old former next door neighbor who shares my love of baseball. We think that he plays several positions well, especially as catcher or pitcher (See earlier post, "Take Me Out to the Ballgame").

He had expressed interest in seeing Dan's two Saint Bernard 'puppies' , each weighing 125 # + at six months old.  Dan invited us to bring Ian to see the 'pups' and he indicated that while we were there, he would teach Ian to 'throw' a piece of pottery.  The dogs provided affectionate entertainment. 

Pups

 After initial hesitancy, Ian donned a work shirt and set about his first creation.  Dan was a remarkably patient, kind, encouraging teacher and when the venture was complete, the pot was ready for the kiln.  Dan indicated that it would be ready in a couple of weeks.

Teacher and Student

About seventy-one years ago when I was in the second grade, our teacher brought clay for us to make a piece of pottery.  Mine was a purple monstrosity but when I gave it to my mom, she acted as if it were crafted by a world-class potter.  Until her death in 2003, that piece of pottery remained along with other keepsakes on a shelf by her kitchen sink.  I hope that Ian's creation will bring comparable pride to its recipient.

After all,  "Why Not ?"

Satchel

"We Be Cripples, All of Us . . ." and Kintsugi

  Somehow they seem to go together, to  express somewhat the same sentiment . . . a snippet from a Frederick Beuchner novel and a song, Japanese Bowl, that a client sang as part of his therapy reflections last week.  Each contradicts the acclaimed preferred notions of perfection, beautiful is best, unflawed, etc.

  The Beuchner quote (I do not know in which of his novels this first appeared. I  read it in a book of daily meditations taken from his works.):  When the character Gildas struggled to stand up, he lost his balance because one leg had been amputated at the knee. When Brendan caught him, Gildas lamented, "I'm as crippled as the dark world." To which Brendan answered, "If it comes to that, which one of us isn't, my dear ?"  The narrator continued, "The truth of what Brendan said stopped all our mouths. We was cripples all of us. . . .  'To lend each other a hand when we're falling,' Brendan said. 'Perhaps that's the only work that matters in the end.'"  [In Beuchner, Listening to Your Life, meditation for March 24]

    I had not heard Peter Mayer's song before my client sang it in his last session as he reflected on difficult places he has travelled.  The bowl pictured above is an example of kintsugi, an ancient method of repairing broken pottery. (If interested in how the process is achieved, put your search engine on the word.) (The song can be found on YouTube.)
     "I'm like one of those Japanese bowls
         That were made long ago
       I have some cracks in me
       That have been filled with gold

   That's what they used back then
  When they had a bowl to mend
    It did not hide the cracks
   It made them shine instead

   So now every old scar shows
   from every time I broke
   And anyone's eyes can see
   I'm not what I used to be

  But in a collector's mind
  All of these jagged lines
  Make me more beautiful
  And worth a higher price

  I'm like one of those Japanese bowls
  I was made long ago
  I have some cracks you can see
   See how they shine of gold.

   The therapist, Mary Piper, wrote that "almost everyone I know has a much harder and more complicated life than others realize."  And, I can not locate the origin of this reminder: "Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle." Or, as I heard old-timers say in my youth, "everybody's totin' a load."  And the stressors of those loads often press to the breaking point.  It is at those places and times that rather than consigning the broken ones to irrelevance, adopting the art of kintsugi and the understanding that the person is more beautiful without hiding the wounds, "perhaps that's the only work that matters in the end".

    In a world where "we be cripples, all of us", kintsugi can speak a word of HOPE.

      Satchel

"Bye, bye, Betty"

'Selfie' of 'Ms Betty',  my wife and me after church today

        'Ms Betty' is leaving us, moving yet again. She has 'packed up' her worldly belongings several times  over the  years . . .  from her native 'New Hamp-sha', through numerous billetings with her late Navy husband, Len, [see earlier post 'Mr. Len'], then here to North Carolina where we have known her for these past few years, and now on to Georgia to be close to her grand-son, an Air Force officer, and his family.

   Approaching 94, she is a marvel.  Still driving her big Nissan, maintaining her mental acuity, and just being delightful company, already we miss her.  Our church had an 'early birthday and farewell lunch' for her this afternoon.  (We also had the sad occasion of saying 'good-bye' to another couple who in retirement are moving to the NC coast.)  This coming Advent season at church, we shall be reminded yet again of her creative and sharing spirit when the Christmon  tree is placed in the sanctuary.  Betty was the inspiration and instructor in preparing these symbols.  Subsequently, she shared her know-how with other area congregations.

   In our conversation today, she noted that her sense of humor has been indispensable as she has accumulated birthdays.  My customary parting words to her are ,  "You behave yourself !" to which her consistent reply is "Do I have to ?".  Her sister, Eleanor, has frequently visited her from New Hampshire and Betty has often gone there for extended visits.  Several years ago, Betty and Len had planned to fly to Boston and subsequently rent an automobile for New Hampshire. When they learned that car rental agencies would not rent vehicles to persons over 80, they opted to drive the distance from North Carolina to New Hampshire.  So much for being defined by age !

    Among my regrets, I wish that I had recorded her reminiscences.  'Stories' are a huge part of how we define and understand ourselves and the worlds in which we live and have lived.  I hope that her grand-son and family will make lots of videos.  Like her impishly mischievous late spouse, she has lots of good stories  waiting to be told and she tells them well.

    Satchel

"THERE ONCE WAS A WRITER NAMED GIBBS . . ."

       Very few of you who read this post would have known my  friend, Milburn Gibbs, who died recently at age 76.  Throughout his life, he had been a witty, articulate, intelligent man.  That most cruel of diseases, Alzheimer's, had robbed him of much of his identity in recent times.

   In the 1990's,  Milburn returned to his native North Carolina.  During his years in California, he had been Vice-President of a successful family bakery business and wrote part-time for the Long Beach Press-Telegram.  Soon after arriving back here, he interviewed with my brother, Bob, who was then Editor of the local weekly newspaper.  He worked as reporter, columnist, and eventually as Editor of the chain's edition in a nearby town of Liberty.  Over time, he won several state newspaper association awards for his columns.  He also remarried with my brother, also an ordained minister, conducting the wedding with Lala.

     Tomorrow, my brother and I will conduct his Memorial Service.
 (Parenthetically, while Bob and I have each conducted numerous services as ministers, this is only the second one that we have done together.)  The following is the text of what I prepared for that occasion to remember this good man:

"Milburn's obituary noted that 'writing was his passion'.  Doubtless, there were lots of reasons for that . . . his ability to make 'lasting friends wherever he went'; his being able to see importance in what might look ordinary and mundane to others;  his having been an undergraduate history major.

But, I believe, that fundamental was his love of WORDS.  Milburn understood the truth of the saying that "all words are pegs to hang ideas on".  Today as we gratefully remember this beloved 'wordsmith', we can follow the advice of the long-ago German writer, Goethe:  'Be generous with kind words, especially about those who are absent'.

 I first met Milburn in the mid '90's when I was minister in the nearby village of Coleridge and would occasionally drop by The Chatham News to visit with my 'baby brother', the then Editor.  Right away I knew that this new man on the newspaper staff was a real Kar-ak-ter (in a good sense) with his stories of dumpster diving, yard sale bargains, and ability to stretch a dollar bill so far that the Eagle would scream.  It was evident that he knew something about a lot of things and could talk with anyone about most any  topic. He spent many hours in a labor of love writing and    editing a book about the now defunct Staley school in that nearby town.   And I still have (unread, alas) a book he passed on to me, Baseball with a Latin Beat.

Our friendship found a new venue when I came to this town in   2001, and especially when our favorite cafe, Mina Bena's, was here.  Friday night dinners and Saturday morning breakfasts became regular events for a group of friends.  One of our mutual friends remembered how Milburn, Dominique Metreaud, and I would frequently get into punning matches.  The uninitiated try to assert that 'puns are the lowest form of humor'.  We knew otherwise, believing the truth of the Yiddish proverb that  'a wise man hears one word and understands two'.  Or, as someone else wrote, 'punnery is largely the trick of compacting two or more ideas within a single word or expression' , making it a 'rewording experience'.  Anyway, we carried on with great energy and zest, perhaps to the consternation of those around us.  Milburn held a PhD in Punning. Lala recalled years later that these pun-a-thons seemed to become his favorite Saturday morning pastime.  While not exactly a 'word game', Trivia was another pursuit in which he excelled.  Maybe that degree in History from Chapel Hill whetted his appetite and excellence here  as well.

As a former History professor, I know that the subject most comes alive when approached not as trivia but as STORY.   So, I find it no surprise that with his felicity with words,  Milburn knew how to tell a good story.  Now, I have seen the title for Bob's comments, A Good Story, but not his notes, so there may be the risk for some repetition here, but I'll take it.  Ernest Hemingway supposedly remarked that he wrote because he knew a lot of stories and wanted to tell them.    The same could have been said for Milburn.  In his review of the Staley book, Bob wrote of our friend: 'Coming to writing later in life has given voice to a pent-up store of words and stories. There seems no end in sight as he tells the story of the common man with the detail it deserves and in so doing weaves a rich tapestry of life.'  Warren Dixon who published the book noted that 'Milburn Gibbs is the consummate story teller, a connoisseur of creativity.'

We who regularly read his column knew that his favorite topic  was Lala.  When writing about his being overcome with tears of joy during their wedding ceremony, he facetiously noted that the vows could have been addressed to 'sobster and wife'.

On the occasion of his 75th birthday, my wife and I  wrote a poem of sorts.  Rhyming and meter are not my strong suites, but anyway, herewith, An Ode to Milburn Gibbs:

    There once was a writer named Gibbs
      Whose scribblings, while glib, told no fibs.
   At the Chatham News,
       he never took a snooze.
  His prose was at its best when he was  
       At Liberty
    'cause he wrote it 'delibertly'.
  When young, he was a baker
    with his hands in the dough.
  When he made his fortune, he said,
     'I'll bake no 'mo',
      'cause my heart pines
        to return to  Caroline'
  Now he has reached Seventy-Five,
    So we'll tell you no jive
HAPPY  BIRTHDAY, OLD FRIEND !!!

While Milburn was not a  'religious person' in a conventional sense, these strong words seem appropriate for this occasion:  Romans 8:31- 13, 37-39 , and, in keeping with what I believe the point of Saint Paul's words, 'not even Alzheimer's can separate us from God's love.'  " 

We could use more kind-hearted souls like Milburn !
      Satchel