SUNRISINGS

        The sun came up this morning . . . 
            as it has every morning for eons.

December 17, 2017

     I derive comfort from that fact.  Human experience is full of vicissitudes, changes, unpredictables, disappointments with  the net effect of all that uncertainty being often an underlying anxiety:  'We are ultimately not in control. Is there a consistency, a reliability anywhere?'

    Yesterday we began our annual Advent/Christmas time at the beach.  Well before arriving, I begin anticipating arising early and with my cup(s) of coffee watching the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean. It 'restores my soul' like few other experiences.  The rhythm of the tide soothes me in ways that I can not articulate.  About the best that I can explain it to myself is that I reset my life's clock to God's metronome .
It's a necessary contretemps to the pervasive pace and routine of 'modern life'.  Additionally, for me, it allows a perspective that goes beyond the 'right now' (as important as the 'right now' can be ---sometime). 

      Our weather forecast for the next couple of days suggests that seeing the actual sunrise may be problematic because of the clouds.  I find a helpful metaphor there.  Again, the right now can be quite 'stormy' and not just 'overcast'.  The 'theologian' Little Orphan Annie sang it: "The sun'll come up tomorrow ! "  That's HOPE and not wishful thinking requiring a time frame beyond the clock and calendar.  Somewhere in my theological studies I learned  another meaning of "time" other than chronological.  KAIROS (according Wikipedia) means "the appointed time in the purpose of God" for the fulfillment of greater issues than the evening newscast.  With that I hear overtures for Advent, the preparation for  greater meaning than the immediate.

      Watching the sun rise over the waves reminds me to keep the chronos and the kairos in conversation.  Perhaps a better way to say it . . . to allow the kairos to keep the chronos in perspective and not be the entirety of our existence.
      
     Satchel

STAINED GLASS

        We are giving this piece of stained glass as a Christmas gift this year:

13 3/4"    x   19 3/4"

It came not from a commercial establishment but from our 'treasure chest' that we have chosen to share.  Long ago, it was a part of a large window in the old Presbyterian Church in a town 'down east'.
That structure had not been home to the congregation for many years and had suffered fire damage in the late 1960's and the large windows were doomed to the dump.  Fast forward unto the early 2000's when I met local artisan, Sam Zinaich, who began designing and restoring stained glass over 30 years ago.  Sam refurbished and framed the panel and it hung in the window of one of my offices for six years.  When I resumed having but one office, we stored this one.  Its 'sibling' hangs in a window of our house:

As an aside (which he will not know about until he reads this),

what began as a hobby for Sam has developed into a post-retirement business.  He was among the first artists in the "Arts Incubator" project in our hometown.  See his website "Stained Glass by Sam".  At 83, Sam does not allow his "chronological giftedness" to define his  artistic imagination and creativity.  Over the years, he has repaired and refurbished stained glass windows in several churches. My photography skills do not adequately capture the beauty of these creations in his shop:

Since Medieval times stained glass windows have adorned numerous cathedrals and churches in Europe.  The craftsmanship has a long history (see Wikipedia).  American churches early continued the practice of enhancing their worship spaces with pictures depicting Biblical persons and scenes.  The sanctuary of the small Methodist (pre-United Methodist) church of my youth had two super-sized windows.  One of the  churches that I served as Minister in the 1990's has these beautiful windows:

And a small Episcopal parish in the Western part of our state has its entire sanctuary enhanced with Tiffany windows, such as this one:

Over the years, we have added several pieces of stained glass to the decor of our house; so much so that I have occasionally quipped that we have as many panels as some small churches.  In addition to the frame above, here are some of the others:

In one of the Bedrooms

Over the kitchen sink

In my "next life", I want to be a stained-glass artist.

Satchel

          

WORDS, WORDS, WORDS

Or so sang Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady.  "I'm so sick of words . . . show me".   Then there is the ditty learned long ago, "Sticks and Stones may break my bones; but words will never harm me !"  Now, to some degree, we have choice in how we respond (rather than react) to words spoken with hostile intent to or about us .  There is some truth in the aphorism that 'What Saint Peter tells you about Saint Paul tells us more about Saint Peter that about Saint Paul."

I often heard the admonition (not necessarily always addressed to me ) that we were to 'keep a civil tongue in our mouths'. The late journalist, Edwin Newman, long ago urged such in his book, A Civil Tongue.  Civil Discourse defined by Wikipedia is "engagement in conversation intended to enhance understanding  [emphasis added]".  So I searched for a couple more definitions to learn the accuracy of  my understanding : civil & profane. Civil means "polite, courteous, and well-mannered".  Profane by contrast means treating something sacred [like persons] with irreverence, disrespect, abuse or contempt.

Insults rank among the more hurtful of words.  I went to an online dictionary and found this for 'insult': "speak to or treat with disrespect or scornful abuse." Synonyms include "be rude to, disparage ... malign ... call someone names ...hurt,humiliate,wound ".  Insults typically, then, carry contempt and disgust with the probability that these create yet more conflict rather than a prospect for reconciliation.
Yet one more 'definition', Verbal abuse: (also known as verbal bullying) "is described as a negative defining statement to or about the victim . . . thereby defining the target as non-existent. . . . Anger underlies, motivates and perpetuates verbally abusive behavior. "  In over a quarter of a century as a therapist, I have observed many of the ill effects of verbal abuse on the human spirit.

As an historian as well as a therapist, I am not so naive as to believe that verbal warfare, insults, curses levied towards those deemed 'inferior', disrespect, etc. are recent arrivals in society, particularly American society. I do believe that more recently the vitriol and venom come rolling out of our mouths and actions with a ferocity that is more than troubling with a presumed 'end game' to be more divisive than to 'enhance understanding'. [see above re 'Civil Discourse'] 'Where two or three are gathered together, there is potential for disagreement'.  But for there to be 'winners' and 'losers' . . . , even eradication of the 'losers'!  We are in another 'time zone' and , Toto, 'this isn't   Kansas'.  And, 'actions speak louder than words' in how we treat others.  

I think it was  Otto Von Bismarck, the German politician of the  19th century, who originated the phrase "Might makes Right".
If that is true, then God help the underdog, the disfranchised, the minority, those whom Jesus called 'the least among you' who were to be treated with respect, kindness, and equality.

    Satchel

MY 'TOOFIES'

It began undramatically enough  . . . my dentist was explaining

options for dealing with one of my tooth crowns that had a 'challenge'.  Among the choices was to remove the remaining top teeth (I already had a partial denture) and put in a 'full set'.

Among my first thoughts . . . isn't that something that 'old people' do?  Quickly counting my 79 birthdays, I concluded that I may now be among that grouping.   I remembered that dad obtained his full set when he was about 40.

Dentists and I have had a long-term relationship.  As a pre-adolescent, without so much as asking parental opinion, I went by Dr. Marvin Jones's office one afternoon after school to have a procedure done.  And, along with many (most ?) adults, I have vivid memories of wisdom teeth extractions. (OUCH !, 50 years later.)  Someone told me that any time he hears an extolling of 'the good old days', he has a one word rebuttal: "Dentistry".

    Now this !  At a preliminary consultation with the oral surgeon, she assured me that I would be well sedated and have no memories of the procedure.  Was she ever right !!  A Halcion tablet 45 minutes prior to the appointment had me well on the way.  Following the 25 mile drive (of which I remember nothing), I remember arriving at her office, sitting in the chair and the anesthetist preparing the IV.  I have no recollection, however, of seeing the surgeon.  Today when I returned for removal of stitches, she told me that indeed we had had a brief, friendly chat before she began.  If she says so . . .

There are other gaps of time for which I have no memory . . .

the drive back to my local dentist for the dentures (yep, same morning), returning home, my wife going to the pharmacy, and who knows what else !

In the 'now they tell me' category:  From a booklet provided from one of the the Dentist: "Adjusting to dentures or partials is challenging.  You will have to re-learn basic things such as eating and speaking clearly. You may struggle initially, but it will get easier as you adjust to your dentures."

The late Lewis Grizzard commented that surgery would change one's attitudes about narcotics.  Although the strongest post-surgery med that I had was 600 mg of Ibuprophen four times daily, that was                                                                                                         generally adequate.  There followed several days of dietary supplemental drinks with SOFT fare coming later.

     Now, 9 days later,  most of the soreness is gone and I have a tier of 'pearly whites' that attest that I have experienced one of those Adult Rites of Passage.

         A couple of days ago, someone posted a video on Facebook of a woman blowing out birthday cake candles and in the process, blowing out her dentures.  I'll be careful when blowing out candles.  I guess my big challenge will be determining whether I can eat corn of the cob.

Satchel

TO HATE OR NOT TO HATE . . .

       If within the past two or three days you have had access to television, the internet, or any other form of electronic communication, you have seen the pictures.

    Charlottesville, Virginia, home of Thomas Jefferson's University and a symbol of tolerance became the site of an outpouring of hatred reminiscent of intolerance visited upon German cities prior to World War Two.  Article One of America's Constitutional Bill of Rights spells out without equivocation the  "right of the people peaceably to assemble  . . ."  When many of the 'protesters' came armed with high-powered weaponry, 'peaceably' did not rank high in their intentions.  

    It would be easy to fall into a kind of cynicism suggested by the late Eric Hoffer in The True Believer: "hatred is the most accessible and comprehensive of all unifying agents."
After all, the long-ago radio  drama, The Shadow, always answered  the question, "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?" with "The Shadow knows."  Evil (or to render its theological name, Sin) has been around for a long time and likely will remain.

     Is there an antidote or an alternative?  There are those among us who believe otherwise.  

    In the past two days there have been several  Facebook posts of Nelson Mandela's saying that "no one is born hating another person because of the color of  his skin or his background or his religion . . . People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love . . . For love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite."  Somewhat like the song in the  1958 musical South  Pacific ..."You've got to be carefully taught . . ."

    There is that often overused, misused and misunderstood word ---LOVE.  It is not always synonymous with LIKE. Here I am not relying on some kind of soppy, mushy or even affectionate emotion.  Rather, how about words like compassionate, kindness, shared humanity ?  

     Whether one is an adherent, a believer, a practitioner or not, the Judeo-Christian scriptures offer alternatives to the  violence: "He has told you, O mortal, what is good, and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God." (Micah 6:8)
And, perhaps the best known single verse in the Christian Testament: "For God loved the world so much . . ."  If one is to claim "Christian" as an identifier, then loving that which God loves becomes the bedrock.  

     I know; some would dismissively call these platitudes.  Try it. I suggest that it takes courage ---variously defined as 'the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain ...    with out fear' and 'mental or moral strength to venture, persevere , and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty.' With that can come risks and consequences . . . personal, political, relational just to name the more obvious.   The Englishman, Edmund Burke, long ago noted that "the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."

    Hate groups have no legitimate place within the fabric of civilized society !

     Satchel

    

LONG, HOT, DRY SPELL

   

   There has been no significant rain in our town in weeks.  A couple of times the skies looked promising --- many days of 90* temps, occasional dark clouds, and a bit of rumbling, and a splatter.  Wasn't like that earlier in the Summer . . . rains came frequently, lawns remained lush, plants and flowers flourished, days were mild.  Then, it just stopped !  Consequently, there have been many hours spent watering the vegetation.

    I have not heard the "D" word yet spoken (Drought). There do seem to be lots of beach vacation pictures posted on  Facebook; frozen yogurt and ice cream sales are strong; few coats and ties are being worn and lots of folks checking The Weather Channel.  Remembering my vow made in Winter not to complain of Summer heat, I 'plug along' (regional dialect for 'persevere').  

    Recently, realizing  that I have not written a blog post since June 15, I concluded that 'long dry spells' can also find parallels in my creativity and just plain disinclination to write. Perhaps that was part of the imagery that prompted Nat King Cole's song about The Lazy Hazy Days of Summer

     An Episcopal priest friend describing his rejuvenating Nantucket vacation years ago acknowledged that he had reached the  point that "I had nothing to say and no great desire to say it."  

   At times like this I remember the story of someone's asking an old Vermont farmer, "Reckon it'll rain?" to which he answered, "Always has.".  And, now, the tv meteorologists are hinting  for a wet week ahead.

    Can you locate your raincoat and umbrella ?

        Satchel

    

DANNY . . . ALL-AMERICAN TO SENIOR GAMES

 
          "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?"
is a question that I frequently pose . . . directly or in- . . . in these posts.  Another pertinent questions is "How old is OLD ?". As I near my four-score numbered birthday, I delight in reminders that it is younger than it  used to be.

    Most recently the exploits of my long-ago Sigma Phi Epsilon fraternity brother, Danny Sewell, demonstrated the potential that we 'older folk' have.  Granted that Danny has long been physically active as a basketball player only makes his story more remarkable.

    As a college undergraduate from 1956-60, Danny excelled as a varsity player at then tiny High Point (NC) College, earning All American recognition.  Earlier this year, he was inducted into the school's athletic Hall of Fame, his jersey number 32 having been retired years ago.

    Soon after graduation, he and Shelby, the Head Cheerleader
were married.  After 56 years of marriage, Shelby passed away last September.  Together they influenced the lives of numerous persons, especially as educators and  coach. In addition to his 'regular job', Danny was a substitute high school teacher and girls' basketball coach.

     Continuing to play in organized leagues through the years, he has been active in State and National Senior Games, having been a member of several 'Gold Medal' teams.  Earlier this month, his team the "NC 56'ers", won the 80 -84 Category Gold Medal in the National Senior Games Association play in Birmingham, Alabama.
Someone asked him the origin of the team name and he replied that it was the year that they finished high  school.  His daughter posted videos of some of the play and he still has the smooth moves that made him an outstanding collegiate player.

  

From college Senior Yearbook

       One of the teams that the 56'ers defeated was that of singer Pat Boone.  In the picture below, Danny stands behind Boone as he was being interview by a local television station.

         Lacking the necessary tekky skills, I was unable to download a video of Danny's 'moves'.  On You Tube there is, however, a brief video of Pat Boone's team in action against another team.

2017 Senior Games 80-84 Year old Division Champions

          I have not researched the accuracy of a recent 'statistic' that I heard, claiming that the 70 and above age group was the fastest growing demographic in the American population. Whether that is correct or not, there are lots of us and the numbers are growing.  If we have our health, the time for the 'rocking chair' can be a relic from a by-gone era.

     Thanks for the reminder, Danny.

             Satchel

A NIGHT OF GLORY

              In the musical, Music Man, Professor Harold Hill promised the residents of River City that they were going to have a boys band.  Well, in our little city's public high school's Music Department, we have a boys (and girls) band and MUCH more. And, last evening they "strutted their stuff" in grand style and quality.

    
     In addition to the playbill announced in the above program, there were also several solo performances by vocalists and musicians.  Throughout the two hour program, the students and faculty performed with energy, enthusiasm and excellence.  The Band's part was followed by Beginning Guitar, then the Combined Chorus, and concluded with the Jazz Band. The last group in their Blues Brothers hats and 'shades concluded the evening  with several stirring numbers.

Maestro Matt Fry and Chorus

From the School's Twitter Site with appreciation.
Band Director J.C. Harper is 3d from left rear, playing trombone and the trumpeter on far left is actually a "Blues Sister"

         With only 840 students in grades 9-12, the high school's Music Department has a long tradition of performance excellence.  Matt Fry, Choral Director for several years, has consistently had many of his students selected for state and regional groups.  Band Director, J.C. Harper, displayed his own musical virtuosity with hot licks as part of a guitar ensemble then as trombonist with the Jazz Band.  Both these men were quick to offer kudos for individual student performances.

    Last fall's performance of Fiddler on the Roof was an elaborate and highly acclaimed sensation with over 200 persons involved in the production. And last night, Mrs. Rose Pate, who coordinates the non-profit jmarts.org, announced that next year's production will be  In The Heights by
 Lin-Manuel Miranda, creator of Hamilton.  

    She further announced that twelve students have been named JMArts Scholars by the Jordan-Matthews Arts Foundation, each receiving a scholarship to attend a university fine arts camp this summer.  According to their FaceBook site, "scholarships are funded through  individual contributions to the foundation and income from ticket sales for the annual fall musical and some major concerts during the academic year." (In an non-requested endorsement, if you are inclined to support the program, visit the website, jmarts.org or send gifts directly to PO Box 395, Siler City, NC 27344)

     While enjoying the program, I remembered that there are persons who advocate eliminating funding for arts programs in pubic schools. I seriously doubt that anyone at last night's program would be among that short-sighted group.

     Satchel

      

CAPS, GOWNS AND SPEECHES . . .

                                                               

Courtesy of Clipart

                'tis  the Season. . .
                 for Caps and Gowns, Graduation exercises,
proud pictures, looonnnnggggg  forgettable speeches, diplomas, handshakes and hugs.

      Recently, seeing LOTS  of  pictures of smiling graduates, I decided to look in my family 'archives'.   Well, I found some and couldn't locate others.  Seems that it has not been so very long ago that I saw snapshots taken in our backyard at the time of my high school graduation.  There was one with mom, another with dad and my paternal grand-father.  My wife, her class Valedictorian, does not remember an individual picture. Perhaps when I cease looking, they will reappear.

    I did locate those made with my parents at my graduations from undergrad and grad school, another of my daughter with  her grand-parents and me  when she completed high school; another of a son's high school cap and gown; a brother's med school graduation; one of a nephew's college graduation and one of my wife and me with her niece's daughter.

With my parents at college graduation

Graduate School, Seventeen years later.  Guess I was a 'slow learner'  

     If 'commencement' means beginning, then why are these ceremonies at the end of an academic stage . . . whether from kindergarten all through doctoral level?  Probably to signify that the graduate is about to begin  the next stage of their journey of life and, it is hoped, to recognize the acquisition of 'wisdom'.

With my brothers at Den's Med School Graduation 1967

With my boys at Mike's High School Graduation 1975.
Chris graduated in 1977

My daughter's high school graduation.  Can't locate the college version.

    And, why the 'costumes' , as someone has termed the academic regalia of mortarboards, gowns , tassels, and hoods?  By now,  custom and tradition seem to mandate these.  But in the early medieval academic institutions, it seems they were a necessity for heat in often chilly buildings and they seem often to have been worn throughout the term.
Once when I borrowed a colleague's Master's gown, I commented about the cuff inside the sleeve and was told that it originated as a place for aspiring scholars to keep their libations.

    And, about those speeches . . . if your graduation (at any level) was more than ten years ago, do you remember the speaker, or his/her topic?  In the mid-1990's, I was speaker at a Junior High School commencement.  My 'profundities' are long since forgotten . . . by the students, the audience and the speaker.

     And, now, commencements have become  'politicized' with at least one prominent political person having received a hostile reception by the graduates.  Tomorrow's address by the Vice-President at Notre Dame will , it has been reported, be met by exiting Seniors.

    During the years that I taught at a nearby college, I learned that Dr. Hartsock, Chair of the English Department, annually drew an outline of the United States on her program and proceeded to fill in the contours of the states during the proceedings.  Then in the year of her retirement, the graduates requested her to give the Commencement address.  I actually remember a segment of her  speech and I doubt that maps were drawn that afternoon.

     As for the 'utility' of my degree, I often remember the hot Summer of 1962 at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, when several of us who had already had our turns at the rifle range were catching a rare few minutes of rest.  Suddenly, Sergeant Newton emerged in full voice telling anyone who was a "College Grad-ju-ate" to report to him.  Turns out, he needed help tallying the target scores of the company.  No 'Pomp and Circumstance' that day !

      Satchel

COUSINS OR 'CUZZINS'

                                                 Two gatherings

       

April 30, 2017

August 9,  2008

 "I'm having all the nieces and nephews and spouses who can to come for dinner on Sunday night, April 30," Aunt Rachel told me in our telephone conversation.  Just an ordinary family gathering ? Hardly.  For starters, there  are twenty living cousins . . . five having died.  Then, there is the incidental fact that Rachel will be 90 on her next birthday in September.

    "What can we bring?" was the first question.  Initially she said "Nothing". Then she said that anyone who wanted to do so could bring a "side dish"; otherwise, she and her two children and their spouses would be preparing all the food and beverage.  In earlier posts, I have lauded her cooking skills --- especially her chicken and dumplings.  But the magnitude of this . . . well.

    Rachel is sole survivor of twelve siblings, ten of whom reached adulthood.  Two of those had no children, although Aunt Ruth suffered a stillbirth.  Of twenty, fourteen gathered at my cousin and husband's house across the street from Rachel.

   Perhaps like other families in our mobile society, we gather these days primarily for Rites of Passage, notably funerals. Since the older of the above pictures was made (at Uncle Ken's funeral),  mom and Rachel's last sister has died, as have three of the cousins in that picture.  In comparing the photos, I realized that three living cousins in the earlier picture missed last Sunday's gathering. Added were two, including my brother from New Hampshire and a cousin from New York City, who had been unable to attend the earlier gathering.  And three had missed both events.

    So, what did we do?  We  ate, and then ate more.  There was also
an array of sweet delicacies from which to choose, including authentic New York cheesecake that Cousin Carolyn had brought. For my part, I skipped the sweets and had a second serving of Rachel's signature chicken and dumplings.

Rachel welcomes everyone before Brother Bob (far right) returns Thanks

    Then, there were the 'Stories' - - - many 'oldie goldies' from the older cohort of cousins.  Five of us were born prior to World War  II or just as it was starting.  Several were born soon after the war and in the following two decades.   My cousin, Pat, wrote on her Facebook site: "my mom cooked most of the food and everyone enjoyed it and especially enjoyed hearing some of the old stories from the 'older' cousins who actually knew and remembered our grandparents. A lot of us never got to meet them."  Well, Pat, there  were a lot of colorful karakters in our group.

I enjoyed passing on some of the 'family lore'. Pat's husband, Carl, may have been wondering what he had married into.

They started it all . . .  Our grand-parents soon after their marriage.

      Maybe we should do this more often . . .

               Satchel

"That Old Glove Has Some Age on It"

       "You can tell that glove has some age on it," the new client said while examining my office and spotting the 'artifact' on a bookshelf.  "Yes, it's the one I used when I played baseball in high school," I answered.  Embarrassed, he sputtered, "Open mouth, insert foot." "It's o.k.", I assured him. "It is old."

    As a newbie in town in my junior year, I decided to try out for the team as the veteran  first baseman, Robert, had graduated the previous year.  Turns out that I was not the only aspirant to the position.  Joe, knowing that the spot was open, had purchased a new mitt in anticipation of being the starter.  When the coach selected me as Robert's replacement, I struck a deal with Joe and bought his mitt (the one pictured above).

     It Happens Every Spring was a 1949 baseball movie starring Ray Milland as a hapless chemist who discovered a formula that made a baseball repellant to wood (remember wooden bats?!). (The movie is available on You Tube.) The "Every Spring" appeal to "play ball" is real.  My uncle who pitched in the Minor Leagues said that he got the 'itch' to play every Spring.  And, while my playing was restricted to high school, I appreciate the urge. And, I suppose, that was  what brought the old mitt to mind today.  The Major League teams began the season a  dozen or so games ago.

    Our teams in 1955 and 1956 played well enough that we enjoyed the game.  Our coach (all sports) also taught Chemistry, Physics, and French I and II, as well as PE classes.  Students nicknamed him Curly because he was as bald as the proverbial billiard ball.  He had two signs . . . crossing his arms meant we were to bunt and   crossing his legs meant 'steal'.  On separate occasions, I missed both signs . . . once to a reprimand when I was called 'out' on an attempted steal and the other to a mildly sarcastic 'Nice bunt, my Name' when I ignored his bunt sign and hit my only high school home run.

    In my Senior year, we were playing a cross-county rival.  With a runner on first base their batter hit a grounder to our shortstop.  Classic double play setup.  He scooped the ball to the second baseman who caught it, pivoted and threw to me. I stretched, caught the ball which promptly broke every string in my mitt and continued its trajectory.  Curly was not pleased and let me know that ---as if I had 'caused' the situation.  I finished the game with a regular glove and took the mitt to the local shoe repair shop for a retread. My 'career' ended that Summer. The American Legion coach invited me to try out for his team.  My dad told it to me straight: if I were going to college that Fall, I would need to work during the Summer to help meet expenses.

      Several years ago, a therapy client was reminiscing about his father whom he had barely known, since the man had died when his son was five years old.  As the conversation progressed, I learned that his dad had graduated high school in the same year as I, that he had played first base on his school team.  I mentioned the coincidence.  At his next session, he brought in dad's mitt. Except that his father had been a 'lefty' and I a 'righty', the mitt was identical to mine.  At the time for his subsequent session, I had brought my mitt, and I decided that an appropriate 'therapeutic intervention' was to go outside and play catch.

     So, the client called it correctly, it is an old glove, perhaps even nearly an antique.  But that's o.k., I probably am also.

       Satchel

    

IT HAPPENED AT A FUNERAL

        By definition, funerals are not funny.  But while living, we humans possess the capability to perform and witness some pretty outrageous non-funereal behaviors, even in otherwise serious moments.

    I am glad that I was not the officiant who persisted in calling the dearly departed by the wrong name until a family member stood and corrected the egregious error.  A former parishioner told me of his uncle's funeral where the first two speakers were not to be outdone in preaching 30 minute 'Come to Jesus', hell-fire sermons.  When the third man (!) began his turn, the daughter of the deceased stood and plainly told him, "I wish you would shut up and sit down!"

   Years ago, I read Dr. John Killinger's account of leading a funeral procession from a church to a distant cemetery for the interment.  After several miles, he became preoccupied and actually forgot what he was doing.  Passing a shopping mall, he remembered his wife's saying, "The next time you are by Store Name, stop in and pick up X."  He turned on his signal and as he was searching for a parking spot, he noticed a parade of cars with headlights on following him. (In this region, it is customary to have headlights on if in such a parade.)  With aplomb, he proceeded through the parking lot and took the first exit and continued on the journey.  Apparently no one asked him about the blip.   That was somewhat humorous until I almost did a variation of the same thing.  The route to the cemetery was the first leg of the same one I regularly drove on my way home.  With only a tenth of a mile to  spare, I remembered my mission and made a necessary turn.

    My brother conducted last rites for a cousin who had been a long-distant truck driver.  At the time, the funeral home fronted a major highway that carried a lot of truck traffic.  Just as the service was beginning, something inside the casket picked up and broadcast the conversation that a passing trucker was having on his CB Radio. Seemed fitting, given the rapscallion personality of the deceased.

     The late Reverend Bruce McIver grew up in this area but spent his long pastorate in Texas.  I wish that I could have met him because his book, Stories I Couldn't Tell While I Was a Pastor", recounts multiple mishaps during a funeral in a mid-Winter blizzard. Among other near 'show stoppers', one of the deceased friends had a coronary episode after delivering his tribute.  The entire gathering had to sit in silence during the interminable wait for EMS personnel. Once outside, those transporting the casket up the incline to the gravesite, almost slipped and fell.  Then the funeral director, spotting a sag in the tent, attempted to nudge it off with the tip of his umbrella; instead, he punctured the tent, sending ice water down his back.  His subsequent gyrations turned over an electric heater, almost sending it into the open grave.

     This past week, however, I heard a story that wins the prize.  Edna's late husband was a prominent Baptist minister.  Early in his career, he served a small church in the extreme eastern part of our state.  Relatives of the deceased who lived in an adjacent state sent the message that although they would be unable to arrive in time for the funeral, they planned to be present for the interment that would be a 'the old home church', many miles away.
    
     When Tom and the funeral director arrived there, the family was not there, so they agreed to wait a respectable time before proceeding.  At last, a cloud of dust from down the unpaved road announced their coming.  After a few moments, the funeral director told Tom that the family wished to have the casket opened for a viewing and Tom agreed.  Presently, he returned to say that they wanted Grandpa removed from the casket and propped against a nearby oak tree so that they could take photographs.  And, as was apparently then the custom, Grandpa was dressed only from the waist up. Regaining appropriate dignity and decorum thereafter was a challenge.

    If you have a minister, ask him or her if they have such stories that they 'can't tell'. . . yet.

     Satchel

"There's a story there . . . "

    I have just begun reading a new book . . . J.D. 
Vance's, Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis.  While my family did not migrate from the regions of Appalachia and the "Rust Belt" as did the author's own, already I see some parallels between his and many of the people around whom I grew up. That part is still "percolating" for further reflection but one of the sentences that "grabbed" me (in speaking of his grand-mother's sentiment for protecting children): "There's  a story there, though I'll likely never hear it."  (Italics mine)

    Maybe that's a near universal ---  what ?, longing, perhaps.  Are there stories from your own family --nuclear and extended --- that if you knew more of the background and specifics, you would understand a great many matters much more clearly? 

   From my own families, I have some story 'gaps' that I would nominate for 'answers' that likely I will never have: On dad's side: Where did my grand-father (the once aspiring priest) and his bride (the once aspiring nun) live after their elopement; what was dad's  older sister (whom I never met) like; How did they happen to be in White Plains, N.Y. when dad was born ; What 'caused' their divorce and how did they decide who had custody of which child. And for mom's family: what were the backgrounds of her parents and how did they meet; how did losing two children at early ages and a son in World War Two affect the family; how did grand-pa become postmaster in the mill village; what kind of stories did his Civil War veteran father  tell him; and . . . well, I guess the list of questions  could be rather extensive.

   The ancient Carthaginians had a saying to the effect that when an old person dies, it is like losing a library.  My clients frequently lament the untold parts of their legacies.  Yesterday I learned of the death of a close neighbor from years ago.  Over the past 30+ years, our lives had diverged geographically and we met rarely. Remembering the years we had known each other well brought to mind again the awareness that there just are lots of stories that make up the flow of our lives and which because of more immediate cares and concerns tend to be untold. 

     When asked why he continued to write long after his reputation was established, Ernest Hemingway replied that he had lots of stories to tell.  If that  applied to fiction, well, do you have any stories to tell?
         Satchel

NO CHARGE . . .

           Some things are much more than they initially appear. . . like this simple orange dry cleaning ticket.
I came across it recently when rummaging through family "artifacts".  It has become a treasure of sorts, pointing to relationships that were strong and consequently  stabilizing factors in my youth.

     In the early 1950's, my dad and uncle co-owned the dry cleaning plant in the (then) small North Carolina town of Apex.  G.C. Cooper was their father-in-law.  He died in April 1951, approximately two months after the date on the ticket.
I earlier wrote something of my memories of him and my grand-mother in a post, Worth a Thousand Words.  Here I reflect, rather, on the in-law dimension between them and my dad.

     The "N.C." in dad's unmistakeable script, of course, meant "No Charge" and that kind of  generosity was indicative of the warmth and  love of their relationship.  Dad and their daughter had been married almost 18 years at the time of my grand-parents' deaths, but weeks apart.  I was but 13 years old when they died but I had been able to take some measure of their depth and character. I do not know how far they progressed in their formal education; I do know by recollection and family lore that they possessed a generous allotment of wisdom.  

    As frequently happened with young couples of their generation, my parents eloped to a neighboring state.  Upon their return to mom's parents' house, dad asked timidly, "should I run?". To that , his new father-in-law replied, "I think you have run enough already."  When I made my appearance about  five years later in another state, mom in her correspondence with her parents extolled the beauty of her first-born. She and dad returned to North Carolina a month or so later and upon  seeing me for the first time, grand-pa teasingly told mom "Every crow thinks hers is the blackest", which much later I learned is a paraphrase of a Talmudic proverb. Dad acknowledged that as a young man, his temper sometimes prompted his using colorful word choices, until one day, grand-pa simply said, "Frank, you are too intelligent to have to resort to using those words."

     Speed (his nickname because of his slow locomotion) read widely.  As a child, I remember mom's having a copy of Les Miserables that she had received from her father.  Mom read widely despite having but attended but seven years of public school.  She was very proud of her GED, earned after her three sons were adults. My parents' love of reading was passed on to their children and now the grand-children continue the tradition.

     In the early years of marriage, dad worked in the village cotton mill, as did his mother-in-law.  Many times, he recalled, she would come by his machine and have him share a soft drink break. Three times weekly for eight to ten years, one of dad's dry cleaning routes included the small mill town where my grand-parents lived.  Often, he (and I when I rode with him in summers) would be invited to have lunch (or as it was called at that time and place Dinner.  The evening meal was Supper.) My grand-ma was a cook extraordinaire.  Memories of her chess pie remain vivid.  Never did dad charge them for their dry cleaning.

   On re-reading those last sentences, I do not mean to give the implication that theirs was a kind of financial quid pro quo... quite the opposite was the case. Cost and indebtedness were never features of the relationship.

    In her early 60's, my grand-mother had cancer. Long-term care facilities were not commonplace and even if they had been, I doubt that their children would have consented to their living in one.  Rather, her children cared for them on a rotating basis ---in their own homeplace and in the siblings' respective residences.  So it was that in 1950, my grand-parents came to live with us for an extended time.  During that time, she taught me  the hand alphabet for hearing impaired persons, some of which I still remember.  My youngest brother has sketchy memories of grand-pa's taking him along on his regular visits to Mr. Levy Pendergrass's store during that time.

                  Grand-pa Cooper with two of his sons-in-law . . .
              Wade Baker (center rear) and Dad and two grand-sons.
              (pre-1948 . . . because "Baby Brother" not yet born)

      While dad inscribed "N.C." on the ticket, the memories are Priceless.

My Cooper grand-parents



Satchel