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

"Just the facts, ma'am"

     Sergeant Joe Friday (aka Jack Webb) of the Los Angeles P.D. on the long-ago tv program Dragnet immortalized the expression, "Just the facts, ma'am".   

   I find definitions helpful; so, from some on-line dictionaries:
FACT: "a thing that is indisputably the case"; "something that has actual existence"; "a piece of information that has objective reality" about which there would be unanimous agreement.  By contrast, OPINION is "a view or judgment about something not necessarily based on fact of knowledge"; "... it may deal with subjective matters"; "a belief or conclusion held with confidence but not substantiated by positive knowledge or proof"; "opinions are beliefs not necessarily based on facts."  

    In my counseling office, I regularly hear opinions expressed as if such were fact.  As a very elementary exercise in identifying the  difference, I sometimes point to a lamp on a side table and indicate that we can agree that the object is indeed a lamp.  Then I continue by insisting that we can agree that it is a beautiful lamp. (Actually, in my opinion it is not; but that is another matter.)

    Beyond those differences, I believe that FACTS have to do with another huge matter: TRUTH: "that which is in accordance with fact."  In a courtroom, the bailiff charges the witness to "tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth."  Over time, I have learned that this phrase is not a redundancy but a continuum, necessitating each component. Deliberately omitting or over-emphasizing either one can produce a caricature of Truth. Then, there are LIES : "Intentional false statements."  The Reverend Doctor Richard Lischer in a recent sermon in Duke University Chapel (January 15, 2017) said of lies, "their persistence and perversity can wear you down."

     Currently, a fact and what makes something such is a   hot-button political debate with expressions such as alternative facts and fake news having entered the public vocabulary. Recently, a counselor to the President, acknowledging that he tells falsehoods, nonetheless said that those were less important than the many things he says that are true.  Expressing opinion or lies as if they were incontrovertible fact demanding universal agreement ---whether done consciously from whatever motivation or done without awareness --- forms the base of much controversy and/or damage,  whether in the realm of politics or personal relationships.

   Recently I read something to the effect that knowing how to counter falsehoods means knowing how lies benefit those  telling them. Or, as Edwin Friedman, an eminent therapist once  observed . . . we cannot  replace by data, opinions that were not created by data in the first place.

   Truth-telling can be dangerous and unpopular. To tell the truth, Lischer noted, can be "when the trouble starts. . . . When I was a kid, my mother always told me what your mothers told you: 'As long as you tell the truth, you won't get in trouble.' Our mothers lied. . . . You see, it's just the opposite. Tell the truth and that's when the trouble starts."  Just ask John the Baptist or Jesus.

     And, that's just a fact.

         Satchel

SAVE YOUR OWN SAILOR SUIT . . . or . . .

     The house was ablaze beyond control.  In the early 1930's, Clarence Emory Williams and his older brother, Alton, each had little boy sailor uniforms that at first glance were indistinguishable.  Sensing that his prize outfit was imperiled, Clarence Emory dashed into the house to the bedroom that he and his brother shared and retrieved a uniform from the closet.  Once outside, he realized that it was not his outfit that he had rescued. Back inside he went, hung that sailor suit back into the closet, grabbed his and hastily exited the burning structure.

    Allowing for child-like immaturity and fear in this true story  (often repeated by my mom), it can still be a microcosm of an attitude that currently prevails . . . "I have mine; you're on your own !"

    David Brooks, columnist for the New York Times, recently wrote The Road to Character in which he compared  "Resume Virtues" and "Eulogy Virtues". The former is a highly individualistic, "looking out for # 1" extolling of the "self made person".  The latter incorporates an awareness of and appreciation for "our being in this together".  Individuals and societies are both composites of the two; however, Brooks insists that a huge imbalance currently prevails with a large tilt towards self-centeredness.  Allowed to persist and prevail, the imbalance carries the probable dissolution of the notion of community, as well as long-venerated virtues such as kindness, compassion, caring for the marginalized and the stranger. (The book is too rich and nuanced to be encapsulated in this post. It is not an "easy" or "quick" read but certainly a worthy undertaking. Bill Gates wrote a succinct review.  Google his review.)

    When the "Founding Fathers"  had affixed their signatures to The Declaration of Independence, Benjamin Franklin observed, "Gentlemen, we now hang together or we shall hang separately." . . . somewhat akin to recognizing that both our 'sailor suits' are our concern.

    Satchel

"Weather-related delivery delays . . . "

7:02 a.m. on January 7, 2016,  in Winston-Salem, N.C

       We have had (are having) a "weather event" in North Carolina.  Much of the state has been under a Winter Storm warning.  There are 7-9" of snow on the ground here and it is still snowing.  Other parts of the state had been alerted to comparable amounts but a shift in atmospheric conditions changed that primarily to ice and sleet. Raleigh's failed forecast of 6-8 inches led one person to complain that local meteorologist "have as much in common as 2016 pollsters".

  Snow, ice, or sleet all make driving even more treacherous for us winter-driving-challenged-Southerners. Two-hundred-sixty (260) automobile crashes had already been reported in the state by early this morning. The Raleigh News and Observer's website today has this story: "N&O experiences weather-related delivery delays" and gave assurances that "our carriers are making every effort to deliver your newspaper as quickly and safely as possible."  Reading that evoked a 40 year old memory.

     While teaching at a small liberal arts college in the Eastern part of the state, I had an early morning newspaper delivery route as a way to supplement income.  The subscription rates have long since disappeared from recollection but I do remember that the option to pay the monthly fee was considerably less that paying on per diem basis which was something like fifty cents per copy.

    Snow storms in Eastern North Carolina are relatively rare but when a big one occurs, life is pretty much paralyzed for a time.  Such it was sometime in the late 1970's. When the courier dropped off my bundles early that morning, the roads were already coated / glazed with significant icing.  After a few minutes of folding papers, I concluded that safety and common sense needed to prevail and I went back into my house. And, soon, I received a call demanding to know "where is my newspaper" and I answered (kindly, I hope) that it was on my front porch and he was free to come pick it up.

     But the biggest "Wow ! Can you believe that !" came at the end of the monthly collection period when a colleague, Dr. S, remitted her fee and instead of the monthly amount had deducted for the missed delivery. I suppressed the urge to rebill her at the daily rate for the number of deliveries she had received. Perhaps all that snow had done something amiss in her humanity circuitry. I remember deciding that if she need that  50 cents that much, she needed it more than I did.
   
   Stay warm, dry and safe if possible.
      
       Satchel

     

"Welcome back to Reality" . . .

     . . .   such was the subject line of an email I received yesterday from a client who was unsure of the time of 
his first therapy appointment of the new year.  I will be interested to know what prompted that title . . . was it something that occurred in his  world over the holidays or just the return to the 'routine' after all the flurry and flourishes of Christmas and New Years?

   A couple of years ago, I wrote a blog post that I called "January-itis", basically bemoaning the season's 
cold, miserable weather conditions.  Well, this one had less than an auspicious beginning   . . . no snow where I live but gray drabness and plentiful rain.  My brother in New Hampshire sent a picture of a snowfall that appears to be a foot deep.

    With a client coming at 7 a.m. tomorrow, I opted to make my 65 mile commute this afternoon (January 2). Traffic was heavier than usual. Then came the realization that 'vacation', 'holiday', time away has come to an end for most Americans. And tomorrow is "back to reality".  An area journalist has called this "the joyless season" and "the cold depressing season of 'now what?' " and our "bleakest 31 days". (Josh Shaffer, Raleigh, NC News and Observer, January 1, 2017).  

     As a therapist, I have seen many clients who deal with Winter Blues or Seasonal Affective Disorder.  Among the  generally efficacious methods of dealing with that malaise is LIGHT,  literally and metaphorically.  Offsetting January's lethargy and tug towards sloth and indolence requires what Mr. Shaffer termed a "vow to resist January".  Reading his article prompts my curiosity to search for activities other than veg-ing and napping.  Reaching for the 'heroic' --- like lose 20 pounds this month or go to the gym twice as often --- need not be the focus.  Maybe something as mundane as reading a long-postponed book or something as archaic as writing letters to someone(s) with whom contact has  languished. 

    It may just be that 'reality' does not have to mean 'boring'.

           Satchel 


   

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