"IF IT WERE NOT ATTACHED" . . .

         Dad was a kind, truthful man, not given to saying deliberately hurtful things to his sons.  Early in my life, however, he identified a .  . . what? . . . habit, trait, behavior, . . . that has persisted throughout most of my now 80 years.  Consequently, 'age' cannot carry the explanatory freight.  It occurs with annoying regularity, never at a 'convenient' time and often  involves somewhat expensive items.  More often than I would like to acknowledge, his observation raises its troublesome truth: "Son, reach behind you and see if you have your butt.  If it were not attached to you, you would lose it." Dad died in 1992 and I seem still to 'honor' his observation frequently.

    Last week it was a credit card which I finally located on the front seat of my wife's automobile which I had driven to the pharmacy instead of my own.  Several months ago, I could not locate my new  bi-focals.  My wife found them a couple of days later at the bottom of the hall closet where they had fallen when I was fetching the dog's outdoor paraphernalia .  Keys ? Regularly !  Today, it is the hearing aid for my left ear.  The tiny computer in that apparatus costs more than the  laptop with which I am  typing this.

   About 1 p.m. I discovered the 'absence' and called my Audiologist in a nearby town.  Her office telephone answering machine notified me that Friday's closing time is noon, with a Monday morning reopening.  Well, by that time I will be well into my office appointments.  My clients may have to speak loudly.  Thankfully, my hearing is not greatly restricted.  And the hearing aid is insured, so that reduces the stress somewhat.  While there are scheduling and monetary components , those are not  what make the entire matter bothersome.  

   Over the years, some things have been 'found'; others, not so, notably a wallet some 18 +  years ago.  Once after attending a movie, I discovered that I no longer had my check book.  After providing identification, the theater manager returned it.  On our wedding trip, my wife and I spent the second full day retracing our steps of the first day in search of the checkbook.  "What will be next ?" is a troublesome specter.  

   Maybe I should organize a 'search party'; after all I have been away from our house only briefly today.  Or, perhaps offer rewards for those who find my prizes.  So, if you spot it, it looks like this . . .  only for the other ear.

     

                          Satchel

PITCHIN' HORSESHOES

           

    Does a RINGER count five points or three ?
       Do you give three points or one for a LEANER ?
          If my ringer tops (lands over) yours, does that cancel yours or count double for my throw?
            Is a game 11, 21, or 40 points ? And, if we are playing the 21 version and one team scores an 11-0 advantage, is that still called a 'skunk' and a win ?

  These are not esoteric considerations for the serious horseshoe pitcher.  There now is actually a  NHPA ---which i assume means 'National Horseshoe Pitchers Association'.  Their 'rules' vary significantly from those that informed my early playing, one particularly noteworthy variation being the actual 'instruments' of play.  I was an adult before I saw the 'regulation  shoe' that no self-respecting equestrian would consider wearing. These weigh approximately two and a half pounds whereas actual horses' shoes vary in size and weight, like the facsimile above. The game likely was 'invented' by blacksmiths and ferriers who provided and fitted the original footwear.

   The origin of my love of the game probably  goes back to the Christmas gift of a  Ring-toss set when I was  three or four years old.  When I was early teen ager, I was either 
"'fair to middling' " or dad was a very indulgent parent.  He would take me along as his pitching partner for the frequent Sunday afternoon games with the men  gathered at Mr. George Brooks's yard.  He encouraged me to develop my own 'style' of gripping and throwing. I never mastered his technique of holding it on the side and spinning it towards the stake. I preferred the 'hold it by the back and toss end over end' method.  

    My most memorable game occurred in the 1970's at a faculty picnic.  I was paired against my colleague Norbert. He threw a double ringer ... worth 10 points.  To my amazement and his consternation, I also threw a double ringer which by our rules counted 20 points.

   I seldom play now. Not many folks have 'pits' and ,anyway, my shoulder protests the weight and motion.  There was a time when I played reasonably well. A kind of horseshoe tournament once was a staple of our family Thanksgiving gatherings.  (Now the game of choice seems to be BeanBag toss. )

Waiting to follow brother Dennis's pitch.  Family Thanksgiving gathering
when our shoulders and arms were younger.

    
    And I have known some fierce competitors. My cousin Clarice's husband, Roy, was essentially unbeatable, as he often let us know.  My fraternity brother, Jack Sugg, won the intramural horseshoe  competition in the late  1950's. (I learned this a few years ago when I came across a journal that I wrote intermittently in those years.)

    According to an old superstition, horseshoes are a symbol of good luck and were (are) placed in prominent locations in homes.  Well, I've 'lost my horseshoe' for playing but think it would be great fun to pitch one more ringer.

      Satchel


   

     

MOM'S 100TH BIRTHDAY

     

'CHATHAM COUNTY, NORTH CAROLINA, April 6, 1918...
        Grover and Verdona Phillips Cooper announce the birth of their fifth daughter whom they have named Mildred Leona."

   So might the local newspaper have noted her arrival.  Five other children came later.  Ten of the twelve grew to adulthood ---two having  died in their early youth. Her early years were spent on a hard-scrabble farm where her dad scratched out a living.  In time, he became postmaster in the mill village and his wife  acquired employment in the cotton mill.  

   At a young age (she always said that she was "mature"), mom eloped with an eligible bachelor in the village. She and dad had been married for almost  60 years at the time of his death.

Earliest photo of mom as an adult
probably mid to late 1930's

        Finding employment during the Great Depression of the 1930's was a challenge for dad. Eventually, his dad helped him secure a railroad job in Montgomery, Alabama.  In time his pregnant wife joined him and I was born in that city. Soon thereafter they returned to North Carolina.  Being proud of her first  born, she apparently had regaled her parents with stories about him.  Grand-pa Cooper on first visit apparently was less impressed with his grand-son's beauty and quoted an ancient Talmudic proverb: "Every crow thinks hers is the blackest."

At Kenan Stadium
Chapel Ilill,NC
Late 1930's-early 1940's

    Despite their considerable native intelligence, due to various circumstances, neither of our parents completed high school. That experience caused them to emphasize the importance of formal education (while never becoming 'uppity') .  Mom was proud of her GED  and the LPN degree that she received after her three sons were adults. I often comment that I was a college graduate before realizing that I had an option.  

   Frugality, thrift and the integrity of hard work remained life long values for our parents. But they were never miserly.  Whenever I had 'payday' in my high school jobs, she always insisted that a portion of that was for savings.

    While not especially verbal about her love, mom  expressed her love and affection through her cooking, and she was 'world class'. Chris (pictured below with mom and her oldest grand-daughter) always liked to visit because, as he said, "Grand-ma cooks old-fashioned."   Sunday 'dinner' (eaten after church) usually featured fried chicken or roast, fried okra, potato salad, a made from scratch cake, sweet iced tea, and other items since decreed 'unhealthy'.  And, special occasions such as Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas  and birthdays . . . well, 'you had to be there'.  In the 1960's, mom took her skills to the local public school where she managed the cafeteria for several years.  I am including a sampling of her recipes at the conclusion of this blog.

    The younger of my two brothers also wrote of her cooking in his weekly column in the local weekly newspaper:

"Mamma could cook. She had to in an effort to feed three bottomless pit sons and a hard-working husband, as well as herself, as well as the crowd of relatives who dropped by often, the neighbors who came over, the friends we boys brought home from high school and college, the families she fed when their luck got down or there was a death in their family."

    For  all her other positive attributes and  achievements, mom particularly excelled in one area:  'Grand-parenting' ! She showered her eight grand-children with affection, advice, candy from her not-so-secret hiding place,  modeling kindness for one's neighbors, droll humor, sage sayings and . . . well, ever so much more.
Family lore tells how their oldest grand-daughter (my daughter) in early attempts to say 'grand-ma' and 'grand-pa' did not master the 'grand' portion; thereafter, they pretty much answered to 'ma' and 'pa'.

With Chris and Kirstin

She believed that it is a grand-parents duty to spoil .

    After dad's death, mom lived alone for several years until a surgery-gone-awry left her unable to walk.  She made the decision to move into a nearby nursing home.  Among the residents were many friends of her age cohort  so she had a 'ready made' social life until her passing in 2003. 

Late 1970's

    So, she would have been 100 years old on April 6 were she living today. 
   100 !! Without being 'soppy  sentimental' (as she might have termed it), I have thought several times this week of the late 'Bear' Bryant's long ago "reach out and touch someone" commercial for AT&T : "Have you called you mama today? I sure wish I could call mine."

    Satchel

Mom's 'Cold oven cake recipe' in her own handwriting:

Tomato Pudding:
  1 quart tomatoes           4 slices of bread
  1 egg                             1/3 cup sugar
   Salt and Pepper to taste
   Mix above ingredients, pour into buttered pan, cook at 350*
for one hour. Sprinkle top with cheese, cook until melted.







    

"Amount to something . . ."

       His small midwestern town of the 1950's  offered little encouragement to 'be all you can be'.  Then a family with a less provincial perspective moved into the area.  Recognizing the young man's native intelligence and potential, the older man encouraged him to "amount to something" with his life.  There was nothing in the admonition that belittled, that demeaned the ambient culture.  Rather, it was encouragement and recognition that someone believed in him more than he possibly believed in himself.

    En-courage has been defined as 'putting heart into someone'.
The older man was not trying to 'clone' the teen-ager nor attempting to have him be someone other than who his own potential could achieve.  Consequently, the young man experienced a new  'Hope' for his future.

   Thereafter his life fulfilled the promise inherent in a long ago song "I'm just an old chunk of Coal" by Billy Shaver: "I'm just an old chunk of coal but I'm gonna be a diamond some day. I'm gonna grow and glow till I'm so  blue perfect ".  Because of his professional and personal life, I know that countless lives were changed for the better.  

    I wonder how many others in this life need someone to 'believe in them' . . .
      
       Satchel

"I NEED TO MOW THAT DOOR . . . "

         "When my teenage daughter threatened suicide, my world turned upside down", the client said.  "For a couple of years we had known that she was 'troubled' but figured that, for the most part, these  behaviors were part of being an adolescent."  That all changed on the Spring afternoon when the daughter specifically threatened self-destruction and fled their house.  Disappeared !   Several hours later,  she called from a friend's house, talking nonchalantly as if the events of a few hours earlier had never occurred. Somehow, they were able to coax her home,  alerted the police who transported the daughter to a local hospital where a child psychiatrist determined that indeed for her safety hospitalization was mandated.

    The days that followed became a blur of tasks, details, 'have to's' with many routine chores falling unattended, such as mowing the grass. Consequently, the front lawn which was already grown up at the time of the tumult, had grown well past the point of needing attention.  Three days after the crisis, entering the  the driveway  the father in his peripheral vision caught a glimpse of the high grass.  Parking the automobile in front of the large sliding  garage door, he remarked, "I need to mow that door". The incongruity of having conflated the two scenes  prompted his immediate laughter.

    When the client told that story, I immediately knew that stress
does funny (not necessarily humorous ) things to our brains.  I thought of that story this week when two other clients who have recently experienced family deaths told me that they were having difficulty remembering and feared that it indicated 
the onset of some form of dementia.  In their cases, such a diagnosis is highly unlikely.  

   Loss is usually experienced on several levels of our very being ---including physical functions.  Among the effects can be short-term memory issues.  It also follows that if grieving is allowed and expressed, at some point memory and other brain functions return to 'normal'.  Along the way, basic A,B, C's of self care need to be observed:  adequate rest, good nutrition, etc. 

   Occasions of 'mowing the door' I hope will not aggravate our grieving.
     
   Satchel

The story is true.  Details have been modified for privacy/confidentiality.
  
      

MY FRIEND DIED . . .

With J.R. in younger days

      Just a few weeks ago in a blog post on male friendships,  
I wrote of my long time friend and soul brother, J.R.  We first met in the Fall of 1960 when at Boston University School of Theology.

Fall 2016 visit to his West Virginia home

   Last October when  we were together with him and his wife,  I read him some of my writings and he offered strong words of encouragement to continue and expand my efforts and to send him pages that I wrote.  Being minimally interested in the world of technology (specifically computers), he asked that I call him when I had published and he would have his wife to print it from her computer.  So, on a Sunday evening I wrote and published the piece. The following morning, I called him to let him know that it was 'out there'.  From the moment he said 'Hello', I knew something was amiss.  He had been diagnosed with metastatic cancer and advised that he probably had a year or year and a half remaining.
 Just a couple of years ago, his oncologist had told him that he was free of the Stage IV lymphoma diagnosis.

   Facing what he called this "next chapter", he told me of two books that he intended to read as he died with intentionality.  Ironically, he had given me a copy of one of them in  1997 ---Stephen Levine's A Year to Live --- with a personal inscription.
The other book had been recommended to him by his long time mentor, Father Thomas Keating.

   We spoke by telephone on two later occasions and agreed that we wanted 'face to face' time.  So, when I called a few days later and his son-in-law, a highly respected physician, indicated that his condition was deteriorating, we made  plans to drive there on Friday, February 23, the day after my 80th birthday.
For years we  kept the tradition of calling each other on birthdays.
When my telephone rang early on the 22nd, I was not prepared for the news.  His daughter told me that he had died during the night.

   This, of course, is not my first experience with grief . . . but it is, what ?, different.  And, my clients often teach me about the many faces of grief, including not to suppress it, not to be impatient with it, and that we never 'get over' it but eventually . . . again, what ? . . . adapt, move on, etc.  I just had a new 'nominee': 'Remember' and remember with gratitude that our lives intersected in the long span of Time.  As Bob Hope said, "Thanks for the memories!"

Beethoven quote that J.R. kept on his bookshelf

    Satchel

17

           1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17  !!!

And these Floridians are but the most recent ones.  They all had names and futures (many 'bright' ones) , and they all had families who loved them and they all had the right to live.  And none of them should have their passing sullied by the rancorous, vile, hateful words that are passing for discourse in the aftermath.

It has often been said that "violence is as American as  apple pie", harkening to the 'Wild West' and 'the right to bear arms'.  Do military Drill Instructors still demand of their trainees as was done in 1962 when I was in Basic Training: "What's the spirit of the bayonet?"  To which we were dutifully to chant: "To kill!" Okay, that was military training but I think the same question can be posed for AK-14's.  They are for killing and as is often pointed out, they are not for hunting wildlife.  Rather restricts the potential 'targets'.  

Which brings me back to Florida and the many other tragedies  in recent years.  Every time the same mantras, the same platitudes ('thoughts and prayers') get spouted: 'it's not a gun issue; it's a societal matter'; it's a mental health issue; guns don't kill people ...people kill people.'  On it goes.  I do not disparage 'thoughts and prayers' 
         . . . but something else is lacking.

    In the meantime,  17  !

        Satchel

MALE FRIENDSHIPS

     THE  FRIENDLESS AMERICAN MALE . . . the title of a book somewhere on my shelves.  If you are a male, how many true friends . . . not the same as acquaintances . . . do you have?  O.K., so what is the definition ? 'Someone whom if you call at 2 a.m. , they will come.' ? 'Someone with whom  a lot of verbals are unnecessary in order to 'understand' each other.' ?  Much has been written about friendships in general and about how male friendships differ greatly from those of women.  The stereotype seems to be that men are more  proficient and  comfortable talking about topics external to ourselves: "Who won the ballgame?"; "Think it's going to snow?"; "What is the best car for gas mileage?"; etc.  And, as a male and as a psychotherapist who listens to many men struggle with articulating their 'inner worlds', I know that there is validity in the  stereotype.

    In his 1992 book, Wrestling With Love: How Men Struggle With Intimacy, psychologist Samuel Osherson noted that "research on men's lives reveals  that male  friendships are often noteworthy more for their absence than their presence.  (p. 301) He related some of the 'reasons' men put up walls against real contact with other men. (302 ff) 

   For now, I have been reflecting on my own history of friendships, which ones continue, which ones were important at a time and now for whatever 'reason' seem less so.  (At this point I think it important to distinguish between 'friendly' which one on-line dictionary terms being "kind and pleasant" and 'friendship' which denotes a non-sexual bond of affection and trust.) The 'realities' of career, family, geographic distance, deaths, as well as emerging differences in interests have contributed to the diminishment of once strong attachments.  From public school days, I remember few friendships that have endured. On those rare occasions when we are together, there is a friendliness, a warmth, a happiness to be seeing each other again, delight in sharing memories (at least most of them).  More relationships have endured from college, seminary and graduate school years. Naming names can raise sensitivity matters . . . like, why was so and so not included? etc.  So, without intention of excluding anyone whom I cherish, I want to note some recent reunions with men with whom I can also speak of soul matters. 

   As an undergraduate at a small liberal arts college, I joined a national fraternity, while still being 'friendly' with guys in other 'Greek' groups.  In the 58 years or so since graduation, I still have contact with several of my 'brothers'.  Even so, because of a confluence of various circumstances,  a half dozen of us maintained 'friendships'. . . Charles, John, Bill, Bob, Don, and myself.

     Bob died a couple of years ago.  A United Methodist Minister and genuine 'good man', he personified kindness, support, confidentiality, and many other virtues that make FRIENDSHIP possible.  Shortly before Bob's  death, Charles and I visited him and there was great delight in each other's company as we reminisced but also spoke of DEEP Matters, including what was acknowledged to be our last mortal time together.  In great understatement, his obituary noted that "Bob will be dearly missed."

With Bob (seated) and Charles, Fall 2014

      This past Fall, we other five decided to spend time together.

Don (on left), Me, John and Bill
December 2017

     Before that could occur, however, Charles experienced a stroke that for now has reduced his activities.   Professionally, we have had a great diversity of careers. After years in Journalism, City Management and then Congressional lobbyist, Charles ('Charlie' as an undergraduate) began a distinguished career as a writer.  (See his website, www.charlesfprice.com). Don went directly into the military after college and is a Retired Navy Officer; John was a United Methodist Minister and District Superintendent; Bill enjoyed forty years as Director of Greensboro (NC) Historical Museum. After several years as History Professor and then United Methodist Minister, I have been a full time Psychotherapist since 2001.  During 2018, we each will have our 80th birthday.  

   I met J.R. in September 1960 when we were students at Boston University School of Theology.  Over that time, we have been often together and supported each other through many of life's currents and cross-currents.   Many years ago, at his wedding rehearsal dinner, I offered this as part of a toast: "J.R. and I are brothers; we just have different parents."  My dad died in 1992; J.R. and Bev drove round trip in one day from Charleston, WV to N.C. for the funeral.  A graduate of the distinguished Blanton-Peale Institute, he recently retired after a long career as a psychotherapist.  While we sometimes  diverge widely in our views, I know that we can (and do) speak truthfully and vulnerably together.  When we speak by phone or visit in person, there is no awkward 'now where were we ?'; rather, a 'now as we were saying'.

With J.R. near Wytheville, Va.   Fall 2017

    These men (and others) have enriched my life in countless ways and I like to think that I have provided a measure of friendship to them as well.

     Satchel












   

THE 'SUNNY SOUTH' ? ! . . .

    Last week when we had only a 'dusting' of snow along with single digit temps, I had a chance brief conversation with an 'old timer' in the parking lot of a grocery store.
I made a 'throwaway' comment about the weather and he bemoaned, "I moved heah from New Hamp'sha to get away from this. I thought I was moving to the  'sunny South'."  I wonder what he is thinking of today's 'event' which began about 8 a.m. today and is still going strong now at almost 4 p.m.

   A few minutes ago, I stepped onto our deck and measured 6 3/4 "  on the railing.  According to the Weather Channel, we can expect the storm to last until 9 tonight.  Now, before some of you in more frigid zones 'tut-tut' , remember, you know what to expect in Winter.  Last week-end the temps here were in the mid-70's.  This abrupt change constitutes 'cruelty'.  Even as this system approached, meteorologists were advising that there was no need to stock up on the traditional 'milk and bread' because this would be minor and of short duration. A snowfall in excess of 1-2" is a major event for us. Now the tv newspeople have a grand old time showing road conditions and institutional closings.

   Knowing that a storm was nearing, I cancelled my Wednesday client appointments and scurried home last night  (Tuesday). Only as the system moved closer did we begin to hear hints of the potential depths. Consequently, I am safely in my home with my wife, our dog and  ample coffee, hot chocolate, and meals rather than being alone in our office building had I opted to challenge the forecast and remain there.

    There is something almost magical about the quiet that accompanies a snowfall. Of necessity, life assumes a slower tempo. Naps become a 'basic' rather than 'luxury' and I may soon follow the dog's example. Apparently, there are a few brave souls  driving due either to obligation or fool-heartedness.  I am not among their number. Southerners' inability to navigate on snow and ice has become the stuff of considerable jest.  Several years ago, I did a 360* on a snow covered rural road without injury either to me or the automobile.  I said, " 'Thanks', and Lesson learned!"  

   Our small town is  scheduled for mandatory water restrictions beginning this week-end.  I wonder what effect (if any) the eventual melting will have on that circumstance. Drought conditions typically occur during Summer's furnace. 

    Friends and relatives are posting photographs of children playing in the snow . . . making 'snow persons', sledding, etc.  My wife and I decided at lunch (there really was no need for discussion; it was unanimous) that Tommy's sled will remain under the house despite a perfect sledding hill out front.  Long gone are the college times when we 'borrowed'  trays from the school cafeteria for sledding down the perfect campus hill. March, 1960, remains in the lore of those of us 'of a certain age' when it SNOWED on each of the first three Wednesdays of the month.

  But for those of us now of disinclination to venture out, there is consolation in knowing that the season of the Jonquils is just around the calendar's turning . . . even in New Hamp'sha .

Noon on January 17,  2018

3:30 pm on January 17,  2018



Stay warm, dry and safe !

Satchel

"Oh, the weather outside is frightful . . . "

     This is the view from our front porch a few years ago.
I am unable to post a picture of the current conditions for the very good reason that I am not at home, unable to get there because of road conditions between there and my office.  Here ...but 65 miles distance... there has been no precipitation and other than frigid cold, it's beautiful outside.

    Compared to the impact of the blizzard that struck the Atlantic coastline and the Northeast in the past  couple of days,  accumulations have been minor.  Yet there has been enough to cause school cancellations, allow kidders (of all ages) to  go sledding, build snow persons, as well as adversely affect traffic.  Unfortunately, there have been fatalities attributable to road conditions.

    The temperature at home this morning was 1* F,   colder than the 8* in my brother's New Hampshire hometown.  Our high today is forecast  for upper   20's. . . "Bread and milk" conditions.  However, this one came in so fast and unexpectedly that grocery store runs did not occur.  Someone opined that folks will just have to forego their 'milk sandwiches'.  Perhaps you have seen the photographs of the storm's impact and now the plummeting temps.  A friend posted an app counting down the days, hours and minutes until Spring's arrival.

   It's five days too late for 'New Year's Resolutions', but here's mine anyway: "I will not complain about Summer's heat !"

    Satchel

     

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