My Personal Bump-in-the-Road

 

November 10, 2021.

An hour from now my whole world could change.  The writer’s axiom is:  we write best when we write what we know.  For now, that is all I know:  my relatively calm little world could be completely flipped upside down…. Because last week I found a bump.  It was small, and it could be nothing, but I promised myself to watch it for a week and if that didn’t go away or do whatever they do to self-resolve, then I would “get it checked out.”  It was in the back of my mind.  The very far back of my mind.

Then, three days ago in the course of a phone call with my friend, I heard her say the words:  “I lost my 51-year-old friend to breast cancer.  She thought it was just a pimple.  She had a husband and three children…”  That JOLTED ME. The conversation continued onward, but a part of my brain was stuck in the mud like rear-wheel drive tires spinning and shooting dirt everywhere. 

I called my first choice for physicians who deal with this and happily spoke with my friend Brunetta.  She told me what to do next:  reach out to my PCP or my GYN because they have to set the wheels in motion after they see me FIRST.  I was grateful it was her on the other end of the phone, a friendly voice, a caring person I knew.  Frankly, I don’t want to be a patient at the hospital:  I just want to work here.  But it’s good to know that if I do need excellent care, I know exactly where to go.

So now I’m sitting at my desk, watching the clock, waiting for my appointment time.  Why?  It’s just a tiny little bump.  Here’s why:  because to that other lady who left behind a family, it was just a tiny little bump as well … until it wasn’t.  I don’t have the expertise or knowledge base to look at the thing and say, “it’s not a big deal.”  I want someone else to take responsibility for that so I can go on with my life without a nagging thought in the back of my mind. 

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The Next Day (November 11, 2021)

Is this the first day of the rest of my life?  The doctor was serious, but unconcerned with her initial visual of the finding.  That’s good.  To be safe, she wants me to get the mammogram re-done on that side.  That’s a bummer.  There is an old joke about how to prepare for a mammogram:  Lie down on your garage floor and strategically position yourself, and then have your good friend bring the garage door down on you.  That about sums it up. 

We had a little confusion at the office visit yesterday just before I went pale and almost passed out.  What I heard my physician say was:  “if you come back for your re-check in December and it’s still there, I will rip it out.”  (Let’s blame this misunderstanding on us wearing the stupid blue anti-covid masks.)  When I responded:  “You most certainly will NOT rip it out…” She said, “I would never RIP it out, I would nip it out….”  I shook my head NO.  She ain’t doing THAT either.  Not on my watch.

(*If you are reading this, do NOT get worried about me or call me on the phone.  Just wait-it-out with me.  I will unfold it on the blog. I’m not picking out my casket yet, and I am not freaked-out.) 

Point of telling this true story:  “Reminder:  Get your annual mammogram.”

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Last Night (November 10, 2021)

Oh, yeah, and I was also supposed to “apply heat” to it.  So I heated up my bean bags in the microwave and tucked one under my arm and laid one on my abdomen to calm me down.  The three dogs jumped up on me as we settled in on the couch to watch “Chesapeake Shores.”   (I wanted to move there until I found out it was filmed in Canada.)  I am positive that Canada is colder than New York.   Not moving there, no siree.

I was not happy with the amount of heat I was applying to the “affected area” under my arm.  So I got up, scooped up some 3-flavor vanilla Turkey Hill ice cream (Vanilla bean, Bourbon vanilla, and French vanilla).  I put Heath bar pieces on it.  (“Heat” plus an “h”).  And then I poured Kahlua over the ice cream.  That way the heat would be internal as I ate the ice cream.  I’m so clever.

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Worn out Moccasins

Honestly, I hated Junior High.  I would not relive those two years of my life if you plopped a suitcase full of filthy, gold lucre down on my kitchen table.  Junior High, for me, can be summarized in the following concepts:  rule by the Popular; denigration of the Un-popular; and ongoing, painful Hysteria (Ie. every issue and situation is bigger than life) where the adults didn't seem to know how to help the kids through it by dialing-it-down and bringing in common sense.  Maybe that is why I LOVED teaching Junior High kids as an adult.  Somehow God took the hell I lived through and made my heart soft with compassion and my mind pretty keen with how to mitigate the angst of the kids before me.  If I didn't need to pay a mortgage, and didn't dislike (most) institutionally employed adults so much, I'd volunteer to teach Junior High for free.  But from this passion to set things on a gentler course, I offer my 2 cents on the current topics related to pandemic.  Let me begin with:

Extreme positions can only be held by those unwilling to step into their neighbor's proverbial moccasins for a moment.  This concept is true not just for the Right, but also for the Left.  As much as I know it is American democracy for each side to speak their piece in a debate, I abhor with a Capital ABHOR the shout-down theatrics that it has become.  That holds true for ALL of those jokers from Whoopi at the far-left to Sean at the far-right.  I once heard a brilliant neurologist bring a room full of noisy people down to a giant hush by dropping her voice below the level of what most dogs can hear.  It was amazing... because when you are bright and you are right, you already have the might.  (can we put that on a tee-shirt?)

Recently, a dear friend sent me an email and stated that Americans are self-centered when they put personal freedom and choice before the well being of others.  Most of the people to the Right would have begun yelling at that point.  I thought it better to consider her spot - she is a senior citizen and the whole covid journey has made her nervous.  Last year, when I spoke to her on the phone, I teasingly reminded her that she can call me any time ... because you can't catch COVID over the telephone.  

I don't think the Media has done us any justice or service by the way they have managed the information and dis-information of the past two years.  Because, remember:  Media exists to sell media.  No news means no jobs for them.  So for them, No News is NOT good news.  It is morally reprehensible how they stir the pot just to keep us on the edge of our seats.  But, our-bad, we should just shut the television off.  I advise everyone:  Take a media break at least once every 3 days.  You will find a few things to be true:  They are not hailing any real scientific progress overnight.  They flip-flop who is the good guy and who is the bad guy to serve the interest of ... hooking a broader cross-section of viewers/readers, and ... therefore, selling more news.  The integrity of the Journalistic profession has come under serious compromise as a result of this trend.  They have become very good at winding a story full of intrigue and emotion, but it is a side-note to whether or not you can count it as 100% true.

I am truly tired of it.  It's a lot like Lucy vanPelt holding the cartoon football for Charlie Brown and promising to not yank it away once he goes to kick it.  He, innocent soul, believes it.  He makes the run, she yanks it away again and then apologizes as if she couldn't help herself.  That is our Media in one glaring cartoon sequence:  they seem to be moving towards transparency and integrity and then they yank the football.  Shut them off.  Take a break.  Let go of what you cannot change or control outside of voting differently next time and writing letters to your congressmen.  (although I'm not sure, given the cast of characters in my state, if writing letters/emails is worth more than gas in the wind to them.)

So back to my friend's angst about those who refuse the vaccine.  I want to remind everyone of these things (which should be neither Left, nor Right, but common logic):

> the vaccine is not a silver-bullet.  It does not work 100% of the time, due to developing variants. There will be variants because that is what viruses do: they try to survive by changing.  

>being asked to wear a mask isn't the worst thing in the world... especially until we figure this thing out.  I might actually be okay with wearing a mask in enclosed, public places if you agree not to 'card' me for my vax status and invade my HIPPA rights.  And, yes, I am fine with taking a pop quiz on my symptoms weekly to get into church or work or wherever.

>the vaccines are NOT yet approved by the FDA ... they gave it a wary "okay to use due to pandemic conditions" which means, in plain English:  "We are not sure if this will do the trick," ... NOR (and I think this is super-important and very under-played) are they sure about any Long Term Effects .... (ie. blood clots that some of them have already caused in SOME people. I take an 81 mg aspirin every other night just to feel better about that risk). Note the legal disclaimer on the Pharma websites. Hmm...

>I emphasized the word "some" because the human bodies that receive these shots are themselves a varying habitat.  Which is where a Smarter or Wiser Governor or President would ADMIT and offer exemptions for specific outliers.  

Analogy #1.  I had a friend over for dinner this winter.  I pan-seared a very nice steak in olive oil because everyone in the Nutritional world like the FDA and even Weight Watchers says how fantastic olive oil is - like a nectar of gods, if you will, that helps your body.  So here I applied a scientific presumption to a specific situation ... and was unaware of my friend's allergy until he ran flying out my front door to rid himself of what would have landed him in an Emergency Room.  Horrifying.  

And yet, every time the Media badgers the hell out of the common population saying "Everyone" MUST get a vaccine, and demonizes those who don't, they forget the principal that, "Not all medicines are appropriate for all patients."  To wit, I find it very ironic that the same cache of folks who deny a person the right to decide with the advisement of their physician what to put or not put into their body, absolutely insist  that whether a woman carries a pregnancy full term has anything to do with the wider community - it's just between "her and her doctor" and "her body, her choice."  Hmm... so I only get rights over my body when it's okay with you?  Not consistent logic.

>And speaking of a person's body ... if you have already had the illness, science says that you have antibodies that will prevent you from re-infection or at least SEVERE illness, should it recur.  And they say in the next breath that while, admittedly, the vaccine is not 100% effective, it will help LESSEN symptoms, if you do get sick.  So, do the math with me, logically speaking:  either the anti-bodies or the vaccine can help prevent severe illness .... um, except of course, if you have underlying co-morbid conditions that make any illness you get a potential for a train-wreck.  Again, I bring you, dear reader, to the point that no 2 bodies are guaranteed to react the same way to the same illness ... or the same vaccine.  So if you have already BEEN sick, it should not be pressed upon you to put vaccine in you for more "just in case" potential.  Talk to your doctor ... 

>It is because of the circuitous logic of "antibodies not being as good as vaccine" business, that I am leery about The Booster.  Are we "boostering" more poisons into our systems needlessly, when we just are NOT sure about anything 100%?  I will tell you who is doing REALLY, REALLY well with all this vaccine business:  Big Pharma.

>Go easier on your Conspiracy Theorist neighbors.  I know I have had my fill of feeling the cloud of doom hanging over me due to mistrust of those in charge, and so the CT's annoy me because they ramp angst up to the next level.  If the powers-that-be hadn't handled this so badly maybe I'd have more confidence in them on the governmental level.  Maybe.  Has this become a matter of leaders not trusting US to act with the best interest "of the herd" in mind - or us not trusting them to act with the best interest of anyone BUT the news Media, Big Pharma, and the Political machine in mind?  Just sayin' it goes both ways.

>Re-education of the masses is to be held with a certain amount of suspicion.  I heard of a workplace recently that, in an attempt to preserve the quantity of workforce, offered to have a medical professional sit down with you and discuss the vaccine.  That means, "we want to pressure you to think like us, to take the recommended action, and we are going to hard-sell you face-to-face if you give us the chance."  Really?  This sounds like just another episode of, "Welcome to my parlor, said the Spider to the Fly."  Look if you are out there and have questions - you can talk to your doctor, your pharmacist, someone at your clinic and ask some questions.  But I am guessing if, at this point, you are holding back, you already know what your own reservations are based on:  allergies, immune compromise, etc.  But I also think if you are out there and don't have any questions and just take the shot, you are a sheep.  EVERYONE should always have questions before they alter their body chemistry with anything.  That's just good stewardship.  But if you have come this far, listening to Uncle Joe and Aunt Nancy and the Pope and everybody saying what they think is right for you, I'd say to get on the Big Pharma websites and do some of your own research.  Then look at who is being "silenced" from the Media and why.  You will see why this is a bigger, more complicated issue than:  "Just get the shot, it saves lives."

>Don't forget to be human.  There are friends, family members, neighbors who are all going to be coming from different positions for different reasons on this thing.  Do not buy into the technique of badgering them because you believe a certain way.  If your vaccine protects YOU, and your mask protects YOU, then you don't need to worry about THEM.  You may perceive their choice as "rolling the dice," but they may have their own personal reasons why they can't do it.  Leave them be in peace.  "Judge not, lest ye be judged," turns out to be sage advice.

This is a tough issue and it really requires all of us being more considerate and more patient with other people.  Do not let the "US" in "USA" be divided into US vs. Them (anyone who disagrees).  Do not become Junior Politicians and demonize anyone who disagrees with you.  Let us be friendly, and walk through this according to the dictates of our own conscience.  When you listen to another person, hear the heart of that person ~ have we pushed each other into such defensive corners that we cannot say to the other person, "I know you are concerned, and I appreciate that.  We need to agree to disagree on this."?  Come out from your own corner, I will come out from mine and let us respect both the person and the process by which we make our decisions.  Do you love me less because I do not think as you do?  I hope not, because I think that is what makes me so charming ...

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Somebody's Daughter

It was embarrassing, but understandable:  he was an old guy out to dinner with his family at a beach restaurant and his baser nature got the best of him.  I watched as he leaned his chair back on its rear two legs to watch her as she passed by, yet again.  The chair wobbled, and he awkwardly righted himself on 4-legs and no one seemed the wiser for his school boy like leering... except me.

The waitress was wearing a blouse and her skirt was made of white gauze.  If you are not a student of textiles let me explain:  I don't put up gauze curtains in my house because... you can see right through them.  Now you know.  She had on this skirt - and no "slip" - so consequently you saw ... buns in very skimpy panties.  It was not like he and I were the only two to notice.  Some of my senior citizen women companions raised eyebrows, others snickered like school girls in the gym.  It was one of the weirdest moments of my adult life.

Everyone's worst behavior seemed on display - hers, his, theirs - and I found something else struggling inside of me.  I know that if it was my family that we were going out to dinner with, we would have not sat down at the table.  Because, well, after all... anyways... 

What was happening in my head was I'm pretty sure the Holy Spirit because He says things other people don't say.  He asked me what I think she wants out of life, out of this moment.  He asked me to consider why.  "He started prepping me" for what He needed to accomplish.  I'm telling this story ten years after it happened because I am NOT bragging about how great I am, or self-righteous or any junk like that.  I am telling it because if He can't find anyone better, brighter, holier to accomplish His plan, then He is going to end up using knuckleheads like me.  And if He can use ME ... He can use YOU - if you want to be in some very odd situations.

I think God has this giant game of human chess that He is playing.  He is trying to move His pieces (us) closer to Him, and sometimes we just do dumb stuff that we need to re-think.  As the voice on my GPS says, in a frustrated computer tone: "re-calculating."  If you want to be that "instrument of peace" that St. Francis prayed to be, then you are going to help people with the "re-calculating."  It's not usually long term employment; it's kind of short term jobs on an as-available basis.  Sometimes lunch is involved.  Just sayin' that aint too bad.

First, I tried to steer the table-talk away from the waitress' morally-challenged dress code.  Then we ate lunch.  And we talked and laughed and planned the rest of our day.  The sun was amazing and the shops and shore were just steps away.  After we paid the bill I told my friends, "go along, I will be with you in a minute."  And they went out the door, as I shooed them along, and one of them kept looking back over her shoulder, apparently dying of curiosity. 

I approached the waitress.  I looked her in the face and kindly said, "I just want to tell you, you have beautiful eyes."  She bashfully dropped her face and thanked me as if she never had a compliment before in her whole life.  She didn't know what to do with it.  It was innocent and got the focus off the other issue. It was an invitation for her to self-appraise her beauty in another way: non-sexually. 

Here's the deeper psychology of why I said that.  I refer you up to the question:  "What do you think she wants?"  I think she wants attention, self-esteem from other people (who are probably bigger train wrecks), and of course, bigger tips (from lecherous customers).  And so she is willing to sell-off part of herself to pay the rent or whatever she's got going.  And this rotten world will let our girls do that ~ sell part of their souls to anyone bearing cash or attention.  She is someone's daughter, grand-daughter, sister.  She belongs to a family, I presume.  And if someone looked at my daughter like that old geezer in the chair did, I'd knock the legs right out from under his chair.  It was disgusting and pitiful... but given the way that people are "wired" it is understandable.  Understandable, but not excusable.  

Yet God did not call me to knock that chair over.  (How I wish I'd get THOSE kind of assignments - they fit my fiery spirit better!)  He called me to help a young woman re-imagine her own self-image and begin a path towards healing and accurate self-esteem.  Maybe we've all had moments where we sold ourselves short, and wish we had a do-over.  I hope that was it for her.  

I remember the biblical story of the woman "caught in adultery" who was dragged before the feet of Jesus by the Pharisees.  They were hoping to gin-up an old fashioned stoning.  The woman was probably a quivering, fearful, humiliated mess.  Intriguing that she was dragged to him alone because as far as I am aware, the act of adultery involves TWO people, not one.  He was seated and leaned over  and began tracing the sand with his finger.  He said to her accusers:  "Let the one who is without sin, cast the first stone."  It says that one by one, they dropped their stones and walked away.  What did he write?  the name of the man, was he one of their buddies?  or did He write the words:  "Somebody's daughter."  Did they think of their own daughters at home, and what if they made the same mistake?  Because of how he handled the situation That Day I think she realized she was Somebody's daughter, ... His.

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The Dismantling of a Society

 It was far into the night when I heard a faint knock at my door. I opened to find a woman standing there with her one palm out-stretched, she apologetically asked me, “Can I borrow a thread … just a single thread … I have been to many doors, just begging for thread before it’s too late…” I almost asked her what color she needed, then I noticed in her left arm she held a worn and torn American flag. Her face was almost translucent, with a sort of timeless and simple beauty. Her dark hair, pulled in a bun behind her head, a white work apron hung over a navy blue full-length dress. Something deep in my soul stirred with a sadness that I would see this day, as I tilted my head sideways to accommodate the shift in reality that was happening in my brain. I opened the door and welcomed her in, in all her weariness and as she passed through my entry way it seemed odd that I could hear no shuffling of her feet. But that was to be expected.

She occupied the area of the chair with a somber humility. That flag was draped across, no, cradled, in her left arm with a reverential sorrow etched across her face. I had seen this look only once before in Michelangelo’s piece called “The Pieta,” where the Madonna held the broken body of Her Son. It was hard to be in the presence of this kind of sorrow. With tears in my eyes, I asked her, “… the thread?” She replied: “All I need is a thread of common sense from every person. Just a thread of common sense so we can mend this glorious banner and all that it stands for …” I tried to hide the cynical pursing of the lips thing I do when I hear hopes such as these, but I apparently failed, and that was when “school began to be in session.” She began:

Look what these foolish people have done to the most beautiful country, the most noble dream that was ever had by mankind! I knew the men and their wives behind them who dreamed a dream of peace, and prosperity and freedom. They knew that peace would only come for all when peace could reign in the hearts of each. It is not merely the absence of war, but the presence of God in the human soul. They knew that prosperity was not a hand-out, but a hand-to-the-plow, and to the anvil, and to any other godly task that sought to cultivate the earth and bring forth fruitfulness. They knew that freedom comes with a cost and demands a responsibility, lest it disintegrate into immoral license. Look what these foolish people have done! The dream that some paid for with their very lives, others have trampled upon while surrendering their own souls to lawlessness and debauchery.

She paused to wipe tears from both sides of her face with the edge of her apron. I hesitated to offer her a cup of tea, lest I remind her of the incident in The Harbor where people first reminded government that unbridled taxations are acrimonious to us. I asked her, “Do you know when the disintegration began, can you put your finger on that moment?”

There are key points that we see as we look over the past fifty years or so. But perhaps it was always a seed of evil here or there in someone’s heart that began the process. Until every heart is full of charity, true kindness to its neighbor, stability will always have a tentativeness to it. But there were key things that I think you can piece together:

Remember how important images are. (she told me, didn’t ask me) When that box with pictures in it was invented it began with stories of families, friends, humorous characters. Now it has degenerated to tales of unrighteousness. Think about what this current culture perceives as “entertainment” – murdering, adultery, cheating, blowing things up, etc. Some even watch what others do in the privacy of their bedroom as entertainment – that is depravity and theft of an unprecedented level. I realize you call them actors, but do they not lose a piece of their own soul when they portray wickedness for you to watch while you eat popcorn? It should nauseate you as a society, instead you generate more and more of it by rewarding the actors with money and status to feed their emotionally broken egos. Then when they kill themselves – literally or figuratively – you mourn their loss as if you ever really knew them as a person who had a soul to tend. It is appalling. And God in His heaven sees this and mourns it.

Then, some strange mentality began to invade the land about removing the Ten Commandments from society. Fools! Without a law, every man will be a law unto his ownself. Since selfishness runs rampant, that can never work out well for a healthy society. For example, in denying the commandment that states: “You shall honor your father and your mother,” You teach the children of the land that they no longer need to Honor their elders, and thus you bring forth a generation of willful, entitled, godless spawn. Then you wonder why, when grown, they kill their own children in the womb for convenience, and abandon the elders who loved them in homes for the aged. They do not play well in sandbox or greater society! They have no moral compass so the gift of freedom becomes merely license for the powerful who will eventually lord it over the ones with less power. They mouth the words of equality, but they make plans for their own rise to hierarchy. This insidious form of self-orientation has come like a foul odor into both institutions of the state and into organized religion. Where there is no godly order, there is no order at all that could respect the hearts and minds of the people. Freedom, when it is perverted to license, actually becomes the very worst sort of slavery – and it is deeply destructive.

Her tone continued with a sobriety and sorrow that I have never heard emanate from the likes of men:

And to the women – you who have permitted this foolish idea of sexual license to become the acceptable standard – do you see now how unstable families have become?! Those who do not honor the marriage bed before marriage are hardly capable of honoring it after marriage. Is it not for the purpose of raising families and creating loving societies that you should marry? Or has this, too, degenerated into selfishness? Passion separated from integrity is like a smoke without a fire: it can evaporate in a short time. The goal is to become the type of people who walk with God, and work for God as they build the society of love around their area of influence. You are to be the city on the hill, the beacon for humankind of what good order and fruitfulness looks like. Imagine the glory of an entire land submitted to this Law of Love!

And to the men – you who think you can gaze with passion upon a woman not your wife and not be found-out? You have turned away from the gift given explicitly to you – your own wife – and allowed a stranger, who is at the same time daughter/sister/wife of another revealed in her vulnerability on the screen for all to see. You victimize this stranger in your imagination, and then you wonder why the love has left your own home? You place the burden of distorted fantasy on the human being that lives beside you and expect them to meet your unbridled, strange passions with enthusiasm, and yet you are unpleasable. When the twin purpose of love and life is divorced from sexuality, all you have is frustration and disappointment. You have made this for yourself. The God of heaven is grieved by the lies you have let take over the most personal part of your hearts. Repent before it is too late!

She continued on with a frankness the likes of which has not been spoken even in churches for years. I know she could have said more but I was almost relieved when she switched to another topic.

Let us speak of a different kind of love for a moment. “Shema.” This word begins the greatest prayer ever uttered by the human heart “Shema,” “Listen.” “Hear O Israel, you shall love the Lord your God with all of your heart, with all of your mind and all of your strength. And you shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

So, let us speak of the first Love – this country was built upon an acknowledgement of both divine destiny and a calling into personal accountability and relationship of each creature with its God. This is a mighty privilege and great calling. And yet an evil undercurrent began to pull this country away from acknowledging its Creator. I call it evil, because it is. A small percentage of those who have never had, or have lost their faith, or choose to reject the call to familiarity with godliness, have demanded that His Name not be spoken of or referenced in the documents and daily life of this country. That is ludicrous! They have free will because of this Creator’s gift and so they are free to reject, ignore, etc. but they do not have the right to tamp-out or steal other people’s rights in this regard. It is time for an era of Mutual Respect among persons ~ that each should be able to believe according to his own conscience without fear or reprisal or harassment.

It is very important that in the name of equality, inclusion and diversity, the very ones who cry for respect, shall not disrespect the others. Mutual respect must be across-the-board for everyone. You don’t have to like or agree with someone’s ideas. You don’t have to endorse things that are wrong or immoral, and shouldn’t have to finance the same with your tax money. But you do have to treat each individual with dignity and respect – even if they don’t treat themselves that way! The second part of the “Shema” prayer invites each to love his own neighbor as himself. Is not this respect the very foundation by which all community thrives?

This “loving” of the neighbor is the very thing the prohibitive (those that begin with “Thou shalt not…”) commandments were trying to achieve. Namely, when you do NOT covet your neighbor’s spouse or possessions, you love your neighbor. When you do not steal from a person, you love them. When you do not kill a person, you love them, truly. So, in what universe would abolishing the Ten Commandments achieve anything other than utter chaos?

Her logic was crisp and fair. A silence fell for a moment. She wasn’t done. She was just re-loading.

Have you seen the statue of the lady in the harbor with her lantern lifted for the world? There is an attraction to freedom that reaches out to both the righteous and the unrighteous. For those who are good, it offers an opportunity for a fresh start, for hard work, for pursuing life and love in an environment of possibilities and resources. But those possibilities and resources only exist because someone came earlier and worked hard to create and expand them. It is critical for moments of epic humanitarian crisis to not overshadow the need for a regulatory order. Without order, chaos ensues. If you look at the crisis already existing in your cities – fruit of a fatherless, abandoned society – that is the microcosm of what will happen if undocumented, unscreened people who have no aim to be contributors to the dream will create. It is important for good order, compassion, and clear heads guide this process. In order to achieve the right, bickering must stop among the parties, and common goals should be established. You cannot jeopardize the whole to salvage the parts. You must thoughtfully incorporate the parts that fit and re-direct those that do not.

And regarding those who came before, think back with eyes of wisdom to bring justice in areas where there has been injury. Were there not both natives as well as immigrants as well as captives that were harmed by the hardness of heart or evil within some from the past? Atonement for injustice means, not an entitling of the descendants of the offended - It should be At-one-ment with all parties in this present moment. How are decisions now made to benefit all parties? Do not disenfranchise someone in the present in an attempt to repair a breach that is decades old! Seek to harmonize all decisions and work for true equity and brotherhood. The path forward cannot be trodden alone, healing is cooperative by its very nature.

The clock ticked during a brief moment of silence as she gathered her wits about her. I felt almost inept to respond to her comments. I have lived amidst the storms of these past few decades and I wondered to myself why did she come now to repair and to warn? As if she knew my thoughts by seeing the furrow on my brow she said,

Ah, I have put my burden upon you. I can see it is late for you as well and you are tired. Really, all I wanted was to say my piece and find someone who could see the threads of common sense. I think you do hear my anguish. I am grateful for your hospitality, I must go now … please, do your part to repair our glorious standard …

She hoisted the flag draped over her left arm and I felt hot tears in the corners of my eyes and a twinge in my heart that almost felt religious. She moved smoothly across the room to the door, she did not need me to open the door for her, really, for as she passed down my driveway into the moonlit night, she vanished …

Good bye, Miss Betsy Ross, I will carry your words in my heart … you are a woman of wisdom and greatness … the world is not worthy of you.

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Letters to Jen Tilly Lane - Part 2.

 

Letters from the older brothers I never had comprised a handful of the 18 letters.  Each of these guys, except for one, were friends from college days.  We didn't date, we were just great friends.  We had lunch on campus, we bantered about Theology, we talked about Life.  And if I do say so myself, I have some very great Guy Friends.  It just seems to have so happened that we didn't end up falling in love with each other and getting married like, perhaps, it should have happened.  Sometimes you just have a gut instinct that a friendship is all this thing ever could be ... without me having to snuff you out with my pillow in the middle of the night if we had married.  I'm kidding about the murder part, obviously, but quite serious about the aggravation level that sometimes can be generated between otherwise good and decent people.   

One of the letters is a general rambling about nothing much - it was someone that was part of a group of us that were friends.  To be candid, he never quite grew out of the annoying phase of adolescent males.  This was before the trend of 27 year-olds living in their parents' basements playing video games.  I give him credit that he actually came to college and gave that a shot.  Who knows where he is now.  We had a mutual friend that I cared for very much and still think of him as a mentor and an inspiration.  Let's call him Guy.  About 15 years ago, I happened to be in the city where Guy was living at the time and we got together for a visit and heart-to-heart about all things that mattered to us.  Guy told me he spent some time with the previously-referenced letter writer who proceeded to purposefully capsize him in their water craft with the intention of drowning him.  He said to Guy, "I was jealous of you," as more of an explanation than an apology - although I can't imagine what the HELL you would say to someone you just tried to KILL!  Frankly, I have been surprised in the last decade of how many depraved people I have met along Life's Path.  

It reminds me of that great saying:  "Do not walk behind me, I might not lead.  Do not walk ahead of me, I might not follow.  Do not walk beside me either, just leave me the hell alone."  There are some people I don't even want to be Facebook "friends" with, he had moved himself into that zone.  

Then there are the friends you want to keep forever.  They are just plain golden - I have letters from two of those type of men.  Except in one case, we tag up on social media occasionally and talk about Theology, the good old days, what we are living through at the time, etc.  He married a nice wife, is raising some nice kids, and making a positive contribution to society.  I like him because we relate on a par - we always have been able to do that - and he doesn't require any fixing, or toleration.  It's just a really low-maintenance, long time friendship, where if we don't talk for years, we can pick up exactly where we left off.  There's really nothing messy or bad about it.  

In the other case, there is a sadness when I think about my other guy friend, let's call him Barnabas.  We were not college friends.  We were youth ministry colleagues at my first job and had forged a great friendship.  One of the hallmarks of these uncomplicated, brother-like relationships is the guys call me by my last name, instead of my first name.  It makes me feel like I made the baseball team or something.  I feel included and happy.  Except in this case, when he got married it changed.  Like, I never got a Thank You note for traveling to his wedding, or giving a gift.  And when I sent them a Christmas card a few months later it was returned to sender in a handwriting that was not his.  I can only surmise that she did not want to be my friend, and felt more comfortable just cutting me out of the picture.   If that is true, it kind of says that she does not trust him, which, as any mature adult knows, is the only bedrock upon which you can build a lasting relationship.  Once you begin the mistrust thing, your mind plays tricks on you, suspicions grow, and you destroy any shot at true and lasting happiness.  

I guess what I miss the most about being involuntarily cut out of Barnabas' life without cause is:  I may never get to thank him for the profound impact he had on my development as a youth minister.  He gave me a 1-page sheet of notes he took somewhere and they were so good, so useful that I actually photocopied them and gave them out to other adults that I was training, decades later.  His tenacity, his frankness made the teens trust him.  He was a good person with high moral standards and even though he was too humble to realize it, he was an absolute Beacon of Hope for people.  I always knew where we stood and I know that friendships that are that clear and true are rare for most people.  Like the last time he helped me move my apartment -he said, "Arabik.  This is the LAST time we are moving your crap anywhere!  No more new apartments!"  (I moved 6 times in 4 years.)  It turns out, it wasn't my last move, I left Arizona, but not before he left first.  That was a hard day watching one of your best friends drive off into the horizon.  Reading the letter from him will always make me remember the retreats we gave, the trips we took our parish teens on, and the like.  I don't remember him going bowling with us, though.  Somehow that would have taken the veneer off his coolness.  And he was definitely the coolest.

 The third guy letter was from, let's call him Patrick.  He packed his letter with holy cards of saints.  Ten to be exact, which included:  St. Teresa of Avila, St. John of the Cross, St. Francis of Assisi, St. Therese of Lisieux, St. Gemma Galgani, and the Blessed Mother.  His letter was a simple catch-up on how he was pursuing his dream of religious life with a new Franciscan order that was being started, and his plan to teach high school... which I don't think he actually ended up doing.  He had been for some part of his life a lost soul, and the mercy of God found him and just changed his life.  He was exceedingly joyful for about 99.7% of the times that I saw him on campus.  He walked with such a spring in his step, that he at times appeared to be on a pogo stick.  The last thing he left me with in his letter was how much he loved me because "God's love & mercy toward me is so astonishing, I often dissolve into one big tear drop of gratitude." It would be my wish that every person could have a friend like this.... an absolute treasure.

At times upon reflection, one can be struck with the sense of gratitude for the characters in our lives.  It is a play, at times a Divine Comedy, with many different actors holding their roles as they interact with and influence us.  The last two letters I want to comment upon were friend women that were much my senior, and in fact have both gone on to their eternal reward at this point.  

I think of the University I attended as one big melting pot of kids from a variety of states and countries but all seemed to have a common zeal as people of faith.  It may not have been equal, but it was an important component for arguably 90% of the campus population.  We were not perfect, but we wanted at least to be good.  And I don't know how it is that my horizons expanded beyond the University on the hill to the community surrounding it, but somehow it did.  Back in the day before computers, there was this archaic thing called the typewriter.  And all papers submitted to professors were executed on such a machine.  However, typewriters had no spell check, and no grammar-check bluelines under phrases that needed a re-do.  The spell and grammar checker were one and the same:  ME, the typist.  I typed papers for countless University scholars, as we were, in the six years I was there.  People trusted me to keep their secrets on their psychology autobiographies, edit their documents, and then educate them later on what got changed and why.  I was a student typist and an English teacher all rolled into one.  

Then one day a senior citizen from the city called up to the campus looking for a student to type "something" for her.  And my name was provided as the go-to.  So she drove up to see me with her manuscript in hand and I had my assignment:  to type her memoirs.  Her handwriting can only fairly be described as:  Exquisite.  It was cursive at its absolute finest, as her letter now in my hand also attests.  In this letter she shares her excitement of how well the memoirs were received, and of an upcoming fancy dinner party she was preparing to attend with her husband.  She seemed to have quite a social life that involved lots of special desserts.  Her letter had a warmth and affection to it that makes me wish I had been able to give her more time.  She appreciated what I was able to do for her, but the typing project had also opened up her heart to make a new friend.  She shared that she had never gone up the hill to the University before, having lunch with me there was her first time, and she was received with both attention and graciousness by my fellow students.  Mrs. B, you taught me to be open to the new person, to make new friendships possible by opening the doors to "outsiders," and I hope to extend myself more to people in life.  Thank you for being part of the process of me maturing in friendships.

My last senior citizen letter was from a generous woman who opened her home to four of us young women (three from the University) for a summer of fellowship and ministry near Boston.  Let's call her "Faith."  Faith was a nurse at a Hospital in a major city.  She wore her nursing whites from shoulder to toe every day at work, and pulled her long silver hair up into a tight bun on her head.  She must have been an impeccable, flawless nurse.  But she also liked a good laugh, and good food, just like we her younger boarders did.  At that stage in our lives, two out of the four of us were obsessed with the idea of finding Mr. Right, and getting married.  I asked Faith once if she ever considered getting married.  She seemed to be looking through the sky to another world as she answered:  "Yes.  But he went to the war and did not come back."  My heart hurt for her in that regard.

With my friend Grace, I read her letter and pondered how much we have in common, despite the decades of age between us.  We are both people of faith; we love poetry and prayer groups; and we love the ocean.  I wrote a poem in her honor on behalf of we, her 4 boarders for the summer.  It was about The Lady by the Sea - and she told me often how it moved her to tears.  But it was she who took our faith and gave it the nautical analogy:  Abba Father is the Navigator of Life; Jesus is the Helmsman of my soul; the Holy Spirit is the Power of the Wind in my sails.  How beautiful.

The memories I have of that summer by the sea are many.  Some of them are great memories, fun memories, and others are things that I could have done differently, better.  But it is okay.  As Faith pointed out, it was a time of growing and maturing for all of us.  Really, is that not the work-of-a-lifetime:  growing and maturing?  Can we ever in this life say, "now I am complete, now I am done."  And yet for Faith, her race is run and she is crowned with the grace that was her due for being who she was without hesitation.  My life is richer for having been her friend.  And now my job is to be that kind of person for the young people in my life.  

To all my friends who wrote me those letters back then and the letters you send me now - thank you for your friendship, your candor, your faith, your sincerity.  Thank you for being "givers" in life - you are the blessings that walk silently beside me as I travel my road, and I am more than grateful for you.

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Letters to Jen Tilly Lane - Part I.

 

I lived in climate of paradise over 30 years ago.  Most days, I think that leaving Arizona was the biggest mistake I ever made ... but then again, all the nice people I've met since then and dogs I have acquired...  A visitor to my house yesterday (after not seeing me for ten years) summed up my activities as we toured through my house:  "Bik (my nickname), you've raised birds, made wine, raised dogs, and what else ... you've done good!"  I felt a bit of validation.  I am both a goal-setter and an achiever, and as such, any periods of inactivity or nonproductivity make me anxious.  I have to say one of my favorite religious books was The Purpose Driven Life because I suddenly felt that my desire to feel purposeful and creative was validated.  We all need validation.  It doesn't always come when we want it, but it happens when God knows we need it.  I tell you the following stories, changing the names for obvious reasons but for sure and for certain these stories are true.  And true things are worth telling.

In 1981 I bought a wooden crate the size of an end table.  The crate was used to ship my belongings to myself for my freshman year in college.  That wooden crate has been with me in Ohio, Arizona, Massachusetts and New York.  I think it will probably always be with me, even when I am 94 and living in the nephews' garage apartment with a dog and a Siamese fighting fish named Spike.  

For some reason, last week I decided to move The Crate down into the basement.  I thought I knew what was in it:  40 years worth of my journals and my University diplomas and my beautiful green, gold, and black hood from University graduation.  I had hoped some day to use it when I would be receiving my doctorate... but I would have to be in school again to make that happen.  It seems I have been too busy living to get a doctorate.  That, and learning two more languages seems daunting to me at this point.  I digress.  That Crate was beastly heavy so in a swoop of utter genius, I unlocked it and began to unpack the journals and carry armloads of them downstairs.  And then I found a surprise:  a stack of 18 letters from a variety of personal friends, dated 1987-1989 or so, bound together with a red rubber band.  I made time later that evening to read them.

I won't tell you about every single one of them, but I will share lessons learned from revisiting a few of them.  First of all, there were two people I had letters from that I could absolutely not put a face to the name.  That disappointed me because in one of them, a woman poured her heart out to me.  I looked her name up on facebook and then had a shock for myself.  This is the same woman whom I saw at a NY Thruway rest stop a year or two ago.  I walked up to her and said, "I don't know if you remember me, but I was on a pilgrimage to Medjugorje with you in 1988.  I am sorry that I don't remember your name, but I did want to say hello to you."  She was cordial and we went our separate ways.  Fast forward to me reading her letter - and honestly I don't even think we had a conversation with each other when we were on that pilgrimage in the same group so maybe that's why I didn't know how to respond.  Because what exactly is it, I ask you, that you say to a person who tells you in a letter to half-way across the States, that they lost their middle school child due to a hidden health condition, and that their grief was almost unbearable, and that they blamed God?  It was this anger that somehow turned inside her to something that pointed her towards pilgrimage and reclaiming a faith for herself.  I would have been 24 years old when I first read that letter... how could I know, at that age, what to say ... and yet ...

Another letter thanked me profusely for my support and understanding.  It was a friend, probably three years younger than me, who had a crisis pregnancy and had decided to place her child for adoption so that he could have a better life.  I know what I told her then, because I know what I would say now to anyone in that position:  Adoption is always a better choice than abortion, but that doesn't mean it will be an easy or pain-free choice.  Yet it is an unselfish, beautiful, brave step .... a step only a VERY GOOD PARENT could make, putting your child's welfare before your own emotional need.  And this young woman thanked me and blessed me for being one of the few people who "got" why she did what she did... I remember how spiritually compelled I felt to write the letter of support and love to her ... and yet as I mailed it was wondering how it would be received.  I never anticipated how important the letter was to her emotionally - it buoyed her up when others did not support her.  That is what her letter I held in my hands last night told ME.  Within two decades later, she had married a wonderful man and was living a happy life when her own health condition tanked ... and she passed away.  When she placed her baby for adoption, she had no way of knowing that she would not be seeing him graduate from high school even if she had raised him herself ...

And I had no way of knowing that within two years of her letter to me, I would be standing beside a young expectant mother who was about to do the very same thing:  place her son with a family that could give him the start in life that she could not.  This young woman struggled every year around his birthday - one year begging me to drive to the city where he lived to attend church to see if she could catch a glimpse of him.  I did not surmise that we could predict any of our reactions if we did that, and managed to talk her out of it.  Now, approximately 30 years later, she and her husband have raised a wonderful family and her firstborn son reached out to re-connect with her.  He has been received back to the arms of the woman who gave him life, while bringing his generous, faithful adoptive parents into an even bigger circle of love as well.  Oh, the beauty of the road trodden by the brave!  I am so honored to have been part of that story.

Then there were two letters from young women, friends from college, sharing with me that they were engaged.  I am a big fan of marriage - even though I have not yet married (while there is breath, there is a hope) - and I remember two different occasions where people told ME before anyone else that they were getting married, saying, "we just knew how happy you would be for us!"  The two "engagement letters" were quite different from each other.  While they were newsy and friendly to me, the notice of moving toward marriage was a much more stunning piece of the letter.  In Sandy's letter she admitted that while her beau was a faithful, good man - and I know they loved each other - she was "afraid" to get married.  I don't think I ever knew or asked her why she was afraid because that certainly isn't the thing you should be wrestling with while you are saying, "I do."  Perhaps the tremendousness of self-donation for sixty years going forward was on her mind.  The fear of the Great Unknown, as it were.  Or maybe it was the laying down of her arms as a self-sufficient woman of the age that seemed daunting, or maybe it felt like putting a white flag up and losing independence that she couldn't wrap her brain around.  I think it is fair to say that most men of this age have no IDEA what the women's liberation movement did to the female psyche.  While Gloria S and her friends set out to "liberate" women from domineering, chauvinistic stereotypes (where I agree), they also set out to emasculate the other gender and destroy the institution of marriage (ideas I strongly oppose) in order to give women a very distorted freedom, which turned out to be in fact a bondage.  Freedom is always closely linked to the responsibility that comes with it.  You cannot do what you want, when you want if it is going to hurt other people ... or be self-destructive.

The second engagement letter had a mountain inside it.  Jocelyn was marrying a man who had spent time in seminary and figuring out what his next career would be.  He was thinking of becoming a counselor, but practically moving towards a blue-collar job that would more readily support his wife and future family.  While it made sense to us as young adults, her parents were not on board with it.  This is the part of the story where all of us want Roma Downey and Della Reese to appear as two angels and straighten the parents out and show them how young love will eventually mature if we give it light and room to grow.  I guess if I had a daughter, the angels would have to visit me personally to let me agree that any man was good enough, or noble enough, or smart enough to take her for a wife.  So I guess I get that cautious or oppositional spirit of her parents, but I am aware, even though I have not communicated with the couple since those days, that:  a) they did get married; and b) they are still happily married ... and that is what we had all hoped for... without knowing the particulars of how it ironed-out along the way.

I do not know why I answered some of these 18 letters, and did not answer others.  Over time I developed a habit of turning a letter over and writing a date on the back of the envelope that indicated when I responded to them.  I know at least three of the people who sent me letters now have an Eternal Address where the USPS cannot deliver.... which brings me to the 3 Priest Letters.

It sounds like the start of a joke, doesn't it?  There were 3 Priests walking by a river and one of them said .... (You get the idea).  And these three men were completely different from each other - not cookie-cutter in any way.  One of them I never met but his sister and I rented a house together for a while. I know I had written an initial letter to him saying hello, and asking him for prayers ... because that is what hermits do for a living, so I wanted to put him to good use!  He was a member of a religious order that was cloistered away from the world on a cliff somewhere wonderful.  He sent me cartoons, thanked me for the ministry I was doing at the time, talked to me about nothing much, assured me of his prayers that I find a husband, and invited me to visit ... by now I imagine he is in his 70's.  

The second Priest's letter contains a postcard from a beautiful European country which he returned to when he left the States.  When I was in college, he came to teach Theology on our campus for a semester.  There was just one thing that made me feel kind of sorry for him:  we had world-class evangelists and famous people also teaching in that department.  So much so that if you weren't a known conference speaker, it made me wonder, who would take your class?  So I signed up for his class on The Letter of St. Paul to the Romans just to see if he was saying the same thing that my true Theology Saint (Fr. Francis Martin) was teaching. He was an unusual person with a European haircut, either that, or he cut his own bangs with a bowl on his head like the mothers in the depression did for their kids.  And he asked me after class if I would save a dance for him at the student mixer that night.  I was surprised.  I didn't know priests were "allowed" to dance.  I also think I kind of had a crush on him.  So here was this letter telling me of his life in Europe (1989) hand-scrawled on a piece of paper 3inches by 3 inches with a photocopied note on the other side to other friends.  And that is pretty much all there is to say about that.  We all have a cache of friends we reach out to and we hope they are glad to hear we are alive & well, and have taken up skiing on the Swiss Alps and have a very nice prayer community to which we belong.  And for a brief moment, I was part of the cache... and it seems I didn't respond to that letter either. 

The third Priest's letter was again mostly about ministry (because that is what I was doing for a living) and very kind.  His story bears a bit more telling though.  He was one of those evangelists I mentioned above, teaching at University.  And he was known throughout the world for being fantastic with young people.  He wrote books, gave conferences, held healing services.  He was all-that-and-a-bag-of-chips.  But the one thing I related to about him that I guess I never realized to this day is that he had scars on his face.  Growing up, I had scars left behind by the chicken pox, and subconsciously I think I related to this person.  I knew what it felt like to be trying to make something of your life, but feeling like I could never forget being called "moon face" and "crater face" in Junior High.  And while I hated - truly - my own junior high experience and never wanted to work with teens in a million years, I can tell you that my favorite and best jobs were the ones where I worked with teens, particularly the junior high crowd... because they loved me.  What I thought would be horrible, ended up being a very healing experience.  At the first parish where I worked, I had kids that would buzz around me like bees around a very sweet flower.  I just remember loving them from my heart and they loved me right back.  And somehow over the years, most of the scars on my face have faded.  I still struggle with the ones inside my heart, as most of us do, so I never quite forget how it feels to be imperfect, and that's just how life is.

So this priest told us he was retiring to the mountains to live a life of prayer and penance.  He had years ago been a counselor - probably a psychologist - and then he became a university professor, and then just as I began my ministry career, he was wrapping up his.  I reached out to him to come give a presentation at a school where I was teaching.  He came and brought a deacon to travel with him, and very graciously went out to dinner with a group of teens  and adults later.  It was a stellar day and then a few years later I started to understand what else had happened in his life.  

I remember the day in Pastoral Guidance class where he referenced the then-popular movie Prince of Tides.  He bellowed across the classroom - just to be sure we didn't miss his point - "Do not EVER think you are doing a client a favor by sleeping with them!  It is against the very heart of not just Christian teaching but ethical counseling practices."  It struck me as an odd outburst.  I don't even know if it had anything to do with what we were talking about in class that day.  But he made a strong point.

Fast forward to almost two decades later, and the Bishop of his home diocese made a sweeping case to lift the statute of limitations on clergy accusations to a broader band of time.  And all of a sudden I realize why my ministry hero, my friend, my teacher is no longer in a parish, school, or conference agenda.  What I choose to believe about that is this:  perhaps when he was younger he made the Prince of Tides mistake, and it caught up with him.  That would also explain his loud declaration in class that day.  I don't think his situation was anything other than that, but those kind of mistakes got swept into the Zero Tolerance Zone established by the USCCB.  Whereas, I am not the picture of Compassion when I hear about child molesters and I tend to get very, very outspoken about the importance of victims' rights to see their assailants convicted and jailed,  I also believe that every man is, proverbially, "due his day in court."  The legal system of our country rests on the concept of "Innocent until proven guilty."  Our Media - which exists only to promote itself, not to propel unbiased truth - has twisted that to "Guilty until proven Innocent," because that is what sells news.  That is also why I only buy newspapers to line my bird cages with.

My fallen hero has since been laid to rest beneath the green carpet of grass.  This year, I learned that he passed away six years ago - without fanfare.  I think about the countless people he has helped spiritually - and there have been many.  I remember the days when he would call up to the phone in the hallway of my dormitory (and the others on campus as well; before we had cell phones) and I would answer it and he would say, "This is Father So-and-So, I am sending pizza up to you all - can you see to it that it is fairly distributed?"  Yes.  Was this kindness or atonement for sins of a past life?  Maybe.  Life is complicated.  Somehow in our human hearts, even the greatest of generosities of a repentant heart can never quite seem to equal one serious evil act.  And I know if he was alive, and I actually was talking this through with him, he would immediately point out what we both believe to be true:  The one act of an innocent man dying on a cross for a world of sinners was enough expiation in the eyes of God who is Father of all.  In the end, we have to trust that God is going to sort it out more justly, and in other cases, more mercifully than any of us could.  I'm hanging my hat on that.

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The Sound of .... Vermont 2021

 

It appears there are more mountains than people in Vermont.  Other than a nearby traveler who hums, taps, talks to self, sings, etc., Vermont is quiet.  I mean really quiet.  There are people here, I presume, because I see parked cars at the condo.  But there are no voices.  Screen doors closed, and solid doors open, but no kind of noise.  Even the mosquitoes turned off their engines... and word has it they are considered the Vermont state bird.  People can't possibly be working from home at the condos where we stay because the Internet keeps going on the blink.  We ran into people at the pool the other night and tried to make conversation with them, and the father and his kid just turned their backs to us and swam to the other end of the pool.  Bizarre.

The other thing about Vermont is they are, apparently, "saving trees" one cash register receipt at a time.  Frankly, if I don't write down my expenses on the corner of something quickly while the "amount spent" is still in my short term memory bank, my register is going to be an ever-loving disaster.  And, strange surprise, you can't do coin parking meters or coin laundry machines here.  They only accept "plastic."  (How can you open an app when Wi-Fi is still out?)  If my parents were to vacation here, they'd go home with dirty laundry because they don't "do plastic."  So in the end, a whole generation of people who believe in paying cash for service and are old enough to not work and vacation anywhere they want, won't do it HERE if they have to pay laundry and parking meters with plastic.  I'm chalking this one up to another millennial idea to make things faster and jettison human jobs (ie. meter maids).

Oh, Stuff it

Yesterday we went to a place where you can make your own stuffed animals (the company shall remain nameless herein).  I could not find anything of an average size below $40.  I could have bought a $25 critter made of dense, knobby material - not soft and silky like the others - and They would donate one of the same to an emergency responder station for children in distress.  A nice thought.  But in the end both the kid and the buyer would not have a silky bear but a knobby one.  Something not right, but I can't quite put my finger on it.  Are they just trying to "move" knobby bears at a cut-rate?  If they donated them ALL couldn't they just grab a tax deduction for charitable purposes - or does Vermont not work like that?

And speaking of fingers... remember the strange photo of the grinning politician wearing mittens?  (And it's so much harder to do business and "move money" with mittens on, isn't it - so maybe this slows down crime?)  The stuffed animal store had a huge display of like-mittens for sale, perhaps, better to say "for purchase" since the word "sale" implies a bargain.  $50 for awkward granny mittens?!  Are you people out of your minds?!?

The Love Language of  ... FedEx

Ah - signs of life - big foot is stomping up the condo stairs - perhaps Sasquatch vacations here?  Then the delivery man booms-out the name of his company and makes someone's day.  I heard a woman say, "Oh, they've arrived!"  If you've read Chapman's book The Five Love Languages, I am a solid score on "receiving gifts" - so all that to say when the FedEx guy came to deliver furnace filters at my house the other day, I got so happy I almost hugged him.  No matter that I purchased them for myself.  I think he should yell, "INCOMING!"  when he comes up my driveway.  I get so excited.  I would've made a great mommy to a child inclined to bring me a handful of wilting dandelions.  I know I would exclaim with joy:  "Posies?!  For me?!  So beautiful!"  and the child would beam and run off to catch salamanders for me and put them in an empty mayonnaise jar with twigs and grass cuttings.  

"Writers Write" (Ann Landers)

My travelmates don't think I can hear them as I sit on the porch.  They are talking about journaling - and who does it (me), and they don't.  People who don't write need something else like smoking or sudoku or crosswords - because if I don't write my head will explode.  As I see and experience things, this is the way I process and share the percolations in my head.

It is breezy and cool today - September first - this patio is great.  I saw sunrise over the mountains this morning - wow - that one moment with the ball of fire blazing in the sky was so moving.  Then I went back to bed.  I can stand only so much raw inspiration. 

The Men of Vermont                                               

The Grand Silence of Vermont was broken by Rick the bookstore guy.  I think I found a book to buy because I felt sorry for him.  He was awkwardly masked, somewhere behind the counter surrounded by a tidal wave of tenuously perched books.  Any attempt to organize his store at this point would be akin to shuffling deck chairs on the Titanic.  the shelves were a disaster of epic proportions.  Adrian Monk (the television detective who I plan to marry) would've gone right into a panic attack at the sight of this store.

Sometimes people just talk to me for no reason.  My mother has encouraged me to listen more and talk less, to draw other people out.  This has mostly turned out to be bad advice.  First, because I am bad at it.  I find myself interesting and funny and firmly believe everyone else should too (tongue-in-cheek).  Second, and more to the point, people tell me stuff I don't need to know.

For instance: the bookstore guy.  He told me about someone who returns gifts that he gives them (We can all feel that angst, I agree.)  I pointed out to him that perhaps the worst part of that is when we give, we give a piece of our own thoughtfulness, and when that is rejected it hurts our hearts.  In effect, it rejects not just the gift, but the giver - I don't need this, is translated to our psyche as, "You have nothing to offer me."

Then he switched to talking about moving from living with roommates to having your own place.  (He was in his early 60's so I don't know why this topic rose up)  I merely commented how happy I am - when I recall some of my roommate situations - that I now live with three dogs instead of people.

He took that comment to a whole other level and said a psychologist friend told him dogs give to us emotionally and perhaps even biophysically.  Huh?  To the point:  by bringing dirt into our homes dogs  build up our immune system by exposing us to other germs for which we subsequently develop antibodies.  Irony:  he was wearing mask when he said this, and  the sign on his door insisted that me and everyone else who entered, vaccinated or not, had to be masked.  These types of people drive me crazy.  They need to decide whether or not they even truly believe in the vaccine they want to mandate.  I looked at him and said something relative to:  I have a hard time getting excited about dog shit being tracked into my house.  He was quick to assure me he was only referencing dirt.  I tried to stammer my way toward wrapping up this odd conversational-free-association-experience.

I was also still mentally boxing-up his comments about food pantries needing to broaden their stock to include women's feminine supplies and how glad he was that we lifted (did we?  who is "we"?) the taboo of speaking about such things in public so now we can really help people with what they "need."  And, honestly, for all points of the conversation we had, I will always think of this man as the stereotypical Vermont Man Type 1.  I couldn't see behind the counter but I bet you five dollars he was wearing Birkenstocks... possibly with socks on.

Vermont Man Type 2's persona would be captured by the guy running a gift shop we stopped by on our way home.  I walked into the roadside shop and immediately began trying to mentally identify a funky smell.  Not exactly a maryjane smell.  Not cigarettes.  Perhaps outdated balsam potpourri?  But funky nonetheless.  And as he sat behind his counter writing - he said - stock identifiers on  a piece of paper (as in "Stocks & Bonds") he somehow told us he just sold a house online... in 8 hours ... for $795,000 .... yes 3 zeroes.  I assure you if I just made THAT kind of sale I would not be sitting in a run-down gift shop selling maple candies and garden banners to middle-aged fat women fleeing the state.

To look at the guy,  I would really expect he'd be playing Jimmy Buffet songs on the store radio. Tee shirt, wavy dark brown hair, middle-aged but strong looking and yet laughed a lot.  But he just sat there in the quiet scribbling numbers, talking to himself.  I presume he was wearing flip-flops, not Birkenstocks.  I also didn't get the impression he voted for Bernie.  He was too unapologetic about his financial success.  Five bucks says he was born in another state and moved to Vermont.

Vermont Man Type 3 is captured by the painter Norman Rockwell.  He is the subject of the "Freedom of Speech" painting in the series on The Four Freedoms.  Rockwell, I have been told, puts a trick in each of his paintings - as a result, in order to find this detail, you find yourself pulled in to make you study it more. The Vermont man exercising his Freedom of Speech at a townhall meeting is wearing a plaid flannel jacket.  It has buttons; his shirt has a zipper.  That's the trick.  But it is also the job of a good artist to show you, the viewer, that we have subtle expectations of the things of life - like our clothes - and those can be adjusted without doing damage to the overall picture.  I love Rockwell for his ordinary yet exquisite portrayal of American life.  Actually, the guy in the painting reminds me of what my friend's dad would have looked like when he was younger... and I imagine in his life he has gotten plenty of use of his freedom of speech.  

Vermont - is it open for business?

Vermont is only really open from Thursday to Sunday.  Our travel group wanted to try the Flatbread Restaurant that other people raved about in the condo guest book.  It had a sign:  "Open Thurs- Sun."  This was not only a let-down but a point of annoyance because none of our vacation stay overlapped with their "open" hours.  And I don't  think it was a public health reason that kept them closed.  I think they just don't feel like working Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday, so they don't.  I always thought half the charm of running a small business was meeting people and, for that, you have to have an "Open/Aiberto/Bienvenu" sign... instead of Open Thurs --> Sun.  Just sayin'.

The Snake at Hildene

Hildene is a fabulous estate with an amazing garden area built by Robert Lincoln, who is related to - yes - Honest Abe.  Their gift shop (which he probably did not build) had the coolest puzzles and I may have found a new hobby... because I need one more thing to do...   

The furniture at Hildene looked quite uncomfortable, which in my humble opinion, is a sign of a true antique.  Bureaus had lots of drawers and are stained very dark and not too nice.  It'd take three strong men and a draft horse to move the sideboard in the Lincoln's dining room.

On our way through the woods to look at the Pullman car (train travel for the rich & famous), one of the travelers looked forward on the gravel drive and said, "ugh.  snake."  And for those of you inclined to ask, "was it a gardener snake?"  I give my standard reply:  "I don't care WHAT he does for a living."  Ghastly.  As I picked up my pace and kept my eyes peeled for his relatives, I no longer was enjoying walking the road.  I was also keeping an eye on the dark clouds moving in which were perhaps related to the tropical storm moving inland up the New England coast.  I was now breathing like a person who is either pre-asthmatic or quite out of shape.  But I got even.  On the way of driving out of the Hildene estate my tires ran over something bump-bump, bump-bump.

Pleasant Distractions

I think about two things a lot lately:  dying and dating.  Not because I am likely to do either of them any time soon, but just because I have a lot of material to consider on each.  However, I do not think about dying when I am eating ice cream; nor do I need to be on a date to eat ice cream, so I am glad to report that I enjoyed my frozen favorite almost every day on vacation.  I've cut myself down to a single scoop so I feel less remorse:  when I get on the scale at home I can blame the # on something else.  

Return to Dogland

This morning I dreamt I was living in my apartment in the city again.  In the dream I was calling my dogs and they weren't to be seen.  One came, I knew it was Madeline.  In my sleep I called, screamed, actually, panic-stricken, for my Valor and my Sophia.  They were nowhere to be found.  I woke up and realized I was home in my own bed, Madeline was nearby and I could hear Valor and Sophia in their respective kennels in the living room waiting for me to be awake and let them out to get this day going.  Maybe they were really the ones dreaming of me when I was on vacation in Vermont, wondering why I did not come immediately when they called for me.  Nonetheless, here I am, and here they are, and all is right with my world now.

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