Going Sixty Beautifully
“Hey, Beautiful Cousin,” my cousin Nancy began, “I have a week off at the end of April. Let’s go down to the Oregon Coast.”
Note: My cousin and I call each other beautiful as often as possible. I have friends with whom I do this as well. We’ve learned that greeting someone as beautiful, and being greeted as beautiful, makes you feel beautiful, and actually lights up your true beauty. You might want to try it, if you haven’t already.
Back to our story.
So began the celebration of my sixtieth birthday, which is still a few weeks off. Nancy said we would begin the celebration early because this was the only time she had off.
She took the train over to Seattle last Sunday, and we began our week by having brunch at Ivar’s Salmon House. This was unintentional – we meant to have lunch, but it turns out that Ivar’s has a rather famous buffet brunch it serves every Sunday morning. We did not complain. It was good, if overwhelming. The American dilemma – too many choices.
We came out to the island so Nancy could see our new house, and we stayed the night here at home.
Monday, we beat feet south to Longview, where we met up with my beautiful friend Sonya, who had taken the train up from Vancouver, and my beautiful friend Jan, who lives in Longview.
When you’re traveling, even as short a distance as a couple of hours down the freeway, it is a great thing to have someone who knows the city you’re in to show you around, and Jan is all hospitality. She gave us a choice of three Great Places to Eat. We started at a place (whose name I cannot remember) that served boba tea (tea with large pearls of tapioca in it) and great panini. I had the grilled avocado melt. Yum.
She then took us on a tour of Longview’s cultural high spots. OK, she took us to the library, where she works, and drove by her church and her house. We ended up at the British tea room where Jan told us the story of the traffic ticket she got in Arizona.
She and her mother and sister (all beautiful) were on vacation when Jan got pulled over for doing 72 in a 50 mile an hour zone. This was a $200 ticket. But Jan is so charming, beautiful, and obviously decent that the officer decided to give her a $30 ticket instead, and wrote her up for “the abuse of finite resources.”
Let us savor that phrase: “the abuse of finite resources.” It rolls around in the mouth with all the flavor of a chunk of grilled avocado melt. Aah.
After a marvelous few hours together, Jan had to go to work and Sonya had to catch the train back to Vancouver. We all parted at the train station and Nancy and I headed out Highway 30 to Astoria, Oregon.
On the way we passed the remains of a mud slide which closed the road during last December’s flood rains – whoa. I remember seeing this on the news at the time – there was a house that had been transported by the mud right down across the highway. The road is open now, but when you’ve said that, you’ve said it all. The slide and much of the damage it did is still there, including wrecked buildings and half-buried cars. If you want to get a glimpse of what a little mud can do, drive out Highway 30 sometime.
Tuesday, we drove around Astoria, enjoying the views. Astoria was the jumping off point for lumber logged for John Jacob Astor. The lumber was loaded up here and was shipped to Astoria, New York. My friend, Alice, who used to live in Astoria, New York, told me this.
The superfluity of lumber (I love slipping words from the Book of Common Prayer into ordinary speech) meant that Astoria was built with all the Victorian flair that 19th century builders could muster. So the town seems to consist almost entirely of Victorian mansions, or at least large and beautiful Victorian homes, complete with gingerbread. Many have been fixed up and given fresh paint; some have not, and show the wear and tear of many decades of coastal rain.
What Astoria has besides gorgeous Victorian architecture is a superfluity of views of the Columbia River. You almost have to work to find a place without a view, and from the ridge at the top of the hill you can gaze out at the mouth of the Columbia, and the Washington coast going north and the Oregon coast going south and the Pacific Ocean out to the western horizon. There are people living up there who can see this view from their homes every day. Imagine getting up and having your morning cuppa while contemplating this vast expanse of earth and water.
We drove up to the Astoria Column, which is located on top of the second and taller hill behind Astoria. On my 50th birthday Nancy and her sister Charlotte and I visited Astoria, and discovered that a fellow named Electus Litchfield had a hand in building the column. He knew how to do the murals which spiral up the column, depicting scenes from the Lewis and Clark Expedition. There is a lot of Lewis and Clark awareness out on the Columbia.
Being Litchfield descendants, we decided we had to see the column.
Charlotte and I climbed the Astoria Column’s interior staircase that time, just to prove to ourselves that we could. Ten years later I had no intention of climbing the Column again, but they’re building a new staircase so no one is climbing the Column at present. Don’t you love it when you can’t even be tempted to do something you don’t want to do?
We drank in that view and asked a nice young woman to take our picture with our cameras. She was a professional photographer, carrying a camera with a lens the size of a (large) Dachshund. She was a little confused by our simple snapshot cameras, but she graciously took our pictures.
After that we drove around town some more. We drove by the elementary school featured in “Kindergarten Cop,” but we couldn’t find the house featured in “The Goonies.”
When we decided we were done with Astoria, we drove south. We went to Cannon Beach, a town which seems to exist solely to delight the tourist eye and pocketbook. It is lovely and cute in the extreme, and I am sure that many people enjoy it immensely.
We ambled south to Tolovana Beach, to a public beach with restrooms and a parking lot, and we parked there looking out at the ocean, watching the waves roll in. We talked about our lives, our family, and the one ship we could see out on the horizon, most of it hidden beyond the curvature of the earth. We sat there watching the waves for at least an hour.
This was the high point of the trip.
Then we drove back to Seaside where we got a room with an ocean view and watched the waves a while longer. Had dinner in the hotel restaurant, where a waiter named Franklin treated us like queens and brought my dessert with a lit birthday candle. Oh, yeah. We were celebrating my 60th birthday.
Wednesday, we sampled the fleshpots of Seaside, which were fairly quiet as the tourist season has not launched yet. Seaside reminds us of the Boardwalk in Santa Cruz, where we spent many happy hours as children. We ate lunch at the Pig ‘n’ Pancake, and then decided to mosey back north so Nancy would catch her train home the next day.
We crossed the bridge over the Columbia at Astoria and drove back to Longview on Highway 4. No spectacular mudslides, but many beautiful views of the Columbia and the countryside, and at least one Elder Hostel, of which I made a mental note. Sonya has reminded me that once I turn 60, I qualify.
Once you’re on I-5, you’re just driving, and that’s what we did, all the way to Puyallup, where we made a stop at the casino. I made my contribution to Native American prosperity, and walked out broke. Nancy walked out with $50, but we will gloss over lightly how much she contributed to Native American prosperity before she hit that whooping slot machine that sent us into the night giggling.
By that time it was so late that we wouldn’t have been able to get back to the island until 2 a.m., and then we would have had to turn around in the morning to bring Nancy back in to the train station in Seattle. So we stayed the night at a Howard Johnson’s where the heat didn’t work, the flush handle had fallen off the toilet, there was a big hole in one of the bedspreads, and we were awakened early by a leaf blower. This was not the worst motel room I’ve ever been in, but it reminded me of the worst room.
Our last day we moseyed up Highway 99 to Seattle, hit my favorite yarn shop in West Seattle, had lunch at Ivar’s (in the best seat in the house, the southwest corner looking out at Lake Union), and then I dropped my Beautiful Cousin off at the King Street Station.
So ended our trip to the ocean, and the first chapter of my sixtieth birthday celebration. We had fun. I am exhausted, and realizing I was wise to call off the trip to England that my friends Tara and Becky were planning for this month. I’m almost over the mono, but not quite. Maybe England next year.
Sixty feels like an auspicious age. I find myself thinking of all the people I knew who have not made it to sixty. I feel obliged to live life to the full, to try to make up for my friends’ absence, not to mention my own sense of how blessed I am to still be here.
I invite my dear departed friends to watch the waves through my eyes. I am happy to be here, pain and all. I intend to go on abusing my finite resources as long as I can.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The Chamber of Commerce Is Going to Love Me
Dear Hearts and Gentle People,
It's another cloudy sunny rainy haily snowy spring day on Vashon. The entry before this one is all about the weather these days, if you want to keep reading. That's my column for this week's Loop, which comes out on Friday, April 25.
This piece is one I wrote for "Destination Vashon," the local annual summer tourist guide that is published by the Beachcomber, the island weekly. It will be an insert in a coming issue of the Beachcomber, and then will be available at island places of business and on the ferries for the next year or so.
Two people have pronounced the piece "lovely." It's all about what we love about the island - Leslie, the editor, asked me to avoid the negative, and I did, absolutely.
If you used to live here, it might make you a little homesick. If you live here now, you might say, "Yeah, but wottabout..." I left out the wottabouts. Tourists don't need to hear about wottabouts. We who live here will deal with the wottabouts, just like everyone does in their home town.
In the interest of brevity, I cut out a nod to Austin, Texas, where I believe the "Keep (insert your home town) Weird" bumperstickers started. My writing pal Susan down in Texas says it's ok, because Austin isn't as weird as it used to be.
By the way, you can read Susan's column this week at:
http://www.weeklyjournal.net/content/6/roses-by-any-other-names.shtml
She writes as the mother of two grown sons, and I really related.
Also by the way, Susan and I are the founding mothers of the Fat, Sarcastic, Average Ladies' Guild. We were talking one day about how we wanted to be tall and skinny and elegant when we were young, but, "I turned out to be fat, average, and sarcastic," I mourned. Susan picked up the ball from there. We are now the Guild. No rules, no officers, no meetings. If you're a member, you just know.
OK, on to this lovely piece - blessings & all
Mary
What Makes Vashon Weird?
You may have seen the deceptively subtle little bumper sticker: “Keep Vashon Weird.” Why is this sentiment appropriate, and why do people smile when they see it?
First, Vashon’s an island. OK, it’s two islands, Vashon and Maury, connected by a thin portage. There is something romantic about a place you can’t get to unless you get on a boat, and the inconvenience of an island is what attracts, and repels, people. Residents allow one to three hours to get someplace on the mainland which we could get to in twenty minutes if we lived over there. We live with inconvenience because we feel so privileged to live here. Islanders have a deep sense of being a people apart.
Second, Vashon is an island populated by eccentrics, even now when the internet has made the island less isolated. The character of a community is the sum of the characters that live there, and Vashon has always had a high percentage of capital C Characters. Perhaps living surrounded by a moat is what attracts, or makes, unconventional personalities.
Third, Vashon is beautiful. At every turn you see a view of the water, evergreen forests and stands of alder and Madrona trees, and of mountains, including Mt. Rainier, when the clouds part to reveal it.
In spring, the roads are bordered with dogwoods and their elegant, waxen blooms, and wild cherry trees in blossom. As they fade, the riotous yellow of Scotch broom and the purple and white foxglove come out. Wild sweet peas and purple larkspur bloom as the summer progresses, and wild blackberries ripen in August. Yum.
Not to mention the rather spectacular gardens and landscapes which people have created and tend here. Other manifestations of the human hand: a pond in the shape of a deer; a bicycle embedded in a tree; the exotic murals at the Island Theater painted in the early 1950s by a 17-year-old artist named Jonathan Tabor, who changed his name to Jac and went on to work for Disney; murals on the sides of buildings; and a lighthouse with guided tours, for starters.
As you bike or walk or drive around you might see bald eagles soaring overhead, or blue herons standing at the water’s edge. While walking on the beach you might see a pod of orcas swimming up the Sound. Once in a blue moon you might spot a mink, a descendant of escapees from the mink farms that used to be here.
Deer are everywhere. On odd occasions a bear swims onto the island, but only on odd occasions, and the bear is usually scared to death and looking for a more bear-friendly atmosphere, and swims off the island again.
Finally, Vashon is a small town. People value the sense of community and connection we have with one another. When you become a member of any group on the island, you will experience the overlap of a small town. We tend to disagree about practically everything, but we get along, mostly, because when you live on an island, you will run into that person again.
Come and visit. We welcome you, but guard your heart – as you watch the full moon coming up over the Cascades, or watch the sun going down behind the Olympics, you might feel like you’ve come home, and you might want to be a capital C Character, and help keep Vashon weird. It could happen. Ask anyone who lives here.
It's another cloudy sunny rainy haily snowy spring day on Vashon. The entry before this one is all about the weather these days, if you want to keep reading. That's my column for this week's Loop, which comes out on Friday, April 25.
This piece is one I wrote for "Destination Vashon," the local annual summer tourist guide that is published by the Beachcomber, the island weekly. It will be an insert in a coming issue of the Beachcomber, and then will be available at island places of business and on the ferries for the next year or so.
Two people have pronounced the piece "lovely." It's all about what we love about the island - Leslie, the editor, asked me to avoid the negative, and I did, absolutely.
If you used to live here, it might make you a little homesick. If you live here now, you might say, "Yeah, but wottabout..." I left out the wottabouts. Tourists don't need to hear about wottabouts. We who live here will deal with the wottabouts, just like everyone does in their home town.
In the interest of brevity, I cut out a nod to Austin, Texas, where I believe the "Keep (insert your home town) Weird" bumperstickers started. My writing pal Susan down in Texas says it's ok, because Austin isn't as weird as it used to be.
By the way, you can read Susan's column this week at:
http://www.weeklyjournal.net/content/6/roses-by-any-other-names.shtml
She writes as the mother of two grown sons, and I really related.
Also by the way, Susan and I are the founding mothers of the Fat, Sarcastic, Average Ladies' Guild. We were talking one day about how we wanted to be tall and skinny and elegant when we were young, but, "I turned out to be fat, average, and sarcastic," I mourned. Susan picked up the ball from there. We are now the Guild. No rules, no officers, no meetings. If you're a member, you just know.
OK, on to this lovely piece - blessings & all
Mary
What Makes Vashon Weird?
You may have seen the deceptively subtle little bumper sticker: “Keep Vashon Weird.” Why is this sentiment appropriate, and why do people smile when they see it?
First, Vashon’s an island. OK, it’s two islands, Vashon and Maury, connected by a thin portage. There is something romantic about a place you can’t get to unless you get on a boat, and the inconvenience of an island is what attracts, and repels, people. Residents allow one to three hours to get someplace on the mainland which we could get to in twenty minutes if we lived over there. We live with inconvenience because we feel so privileged to live here. Islanders have a deep sense of being a people apart.
Second, Vashon is an island populated by eccentrics, even now when the internet has made the island less isolated. The character of a community is the sum of the characters that live there, and Vashon has always had a high percentage of capital C Characters. Perhaps living surrounded by a moat is what attracts, or makes, unconventional personalities.
Third, Vashon is beautiful. At every turn you see a view of the water, evergreen forests and stands of alder and Madrona trees, and of mountains, including Mt. Rainier, when the clouds part to reveal it.
In spring, the roads are bordered with dogwoods and their elegant, waxen blooms, and wild cherry trees in blossom. As they fade, the riotous yellow of Scotch broom and the purple and white foxglove come out. Wild sweet peas and purple larkspur bloom as the summer progresses, and wild blackberries ripen in August. Yum.
Not to mention the rather spectacular gardens and landscapes which people have created and tend here. Other manifestations of the human hand: a pond in the shape of a deer; a bicycle embedded in a tree; the exotic murals at the Island Theater painted in the early 1950s by a 17-year-old artist named Jonathan Tabor, who changed his name to Jac and went on to work for Disney; murals on the sides of buildings; and a lighthouse with guided tours, for starters.
As you bike or walk or drive around you might see bald eagles soaring overhead, or blue herons standing at the water’s edge. While walking on the beach you might see a pod of orcas swimming up the Sound. Once in a blue moon you might spot a mink, a descendant of escapees from the mink farms that used to be here.
Deer are everywhere. On odd occasions a bear swims onto the island, but only on odd occasions, and the bear is usually scared to death and looking for a more bear-friendly atmosphere, and swims off the island again.
Finally, Vashon is a small town. People value the sense of community and connection we have with one another. When you become a member of any group on the island, you will experience the overlap of a small town. We tend to disagree about practically everything, but we get along, mostly, because when you live on an island, you will run into that person again.
Come and visit. We welcome you, but guard your heart – as you watch the full moon coming up over the Cascades, or watch the sun going down behind the Olympics, you might feel like you’ve come home, and you might want to be a capital C Character, and help keep Vashon weird. It could happen. Ask anyone who lives here.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Global Warming, Local Confusion
Dear Hearts -
Just came home from a friend's place, driving through sun, hail, and snow. All at the same time. The weather has gone from changing every ten minutes and every hundred yards to doing everything all at once. So I thought I'd get the latest Smart Aleck onto the blog now, while the weather topic is hot, cold, and everything in between. So here it is:
Global Warming, Local Confusion
As I write I’m listening to the weather forecast on the radio. The forecast is for snow. We’re coming into late April, and the weather forecast is for snow, and rain, and hail. With occasional sun breaks.
Now I’m as ready as the next bleeding heart liberal to believe that global warming is a fact, but the weather this spring has me confused.
Last week a friend driving home from Spokane was held up for an hour and a half on Interstate 90 while the state crews did avalanche control at Snoqualmie Pass.
Two days later we had an eighty-five degree day that gave all the trees and shrubs a burst of growth and bloom. Summer! We got out our shorts and tees.
Two days after that I drove into Seattle and landed in a hail storm-cum-cloudburst. Within a few minutes the gutters were running with several inches of water, and the water had large bubbles caused by rain and hail pelting it, and on the higher ground hail collected like snow. This kept up for ten minutes or so, at the end of which lightning flashed and thunder boomed, and then the rain slowed to a spit, and the sun broke through.
We’ve always said, “If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes,” but it has never been as true as it is this spring.
Over forty years ago when I was a freshman in college, I had to take Biology 101, a general education course. The teacher felt that the only real major anyone should have in college was chemistry, and that it was his job to wash out as many non-chemistry majors as he could. You could tell he had no patience with our unformed, unscientific minds. He taught us with the gloom and despair of a prophet destined to reveal truths that no one wanted to hear. He told us about the greenhouse effect and global warming. He told us that we ignored what we were doing to the environment at our peril. It sounded horrible and fantastical, like science fiction, back then.
He was right, and nobody listened. No wonder he was always in a bad mood.
When I moved to Los Angeles in 1969 and experienced smog, I began to see his point. I could look up in the sky and see what looked like solid earth floating above the LA basin. That was air pollution. If I drove with the windows down on a hot day, my eyes stung and burned. I found out that sensation was caused by sulfur compounds in the air combining with the tears in my eyes to make sulfuric acid. In my eyes.
There were daily air quality alerts. Sometimes children were not allowed to play outside because the air would poison them.
That was my first observation of humans pooping in the nest. LA has cleaned up the air quite a bit since, but I continue to be amazed at how short-sighted we are regarding the effects of our behavior and actions on the world we live in, and how little we apparently care about what we leave for our children and grand children, especially if there’s a buck to be made in the short run. Shortsighted. Pooping in our own nest.
There is so much we don’t and can’t know. Is this snowy, icy spring a result of global warming’s upsetting the earth’s equilibrium? Is it the fault of La Niña? Is it an isolated quirk of nature? Is it the last days, as many fundamentalist Christians would like to believe, despite the gospel’s assurance that no one will see it coming (Luke 12:40)? Have Pinky and the Brain finally taken over the world?
Heck, I don’t know. Hand me my jacket, will you? I have to go break the ice in the dog’s water dish. If this is global warming, I’m confused.
Just came home from a friend's place, driving through sun, hail, and snow. All at the same time. The weather has gone from changing every ten minutes and every hundred yards to doing everything all at once. So I thought I'd get the latest Smart Aleck onto the blog now, while the weather topic is hot, cold, and everything in between. So here it is:
Global Warming, Local Confusion
As I write I’m listening to the weather forecast on the radio. The forecast is for snow. We’re coming into late April, and the weather forecast is for snow, and rain, and hail. With occasional sun breaks.
Now I’m as ready as the next bleeding heart liberal to believe that global warming is a fact, but the weather this spring has me confused.
Last week a friend driving home from Spokane was held up for an hour and a half on Interstate 90 while the state crews did avalanche control at Snoqualmie Pass.
Two days later we had an eighty-five degree day that gave all the trees and shrubs a burst of growth and bloom. Summer! We got out our shorts and tees.
Two days after that I drove into Seattle and landed in a hail storm-cum-cloudburst. Within a few minutes the gutters were running with several inches of water, and the water had large bubbles caused by rain and hail pelting it, and on the higher ground hail collected like snow. This kept up for ten minutes or so, at the end of which lightning flashed and thunder boomed, and then the rain slowed to a spit, and the sun broke through.
We’ve always said, “If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes,” but it has never been as true as it is this spring.
Over forty years ago when I was a freshman in college, I had to take Biology 101, a general education course. The teacher felt that the only real major anyone should have in college was chemistry, and that it was his job to wash out as many non-chemistry majors as he could. You could tell he had no patience with our unformed, unscientific minds. He taught us with the gloom and despair of a prophet destined to reveal truths that no one wanted to hear. He told us about the greenhouse effect and global warming. He told us that we ignored what we were doing to the environment at our peril. It sounded horrible and fantastical, like science fiction, back then.
He was right, and nobody listened. No wonder he was always in a bad mood.
When I moved to Los Angeles in 1969 and experienced smog, I began to see his point. I could look up in the sky and see what looked like solid earth floating above the LA basin. That was air pollution. If I drove with the windows down on a hot day, my eyes stung and burned. I found out that sensation was caused by sulfur compounds in the air combining with the tears in my eyes to make sulfuric acid. In my eyes.
There were daily air quality alerts. Sometimes children were not allowed to play outside because the air would poison them.
That was my first observation of humans pooping in the nest. LA has cleaned up the air quite a bit since, but I continue to be amazed at how short-sighted we are regarding the effects of our behavior and actions on the world we live in, and how little we apparently care about what we leave for our children and grand children, especially if there’s a buck to be made in the short run. Shortsighted. Pooping in our own nest.
There is so much we don’t and can’t know. Is this snowy, icy spring a result of global warming’s upsetting the earth’s equilibrium? Is it the fault of La Niña? Is it an isolated quirk of nature? Is it the last days, as many fundamentalist Christians would like to believe, despite the gospel’s assurance that no one will see it coming (Luke 12:40)? Have Pinky and the Brain finally taken over the world?
Heck, I don’t know. Hand me my jacket, will you? I have to go break the ice in the dog’s water dish. If this is global warming, I’m confused.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Buying Things Is Fun
Perhaps you recall that after 9/11, we were told that the best thing we could do to fight terrorism would be to go shopping. Keep that American economy perking away. That’ll show ‘em.
Now, seven long bloody years later, we are being told once again to go shopping. We (those of us who qualify) will be receiving checks from the government this spring. An “economic stimulus” it’s called. We are not to think overmuch about where this money is coming from, only that we are to use it to go out and buy something for ourselves.
I’m thinking I’ll use it to pay down my credit card debt, or some other bills. Which is what the gummint is telling us not to do. No, no, no, no, no! Don’t pay off what you owe! Buy something new! This is meant to be CPR for our moribund economy.
Let’s face it, kids, $600 these days is chump change, an amount of money that will evaporate faster than a water drop on the wood stove in January. Or April, the way our weather has been lately. I say this from the perspective of having a procedure done at a hospital recently and spending one night in said hospital. $600 would barely make them notice I’d put anything on my tab.
I’m not saying it won’t be nice to be handed $600, since it is coming. I’m not saying no. I’m just saying that putting the country deeper into debt while encouraging us to get deeper into personal debt sounds like a dim strategy.
I’ve read and heard for years that we are a consumer society, and that we are addicted to spending and overspending. We keep trying to buy happiness. You can’t buy happiness. You can, however, purchase a little temporary mood elevation. As my son says, “Buying things is fun, and then you get to keep the stuff!”
I’m not talking about consumerism as an outsider. I have yearned for and bought cars, computers, guitars, clothes, and one house; I have spent happy hours on the internet looking at fantasy houses and vehicles, among other things. So I’m not saying that buying things or wanting to buy things is bad.
I will say that I’m up to my neck in crap I bought, inherited, accepted, or found. I’ve acquired enough stuff in my life to have tipped to the evil side of consumerism – the point where happiness would have a better chance around here if I got rid of most of this stuff.
I keep thinking about the big picture here – the one where you can see the American dollar falling in value, and the balance of trade being wildly off-balance. I’m thinking about one more action by this strange administration which has done so much to bring this country to its knees and disgrace it in the eyes of the rest of the world, not to mention in the eyes of over half its own citizens. Now we’re all being handed a quarter to go to the candy store while the administration makes out with our big sister. The candy may be sweet in the mouth for a few seconds, but that won’t keep us from realizing how much has gone sour.
So enjoy that internet cell phone, or a few minutes’ peace of mind from paying down your credit balance, and get ready: we have work ahead of us as a nation, and it may involve things other than shopping.
Now, seven long bloody years later, we are being told once again to go shopping. We (those of us who qualify) will be receiving checks from the government this spring. An “economic stimulus” it’s called. We are not to think overmuch about where this money is coming from, only that we are to use it to go out and buy something for ourselves.
I’m thinking I’ll use it to pay down my credit card debt, or some other bills. Which is what the gummint is telling us not to do. No, no, no, no, no! Don’t pay off what you owe! Buy something new! This is meant to be CPR for our moribund economy.
Let’s face it, kids, $600 these days is chump change, an amount of money that will evaporate faster than a water drop on the wood stove in January. Or April, the way our weather has been lately. I say this from the perspective of having a procedure done at a hospital recently and spending one night in said hospital. $600 would barely make them notice I’d put anything on my tab.
I’m not saying it won’t be nice to be handed $600, since it is coming. I’m not saying no. I’m just saying that putting the country deeper into debt while encouraging us to get deeper into personal debt sounds like a dim strategy.
I’ve read and heard for years that we are a consumer society, and that we are addicted to spending and overspending. We keep trying to buy happiness. You can’t buy happiness. You can, however, purchase a little temporary mood elevation. As my son says, “Buying things is fun, and then you get to keep the stuff!”
I’m not talking about consumerism as an outsider. I have yearned for and bought cars, computers, guitars, clothes, and one house; I have spent happy hours on the internet looking at fantasy houses and vehicles, among other things. So I’m not saying that buying things or wanting to buy things is bad.
I will say that I’m up to my neck in crap I bought, inherited, accepted, or found. I’ve acquired enough stuff in my life to have tipped to the evil side of consumerism – the point where happiness would have a better chance around here if I got rid of most of this stuff.
I keep thinking about the big picture here – the one where you can see the American dollar falling in value, and the balance of trade being wildly off-balance. I’m thinking about one more action by this strange administration which has done so much to bring this country to its knees and disgrace it in the eyes of the rest of the world, not to mention in the eyes of over half its own citizens. Now we’re all being handed a quarter to go to the candy store while the administration makes out with our big sister. The candy may be sweet in the mouth for a few seconds, but that won’t keep us from realizing how much has gone sour.
So enjoy that internet cell phone, or a few minutes’ peace of mind from paying down your credit balance, and get ready: we have work ahead of us as a nation, and it may involve things other than shopping.
Monday, March 24, 2008
A Couple of Smart Alecks Discuss 60s Rock Stars
Well, dear hearts,
It's the day after Easter. We made it through Holy Week. I took the coward's way out and didn't attend any of the Holy Week services. The week before I overdid and suffered a mini-relapse of the mono tiredness, so now I'm back to napping or at least lying down in the afternoon for a while, and trying to remember that if I don't take care of me, no one will.
The latest essay is about a new friend I have made via the internet, Susan Bardwell. She writes a column (among other things) for The Angleton Journal, an online publication...well, I'm getting ahead of myself here.
The Angleton Journal publishes on Mondays, and I just read Susan's column and found that we both told the story about how we became friends this time. I, being a coward, quoted her extensively in my column; she, being a Real Journalist, did not quote me, although I noticed my name is spelled wrong.
Oh well. Years of newspaper articles and funny checks have taught me to be tolerant of misspellings of the name. I always said I married Rick so that it would take less time to misspell my last name(Tuel), but then I ended up pretty much keeping my maiden name (Litchfield), so the opportunities for spelling errors abound. It's OK. Hear me, Susan? IT'S OK. Life improved so much after the "Richfield" gas stations went away that I don't care anymore. Up until then I spent a lot of time telling people, "Litchfield, with an 'L.'" As in la la la.
So, for a good time, check out Susan's column. Web link included in my essay. I don't know if it will post as a weblink - you might have to copy and paste the address. It's worth the effort. She's fun.
Sometimes I wonder why Texas looms so large in my life. My mother was born in Texas (Corsicana) and grew up there (El Paso). I've never been there myself, but I know I have relatives there whom I've never met, and I have friends there and friends from there. I'm going to have to go someday. The farthest south I've ever been is Albuquerque (yes, Peter and Trylla, I mean to go there again, too).
I've been singing this morning, playing guitar, working out chords to a song I wrote 24 years ago that changes from G to A flat in the last verse, and every time I play it I have to figure out the chords for the last verse anew. I only performed it once in public, on piano, and didn't change key. It's a good song. You'll hear it someday. Then I moved to the piano and sang a couple of airs from "The Messiah," alto pieces and one soprano piece to stretch the lazy vocal cords a bit.
Also took the dog for a short walk this morning, about halfway down the incredibly steep hill that comes up to our neighborhood and back up. He ate a lot of grass. I called him a lot of names because he kept getting tangled up in the leash and getting me tangled up in the leash.
And right now I'm going to go have lunch, a bean soup that was supposed to be chili but isn't.
Bean Soup that isn't Chili
Put 2 T. olive oil in a cast iron skillet, turn on low - medium.
Chop up an onion and saute it in the oil until it is transparent and limp.
Add one-two pounds of ground beef or turkey (mine was beef) and fry on medium, stirring the while, until meat is all crumbly and brown.
Season with one tablespoon of chili powder and two teaspoons of cumin, and mix.
Now you can do whatever you want with the meat/onion/spice mixture. The first night I made tacos. But to make the soup:
Put the leftover meat/onion/spice mixture into a soup pot. Add:
1 can of kidney or black beans (rinsed and drained)
1 can of garbanzo beans (rinsed and drained)
2 small cans diced tomatoes (no flavoring)
1 can of water, or as much as needed to make it all liquid
Stir, heat, and eat. Gets better as the hours go by. I ate mine with Solenas tortilla chips and little chunks of avocado.
Life is so damn good.
My friend Alice is having surgery today; it's serious. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers. Thank you.
blessings & love & hugs & grace & peace
Mary
A Couple of Smart Alecks Discuss 60s Rock Stars
One of the great things about the internet, besides keeping in touch with friends and family far away, is making new friends whom you might not have met otherwise.
The last few months I’ve had a crackin’ good correspondence with a woman named Susan Bardwell, a writer who lives down in Angleton, Texas. She is a friend of Laurie Heath, who is the daughter of David and Jane Shepherd, who were my sons’ band and first grade teachers, respectively.
Dave and Jane thought that I might enjoy reading Susan’s stuff, so they gave me the link to her column in the Angleton Journal, an online publication that Susan and her husband Micheal put out down in Angleton, Texas. And yes, that is the way Micheal’s name is spelled, and yes, I do enjoy her stuff, and you will, too. Here’s the web page address:
http://www.weeklyjournal.net/index.shtml
Scroll down to Susan’s smilin’ face, next to which you’ll see her byline, S.K. Bardwell. Click, read, and enjoy.
Besides being smart aleck writers, we are close enough in age to compare and contrast cultural icons. I mentioned that I used to dance to Grace Slick’s original band, The Great Society, in San Francisco during the summer of 1966, and I didn’t think Grace Slick was that slick of a singer.
Susan wrote: “What I remember most vividly about Grace Slick was seeing her on a televised New Year's Eve concert many years ago…It was awful, I was embarrassed for her. Her voice was OK, but never struck me as being awesome, and evidently it didn't hold up well. Janis (Joplin), of course, is still big in Texas. Beaumont, which was evidently quite glad to see her leave when her career started, has a statue of her now. I never was mad about her, and I didn't care much for Jim Morrison, either. Loved Hendrix but when he died, I was just kind of put out - couldn't someone teach classes to these people on how to do your drugs without dying?
“The only star I ever wept for was John Lennon. “
Mary replied: “Grace Slick never was that great a singer, I thought, so I suppose it's not a surprise that she isn't one now. Janis Joplin: maybe you had to be there. Recordings never captured the power of her live performances. I've never seen anyone more electric. Jim Morrison: another electrifying performer (I saw The Doors at the Avalon just before their first single, “Break On Through to the Other Side” hit the charts), but as a person he was kind of an oaf, and I enjoyed the hits but never loved him like I loved Janis. I still don't get why so many people thought he was a great poet. I thought he was a legend in his own mind, and a lot of people bought it for some reason.
“Hendrix - a freakin' guitar genius. Saw him at the Monterey Pop Festival in June 1967, when he returned from England and began his conquest of the states. The most delicious part of that came years later when I was watching the video Monterey Pop with my two sons, and Hendrix's performance came on, and when it got to the part where he put the guitar on the floor and set it on fire, I said, ‘I missed this part because everyone jumped up on the chairs and I didn't move fast enough, so I was stuck on the ground looking at everyone's back.’ My sons' two heads swiveled around and they stared at me goggle-eyed, and one of them said, ‘You were there?’ Well, yeah, I was.”
That was one of the sweeter moments of parenthood.
John Lennon – ah, what a loss. I could weep still. There is nothing I can say beyond that. So I’ll stop there.
If you want to know how Dave and Jane Shepherd are doing down in Hollywood as Jane pursues her acting career, check their blog:
http://home.mindspring.com/~shepherd2/sheptrek/index.html
It's the day after Easter. We made it through Holy Week. I took the coward's way out and didn't attend any of the Holy Week services. The week before I overdid and suffered a mini-relapse of the mono tiredness, so now I'm back to napping or at least lying down in the afternoon for a while, and trying to remember that if I don't take care of me, no one will.
The latest essay is about a new friend I have made via the internet, Susan Bardwell. She writes a column (among other things) for The Angleton Journal, an online publication...well, I'm getting ahead of myself here.
The Angleton Journal publishes on Mondays, and I just read Susan's column and found that we both told the story about how we became friends this time. I, being a coward, quoted her extensively in my column; she, being a Real Journalist, did not quote me, although I noticed my name is spelled wrong.
Oh well. Years of newspaper articles and funny checks have taught me to be tolerant of misspellings of the name. I always said I married Rick so that it would take less time to misspell my last name(Tuel), but then I ended up pretty much keeping my maiden name (Litchfield), so the opportunities for spelling errors abound. It's OK. Hear me, Susan? IT'S OK. Life improved so much after the "Richfield" gas stations went away that I don't care anymore. Up until then I spent a lot of time telling people, "Litchfield, with an 'L.'" As in la la la.
So, for a good time, check out Susan's column. Web link included in my essay. I don't know if it will post as a weblink - you might have to copy and paste the address. It's worth the effort. She's fun.
Sometimes I wonder why Texas looms so large in my life. My mother was born in Texas (Corsicana) and grew up there (El Paso). I've never been there myself, but I know I have relatives there whom I've never met, and I have friends there and friends from there. I'm going to have to go someday. The farthest south I've ever been is Albuquerque (yes, Peter and Trylla, I mean to go there again, too).
I've been singing this morning, playing guitar, working out chords to a song I wrote 24 years ago that changes from G to A flat in the last verse, and every time I play it I have to figure out the chords for the last verse anew. I only performed it once in public, on piano, and didn't change key. It's a good song. You'll hear it someday. Then I moved to the piano and sang a couple of airs from "The Messiah," alto pieces and one soprano piece to stretch the lazy vocal cords a bit.
Also took the dog for a short walk this morning, about halfway down the incredibly steep hill that comes up to our neighborhood and back up. He ate a lot of grass. I called him a lot of names because he kept getting tangled up in the leash and getting me tangled up in the leash.
And right now I'm going to go have lunch, a bean soup that was supposed to be chili but isn't.
Bean Soup that isn't Chili
Put 2 T. olive oil in a cast iron skillet, turn on low - medium.
Chop up an onion and saute it in the oil until it is transparent and limp.
Add one-two pounds of ground beef or turkey (mine was beef) and fry on medium, stirring the while, until meat is all crumbly and brown.
Season with one tablespoon of chili powder and two teaspoons of cumin, and mix.
Now you can do whatever you want with the meat/onion/spice mixture. The first night I made tacos. But to make the soup:
Put the leftover meat/onion/spice mixture into a soup pot. Add:
1 can of kidney or black beans (rinsed and drained)
1 can of garbanzo beans (rinsed and drained)
2 small cans diced tomatoes (no flavoring)
1 can of water, or as much as needed to make it all liquid
Stir, heat, and eat. Gets better as the hours go by. I ate mine with Solenas tortilla chips and little chunks of avocado.
Life is so damn good.
My friend Alice is having surgery today; it's serious. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers. Thank you.
blessings & love & hugs & grace & peace
Mary
A Couple of Smart Alecks Discuss 60s Rock Stars
One of the great things about the internet, besides keeping in touch with friends and family far away, is making new friends whom you might not have met otherwise.
The last few months I’ve had a crackin’ good correspondence with a woman named Susan Bardwell, a writer who lives down in Angleton, Texas. She is a friend of Laurie Heath, who is the daughter of David and Jane Shepherd, who were my sons’ band and first grade teachers, respectively.
Dave and Jane thought that I might enjoy reading Susan’s stuff, so they gave me the link to her column in the Angleton Journal, an online publication that Susan and her husband Micheal put out down in Angleton, Texas. And yes, that is the way Micheal’s name is spelled, and yes, I do enjoy her stuff, and you will, too. Here’s the web page address:
http://www.weeklyjournal.net/index.shtml
Scroll down to Susan’s smilin’ face, next to which you’ll see her byline, S.K. Bardwell. Click, read, and enjoy.
Besides being smart aleck writers, we are close enough in age to compare and contrast cultural icons. I mentioned that I used to dance to Grace Slick’s original band, The Great Society, in San Francisco during the summer of 1966, and I didn’t think Grace Slick was that slick of a singer.
Susan wrote: “What I remember most vividly about Grace Slick was seeing her on a televised New Year's Eve concert many years ago…It was awful, I was embarrassed for her. Her voice was OK, but never struck me as being awesome, and evidently it didn't hold up well. Janis (Joplin), of course, is still big in Texas. Beaumont, which was evidently quite glad to see her leave when her career started, has a statue of her now. I never was mad about her, and I didn't care much for Jim Morrison, either. Loved Hendrix but when he died, I was just kind of put out - couldn't someone teach classes to these people on how to do your drugs without dying?
“The only star I ever wept for was John Lennon. “
Mary replied: “Grace Slick never was that great a singer, I thought, so I suppose it's not a surprise that she isn't one now. Janis Joplin: maybe you had to be there. Recordings never captured the power of her live performances. I've never seen anyone more electric. Jim Morrison: another electrifying performer (I saw The Doors at the Avalon just before their first single, “Break On Through to the Other Side” hit the charts), but as a person he was kind of an oaf, and I enjoyed the hits but never loved him like I loved Janis. I still don't get why so many people thought he was a great poet. I thought he was a legend in his own mind, and a lot of people bought it for some reason.
“Hendrix - a freakin' guitar genius. Saw him at the Monterey Pop Festival in June 1967, when he returned from England and began his conquest of the states. The most delicious part of that came years later when I was watching the video Monterey Pop with my two sons, and Hendrix's performance came on, and when it got to the part where he put the guitar on the floor and set it on fire, I said, ‘I missed this part because everyone jumped up on the chairs and I didn't move fast enough, so I was stuck on the ground looking at everyone's back.’ My sons' two heads swiveled around and they stared at me goggle-eyed, and one of them said, ‘You were there?’ Well, yeah, I was.”
That was one of the sweeter moments of parenthood.
John Lennon – ah, what a loss. I could weep still. There is nothing I can say beyond that. So I’ll stop there.
If you want to know how Dave and Jane Shepherd are doing down in Hollywood as Jane pursues her acting career, check their blog:
http://home.mindspring.com/~shepherd2/sheptrek/index.html
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Easter at Last
Well, kids,
The name of the latest essay is "Easter at Last," but it isn't Easter yet. In fact, tomorrow (as I type this) is Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week, the great annual trek through Christ's return to Jerusalem, his betrayal, crucifixion, and resurrection. It's a roller coaster ride, and the focus for most of the week is on his betrayal and death. By the time you get to Easter, if you do it all, every service of the week, you're pretty exhausted, quite frankly, or so it has been for me as a choir member.
This winter has been a long lesson in not doing anything, and I'm not "doing" Holy Week this year - not all of it, anyway. Although as I say that I realize that each day I'm liable to think, "Well, I'll go to tonight's service." And maybe I will. I'm just not going to feel obligated to drag my sorry butt to church regardless of all circumstances.
My friends Becky and Tara wanted to take me to England this May to celebrate my sixtieth birthday, but at this point I feel sure I'm not going. I don't have the stamina to do all the walking, shopping, and "doing" that would require, and I see no sense in spending a lot of money to go to England and then be too tired to leave the B&B. What's the point?
And Rick and I were talking today, and I remembered that I've always thought I'd go to Europe with him, to visit Kaiserslautern in Germany and Salzburg in Austria and Rome in Italy, all places where he lived or visited when his dad was in the Army 40 and 50 years ago. Rick says he'd like to sail across the Atlantic one more time (standard travel arrangements for military dependents back in the day). So I'm going to look up what sort of steamers might take passengers to Europe and how much that costs. And I will tell Rick he can't break into the lifeboats and eat the emergency rations, like he did when he was a kid. A lot of that stuff, he says, dated from World War II, and had lost some of its zing, but he and his buddies were kids and ate it anyway.
I'm not terribly proud of this essay - it was past deadline and I needed to write something, to be honest, and this is it. Sorry. But for what it's worth, here it is. All the usual blessings & love to you.
Easter at Last
In the Christian Church, Lent is a time of preparation for the resurrection of Christ. The celebration of that resurrection is called Easter, which was named after Eostre, or Eastre, the Great Mother Goddess of the Saxon people in Northern Europe, according to The Venerable Bede, (672-735 CE) a Christian scholar, in his book De Ratione Temporum. “Eastre” was also the ancient word for spring.
We observe Easter in the spring, when all of nature is beginning to throw her annual bash of blooming, pollinating, fruiting, mating, birthing, and bringing the young to maturity. There will be time enough to sleep in the fall. Right now it’s all life, all the time, thrusting and grunting like characters in a romance novel.
It is a time of year (at least in the northern hemisphere, so apologies to my readers in Oz where autumn is closing in fast) when you can’t miss the metaphor of life reborn out of death. Everything that is dull and brown and looks dead becomes lively and green and in some cases downright aggressive.
I’ve been out in the garden a bit the last few weeks, whacking back the brown stalks left over from last year’s abundance. I’m in a new house which I know has a delightful garden, and we moved in after last summer’s blooms had gone so this year is a time of discovery and surprise.
The heather and primroses by the sidewalk welcome us when we come home. Today I saw three daffodils and one grape hyacinth in bloom, and the big hyacinths are coloring up fast. I’m finding roses I didn’t know were there.
I thank Reva Sparkes, the owner of the house, for planting this wonderful garden, and her gardener, Shirley Burton, for tending it. There are bulbs coming up, and wallflowers, bugleweed, rose of Sharon, columbine, daisies, rhodies, lavender, and a lot of plants of which I do not know the names. Shrubs and trees are covered with buds that are about to burst. It’s going to be a riot around here in a few weeks. Reva says that when the lilies in the pots on the back deck bloom, I’m not going to believe the beauty.
I’m not much of a gardener myself, though not from lack of loving gardens. I’ve always enjoyed gardening in the abstract: reading about it, thinking about it, buying seeds, and dreaming of displays that look like the photos. But gardening, like housework, is something I do in a sporadic fashion. Usually my mind is on something other than the inside or outside chores. I was one of those kids in school of whom teachers wrote on the report card, “Daydreams a lot.”
I’m grateful to still be here.
I’m grateful for all the good in people’s hearts that shows up when you most need it.
I’m grateful that the stone that sealed the tomb was rolled aside, showing us that our perception that death is permanent is an illusion: look, here is life again.
I’m grateful for this beautiful garden to which I’ve come.
I’m grateful for my own returning health after a long winter of not being able to do much (mononucleosis; thanks for asking. And no, I did not have any fun getting it).
I’m grateful for my good heart, and for your good heart. This beautiful world can be mean and cruel, but we are here to walk through it together.
It’s Spring. Here is life again, my friends, here is Easter at last. Now let’s get out there and live.
The name of the latest essay is "Easter at Last," but it isn't Easter yet. In fact, tomorrow (as I type this) is Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week, the great annual trek through Christ's return to Jerusalem, his betrayal, crucifixion, and resurrection. It's a roller coaster ride, and the focus for most of the week is on his betrayal and death. By the time you get to Easter, if you do it all, every service of the week, you're pretty exhausted, quite frankly, or so it has been for me as a choir member.
This winter has been a long lesson in not doing anything, and I'm not "doing" Holy Week this year - not all of it, anyway. Although as I say that I realize that each day I'm liable to think, "Well, I'll go to tonight's service." And maybe I will. I'm just not going to feel obligated to drag my sorry butt to church regardless of all circumstances.
My friends Becky and Tara wanted to take me to England this May to celebrate my sixtieth birthday, but at this point I feel sure I'm not going. I don't have the stamina to do all the walking, shopping, and "doing" that would require, and I see no sense in spending a lot of money to go to England and then be too tired to leave the B&B. What's the point?
And Rick and I were talking today, and I remembered that I've always thought I'd go to Europe with him, to visit Kaiserslautern in Germany and Salzburg in Austria and Rome in Italy, all places where he lived or visited when his dad was in the Army 40 and 50 years ago. Rick says he'd like to sail across the Atlantic one more time (standard travel arrangements for military dependents back in the day). So I'm going to look up what sort of steamers might take passengers to Europe and how much that costs. And I will tell Rick he can't break into the lifeboats and eat the emergency rations, like he did when he was a kid. A lot of that stuff, he says, dated from World War II, and had lost some of its zing, but he and his buddies were kids and ate it anyway.
I'm not terribly proud of this essay - it was past deadline and I needed to write something, to be honest, and this is it. Sorry. But for what it's worth, here it is. All the usual blessings & love to you.
Easter at Last
In the Christian Church, Lent is a time of preparation for the resurrection of Christ. The celebration of that resurrection is called Easter, which was named after Eostre, or Eastre, the Great Mother Goddess of the Saxon people in Northern Europe, according to The Venerable Bede, (672-735 CE) a Christian scholar, in his book De Ratione Temporum. “Eastre” was also the ancient word for spring.
We observe Easter in the spring, when all of nature is beginning to throw her annual bash of blooming, pollinating, fruiting, mating, birthing, and bringing the young to maturity. There will be time enough to sleep in the fall. Right now it’s all life, all the time, thrusting and grunting like characters in a romance novel.
It is a time of year (at least in the northern hemisphere, so apologies to my readers in Oz where autumn is closing in fast) when you can’t miss the metaphor of life reborn out of death. Everything that is dull and brown and looks dead becomes lively and green and in some cases downright aggressive.
I’ve been out in the garden a bit the last few weeks, whacking back the brown stalks left over from last year’s abundance. I’m in a new house which I know has a delightful garden, and we moved in after last summer’s blooms had gone so this year is a time of discovery and surprise.
The heather and primroses by the sidewalk welcome us when we come home. Today I saw three daffodils and one grape hyacinth in bloom, and the big hyacinths are coloring up fast. I’m finding roses I didn’t know were there.
I thank Reva Sparkes, the owner of the house, for planting this wonderful garden, and her gardener, Shirley Burton, for tending it. There are bulbs coming up, and wallflowers, bugleweed, rose of Sharon, columbine, daisies, rhodies, lavender, and a lot of plants of which I do not know the names. Shrubs and trees are covered with buds that are about to burst. It’s going to be a riot around here in a few weeks. Reva says that when the lilies in the pots on the back deck bloom, I’m not going to believe the beauty.
I’m not much of a gardener myself, though not from lack of loving gardens. I’ve always enjoyed gardening in the abstract: reading about it, thinking about it, buying seeds, and dreaming of displays that look like the photos. But gardening, like housework, is something I do in a sporadic fashion. Usually my mind is on something other than the inside or outside chores. I was one of those kids in school of whom teachers wrote on the report card, “Daydreams a lot.”
I’m grateful to still be here.
I’m grateful for all the good in people’s hearts that shows up when you most need it.
I’m grateful that the stone that sealed the tomb was rolled aside, showing us that our perception that death is permanent is an illusion: look, here is life again.
I’m grateful for this beautiful garden to which I’ve come.
I’m grateful for my own returning health after a long winter of not being able to do much (mononucleosis; thanks for asking. And no, I did not have any fun getting it).
I’m grateful for my good heart, and for your good heart. This beautiful world can be mean and cruel, but we are here to walk through it together.
It’s Spring. Here is life again, my friends, here is Easter at last. Now let’s get out there and live.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Your Cheatin' Heart Will Tell on You
Dear Hearts and Gentle People,
It’s getting to be spring, and my next entry will talk about that, but right now we’re having rain, wind, and sun, in no particular order, but changing very swiftly from one to the other, and if that ain’t spring I don’t know what is.
The good news is that my latest angiogram showed very little heart disease. My meds have been adjusted, and so far the chest pains have been in abeyance, maybe even because the angiogram looked so good. I had the procedure a week ago yesterday, and I’m hoping the bruise will go away someday. You haven’t lived until your whole thigh has turned purple.
It seems like a lot of my friends (and I) are dealing with the attrition of advancing age. Damn it.
But before we discuss mortality much more, here’s another Lenten meditation based on a hard story from the Book of Acts. The most pleasing feedback I’ve had on this piece is, “I’d read the Bible more if you had written it.” Fortunately the canon has been closed since the 4th century or so, and I will be spared for other endeavors, like essays, letters, emails, and maybe even a romance novel. We’ll see.
Read on.
Your Cheatin’ Heart Will Tell On You*
Continuing a Lenten study: The Fifth Chapter of Acts.
After Jesus was crucified, resurrected, and taken up to heaven, the Jewish sect of his followers was growing fast. Some people were selling pieces of land and giving the money to the disciples. Apparently discipleship didn’t pay any better then than it does now.
Well, Ananias (not the Ananias who laid hands on Saul/Paul. Another Ananias) and his wife Sapphira sold some land, but they decided to keep part of the proceeds for themselves, and give the rest to the disciples.
When Ananias brought the money to Peter, Peter said, “Ananias, you low life, double dealing, shekel sucking scum – why did you listen to Satan and lie to God?”
Ananias, upon hearing this, fell down and died. A few young guy disciples carried him out and buried him. This is told so matter-of-factly, you wonder if it didn’t happen all the time. “Oh, look. Someone else died. Better take him out and bury him.”
Sapphira, waiting at home, was wondering where Ananias was, and went around to Peter’s house to make inquiries.
Peter asked Sapphira a trick question: “Did you sell your land for such and such a price?” “Why, yes,” answered Sapphira, for that was what she and her husband had agreed to tell Peter. This was the wrong answer.
“Sapphira,” said Peter, “How dare you? You and your husband are a couple of scheming liars. Look, here come the guys who buried Ananias, and they’ll bury you, too.” And Sapphira fell down dead, and the boys carried her away and buried her, too.
Moral: Lying to God = Death. Being honest with God = Life.
I would like to see this done as a CSI episode. The bodies of Ananias and Sapphira are discovered by a passing pita vendor who spots a foot sticking out of a hastily dug shallow grave. The authorities are called in, in this case a top notch team of Roman forensic specialists who study the bodies for clues as to the manner of their demise. They find no wounds, no signs of illness or poisoning, but they look around and find a trail of fresh dirt that leads to Peter’s house.
They question Peter, who tells them that Ananias and Sapphira lied to God, and as a consequence were struck dead. The Romans are flummoxed. They have no evidence to pin the killings on anyone, and have to come in with a verdict of “death by God.” Not being Jews and having no knowledge of the Hebrew Scriptures, they are unaware of God’s long history as a serial smiter, but they can’t come up with any other answer. They close the case, shaking their heads, and go back to other more earthly investigations, except one who takes early retirement and moves to an island out in the Mediterranean, where he strolls the shore every day, occasionally picking up an empty sea shell and asking, “And you? What killed you? Was it God? Ha ha ha.”
Seriously, folks, the story of Ananias and Sapphira packs a heck of a punch, whether you take it as a literal story of what happened to two people who thought they could look righteous while making a tidy profit, or as a metaphor for what happens when you don’t turn your life over completely to God (your higher power, truth, reality, or, insert your label here: ___).
People get away with stuff all the time in this physical world, and have no regrets or remorse until and unless they get caught. When it comes to the accounting of your own soul, you can’t cook the books and get away with it. In the bigger reality, there are no secrets, and you can’t get away with lying. Pretty scary, huh? Yeah. That’s why God wins so few popularity contests.
*Your Cheating Heart, by Hank Williams. © 1952 by Fred Rose Music, Inc.
It’s getting to be spring, and my next entry will talk about that, but right now we’re having rain, wind, and sun, in no particular order, but changing very swiftly from one to the other, and if that ain’t spring I don’t know what is.
The good news is that my latest angiogram showed very little heart disease. My meds have been adjusted, and so far the chest pains have been in abeyance, maybe even because the angiogram looked so good. I had the procedure a week ago yesterday, and I’m hoping the bruise will go away someday. You haven’t lived until your whole thigh has turned purple.
It seems like a lot of my friends (and I) are dealing with the attrition of advancing age. Damn it.
But before we discuss mortality much more, here’s another Lenten meditation based on a hard story from the Book of Acts. The most pleasing feedback I’ve had on this piece is, “I’d read the Bible more if you had written it.” Fortunately the canon has been closed since the 4th century or so, and I will be spared for other endeavors, like essays, letters, emails, and maybe even a romance novel. We’ll see.
Read on.
Your Cheatin’ Heart Will Tell On You*
Continuing a Lenten study: The Fifth Chapter of Acts.
After Jesus was crucified, resurrected, and taken up to heaven, the Jewish sect of his followers was growing fast. Some people were selling pieces of land and giving the money to the disciples. Apparently discipleship didn’t pay any better then than it does now.
Well, Ananias (not the Ananias who laid hands on Saul/Paul. Another Ananias) and his wife Sapphira sold some land, but they decided to keep part of the proceeds for themselves, and give the rest to the disciples.
When Ananias brought the money to Peter, Peter said, “Ananias, you low life, double dealing, shekel sucking scum – why did you listen to Satan and lie to God?”
Ananias, upon hearing this, fell down and died. A few young guy disciples carried him out and buried him. This is told so matter-of-factly, you wonder if it didn’t happen all the time. “Oh, look. Someone else died. Better take him out and bury him.”
Sapphira, waiting at home, was wondering where Ananias was, and went around to Peter’s house to make inquiries.
Peter asked Sapphira a trick question: “Did you sell your land for such and such a price?” “Why, yes,” answered Sapphira, for that was what she and her husband had agreed to tell Peter. This was the wrong answer.
“Sapphira,” said Peter, “How dare you? You and your husband are a couple of scheming liars. Look, here come the guys who buried Ananias, and they’ll bury you, too.” And Sapphira fell down dead, and the boys carried her away and buried her, too.
Moral: Lying to God = Death. Being honest with God = Life.
I would like to see this done as a CSI episode. The bodies of Ananias and Sapphira are discovered by a passing pita vendor who spots a foot sticking out of a hastily dug shallow grave. The authorities are called in, in this case a top notch team of Roman forensic specialists who study the bodies for clues as to the manner of their demise. They find no wounds, no signs of illness or poisoning, but they look around and find a trail of fresh dirt that leads to Peter’s house.
They question Peter, who tells them that Ananias and Sapphira lied to God, and as a consequence were struck dead. The Romans are flummoxed. They have no evidence to pin the killings on anyone, and have to come in with a verdict of “death by God.” Not being Jews and having no knowledge of the Hebrew Scriptures, they are unaware of God’s long history as a serial smiter, but they can’t come up with any other answer. They close the case, shaking their heads, and go back to other more earthly investigations, except one who takes early retirement and moves to an island out in the Mediterranean, where he strolls the shore every day, occasionally picking up an empty sea shell and asking, “And you? What killed you? Was it God? Ha ha ha.”
Seriously, folks, the story of Ananias and Sapphira packs a heck of a punch, whether you take it as a literal story of what happened to two people who thought they could look righteous while making a tidy profit, or as a metaphor for what happens when you don’t turn your life over completely to God (your higher power, truth, reality, or, insert your label here: ___).
People get away with stuff all the time in this physical world, and have no regrets or remorse until and unless they get caught. When it comes to the accounting of your own soul, you can’t cook the books and get away with it. In the bigger reality, there are no secrets, and you can’t get away with lying. Pretty scary, huh? Yeah. That’s why God wins so few popularity contests.
*Your Cheating Heart, by Hank Williams. © 1952 by Fred Rose Music, Inc.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
