I read something this week that I have been thinking about a lot.
"The mind seeks victory not the truth."
How often does the mind scramble like a defense lawyer to argue the point of view that justifies our actions or pardons our misdeeds?
Can the mind be trusted to tell the truth?
1. My Beulahology paper was due on Monday.
Do you think it is possible that there are people who are so busy taking pictures of their wonderful lives and adventures that they miss out on the actual living?
I am just saying...
Not everyone sleeps on baby's breath and communes with the angels.
My friend Karen wrote this poem a few years back. I saved it because it made me think about the things that still drape around my neck like a 10 ton necklace.
Tabula Rasa
Come to me without your life
hanging around you
I don't want you draped with
barbed wire and bunting
the ribbons of past love
streaming from your hair
a child on each ankle and
one in your arms, the reflections
of other men in the invisible tears
they left on your cheeks.
Let me disentangle you.
Duck your head, dear,
I'll unclasp this from around
your neck, lift your white arms
while I unhook and slip it off,
I'll peel away this part
so gently, see there?
You are denuded. Lift up,
I'll wash you inside and
out, and fill you so full
there is no more room
for anyone or anywhere else.
KGB 2002
Tabula rasa: A need or an opportunity to start from the beginning. There is something so enticing about starting again--from the beginning. Starting fresh.
But, it is the past life hanging around the neck of another that draws me most. The best stuff lives in experience. If you want to play the blues, it is called mileage. You may be technically correct, but you have to have the goods to back it up. You can't pull those soulful notes until you have the mileage to make the tones rich and genuine. You can't fake life and you can't fake the blues.
Tabula rasa. A chance to do it again. Insanity. Doing the same thing and expecting different results. Freedom. Choosing a different street.
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
~Mary Oliver
Every few years I enter a cycle that seems to require that I go back and touch pieces of my past. The places. The people. It is an internal alarm that wakens a part of me that I would like to leave sleeping forever.
It calls me to climb the turret at Shiloh and sit with the dead flies on the floor. It takes me to the mulberry tree at Goshen. It lands me on the front porch at Fairwood. It guides me to the doorsteps of old friends.
The past few months have pulled me in those directions again. Usually, I find a sense of grounding in the ritual of return. This time though it was disjointed like blowing the shofar only to have the sound reach your ears an hour later. Everything was familiar but I couldn't connect.
I visited Fairwood last month during the family feast; and, there was a banner hanging against the sanctuary that read:
Grace in the Wilderness.
I wondered what kind of grace was being taught. Divine grace? Actual grace? Irresistable grace? Prevenient grace? I didn't stay long enough to find out, but I have pondered it in my heart.
One Hebrew word for grace is "raham." It is a word that conveys compassion and offers a merciful restoration of a broken relationship. And, I realized that seeking restoration of the broken relationship between trust and faith drives me to find grace in the wilderness of my past--even when it isn't there.
Dear Word Detective:
In a recent column you used the word "gobbledygook." Where do we get that odd sounding word? -- Harry, via the Internet.
It all started with a 19th century Texas cattleman named Samuel Maverick who became famous for not branding his cattle. His cattle, left unidentified and free to roam, were often "adopted" by other ranchers who termed them "mavericks," and by the end of the century "maverick" had come to mean any sort of rootless wanderer or rebel.
About 100 years later, Sam Maverick's grandson, Maury Maverick, was serving in the U.S. House of Representatives during World War II. Charged with overseeing factory production for the war effort, Rep. Maverick coined the term "gobbledygook" to describe the impenetrable bureaucratic jargon and doubletalk he encountered. He later explained that he based the word on the behavior of turkeys back in Texas, who were "... always gobbledygobbling and strutting with ludicrous pomposity. At the end of this gobble there was a sort of gook."
Rep.Maverick went on to issue a memorable edict stating that "Anyone using the words 'activation' or 'implementation' will be shot." Sadly, no bureaucrat was ever actually shot, and unfortunately "governmentese" is still going strong, but it certainly seems fitting that Sam Maverick's grandson would be the "maverick" who fired the first shot against "gobbledygook."
Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke?
Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?
Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine health shall spring forth speedily: and thy righteousness shall go before thee; the glory of the LORD shall be thy reward.
Then shalt thou call, and the LORD shall answer; thou shalt cry, and he shall say, Here I am. If thou take away from the midst of thee the yoke, the putting forth of the finger, and speaking vanity;
And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noon day:
And the LORD shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones: and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not.
There is a point to be had in here somewhere.
State Senator Chambers Sues God
I am a painful Picasso when it comes to writing poetry. My "blue period" included such titles as Bad Burton and Chasing Butterflies. My abuse of rhyme and meter should have been tried as criminal.
“call it fate, but I thought it seemed right,
to see a butterfly there in the morning light…”
Bad poetry aside, I try to write a little bit every day. Sometimes I publish it here, and sometimes I do not. I don’t know what this ritual accomplishes other than to discipline my brain to convert thoughts to words through my fingers.
So here goes random discipline:
Every few days I am stirred by something that happens in the universe. Usually it is subtle—the way something looks or smells and releases a fragment of memory or a phrase that marches out of context through my head until I recognize that it needs to be heard.
I saw a "house-biter" destroying a little house to make way for a mansion. The jaws clamped over the roof and crumbled the walls that once held the hopes and sorrows of a family. And, I wrote and wrote and wrote about the old giving way to the new. The cycles of life.
Sausage McMuffins inspired another piece about my mother watching me eat the popular breakfast sandwich and remarking: "I am glad you can enjoy swine's flesh." It prompted me to remember the Hebrew dietary laws that governed the food on the table of childhood even though we were not Jewish. And, the oh, so funny story of how a friend of ours, who discovered that he and his sister were eating bacon, yelled "Spit it out Lisa! It's pig meat."
Once I wrote a whole short story based on the phrase: "It was a road that would have been better left untraveled." Of course, I found out in short order that my spell check didn't think that UNTRAVELED is a word. It wanted me to use the word UNRAVELED. And, unraveled might also have been an appropriate use.
It was a road better left unraveled, but I didn’t know that until I was half way down it.
The road less raveled. The road less graveled. The road less traveled.
Writing. I do love words and good writing. I don’t know how to tell you what good writing is, but I know it when I read it. It is not cluttery. It doesn’t have too many images. And, it should make me see and feel what is beneath the words.
I have come to favor incomplete sentences when used for emphasis. I rather like the idea of breaking the traditional rules of writing. I still feel rebellious when I start a sentence with AND or BUT. I follow the AP stylebook's rules for commas. Writing should just flow and the need for a comma will be apparent. I like a metaphor that adds to my understanding. A metaphor that sits in the middle of the page clipping its literary toenails...well...it isn't so useful.
There is nothing disciplined about this writing and it took me less than five minutes. Will I use this? No. Maybe. Okay. I will.
Found this book at the swapshop. Borrowed this review...
The Psychology of Social Movements by Hadley Cantril sets forth an outline by which social movements can be judged and their outcomes predicted. Cantril looked beyond the surface of social movements to examine the psychology behind them. What motivates people to follow an untried leader? What does the social environment do to make people suggestible? What are people thinking about, puzzled about, and hoping for when they lose themselves in some cause that seems strange or esoteric to the observer? What makes them drink the Kool-aid?
I have such a sick sense of humor. This tickled my funny bone. Click here to read the author's original post.
I killed a man once
not in the usual ways--
poison, knife, gun.
instead I ate his heart
slowly.
My darkness devoured
each new piece he offered and
his goodness filled my
belly.
He gave until finally
there was nothing
left when I asked
for More.
I fell asleep and woke with a panic attack an hour ago. It has been a while since that has happened. I think I understand the origin of its insistence, but I still feel jarred by the fierce landing of my consciousness from sweet sleep to biting reality.
"Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people." Carl Jung
I have spent years learning to light my own darkness. Sometimes I wonder if I have learned anything at all other than the hell of my inner being. The taste of my own terror. And the clambering beat of my disquieted soul.
"I had a ton of things to tell him. I wanted him to find a solution to all of our shortages of clothes; of meat, so it could again be distributed through the ration books. I also wanted him to give our Christmas back. And to come live with us. I wanted to let him know how much we really needed him..."
It was a different read, but one I really enjoyed. I think Fidel might have created another child waiting for the "highwayman."
Last night I enjoyed what might have been the best meal I have ever eaten. The filet mignon was just the right amount of pink. The potatoes were mashed perfection. The cream of asparagus soup melted against my tongue. The wine was light, and the creme brulee made me want to sing a love song. (This is my very best attempt at erotic food description.)
There was a time that the bill for this fine meal would have been my grocery money for the month.
During that time, my coupon caddy was the size of a small country. My weekly routine included shopping in two different towns at seven different stores. My days were devoted to clipping and snipping those precious bits of paper that meant only one thing for me. FREE GROCERIES.
It is possible to play the system of coupons and rebates to get free stuff. You buy something on sale. Use a coupon. Mail in a rebate. And, items are free or if you are lucky, you make money. Like all systems, it has its flaws. It breeds a sense of deficit rather than a sense of sufficiency. There is never enough free stuff to make up for what you lack. Who really needs forty-seven tubes of toothpaste, sixty-two boxes of Glad trash bags, ninety-six boxes of band-aids or twenty-three bottles of shampoo even if they are free?
I will admit that a fever guided my hobby in those days. I raided my friend's cupboard shelves for UPC symbols. I hunted down triple coupon stores. I scavenged extra Sunday supplements from the recycling center. I was a madwoman.
Those who knew me thought I just LOVED to coupon and rebate. And, I did. For the first three months. After that, the fever was driven by need.
The truth was, I had a husband who had $250 of medication and medical bills a month with no health insurance. His stipend along with the house we had on campus was $500 a month. You do the math.
Every coupon that I clipped. Every rebate that I matched. Every dollar that I saved ensured that we had the money to pay for his medical needs.
I am curious to know how many people attend a church service when they are on vacation? There is no right or wrong answer. I do not attend church when I am on vacation. Jim does, or he would if I didn't whine and pitch a fit like a shrew.
We have been fortunate enough to stay in a house on the Cape this week. Actually, Jim and Jared have been here all week, and I joined them on the weekend. The house with its traditional dormers and shingled sides is shaded by giant oak trees and surrounded by a split rail fence. It is just a quarter mile from the beach. It couldn't be more perfect.
The owners of this fine house are lovely folks who have befriended Jim and his ministry. They remember the old days of Fair Haven and Fair Haven Christian School.
In any event, they have generously shared this house with our family, and they stopped by the house Saturday morning to "check" on us bringing a Ziploc bag of freshly cleaned bluefish that they had caught that morning. I chatted with the Mrs. about the best way to cook it, and Jim chatted with the Mr. about how relaxing the week had been.
I adore both of them, by the way. He wears suspenders that are often askew. He has a warmth you can't fake. And, that he loves my husband is enough for me to like him forever. She is spunky in the way that only 60 somethings can be. Far from being finished with the adventures of life, she is busy making sure she does the things she has always wanted to do. Much of the bluefish they brought had been caught and cleaned by her that morning on her first EVER fishing trip.
We all chatted in that comfortable way people talk when they are enjoying the dog days of summer....and, then they mentioned that when we were deciding where to go to church the next morning, we could consider the church next door that had both a traditional and contemporary service. They thought Jim would like the contemporary music the most. (SURPRISE!)
The key phrase was "when" we decided where to go to church not IF. It startled me to realize that there are some folks who don't take vacation from church at all. It isn't even in their thinking.
Jim thanked them, and said he hadn't yet decided what he was going to do, but he was strongly being encouraged to play hookie. The crestfallen faces smote my heart. I tried not to feel bad, but I did just a little. I felt as though my vacation heathenism had somehow disappointed our benefactors. I didn't feel bad enough to go just to please them, but it made me consider the situation.
I was trying to remember why church had never been an issue when I went on vacation with my family growing up. Our vacations were usually in campgrounds. I do remember that we had our own little service around the campfire on Sunday morning. Sometimes we invited folks my parents had befriended to join us, but we never went to church anywhere else. Then I remembered: Kingdom people didn't go to church at other churches back then. They just didn't.
Later that day, we were driving to Mashpee, and we saw a little white church with a big banner across the front that read: CELEBRATE RECOVERY!
I thought that IF I was going to church on vacation, that is where I would like to go. Because we are all in recovery of some sort or another. Some may be recovering from the traditional vices such as drugs or alcohol. But, we might be recovering from the loss of faith. We might be recovering from betrayal. We might be recovering from a death so unfair that we haven't yet been able to reconcile our hearts with God. We might be recovering from things we have done to numb our pain--things that instead have bruised our souls. We might be recovering from the past. The present. The future.
Others, who have been fortunate enough to be spared the aforementioned losses, might simply need to recover from their sense of spiritual superiority. They might need to work on recovering from pride before they have to do the really hard work of recovering from the fall that certainly follows on the heels of such smugness.
The truth is: We all have something from which we need to recover. The hurts. The painful places. The losses. All turn to lessons and growth in recovery. And, recovery turns to discovery as we learn to live again.
As for me and my household we will serve the Lord. And, if we go to church on vacation, we will go where folks CELEBRATE RECOVERY! (with an exclamation point).
Is it just me, or does these turrets look familiar? One was a sideshow and one was a movement. Both were kingdoms built by men. Both reigned at the turn of the century. Both drew people from their very core. Both marked the souls of their believers. Both kingdoms. Both so mighty. Both gone. 
I feel rich. Jared's chickens are in my care for a few days while he vacations on the Cape. And, I get to keep the eggs.
The shallow nest, if you can call it a nest, is tucked in the corner of the coop. There, the mother hen sits and squawks and worries until she deposits her treasure. I would like to see a little more maternal instinct, but she is fickle in her ability to sit still for long. Maybe it is a character flaw, or maybe she knows I will be coming to gather the eggs, and she doesn't want to get too attached. In any event, she doesn't seem too interested in nesting.
Having chickens is quite an experience. We have baby chicks, mother hens, and a rooster. A ROOSTER.
I think the rooster must have been the very first snooze button. If you manage to sleep through the first crowing at 4 a.m., rest assured that the cock will crow again. And, again.
I can't remember when I started doing it or when I stopped, but at some point in my life, I would pray when I saw an ambulance on the road. The siren cutting through the peace of the day or night was a sound that could only mean sorrow for a family somewhere. With each turn of the flashing lights, I would send a prayer out that whoever was hurt would heal. That the drivers would make it to the hospital in time. That the doctors would know how to treat them properly. That if there was loss there would be strength. That their families would feel peace and comfort.
It has been many years since that happened. My prayers now are usually disorderly thoughts that tumble against each other as they fight their way towards God. Last night Jared was in the car with me, and we saw an ambulance. It was all lights, no siren. You could see a woman inside with an oxygen mask. And, I remembered that I used to really pray.
I remembered one day, when Jared was four almost five, he spotted an ambulance through his window in the back seat.
Before I could say anything, his earnest voice reached my ear.
"Dear Jesus," he prayed, "please bless the humans."
1 1/2 pounds ground chicken breast
2 teaspoons ground cumin
2 teaspoons paprika
2 teaspoons poultry seasoning
2 teaspoons chili powder
2 teaspoons grill seasoning, half a palm full (recommended: Montreal Seasoning by McCormick)
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley leaves, a handful
4 sheets phyllo dough
4 tablespoons butter, melted
Preheat oven to 425 degrees F.
Place chicken in a bowl and mix with spices and parsley. Place a piece of phyllo on a nonstick cookie sheet and brush with some of the melted butter. Repeat 3 more times, placing each piece of phyllo over the last buttered sheet to make 4 layers. Cut phyllo into 2-inch squares. On 1 corner of each of the squares, place about 1 1/2 teaspoons of chicken filling. Roll up tightly to make mini "cigars." Place "cigars" on a sheet pan and butter the tops of each. Bake for 10 to 15 minutes, until golden brown.
Serve cigars with dipping sauce.
In third grade I couldn't get my hands on enough of these mystery books. I would check out three or four at a time from the public library in Lancaster. I would hurry home to my little room tucked over the porch on the west side of the farmhouse and read at a fevered pace. I would pile the books next to me on the bed. It wasn't that I could read them all at once, but I liked the feeling of wealth that only comes from having quantities of fresh reading material close at hand.
During a reading binge on a weekend, I would consume as many as two or three books a day. I lost hours and days following a mystery to its conclusion between those pages. Nibbling on apples and saltine crackers. Stopping only when I had to stop. Reading until I was startled that the sun had set outside my window and realizing I needed to switch on my lamp.
The improbability of this super sleuth never occurred to me. When I was just eight, it made sense that Nancy, in all her acquired wisdom of eighteen years, would be able to assist her local police department, outsmart crooks, and solve the puzzles that stumped her lawyer father and the general public. I don't think that she ever got any older than eighteen even when the series grew to include more than 50 books.
The cast of characters were not complicated, but on the canvas of my imagination, the detective, Nancy Drew, and her friends, Bess and George became as big as life.
Nancy was ever so competent in every situation. Her sure steps and quick wit inspired me to confidence of my own. Bess, who was a little chubby and timid, only served to make Nancy look more competent. George, in all her boyishness, provided good balance for the trio. Girls sometimes need heroes who don't stay home and knit and bake and blog.
Hannah, the housekeeper, was the perfect mother figure. There when you needed her to cluck and fix you soup, but with no real authority to tell you what to do.
The father I could never quite figure out. He seemed available for friendly advice and to hug Nancy when she barely escaped from some sinister situation, but where was he the rest of the time when all the action was going down? I suppose he was busy doing lawyer things in his community, but one would think that he might have been parenting a little more. Maybe talking to Nancy about being safe. About college and silly parent stuff like that.
Nancy's boyfriend Ned was always patient and ready to assist. He never appeared to struggle for manly control of the situation, and I don't recall ever reading a story where he squawked about Nancy loading up her convertible and zooming off to Amish country, Mirror Lake, or a distant seaport. To be Nancy Drew was to command respect and freedom.
Oddly, I never wanted to BE Nancy Drew. I just liked to read about her. My true hero was Carolyn Keene. I wanted to be a writer just like her.
There are a few defining moments in life when you realize you are leaving childhood behind. Most occur in the formative years...there is no Santa Clause, no Easter Bunny, no tooth fairy. Some come later...your faith is tested, your parents aren't invincible, you really do have to go to work every day, men have clay feet.
And then there is the unexpected tearing of the veil to reveal that there was no Carolyn Keene. Her name was Mildred. MILDRED. Say it ain't so. There are just some things in life I don't want to know.
My life is pretty busy. I am working on multiple projects and programs every day. I do the mundane, and I even get to do some fun stuff. I have an administrative assistant. BUT, I make my own appointments. My gatekeeper screens telemarketers, takes messages, dispenses information...but my calendar is my own.
Does this make me defective? A control freak? Or quite possibly does it just make me considerate?
Step with me, dear reader, through the inefficiencies of making an appointment through an assistant.
E-mail #1
Dear Julie: My boss is just back from vacation and wants to schedule a conference call next week to discuss the VERY IMPORTANT PROJECT. Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday would be fine.
Dear Assistant: Next week is pretty busy, let's get it scheduled early. How about Monday at 10?
E-mail #2
Dear Julie: My boss won't be in until noon on Monday. Can we do it at 2 p.m.?
Dear Assistant: I can move my 1:30 meeting. 2 p.m. will be fine.
E-mail #3
Dear Julie: My boss wants to do this on Tuesday or Wednesday. What time is good for you?
Dear Assistant: I have an idea...why don't you ask your boss WHEN she would like to meet and get back to me?
E-mail #4
Dear Julie: My boss says Tuesday at 2 p.m. would be best for her.
Dear Assistant: That sounds just fine. I will be on the road between sites, so call me on the cell phone number I provided.
Now, call me kooky, but I think it might have been far easier for the boss in question to e-mail me herself. I imagine it going something like this.
E-mail #1
Dear Julie: Hope you are well. I am back from vacation. I would like to touch base with you regarding the VERY IMPORTANT PROJECT. I am busy Monday, how does Tuesday at 2 p.m. look for you?
Dear Leader of the Free World and Keeper of Peace, Beauty and All that is GOOD: Tuesday is fine. Talk to you then.
Is it just me? I would fight back by directing all assistants to my own assistant, but I like us both too much to start that nonsense. Maybe I am not doing the IMPORTANT WORK of the world like everyone else, but I hope I am never so important that I can't schedule my own appointments.
I can remember getting to my wit's end with the cares of life. I would utter in frustration, "I just want to run away."
My dear mother would reply, "Only unstable people say they want to run away."
I guess I have been unstable from time to time. I just finished reading this book. And, I wondered after I read it how many mothers run away without ever leaving?
Pastor plans outdoor performance space in friend's memory
By Lauren Mears, GDT Correspondent
ESSEX - Now that the 50- to 60-foot pine trees are cleared from land behind Emmanuel Community Church, Pastor Jim Lafontaine is ready to move forward with plans for an outdoor performance space in memory of a friend who shared his vision.
"I want to make it usable for music and other community events," Lafontaine said. "I started to hold a type of open-house, open-mic event the last Saturday of each month, but I wanted the area to be larger and more usable."
Lafontaine was working as a drug counselor when he began thinking about the possibilities of such a space.
"After people go through such an ordeal of quitting a substance, it's hard to find things to do and places to go and meet people," Lafontaine said. "I wanted to create a place for people to come together, have some fun and listen to some good music."
The vision was shared by Joel Chase, a friend of Lafontaine and member of his church, who died in May 2006, in his early 40s.
"He was going to clear the area out himself, but he died unexpectedly of heart failure," Lafontaine said. "His mother told me that with his last paycheck he bought some saws to do the work."
After Chase's death, the work was postponed, but the vision lived on and a donation from the Chase family helped move it forward.
Lafontaine hired Mayer Tree Service of Essex to clear the overgrown land. "Dan Mayer (the owner) gave us a big discount that helped a lot," he said.
Lafontaine also received some cleanup help from Chris Thibodeau of the Ipswich Family YMCA's Camp CIT and her counselors in training, who made the work their summer community service project.
"I felt it would be an interesting project and a neat idea," Thibodeau said. "It is really something that will help the community and bring people together."
Lafontaine's ultimate dream is an amphitheater in the clearing behind the church, but will start more modestly, possibly with a gazebo, picnic tables and a horseshoe pit.
"We are taking it slow, one piece at a time and different people in the church are helping in different ways,"
Lafontaine said. "Being in recovery myself, I'm excited to offer a place for clean, sober events, getting together and really providing a good atmosphere for people in recovery."
Lafontaine will name the outdoor performance space for Chase.
"I want it to be a memorial to him because he was so excited about it," he said.
Dear Reader:
If you click the Read more! link a the bottom of my posts, you will not be able to read more. I tinkered with the code in my template trying to figure out how to hide parts of long posts behind a "cut," and the malfunctioning link appeared.
If anyone knows how to accomplish a correctly functioning Read more! button, please let me know.
Thank you in advance.
I now release...
I now affirm...
Growing up, the "board of ministers" had a lot to say about what we did or didn't do in our family. Decisions that today would be made easily by one's parent were punted off to the "board of ministers."
Could women wear slacks? Wear make-up? Cut their hair? Wear jewelry? The decisions of the "board of ministers" both dressed and undressed me through childhood, adolescence and into my early adulthood. There was a real belief that such personal appearance decisions held eternal consequence. (A belief that I was also conditioned to hold.)
To appease the "board of ministers, " I ran track in fourth grade with a flap of material sewed over the front and back of my already handsome polyester track suit with stripes up the sides and snaps on the shoulders. The flaps covered the divide between my legs. Later in middle school, I dropped from cheer leading tryouts before I made the squad telling the coach that "it was hard to explain." In high school, I opted out of women's softball because although my parents made a special request to the "board of ministers" for me to wear the team uniform, I had been denied.
The "board of ministers" held such power over the mundane.
Last spring, during a visit from Ronda, we spent an afternoon sorting through old Kingdom documents stored here at the parsonage in boxes since before we arrived. Jim has considered burning them on several occasions, but I have always rescued them thinking that they might hold some value.
On my living room floor, we sifted through the minutes, letters, minister's policy notes, draft memos and memos on the issues faced by the church. For those readers who might be appalled to know that I read these archival documents, I will remind you that these are all a matter of public record. Those organizations including churches that enjoy tax-exempt status are required to make the minutes and business of their meetings available to all members and the public upon request. The code of secrecy that lived once over these proceedings was not unique to the Kingdom, and it was not right either.
We read minutes that reflected how "the board of ministers" decided to reveal the "moral lapse" of our esteemed leader. We read the results of a polygraph test given to a man who was accused of molesting two small girls one Easter many years ago. We saw official documents signed by both my father and Ronda's father as witnesses before God and man. I counted the penciled tally marks on a vote taken to establish who believed Mr. Sandford was Elijah--and who did not.
I found a letter from my grandmother clarifying her relationship with Mr. Sandford with a line in it that said: "I was probably closer to him than any other person on earth outside of his immediate family."
Tucked between the yellowed pages of board minutes was Ronda's grandfather's original handwritten letter of resignation from the Kingdom board of ministers. He left when he stopped believing in Mr. Sandford's role as Elijah.
Once after Mr. Abram died, Ronda's father had wondered if he was being called to lead the movement. He presented this to the board of ministers for consideration. We read through the notes and transcripts of that meeting. One esteemed leader had written a letter saying that he had gotten a message from God saying that Ralph (Ronda's father) might be an "angel of light." (this is not a good thing--it is an evil being disguised as good.)
There were pages and pages filled with stories--- the tears of a woman molested by a man who still appears at Fairwood. The anger of a man who realized that the leaders of the church would not bend on the Elijah thing. Lamentations from those who could not believe that Mr. Abram dallied with the spinster women of the movement. Letters that implored the ministers to bring justice to the wronged and letters that begged the ministers to keep the secrets quiet.
There was even a very humorous letter that some dear woman wrote about the ministers who kneel on the platform with their great big bottoms facing the congregation. She suggested that they made good targets for spitballs. She stated in no uncertain terms that the women of the church did not enjoy looking at their wide loads. She concluded her letter with a limerick from President Wilson.
There were policies on women's hair, clothes, jewelry. There was a policy on sex--interestingly enough they encouraged frequent "unions" to strengthen the marriage bond, and even suggested that manual stimulation, although morally questionable, would be acceptable as long as it was NOT masturbation.
There was a position paper on the Equal Rights Movement with a clear message that women who had the same rights as men might start acting like men. It also suggested that if women earned as much as men, it would be harder for men to be in control of their households.
Maybe it was the dust and mold that flew in to my face as I disturbed the pages. Or maybe it was something else, but I choked. And choked. And choked. I feel like I am still choking.
Have you ever taken this test? I made my entire family take the test, including the dog. Do you think I might have control issues?
We all get them. Those dreaded e-mail forwards with miles and miles of address headers. With instructions to "Scroll down. No, scroll down further, idiot." All underscored by dire warnings for you and your household and all generations to come if you are foolish enough to ignore them.
As a general rule, I hate these internet intruders. Delete them unread. Scold the friends who send them. But, once in a while I am tempted to click one open. I am a word whore after all.
Remember this one? English is a crazy language...
In what other language do...
"Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day."
~Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
I used to go to a storytelling group on Tuesday nights in Cambridge. The following is a story written and told for the forum.
A few years ago I had a chance to go to NYC with my girlfriends. We were all in our late thirties and early forties. And married. Very married, I might add. Sex and the City would not be an appropriate description for the weekend we spent in the Big Apple. We were definitely more like: Abstinence and the City.
But, even though we were practicing abstinence, AND WE WERE, the subject of sex entered our conversation many times. Who knew that this was what thirty/forty somethings talked about? On their weekend away? OUT LOUD?
I kept waiting for my mother to arrive and tell us to quiet down.
I squirmed in discomfort while my friends talked about all the really wild places and ways that they had done IT. In alley ways. On steps. Probably without flossing.
Not wanting to be left completely out of the action, I finally admitted that I had done IT --with the lights on--ONCE.
We also talked about SEDUCTION. Could we be seduced?
Which led us each to confess the ONE THING that made us vulnerable. The ONE THING that would make us lose all sense of reason and decorum. The ONE THING that could make us send traffic cones flying to the left and right like Diane Lane in Unfaithful.
We were in agreement on this ONE THING: IF we ever actually met a man who could make a plan. That included DETAILS. A man with a plan with details and FOLLOW THROUGH. Wellllll…we pretty much would be crumbs in the bottom of the marital toaster.
It is either a man with a plan---or chocolate-- for me. I KNOW that I can be seduced by all manner of chocolate. M & M’s with peanuts or without peanuts, Reeses Peanut Butter Cups…creamy, smooth, delicious…see even talking about chocolate makes me weak in the knees.
In fact, I know so deeply in my heart that I can be seduced by chocolate that I make it a point to go through the candy-free check-out at Shaws. I cover my eyes when I walk past the candy aisle and I know better than to leave myself alone in a room with anything even resembling a Cadbury egg.
Seriously though, one friend thought she could be seduced by a man who could dance. A man who could spin her around and trip the light fandango. A man who could match her steps to his. And, if this man could look like Denzel Washington, then she would toss all caution to the wind.
The other friend thought maybe she could be seduced by a certain tone in a man’s voice. I don’t know a lot about exact nature of this “tone,” but I think that it is safe to bet that Lenny and Squiggy will never seduce her. And neither will Michael Jackson.
That night I joked about the chocolate. And I might have joked a little about Sean Connery, (WHO wouldn’t be seduced by Sean Connery?)--but I know, whether I admitted it to my friends or not, that I am seduced daily by words.
Words. The grand and glorious mongrels of the English language. For years, I have collected articles, quotes and bits of poetry. I am voracious when it comes to words. I cram little snips of this and pieces of that into the corners of my mind. A clever phrase. A touching sonnet. Fragments of life.
Words like obstreperous, diaspora, divagation, gerrymander, naif and viff all twitterpate me faster than you can say, "Bob's your uncle." I am guilty of word adulation, adulteration and alliteration. Words. All shapes and sizes. All denominations and ethnic backgrounds. I am pretty much a word whore.
There. I have admitted it. I will be faithful... until you pass the lexicon.
It originally came from the Shiloh Proper. Or maybe it came from Olivet or Bethesda. In any event, I found the mantel with its raised scroll and carved legs in the attic of the women's dorm at Fairwood. I like to think I rescued it from its place among the rafters and the heat that had dried the finish to a fine powder. Parched and forgotten it waited until the day I discovered it.
I hauled it down that summer day in three pieces and set it up against the wall in the living room. I squared its corners, and I nailed it into place. To my great joy, the linseed oils I rubbed into the woodwork raised new life and luster from the sleeping grain.
In my home it held candles. Always candles. Sea glass. Lavender. Bells from Jerusalem. The bottles the kids and I found digging in the bottle dump. Each fall I would clip a new bunch of hydrangeas and stand them in a pitcher on the mantel to dry. The full white flowers blushed pink on the ends, and they always pleased my eye.
At Christmastime, I would twist live evergreens into a long rope to loop from one side to the other. I arranged the nativity scene across its length. The shepherds peeked out from the branches, and baby Jesus sat at its center. Jayna and Jared hung their stockings on hooks in hopes that St. Nick would ignore the fact that there was no real chimney and visit us through the side door instead.
When I polished the wood with love each week during Friday cleaning, I would imagine the women before me who had done the same thing. As the sun set, I lit the candles on the mantel and called my children to rejoice that the Sabbath had arrived. We would sing and clap our hands. We made up songs. We practiced saying what we were thankful for. And, the kids always waited for Jim to say: "Good things happen on the Sabbath." Then he would pull a treat out of his pocket for them.
I still have the mantel.
A few years ago, when one of the former Kingdom churches on the west coast closed, there was a certain amount of money from its sale designated for distribution to those who had given their lives without pay to the work of the movement. There were those who were supportive of this, and those who were against it. In the end, a committee was formed to oversee its fair distribution.
A per year formula was applied for years of service rendered. Jim and I had worked six years. The catch, however, was that workers could not count their first five years. I suppose that was to sort out the folks who drifted in and out of Kingdom centers a year or two at a time while they decided what to do with their lives. For our family who had sold a home, made a substantial financial contribution to the Kingdom treasury, and given our lives to a cause we believed was headed in a positive direction, this meant $372 for our efforts and disillusionment.
A Biblical principle that could have been applied instead came from the story of the day laborer who was hired to work in the fields for a set amount. As you recall, throughout the day additional laborers were enlisted to complete the work. In the end, each was paid the same amount regardless of the length of their duty.
Am I bitter? Naw. Well, maybe just a little. Although, it doesn't bother me as much as it once did. Because it was never about being compensated in the first place, I guess I would have liked to have had the contribution of my life, family and talent be weighted a little more equally than they were.
I am third generation Kingdom. If you look closely, my blood, sweat and tears can be found on the door posts and in the stairwells of more than one Kingdom center. It was my life, and it is my legacy.
Am I owed something? Probably not.
Have I made my own compensation package? Absolutely.
I reserve the right to sit on the front porch at Fairwood and look at the mountain. And, I still have the mantel.
Sometimes I miss the Hundred Acre Woods. The simplicity. The wonder. The innocence of it all.
“Promise me you'll never forget me because if I thought you would I'd never leave.”
Christopher Robin to Winnie the Pooh
In addition to helping me solve the mystery of my maladies, Google has freed the phone lines that run from our house to the outside world.
You may ask, "How can this be?"
Once upon a time, if I had a question about anything such as "How long do you boil green beans?" or "Where is Malaysia?" or "What was the name of the actress who played opposite Robert Redford in Legal Eagles?" or "Who was the seventh president of the United States?, " I would call the operator. If the operator did not know, there were rows and rows of other operators seated around her (or him) who could be tapped for the answer. It never failed that someone held the knowledge.
It occurs to me that there might be a new form of operator/Google available to me in the resources of my collective readership. Can anyone tell me the correct attribution for the quote, "When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you." (or some variation thereof) Both Nietzsche, the philosopher, and Joseph Conrad in Heart of Darkness have been given credit.
Even if you don't know the answer, please feel free to say "hello" when you pass through.
Sometimes you find someone who says something for you better than you can say it yourself. I feel this way about my friend, Karen, when I read her blog. She sure can write that slice of life stuff and serve it ala mode.
Dispelling any false notions
Karen and I met in an online writing group nearly five years ago. She was smart, funny, and ever so sassy. She kept forum discussions coiffed and "skorted." From the first time I read a short story of hers that included Jesus buying Band-aids at a convenience mart, I realized that she was brilliant in that unoffensive way that so few people can carry off.
We only knew "of" each other until we formed a smaller writing circle with two other women. We called it The REALLY Cool Club. The four of us began to share the bits and pieces of our lives that had been knit together with the tears of time to make us into the women we were. Kids and love and God and moms and dads and husbands and dogs and, and, and...
I learned to love the gentle way she could dissect a story--somehow rearranging the parts to make them bigger than the whole. She could nudge a missing word into a sentence adding the strength it needed to stand at attention.
She became a friend during a period of my life when I had grown certain that I didn't need friends. And, it just happened--like Aristotle's slow and ripening fruit. I was able to talk to her about things that needed an ear that could listen without judgment. In our space, I found a place to rest. I grew to value the wisdom she offered when I asked, and the silence she kept when I didn't.
About six months after we formed, our little group decided to meet in person. This was a sign of the times--friends brought together by pixels on a screen. And, it was the moment of truth. The masks drawn by our words would be lifted to reveal who we really were.
We met in Mystic, CT. And, it was so very, very strange and so very, very wonderful at the same time.
We mixed martinis in our mouths, laughed loud, talked much. It was Karen, though, that I found myself watching the most. The way she carried herself. The words she chose. I waited to hear what she would say next. I was delighted when she talked about "the triangulation of desire" and used the word "trajectory." As we drove around Mystic, she wondered aloud if the winters were "punishing." We teased her about that for the rest of the weekend. As well she should have been teased for such a comment.
The next year she came to stay for a few days with me and the family. We saw the sights, went to lunch with friends, and she visited the Pee-body Es-sux Museum. I even took her to work with me one day. I think her favorite part was poking around the thrift shop finding little treasures and what-nots. It was an easy kind of visit. The kind where you don't worry about your guest. I was sorry on the day I drove her to the 128 station to catch the train that would speed her back towards home.
In the months and years that followed, our friendship went through those kinds of contortions that friendships go through. Friends, like flowers, get a little wilted if you don't water and tend them. We got limp around the edges, but I have never forgotten the friend I found when I least knew I needed one.
The stuff she writes on her blog is not her real writing. It is, however, a sampling of the mind that weaves stories with one of the truest voices I have ever had the fortune to read. I believe with all my heart she will be published one day soon. And, I am glad she is not a quitter.
I also believe we are overdue for a good catching up.
Both of my children were baptized when they were ten.
Jayna wore the same blue ribbon of "truth" that I wore when I was baptized at Fairwood in 1974. I found the ribbon, still on its original pin, pressed between the pages of my scrapbook in the attic. I had tears in my eyes as I fixed it to her little collar. The words felt like paste in my mouth as I explained "the truth" to her. I knew I wasn't qualified. And, I stood convicted as she went into the water with her father to complete the Christian tradition of my youth.
I didn't take communion with her that day. Or any day since. My heart was too far from God at the time, and when my heart found its way back home, it was she who would not partake.
Jared asked hard questions before he was baptized. "How do we know that our God is the only God?" and "What if we had never been created?" These were questions I asked myself before I fell asleep at night when I was younger than he was, but I would have never dared ask them aloud. They were questions that struck fear in my heart, and I wasn't sure I wanted to consider the answers.
It was a nearly a year after he went into the baptismal waters that I took communion with Jared. My soul ached as I stood in the circle to receive the bread and wine. And, there was a bitter sweetness in offering my son the elements of the ages knowing the questions in his heart.
I do not know that I have done a good job in the spiritual training of my children. For so long it hurt too much. I wonder now if it is too late. I pray for them. I love them. And, in the end that might be the best that I can do.
Take my hand when you are worried
Take my hand when you're alone
Take my hand and let me guide you
Take my hand to lead you home
Take my hand...
...hope arrives in a simple sound when we least expect it. I heard a bird calling from outside the window when I woke this morning. Like a little messenger of joyfulness, it stirred hope and shot little tendrils of anticipation through my heart. I love that feeling.
I chose my quote today from Josh Billings. He wrote under the name: Henry Wheeler Shaw. He was a humorist in the late 1800's--who couldn't spell worth a damn, but is still worth quoting.
"If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome."
The following is also attributed to him:
"Don't take the bull by the horns, take him by the tail; then you can let go when you want to."
I like that sort of common sense.
Sometimes a picture is worth the postcard upon which it is printed. And, the words, well, they are worth the ink. Check out Post Secret.*
*Warning: Not rated E for EVERYONE.
I know that you will all be green with envy when you hear that someone from Wilayah Persekutuan, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia has been reading my blog.
With the Malaysian bot crawling through the posts on Daughter of Divagation, I have hereby become Blog Queen of the Universe WITHOUT splitting my infinitives.
Our seats were in a field box right on the first baseline. The Red Sox were playing the Kansas City Royals, and it was my first visit to Fenway Park.
You have to realize that I am a Tiger's fan through and through-- although until the World Series last year, I hadn't followed baseball since Cecil Fielder was breaking records for Detroit.
These tickets were given to us though along with a free pass for parking in a lot right next to Gate A on the corner of Yawkey Way. I took Jared and two of his friends.
After all, I have lived in New England long enough to consider splitting my allegiance. Just a little. Maybe. And, who couldn't love Fenway Park?
There is something about a stadium, be it on the east coast or in the Motor City, that gets me right in the gizzard. The green, green, green of the grass. The fans bedecked in their caps and jerseys. The smell of beer and hot dogs and peanuts and cotton candy. And, all the excitement of a major league sporting event under the wattage of the field lights on a summer evening.
It was a good game even though they lost. Poppi, Ramirez, Veriteck, CoCo. The lineup was all there in their hometown glory.
The Boston fans surprised me in the bottom of the first inning when they "boooooooed" Red Sox player #20 after his third strike at the plate. Bad form. Bad, bad form. The jeer surely must have been aimed at the ump's call, I thought. Then the next inning the same player hit a ball to right field and got on base. It wasn't a home run or even a triple, but it was a decent hit. I thought. Yet, the crowd still called, "Booooooooooo."
Imagine 50,000 fans booing you. I wasn't at all okay with the lack of respect for this player. I was indignant. We might "blawg" in Michigan, but we would never boo a Detroit Tiger no matter how badly he played. Never.
It took one more roar from the stands before I realized that they were, in fact, saying "Yoooooooooooouk," and not "boooooooo."
Kevin Youkilis, #20. Nickname: "Yoooooooooooouk."
Doh!
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
~William Wordsworth
He used to sing in the men's quartet. His earnest eyebrows would rise and fall in time with his Adam's apple. And, his voice, rich and glossy like pulled taffy, brought heaven into the room. No one argued--Dick Parker had a gift.
I haven't seen him in years. And then...
At a Main street fair in Lisbon Falls amid a sea of orange Moxie t-shirts, Dick Parker was Elvis. He took the stage wearing nothing but a glitzy white leisure suit and wedged sideburns to croon to the afternoon crowd. The sunlight caught on his gigantic pinkie ring and the "bling" around his neck shook. He was soft at first, but he gained volume as his hips began to swing. Yes, Dick Parker SWIVELED from the waist down. He was a rockin'robinhounddog sort of guy. Now, THAT is Moxie.
My reaction was a mixture of delight and disbelief. Delight to see him doing something that brought so much fun to the little town. His family and half of Shiloh were there to cheer him on. Disbelief because...well...this was Dick Parker. It was like finding out that your blind date to the prom was your brother.
He performed a set of Elvis songs that used to make young girls swoon. And, then, when I least expected it, he sang "How Great Thou Art." Right there, on the street, in the hot afternoon sun, prickles went up the back of my neck, and I knew I was going to cry. Tears fell over my face faster than I could stop them. I didn't join the chorus although many people did. I stood and listened. Everything faded. The smell of fried dough and onions with peppers. The mechanical elephant at the Safari booth. The call of the vendors. The people.
It was just me and Elvis. And that voice.
Where he had been more timid on other songs, the tone was strong and full with no hesitation:
"O Lord my God, When I in awesome wonder,
Consider all the worlds Thy Hands have made;
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder,
Thy power throughout the universe displayed."
Who knew that it would take Elvis risen from the dead drinking Moxie to bend my heart close to God?
I am convinced that Neil Young was onto something...
We went lookin' for faith
on the forest floor,
And it showed up everywhere,
In the sun and the water
and the falling leaves,
The falling leaves of time.
I am equally convinced that God hates Powerpoint.
I guess this would be one way to surf for Jesus.
Got phish? What's in YOUR history?
Today I made Jared laugh.
Maybe it was the greasy magic of melted cheese or the influence of caffeine after 9 p.m. Maybe it was neither. In any event, I made my 13 year old son laugh in public. He laughed in front of his friend, Matt. He laughed so hard that soda came out his nose. He even allowed his laughter to carry him out of the booth onto the floor where he gulped and gasped in spasms of mirth.
I need to point out that he wasn't laughing at me. Well, technically, he was laughing at me, but not in the usual way. I could try to write out what it was that I said. I might even attempt to phonetically include the accent that I used to deliver my lines, but it would lose something in the translation. You would say, "Yeah? And?"
What I said was beside the point. That he laughed--matters.
Jared and I have always shared a unique style of humor. Sometimes I think we are the only ones who "get" each other. He has a running shtick about Woody Allen that astounds me with its nuance. He is irreverent. He jokes about Hugh Heffner's kneecaps, W's foibles, teacher's styles, minister's meanderings, and most of all himself. He is not afraid to laugh at himself.
I sort of like this kid. I do.
I think we both sense that he is growing up. I understand the boundaries that leap up between us in the presence of others, but lately...
"Wishing to be friends is quick work, but friendship is a slow ripening fruit." ~~Aristotle
In some more scholarly incarnation of myself, I fancied the work of Aristotle. I have a notebook scribbled full of quotes and notes from a class I took many moons ago. I pulled some of it out to write here because:
1. I need to get sleepy.
2. It reminded me of some recent conversations about friendship and the limited capacity we have for taking on new "intimates" in our lives.
It was always interesting to me that more than anything else Aristotle considered human relationships vital to universal knowledge. He devoted much of his teaching to understanding friendship and the soul.
In Ethics he defined three kinds of friendship:
Autobiography in Five Short Chapters
Chapter I
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in
I am lost . . . I am helpless
It isn’t my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.
Chapter II
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I am in the same place.
But, it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.
Chapter III
I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in . . . it’s a habit.
My eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.
Chapter IV
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.
Chapter V
I walk down another street.
~~By Portia Nelson, The Book of Tibetan of Living and Dying
"You are the call, and I am the answer. You are the wish, and I the fulfillment. You are the night, and I the day. What else? It is perfect enough. It is perfectly complete. You and I." D.H. Lawrence.
I went through an infatuation period with D.H. Lawerence at some point in my past life. His style rested just on the edge of forbidden with a brooding sexuality that made me believe. He wrote of "blood knowledge" and finding it better to "...die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions."
Sometimes I think I expect too much from my intimates. A soul perfection. Yet, if asked, I scoff at the notion of soulmateship.
If you read that fast enough, out loud, it sounds like "soulmate sh*t."
'Nuff said
More
All that was sacred and little bit that was wicked
Mixed with sunshine to fill the hollows of my heart.
A brimming chalice calling:
More. More. More.
Now pull me to your lips.
And, drink, oh Thirsty One, drink;
Swallow what you feel.
More. More. More.
Don't melt like cotton candy.
Really let me taste your soul.
And hold me. Breathe with me.
More. More. More.
Be large enough to keep me.
Be strong enough to tell me no.
But always give me:
More. More. More.
Be. Just BE.
More. More. More.
Anne Sexton was famous for her prolific correspondence. (see previous post Razor's Edge.) I was always drawn in particular to the letters she wrote to W.D. Snodgrass. She would begin with "Dear Snodsy..." The words that looped and marched down the page after the salutation were sometimes clever, sometimes pathetic, but always real.
It seems to me that everyone should have a "Dear Snodsy" in their lives. For me, Snodsy embodies the call to the universe that gets caught in the clouds.
I don't imagine when she was manically scribbling all those years ago that she ever realized that the festering stew of her troubled soul would one day be published far and wide. That entire classes would be dedicated to parsing out her metaphors, mapping her rise to literary greatness, and diagnosing the recipe of her demise. That her words would be plucked like feathers from a Christmas goose leaving only bruised and shivered skin for the world to see.
Blogging has taken most of the personal elements of communication and made them public. Today none of us will have to wait until we are dead to have our most intimate thoughts and insights shouted from the rooftops. From the halls of Montezuma, our demons dance over cyber waves of pain. Our ideas, our projects, our children, our faith, our pieces, are strung like laundry to flutter in the breeze.
"DEAR SNODSY," we type in bold black font, "come play in my midnight garden."
And, we wait, for his reply.
I am sure that the tune, "Bicycle," wasn't even a glimmer in Freddy Mercury's eye when I got a brand new bike in 1976. It was my tenth birthday. And, the bike was a Schwinn. Every spoke in the big round wheels promised to buy my freedom. In the way that fifth graders can still sorta believe in Santa Clause and the tooth fairy, I had a secret hope that my bike would change my life. (Of course, I also wished for acne, braces and glasses at that age, so you get a sense of my priorities.)
My parents had agreed to pay for half of the $60 needed to assure my place in the band of merry neighborhood bikers. For more than a year I had saved my money to pay for that sweet ride. I dreamed of the curved handlebars wrapped in miles of black tape-grip. The weight of the sturdy maroon frame. The handbrakes at my fingertips. The click, click, click of the gear shift in that the single moment that hangs you in nothingness before your pedals engage, and you gain solid traction again.
In my fertile mind's eye, my social standing would be transformed by the magic in this hunk of metal, rubber, chains, and bolts. I would be cool. Part of a club that mattered. A real MSBO (member of the society of bicycle ownership.)
Imagine my surprise when I realized that my parents would insist that I get a girl's bike instead of a boy's bike. Nowhere in all my fantasies had the bar between my legs been anything but straight. The vision I had of myself riding with no hands did not include anything so sissified as a the dip of a girlie bar. My inner tom-boy shrieked. It begged and pleaded against the injustice. It wept and wailed in a way that no boy would have ever done.
I don't remember how they changed their minds, but I know that they did, because that October I had the bicycle of my dreams.
My only other bike had come from the Drumore public dump that was up the hill and down the lane past the bottom of the pasture on Scalpy Hollow Road. My father had rescued it and brought it home for me to call my very own. He fixed the broken pedal with a wooden block, and tightened the rusted silver handlebars. He filled the little tires with compressed air until they were firm and true.
Under the shadow of the silo I learned to ride that bike in the barnyard outside the chicken house. While our cattle summered in the southern pasture, the winter's accumulation of manure was scraped free from the cement yard to leave a smooth place that was perfect for me to practice.
There were no training wheels for me. I would have none of that. Only my tip-toes would keep me balanced on the white banana seat while I gathered my courage to roll forward. I would teeter back and forth until finally, I picked up my feet, and I was riding. RIDING.
Bicycle, bicycle. I want to ride my bicycle. I want to ride my bike.
Round and round, I sped. As my confidence grew, I would race as fast as I could from one end of the barnyard to the other. I would slam on my brakes and skid to a halt. I can remember how proud I was to be handling my bike like a big kid.
The real test though was the steep hill that stretched from the bottom of our driveway to the top of forever. It took all that fall and winter to psyche myself up for the challenge. Then one morning in early spring found me at the top looking down at the house and barn. I took a deep breath.
One, two, three...
I pushed off and pedaled just a little. My purple Huffy gathered speed and rolled past the stubbled field on the left. The wheels were turning themselves, and the pedals were pumping my legs on their own by the time I passed the second field. The road slid by in a blur as my knuckles gripped the wobbling handlebars. The sign at the bottom loomed in front of me before it registered that I was still upright. I had not fallen when I had been so certain that I would.
Disbelieving my own success, I yanked my wheel hard to the right and leaned over on purpose just to fall and get it out of the way. Later, my mother picked the gravel from my knees and wiped the snotty strings from my nose while I hiccuped and snuffled.
I think it took weeks for my scabs to heal. And, my trusty bicycle leaned against the stoop for a couple of days before I tried to ride it again.
Today, there are times when someone I know really messes up. They make choices that can only bring heartache. And, I wonder what in the world they could be thinking. Then I am reminded that it was I who brought myself to ruin at the bottom of that hill so many years ago.
And, I wonder if it is sometimes about choosing HOW and WHEN you fall rather than waiting for it to happen.
