Something gentle moves me always.
Something soft and loving.
Something that comes out of nowhere and ends up in the moment where I'm living.
It can really be no more than a smile from an old woman in a parking lot,
or someone holding open the door of the library for me,
or Bern touching my face when I'm not expecting it,
or our neighbor, across the street, waving a greeting as he goes by with his beagle,
or someone letting me into traffic,
or the woman at the bank remembering my name,
or Luke, our cat rubbing against my bare leg (since I'm wearing shorts),
or my daughter Mimi calling just to talk,
or almost anything.
And all that happened today, just in one day.
We should notice the tiny little things more.
The things that brush against us from time to time,
and use those to memories to measure how wondrous life is,
rather than watching cable TV.
Really.
Ponder that.
Please.
Pretty please with sugar on it.....
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Another found poem
Looking through these papers is like experiencing deyavu "all over again" as someone wise (I've narrowed it down to William James, Mark Twain and Yogi Berra) once said.
Marion Cleo Jones Bradley was my mother. God bless her for that. She grew up during the depression and had a hard life. She somehow, climbing out of poverty and ignorance, became a teacher and taught 1st or 2nd grade for years, decades.
I found this poem about her. It seems a bit harsh, but I wrote it over seven years ago and who knows (certainly not me!) what I was thinking when I wrote it. But it was like meeting an old friend in Grand Central Station to find it. And I share it with you.
As the Africans say, 'this is my story, receive it with a blessing and send the blessing back to me...."
MOTHER'S DAY
Well, every day is 'mother's day',
if we are to acknowledge the broad, inclusive
knowledge of our best friend, Dr. Freud.
Who among us can disentangle from the clever, ubiquitous web
of deceit, devotion and dread she wove around us?
"Step on a crack and break your mother's back."
She didn't make that up,
but she would have, given the choice.
Control, control and more control:
that is the currency of Mother Love.
However, this is about my mother
(write your own poem about yours!)
My mother made a mistake in timing.
She died the week of my 25th birthday.
Elsie, her younger sister, my aunt,
put her hand on my shoulder as I sat
by my mother's death bed, feeding her vanilla ice cream
from a little paper cup with a weird wooden spoon
as if it were exactly what she would want
as she lay dying--which is True as True can be.
"Happy birthday, Jimmy", my aunt Elsie said,
(though she may have said "Jimmie"--the spelling
of my nickname was almost Shakespeareanly varied)--
"did anyone else remember?" she continued,
into more ice cream I was feeding to an almost dead woman.
No one else had--not even my father,
not even me--I'd forgotten my own birthday,
twenty and five: a Big One.
He, at least, could be forgiven.
His wife, after all, was dying.
But why did I forget such an auspicious date?
Because 'mommy' was more important?
Of course she was--she'd made it so
through innocence and guile
and the web she'd woven around me
in all the years before.
She never hit me--not once--I swear it is true;
except with guilt and 'responsibility' and the sticky
lace of Mother Love.
I've lived a life-time since she finally died,
sated on ice cream from my hand.
I only remember her face from photographs
and remember her voice not at all.
She was a good mother--believe you me.
She did all she knew to do and more besides.
And she loved me. She did--she did.
And would love me more if she knew
the man I am today.
Yet, over three decades later, I remember this:
my father and I standing on the loading dock
of Bluefield's hospital, watching the dawn.
Nurses were unhooking all the lines that had held my mom
to this life. I expected some tender moment,
sleep deprived as we both were.
What I got was this: my father looked down at my shoes
and handed me thirty dollars--a twenty and two fives.
"Buy some new shoes for her funeral," he said.
And I said, holding the bills in my hand,
"this isn't enough...."
Although, in those days, it really was.
jgb-1/19/06
Marion Cleo Jones Bradley was my mother. God bless her for that. She grew up during the depression and had a hard life. She somehow, climbing out of poverty and ignorance, became a teacher and taught 1st or 2nd grade for years, decades.
I found this poem about her. It seems a bit harsh, but I wrote it over seven years ago and who knows (certainly not me!) what I was thinking when I wrote it. But it was like meeting an old friend in Grand Central Station to find it. And I share it with you.
As the Africans say, 'this is my story, receive it with a blessing and send the blessing back to me...."
MOTHER'S DAY
Well, every day is 'mother's day',
if we are to acknowledge the broad, inclusive
knowledge of our best friend, Dr. Freud.
Who among us can disentangle from the clever, ubiquitous web
of deceit, devotion and dread she wove around us?
"Step on a crack and break your mother's back."
She didn't make that up,
but she would have, given the choice.
Control, control and more control:
that is the currency of Mother Love.
However, this is about my mother
(write your own poem about yours!)
My mother made a mistake in timing.
She died the week of my 25th birthday.
Elsie, her younger sister, my aunt,
put her hand on my shoulder as I sat
by my mother's death bed, feeding her vanilla ice cream
from a little paper cup with a weird wooden spoon
as if it were exactly what she would want
as she lay dying--which is True as True can be.
"Happy birthday, Jimmy", my aunt Elsie said,
(though she may have said "Jimmie"--the spelling
of my nickname was almost Shakespeareanly varied)--
"did anyone else remember?" she continued,
into more ice cream I was feeding to an almost dead woman.
No one else had--not even my father,
not even me--I'd forgotten my own birthday,
twenty and five: a Big One.
He, at least, could be forgiven.
His wife, after all, was dying.
But why did I forget such an auspicious date?
Because 'mommy' was more important?
Of course she was--she'd made it so
through innocence and guile
and the web she'd woven around me
in all the years before.
She never hit me--not once--I swear it is true;
except with guilt and 'responsibility' and the sticky
lace of Mother Love.
I've lived a life-time since she finally died,
sated on ice cream from my hand.
I only remember her face from photographs
and remember her voice not at all.
She was a good mother--believe you me.
She did all she knew to do and more besides.
And she loved me. She did--she did.
And would love me more if she knew
the man I am today.
Yet, over three decades later, I remember this:
my father and I standing on the loading dock
of Bluefield's hospital, watching the dawn.
Nurses were unhooking all the lines that had held my mom
to this life. I expected some tender moment,
sleep deprived as we both were.
What I got was this: my father looked down at my shoes
and handed me thirty dollars--a twenty and two fives.
"Buy some new shoes for her funeral," he said.
And I said, holding the bills in my hand,
"this isn't enough...."
Although, in those days, it really was.
jgb-1/19/06
A poem I found
So, I was looking through some old papers and came across a poem I wrote on the Feast of St. Hugh (google it) at Holy Cross Monastery in 1999.
It's obvious from the poem that I had gone to Holy Cross by myself because something was heavy on my heart. I have absolutely no idea (though I've pondered it since I found the poem) what that heaviness was or was about.
Perhaps the healing the poem is about really happened. Or, just perhaps, it is my capacity, whether it is genetic or learned, to absolutely 'forget' bad experiences. I remember most of the things that made me joyful and fulfilled. The things that weighed heavy on my heart at the time...I simply don't remember.
Anyway, here's the poem.
On the back porch of a monastery deep in the night
I smoke rapidly against the chill and to ward off the haunting,
near-by moaning of a coyote for the moon.
Then I notice: the Hudson is as dark and smooth
as a chapel floor.
I brought grave burdens to this Holy Place
to offer to the God
of Confusion and Pain;
and have prayed all that away,
emptying my gunny sack of
Suffering.
Then I notice: the windows of the house on the far side
of the river
glimmer like votive candles
in the crypt.
Without knowing why, the Darkness Inside
my Soul has become the Darkness
of this night.
And I am not afraid.
Then I notice: the clouds hang low
in the frigid air,
like incense above an altar.
Leaves, dry and wind-pushed,
shutter along
the pathway below like
ghostly footsteps
of long dead monks.
(Somewhere an exhaust fan
wheezes and rattles.
A novice at his prayers.)
I did not expect such sudden, sweet relief.
I expected to howl at the moon of Pain,
coyote-like,
with stiff hairs on the back of my neck.
Then I notice: the wind through the trees
and
the clickity-clack of the Albany train
across the river.
If I listen--really listen--like a creature
unafraid of Darkness....
Everything sounds like chanting.
God is everywhere.
In the Burden.
And in the laying
of the
Burden
down.
Back in my room--St. Mary's, this time--I have a small bottle of Merlot.
One more cigarette and then I go and drink it
from my coffee-cup chalice,
with gratefulness and peace
before I sleep and dream.
It is then that I notice:
the Blood of Christ.
(November 17, 1999--the Feast of St. Hugh.
West Park, New York.)
---Jim Bradley
It's obvious from the poem that I had gone to Holy Cross by myself because something was heavy on my heart. I have absolutely no idea (though I've pondered it since I found the poem) what that heaviness was or was about.
Perhaps the healing the poem is about really happened. Or, just perhaps, it is my capacity, whether it is genetic or learned, to absolutely 'forget' bad experiences. I remember most of the things that made me joyful and fulfilled. The things that weighed heavy on my heart at the time...I simply don't remember.
Anyway, here's the poem.
On the back porch of a monastery deep in the night
I smoke rapidly against the chill and to ward off the haunting,
near-by moaning of a coyote for the moon.
Then I notice: the Hudson is as dark and smooth
as a chapel floor.
I brought grave burdens to this Holy Place
to offer to the God
of Confusion and Pain;
and have prayed all that away,
emptying my gunny sack of
Suffering.
Then I notice: the windows of the house on the far side
of the river
glimmer like votive candles
in the crypt.
Without knowing why, the Darkness Inside
my Soul has become the Darkness
of this night.
And I am not afraid.
Then I notice: the clouds hang low
in the frigid air,
like incense above an altar.
Leaves, dry and wind-pushed,
shutter along
the pathway below like
ghostly footsteps
of long dead monks.
(Somewhere an exhaust fan
wheezes and rattles.
A novice at his prayers.)
I did not expect such sudden, sweet relief.
I expected to howl at the moon of Pain,
coyote-like,
with stiff hairs on the back of my neck.
Then I notice: the wind through the trees
and
the clickity-clack of the Albany train
across the river.
If I listen--really listen--like a creature
unafraid of Darkness....
Everything sounds like chanting.
God is everywhere.
In the Burden.
And in the laying
of the
Burden
down.
Back in my room--St. Mary's, this time--I have a small bottle of Merlot.
One more cigarette and then I go and drink it
from my coffee-cup chalice,
with gratefulness and peace
before I sleep and dream.
It is then that I notice:
the Blood of Christ.
(November 17, 1999--the Feast of St. Hugh.
West Park, New York.)
---Jim Bradley
Monday, August 5, 2013
Some People and things that just have to go away...like for always...
There are just some people and things that we would all be better off, happier, more profoundly fulfilled if they just went away. Like for always. And the list, it seems to me, just gets longer.
1. Miley Cyrus: I'm just sick of hearing about her nude photo for charity, the fact that she has dental implants, her ever changing hair style, anything about her. Let's face it, Hanna Montana was not War and Peace. She needs to just go away and take Billy Ray with her--he wasn't that good anyway.
2. Justin Bieber: the monkey thing was reason enough, but now he was involved in a bar brawl that spilled out into the street. Witnesses said his body guards (since when does a 19 year old need body guards or go to bars in the first place?) brutalized several people. I can't judge his singing since I've never heard a single song he sings. But he would do us all a favor by going away...and make Canada a decent country again.
3. Edward Snowden: I have no real opinion about whether he's a whistle blower or a traitor, but I'm just tired of hearing about him. If nothing else, he certainly deserved to live for a month in a Russian airport. How cool that must have been....
4. Back Page: it's been revealed by the FBI that most of the pimps in the recent nation-wide sweeping arrests and liberating of underage girls made their contacts through social media...mostly the website Back Page. (I'd suggest 'social media' needed to go away but I think this blog would be included and I enjoy writing it....)
5. Alex Rodriquez: I'm a huge Yankee fan, but enough is enough. Alex, just go now....
6. Pat Robertson: did you know he just said on his show that transgendered people aren't 'sinners'? It's the first sensible thing he's said in 30 years. Pat, it's time to go....
7. Honey Boo-Boo: no explanation needed--and your stupid red-neck family too. And most all of reality TV except the house finder shows and the cooking shows and even some of them. There is no need for utter stupidity to be on cable TV. Which brings me to,
8. House Republicans: can't we get them a blood transfusion from John McCain for God's sake? I had an aunt--by marriage, not blood--who hated everything and everyone. Today she could be elected to the House of Representatives as a Republican.
9. Energy drinks: I've never had one and never will but what's wrong with coffee? And I would always refuse to pay nearly $2 for something that is hardly a gulp.
10. Kindle and any of the other devices where you can read what once came in pages with a cover: I want to feel a book in my hand, spill soup on it as I read while eating, have pages to fold down to keep my place, go to the library and carry home and carry back, see the author's photo. I pray devoutly that I do not live to see the extinction of books.
That's enough, but there's lots more...the list gets longer and longer....
1. Miley Cyrus: I'm just sick of hearing about her nude photo for charity, the fact that she has dental implants, her ever changing hair style, anything about her. Let's face it, Hanna Montana was not War and Peace. She needs to just go away and take Billy Ray with her--he wasn't that good anyway.
2. Justin Bieber: the monkey thing was reason enough, but now he was involved in a bar brawl that spilled out into the street. Witnesses said his body guards (since when does a 19 year old need body guards or go to bars in the first place?) brutalized several people. I can't judge his singing since I've never heard a single song he sings. But he would do us all a favor by going away...and make Canada a decent country again.
3. Edward Snowden: I have no real opinion about whether he's a whistle blower or a traitor, but I'm just tired of hearing about him. If nothing else, he certainly deserved to live for a month in a Russian airport. How cool that must have been....
4. Back Page: it's been revealed by the FBI that most of the pimps in the recent nation-wide sweeping arrests and liberating of underage girls made their contacts through social media...mostly the website Back Page. (I'd suggest 'social media' needed to go away but I think this blog would be included and I enjoy writing it....)
5. Alex Rodriquez: I'm a huge Yankee fan, but enough is enough. Alex, just go now....
6. Pat Robertson: did you know he just said on his show that transgendered people aren't 'sinners'? It's the first sensible thing he's said in 30 years. Pat, it's time to go....
7. Honey Boo-Boo: no explanation needed--and your stupid red-neck family too. And most all of reality TV except the house finder shows and the cooking shows and even some of them. There is no need for utter stupidity to be on cable TV. Which brings me to,
8. House Republicans: can't we get them a blood transfusion from John McCain for God's sake? I had an aunt--by marriage, not blood--who hated everything and everyone. Today she could be elected to the House of Representatives as a Republican.
9. Energy drinks: I've never had one and never will but what's wrong with coffee? And I would always refuse to pay nearly $2 for something that is hardly a gulp.
10. Kindle and any of the other devices where you can read what once came in pages with a cover: I want to feel a book in my hand, spill soup on it as I read while eating, have pages to fold down to keep my place, go to the library and carry home and carry back, see the author's photo. I pray devoutly that I do not live to see the extinction of books.
That's enough, but there's lots more...the list gets longer and longer....
Sunday, August 4, 2013
A different sermon
I've been posting funeral sermons so I thought I'd give you another kind. This is a sermon I preached at the 'installation' of Deven Hubner as a Rector of a church in upstate New York. Deven had been married to Scott Allen, a long time friend of mine from back in West Virginia and one of the seminarians who worked with me at St. Paul's, New Haven. By the time of this sermon--1997 or '98 or so, they were divorced but still friends--Scott was there for this sermon.
It was a sermon I greatly enjoyed--not just for Devan, but for my friend Jorge Gutierrez, who was a priest in that diocese at the time and who came to Devan's installation. (Priests are 'installed' as Rectors, much like a major appliance....) I still have a picture of Jorge, Scott and me from that day. We were all close friends. I haven't spoken to either of them for years--yet, we are the kinds of friends who could take up where we left off without a pause or a beat.
God love them. And God love Deven. I haven't seen her for years, but she's a great priest.
D’s Sermon
A hot air balloonist set off one
fine May day from just outside London. He expected a calm trip but a
sudden storm blew in off the English Channel that took him north for
over an hour. When his balloon was deflated, he found himself
suspended in a tree beside a small Anglican Church. Looking down from
his precarious perch, he saw the Vicar leaving the church and heading
for the Vicarage.
“Father, Father,” the
balloonist called out, ready to dial his cell phone and tell his
friends where to pick him up, “Father, can you tell me where I am?”
The priest looked up and smiled,
“Yes, my son,” he said, “you’re stuck in a tree.”
“Just like a priest,” the man
muttered to himself, “what they say is often TRUE but it is seldom
helpful….”
****
It is my hope that this sermon will be
more “True” than “helpful”. And it is my sincere and devout
prayer that Deven’s ministry in your midst will be like that as
well—more TRUE than HELPFUL.
****
Another story.
A group of wealthy Americans are on a
safari in Africa. Things are going well except that the natives who
are carrying much of the equipment stop every hour or so and sit
quietly on the ground for 15 minutes.
Finally, one of the Americans goes to
the head guide and says, “look, we’re paying you a great deal for
this safari, yet your workers stop too often and rest too long. What
do they think they are doing?”
The head guide, being as polite as
possible, tells the impatient American this: “Our tribe believes
that if you move too quickly you will outrun your soul. So we must
sit on a regular basis and let our souls catch up.”
Well, the rich American is outraged.
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says.
The head guide nods, “Of course you
think that, having long ago left your soul far, far behind. But our
souls hover near and we will wait for them to join us again.”
***
It is humbling to be with you this
morning. I thank you for your hospitality. I thank Bishop McKelvy for
allowing me to preach in his diocese. There will be some heresy
spoken today, Bishop, but not so much or not of any ilk that you will
have to report back to Bishop Smith in Connecticut. That is my hope.
Mostly, I thank Deven, your new
Rector, for the privilege and honor of “coming north” to
celebrate with her and with all of you about this new ministry
you have begun. I’ve known Deven longer than either of us
wants to admit. She has been an important part of my life and my
ministry. And it is with unspeakable joy and not a little
trepidation, that I bring to all of you, this morning, the “good
news” about this relationship between a Rector and a Parish.
I’ve been a parish priest since
1975. I have served three of the most remarkable congregations in
this church—the present one, St. John’s on the Green in Waterbury
for 16 years. So, I’m not just a guy you met at a bar when it comes
to parish priesthood. I do know what I’m talking about. I only pray
that God will give me the grace and the words to speak to your hearts
and your souls about this “love affair” you and Deven have begun.
Two things, I hope, she will bring to
you as precious gifts and you will accept them in that spirit are
these:
I hope she will give you Truth rather
than Helpfulness. And, I hope she will make you stop in the midst of
your shared ministry and shared lives—as often as necessary…and
it may be very often indeed—to let your souls catch up with you.
You see—from one who’s not a guy
at a bar—the parish church exists for this and this only: TO FIND
AND BE FOUND BY GOD.
That’s all you are here for, that’s
all your common life is about. Finding and being found by God is the
only reason this church exists. Everything else you do emerges from
seeking and being sought by God. So, lean into Truth and make sure
you don’t outrun your souls.
***
A third story, this one told by John
Mortimer in his memoir.
It goes like this:
A man with a bristling grey
beard came and sat next to me at lunch. He had very pale blue eyes
and an aggressive way of speaking.
He began, at once and without
any preliminary introductions, to talk about yachting in the North
Sea.
“But isn’t it very
dangerous, your sport of yachting?” I asked.
“Not dangerous at all,
provided you don’t learn to swim. I made up my mind when I bought
my first boat, never to learn to swim.”
“Why was that?” I asked.
He told me, “when you’re in
a spot of trouble, if you can swim you strike out for the shore.
Invariably you drown swimming for safety. As I can’t swim, I cling
to the wreckage and they send a helicopter out for me. That’s my
tip, if you ever find yourself in trouble, cling to
the wreckage.”
I want to suggest to you that there
are many worse metaphors for the parish ministry of your Rector and
for the parish life of this congregation than “clinging to the
wreckage”.
I want to suggest to Deven that her
most vital and important role in your midst, as your priest, is to be
about her own “soul work”. And “soul work” it seems to me at
least, has a lot to do with clinging to the wreckage of life
until it becomes, literally, a “life preserver.” It is the
wreckage that will save your soul.
And I want—just like a suggestion—to
suggest to you, to this parish community, that “clinging to the
wreckage” is an apt paradigm for your life together as the Body of
Christ. The wreckage of your individual lives will lead you to new
life and the wreckage of your common life together will sustain you
and support you and give you, in the end, a wholeness and salvation
you could not imagine.
Finally, here at the end, I want to
turn to scripture.
In John’s Gospel this morning, Jesus
says to his friends, “abide in my love.”
Back where I grew up, in the mountains
of Southern West Virginia, people actually used the word “abide”.
They didn’t pronounce it that way, but if you were walking down the
street in front of their house and they were on the front porch in
rocking chairs and a swing, they would say to you, “Come on
up and bide a spell.”
“Biding a spell” meant simply
this: just sit here and “be” with us.
“Abiding” is a passive verb—it
implies nothing more and nothing less that simply “being there”.
What I want to suggest to you—to
Deven, of course, but to all of you as well and as passionately—is
that you have entered into a “love affair” with each other and
what you need to do…most need to do…always need to do is this and
this only: “Abide” in each other’s love.
There is much to “do” and many
“tasks” and lots of “committees” and a multitude of “works”.
All that will take care of itself if you simply “abide” in your
love of each other and God’s unbridled love for you.
Some advice for the journey:
Long more for Truth than helpfulness,
Stop often and wait for your souls to
catch up;
Cling to the wreckage together;
Abide in love; and
Seek always to find and be found by
God.
There is nothing else. That is all
there is. May your life together in ministry be filled chocked full
of Truth and Waiting and Clinging and Abiding and Seeking.
That is enough. That is more than
enough.
Amen and amen....
Friday, August 2, 2013
Maybe it's just me....
Maybe it's just me, but it seems that I encounter lots of folks mumbling to themselves these days--mostly in the Stop and Shop in Cheshire.
Look, I spent most of my adult life in or around cities--Boston, Washington, DC, Charleston WV, New Haven and Waterbury, both in CT. I've had plenty of experience with people mumbling to themselves. But most of them were homeless folks with some serious mental illness issues or alcohol issues or drug issues. Now, it seems to me, the mumbling has moved to the suburbs.
I was talking about this to the young woman who works in the package store I frequent. She is very young and thin and fit and, I must say, alluring. I was telling her about the old people in Stop and Shop who were mumbling to themselves while shopping.
"Did you check for a blue-tooth in their ear?" she asked.
"These were not blue-tooth kind of folks," I told her, they were like your grandparents age.
Then we talked about how there ought to be some generally agreed on limits to the use of cell phones in public places.
"Some people talk about really personal things," she told me (though I already knew), "and it's impossible not to listen in." (I already knew that as well--but it was great to hear someone at least 40 years younger than me say it.)
One old mumbling man was behind me in the frozen food aisles. I wanted some frozen raspberries but I almost left without them because he was so disconcerting.
As I was checking out (eggs, turkey sausage, 2 packs of raspberries on sale for 2 for $6--regularly $3.69 each) I was a bit frustrated that Eva, the check out clerk, was so slow and had to call the supervisor to put a key in her register and type something in twice for reasons I neither comprehend nor want to. But then I saw one of the mumbling old women I'd seen before pushing her cart toward the door, mumbling. She had on a hat like you'd see in Australia in a Crocodile Dundee movie except it was the stars and stripes and she was mumbling to beat the band. I was suddenly glad Eva was so slow and I wouldn't have to encounter the flag hat woman. (Actually, I've come to understand, you don't 'encounter' mumblers at all. They are in their own mumbling world and you aren't. It's much akin to a close encounter with some strange and odd being--a fox or a peacock or a penguin, for example, that you didn't expect to walk near but did.)
But Eva wasn't quite slow enough and the supervisor didn't have to be called enough times and as I left Stop and Shop another familiar woman mumbler was right behind me because I was polite enough to let a couple of new shoppers go in front of me with their carts before I left the store.
This woman is quite large and very annoyed. I've seen her several times, almost always at Stop and Shop, and she is seemingly upset with the powers that be or the check out clerk or life in general because her mumbling is quite angry and aggressive though it is so softly spoken that I can't hear it (thought I'm not sure I'd want to and, on the other hand, I want to very much altogether....)
She was walking down the aisle of cars right behind me and I thought of running but didn't and then she went to the right and I went to the left to our cars.
Mumblers driving cars might be as dangerous as people talking on cell phones. I don't know, but I think the mumbling continues when they turn the key and start their cars.
Is it just me? Am I super-sensitive to the odd and quirky folks? Or are the mumblers following me because they know they make me anxious--someone who is seldom anxious is made anxious by folks mumbling to themselves.
Or maybe they are the Cosmos's way of letting me know my future fate--my personal Hell--to endlessly walk the aisles of Stop and Shop mumbling to myself about the prices, the quality, the inequity of being 'old' and having to shop with people so much younger than you and not being able to find the aisle where the jam is....
Look, I spent most of my adult life in or around cities--Boston, Washington, DC, Charleston WV, New Haven and Waterbury, both in CT. I've had plenty of experience with people mumbling to themselves. But most of them were homeless folks with some serious mental illness issues or alcohol issues or drug issues. Now, it seems to me, the mumbling has moved to the suburbs.
I was talking about this to the young woman who works in the package store I frequent. She is very young and thin and fit and, I must say, alluring. I was telling her about the old people in Stop and Shop who were mumbling to themselves while shopping.
"Did you check for a blue-tooth in their ear?" she asked.
"These were not blue-tooth kind of folks," I told her, they were like your grandparents age.
Then we talked about how there ought to be some generally agreed on limits to the use of cell phones in public places.
"Some people talk about really personal things," she told me (though I already knew), "and it's impossible not to listen in." (I already knew that as well--but it was great to hear someone at least 40 years younger than me say it.)
One old mumbling man was behind me in the frozen food aisles. I wanted some frozen raspberries but I almost left without them because he was so disconcerting.
As I was checking out (eggs, turkey sausage, 2 packs of raspberries on sale for 2 for $6--regularly $3.69 each) I was a bit frustrated that Eva, the check out clerk, was so slow and had to call the supervisor to put a key in her register and type something in twice for reasons I neither comprehend nor want to. But then I saw one of the mumbling old women I'd seen before pushing her cart toward the door, mumbling. She had on a hat like you'd see in Australia in a Crocodile Dundee movie except it was the stars and stripes and she was mumbling to beat the band. I was suddenly glad Eva was so slow and I wouldn't have to encounter the flag hat woman. (Actually, I've come to understand, you don't 'encounter' mumblers at all. They are in their own mumbling world and you aren't. It's much akin to a close encounter with some strange and odd being--a fox or a peacock or a penguin, for example, that you didn't expect to walk near but did.)
But Eva wasn't quite slow enough and the supervisor didn't have to be called enough times and as I left Stop and Shop another familiar woman mumbler was right behind me because I was polite enough to let a couple of new shoppers go in front of me with their carts before I left the store.
This woman is quite large and very annoyed. I've seen her several times, almost always at Stop and Shop, and she is seemingly upset with the powers that be or the check out clerk or life in general because her mumbling is quite angry and aggressive though it is so softly spoken that I can't hear it (thought I'm not sure I'd want to and, on the other hand, I want to very much altogether....)
She was walking down the aisle of cars right behind me and I thought of running but didn't and then she went to the right and I went to the left to our cars.
Mumblers driving cars might be as dangerous as people talking on cell phones. I don't know, but I think the mumbling continues when they turn the key and start their cars.
Is it just me? Am I super-sensitive to the odd and quirky folks? Or are the mumblers following me because they know they make me anxious--someone who is seldom anxious is made anxious by folks mumbling to themselves.
Or maybe they are the Cosmos's way of letting me know my future fate--my personal Hell--to endlessly walk the aisles of Stop and Shop mumbling to myself about the prices, the quality, the inequity of being 'old' and having to shop with people so much younger than you and not being able to find the aisle where the jam is....
Thursday, August 1, 2013
dogs and cats
So, several times a day, when I first wake up (which could be between 7 a.m. and 9:30 a.m.--I am retired you know) then in late afternoon and just before I go to bed, I take Bad Dog Bela out to do his business (when did peeing and pooping become 'doing our business'?)
Everyday but Monday, Bern takes him for a long walk on the Canal--about 1.6 miles--where he can do more business but mostly walk. With me, on Mondays, when Bern is 'doing our business' by paying bills and such, I walk him on the canal. He doesn't walk as well with me as he does with Bern. But he does more business when we walk on the canal.
Here's the thing, whenever I come back with Bela from whatever walk we go on--before breakfast, late afternoon, just before be--Luke, our cat is waiting by the door. Luke has always been an indoors cat, which we promised when we adopted him about almost a year old at MEOW. He's outlived the other three cats we had when we brought him home.
We have a dog, a cat (Bern calls him 'our last cat') and a parakeet. That's the fewest animals we've had for several decades of cats, dogs, birds, a rat and lots of guinea pigs stolen from a kill lab at Yale.
But Luke, whose only been outside twice, when he escaped from the dormer door to the basement, where he's not allowed but finds moles to kill and bring upstairs (this is an 1850 house withe some dirt floors in the basement and, unfortunately, moles).
I imagine Luke is imagining some remarkable outdoor adventure when he is waiting for Bela and me when we come back from walks. But when we come back, he moves away from the door and runs deeper into the house. Bela mostly ignores him or chases him and mauls him for a bit until I call him off. (The mauling hardly ever happens...just when it does I get upset a bit.)
Maybe Luke wants to go outdoors. Maybe he just misses Bela and me when we leave.
Who knows what a cat thinks? Who would want to know?
Everyday but Monday, Bern takes him for a long walk on the Canal--about 1.6 miles--where he can do more business but mostly walk. With me, on Mondays, when Bern is 'doing our business' by paying bills and such, I walk him on the canal. He doesn't walk as well with me as he does with Bern. But he does more business when we walk on the canal.
Here's the thing, whenever I come back with Bela from whatever walk we go on--before breakfast, late afternoon, just before be--Luke, our cat is waiting by the door. Luke has always been an indoors cat, which we promised when we adopted him about almost a year old at MEOW. He's outlived the other three cats we had when we brought him home.
We have a dog, a cat (Bern calls him 'our last cat') and a parakeet. That's the fewest animals we've had for several decades of cats, dogs, birds, a rat and lots of guinea pigs stolen from a kill lab at Yale.
But Luke, whose only been outside twice, when he escaped from the dormer door to the basement, where he's not allowed but finds moles to kill and bring upstairs (this is an 1850 house withe some dirt floors in the basement and, unfortunately, moles).
I imagine Luke is imagining some remarkable outdoor adventure when he is waiting for Bela and me when we come back from walks. But when we come back, he moves away from the door and runs deeper into the house. Bela mostly ignores him or chases him and mauls him for a bit until I call him off. (The mauling hardly ever happens...just when it does I get upset a bit.)
Maybe Luke wants to go outdoors. Maybe he just misses Bela and me when we leave.
Who knows what a cat thinks? Who would want to know?
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