It started like this: I get two joke emails a day. One of the websites is guaranteed to be 'clean' and the other is a little risque.
Given that, here's what happened: each of the websites have links to videos and stuff and one of the links said, "What does the fox say?" and, since that's been something I've pondered from time to time--what IS the call of the fox--I clicked on it.
I've now watched it half-a dozen times (once with Bea at the Cluster office) and I will probably watch it ever few days from now on.
I've not had a group to follow since Chicago and Crosby, Stills and Nash. Now I have Ylvis.
Ylvis is actually two brothers who are a comedy team from Norway and have TV shows there. But I watched four of their music videos and all of them are wondrous and funny and a little bawdy. One was about Stonehenge and another about Massachusetts and one was Pia Jesus--a comedy routine in Norwegian except they sing in Latin and all of them were fabulous.
Probably everyone reading this knows all about Ylvis already, but, if you don't, google it and enjoy. I mean, like Chicago and Crosby, Stills and Nash, ENJOY...except these guys are funnier.....
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
The luck of the Irish
I've gone to Ireland every year for 6 or 7 years to lead a workshop. All the Irish folks think I look Irish. With family names like O'Connor, Sadler, Jones, McCormick and Bradley, I wasn't sure how much of my DNA was Irish but I was sure it mostly came from the British Isles. After my DNA results came back as only 11.9% Irish/British and most of the rest Scandinavian I'll be able to talk to the Irish next year about the Viking Invaders!
But my 11.9% somewhere near Ireland blood has given me the luck of the Irish.
Ever so often, when I'm listening to somebody complaining about their job, I realize I've never had a job I didn't love.
Through a lot of my childhood I worked for my Uncle Russel in his grocery store. I stocked shelves and filled bags and was a cashier in the later years of high school and got to cut cold cuts from time to time. It was always fun. To this day I rue the days I don't have to go to a grocery store.
One college summer I worked for the WV Highway Department in Welch, keeping track of where all the vehicles were and making sure what they did each day was recorded correctly. I loved talking to the truck drivers and road repair guys. It was always fun (though I must admit I only got the job because my father was a Republican--it was a 'political appointment' as the 'Yellow Dog Democrat' I became I feel a tad guilty about that.
Two other college summers I worked at a summer camp. Since I had no particular camp skills, I was the "Nature boy" and took kids on discovery trips through the woods, naming flora and fauna. And I helped at the archery range since I could shoot a bow. All the kids were sons and daughters of coal miners and so was I. So I loved being with them.
My senior year of college, I was a Resident Assistant in a Freshman Dorm. Loved it, even holding the heads of up-chucking freshmen as they worshiped at the toilet shrine after a hard night of beer drinking. (You could drink at 18 in those days....)
My second year at Harvard Divinity School, I was a member of the staff of the Radcliffe Library and assigned Dewey Decimal numbers to new books. I once cataloged a book called, I kid you not, Planning Spontaneity. That was the highlight of my day. And I loved the people I worked with. I love all bookish people.
After Harvard I was a PA (Production Assistant) at a Public Television Station--WWVU in Morgantown. I made so little money that Bern and I were on food stamps, but I got to run a TV camera and be on the sidelines, hauling wires, of all the WVU games. Plus, the people who worked there were all creative and wondrous. I loved even a poverty level job.
After that I was a Social Service Worker for the WV Department of Welfare. I was a child protection specialist which meant I investigated and often took action in child abuse cases. It was difficult and stressful work, but I came to believe it was better I was doing it than someone else. I hurt a lot for the kids and for their families, but I believed someone who 'hurt' doing the work was better than someone who didn't. And I saved some kids and reunited some families. That was pretty special. As emotional as it was, I loved it.
Then came the three churches I served as a full time priest. I must say that I was always amazed that they paid me for doing something I loved so much.
And I taught English and was Center Manager at the Regional Council for Education for Employment, working with Welfare Moms mostly, who were smart and talented and had fallen through the cracks and after 16 weeks we found them jobs at Aetna and IBM and Yale, places like that, plus I adored all the people I worked with. How good was that.
And now, in my dotage, I teach every other semester or so at UConn in Waterbury in the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (Olli for short). I teach weird classes on the gospels and Gnostic Christianity and people come and want to learn.
Then their is MACM (the Middlesex Area Cluster Ministry) where I am Missioner to three churches working with two other priests I love dearly and with three unique and wondrous congregations. They are so very different from each other--the three congregations--but they blend into a remarkable and so lovable tapestry. How blessed I am to know St. James, Higganum and Emmanuel, Killingworth and St. Andrew's, Northford.
So in all my decades of working--working hard most of the time--I have loved my work intensely. And here at the end of my life's work I am loving it still and maybe most of all.
The luck of the Scandinavians, I guess....My LUCK anyway. My Blessing and My Joy.
But my 11.9% somewhere near Ireland blood has given me the luck of the Irish.
Ever so often, when I'm listening to somebody complaining about their job, I realize I've never had a job I didn't love.
Through a lot of my childhood I worked for my Uncle Russel in his grocery store. I stocked shelves and filled bags and was a cashier in the later years of high school and got to cut cold cuts from time to time. It was always fun. To this day I rue the days I don't have to go to a grocery store.
One college summer I worked for the WV Highway Department in Welch, keeping track of where all the vehicles were and making sure what they did each day was recorded correctly. I loved talking to the truck drivers and road repair guys. It was always fun (though I must admit I only got the job because my father was a Republican--it was a 'political appointment' as the 'Yellow Dog Democrat' I became I feel a tad guilty about that.
Two other college summers I worked at a summer camp. Since I had no particular camp skills, I was the "Nature boy" and took kids on discovery trips through the woods, naming flora and fauna. And I helped at the archery range since I could shoot a bow. All the kids were sons and daughters of coal miners and so was I. So I loved being with them.
My senior year of college, I was a Resident Assistant in a Freshman Dorm. Loved it, even holding the heads of up-chucking freshmen as they worshiped at the toilet shrine after a hard night of beer drinking. (You could drink at 18 in those days....)
My second year at Harvard Divinity School, I was a member of the staff of the Radcliffe Library and assigned Dewey Decimal numbers to new books. I once cataloged a book called, I kid you not, Planning Spontaneity. That was the highlight of my day. And I loved the people I worked with. I love all bookish people.
After Harvard I was a PA (Production Assistant) at a Public Television Station--WWVU in Morgantown. I made so little money that Bern and I were on food stamps, but I got to run a TV camera and be on the sidelines, hauling wires, of all the WVU games. Plus, the people who worked there were all creative and wondrous. I loved even a poverty level job.
After that I was a Social Service Worker for the WV Department of Welfare. I was a child protection specialist which meant I investigated and often took action in child abuse cases. It was difficult and stressful work, but I came to believe it was better I was doing it than someone else. I hurt a lot for the kids and for their families, but I believed someone who 'hurt' doing the work was better than someone who didn't. And I saved some kids and reunited some families. That was pretty special. As emotional as it was, I loved it.
Then came the three churches I served as a full time priest. I must say that I was always amazed that they paid me for doing something I loved so much.
And I taught English and was Center Manager at the Regional Council for Education for Employment, working with Welfare Moms mostly, who were smart and talented and had fallen through the cracks and after 16 weeks we found them jobs at Aetna and IBM and Yale, places like that, plus I adored all the people I worked with. How good was that.
And now, in my dotage, I teach every other semester or so at UConn in Waterbury in the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (Olli for short). I teach weird classes on the gospels and Gnostic Christianity and people come and want to learn.
Then their is MACM (the Middlesex Area Cluster Ministry) where I am Missioner to three churches working with two other priests I love dearly and with three unique and wondrous congregations. They are so very different from each other--the three congregations--but they blend into a remarkable and so lovable tapestry. How blessed I am to know St. James, Higganum and Emmanuel, Killingworth and St. Andrew's, Northford.
So in all my decades of working--working hard most of the time--I have loved my work intensely. And here at the end of my life's work I am loving it still and maybe most of all.
The luck of the Scandinavians, I guess....My LUCK anyway. My Blessing and My Joy.
Monday, January 13, 2014
the moon, the moon....
The moon is full tonight, through scattered, ghostly clouds. How differently does the full moon strike me now than 3 or 4 years ago.
I spent my full time ministry in urban churches, as odd and different as they were. And those 30 years of working in cities (Charleston,WV and New Haven and Waterbury) taught me well that the word "lunatic" really does refer to the moon.
In my 21+ years at St. John's, Waterbury, the staff of the church and the soup kitchen always knew when the moon was waxing. Things got stranger. Odd people became odder. Apparently 'normal' people became a tad 'abnormal'. The whole spectrum of life got pushed to the edges. I kid you not.
Full moon days meant lots of disruption in the Soup Kitchen and a vast increase of people wanting to talk to me about stuff that was often troubling.
Folks in urban settings are much more in sync with stages of the moon's cycle than folks in the suburbs and country. Or, at least that is my experience. Maybe if I had been in suburban or country churches long enough I might have noticed the lunar effect there too.
Full moons, at St. John's, were a mixture of dread and delight. Some of the lunar changes were amusing and moving--lots more street people wanting to confess to me, for example. The confessions, which I dutifully heard, were always less serious than the one confessing thought, it seemed to me. But of all the confessions I heard in my years as a full-time priest, I assure you that 95% of them were during the full moon!
But some of the effects of the full moon were dangerous and daunting. Almost all the potential violence in the Soup Kitchen and in people who passed through the church was confined to the five days or so around the full moon. I kid you not.
A guy we'll call Harold was drunk most every day, but as the full moon approached, he was not only drunk but mean. He went for me a couple of times but was too drunk to hurt me. And then some young men who were dangerous in the waning of the moon, did horrible things to Harold in the full of the moon and he eventually died from all that.
Don't tell me the full moon is a benign moment in the ways of human beings.
Don't even begin to tell me the full moon doesn't give meaning to the world 'lunacy'. It just does, I'm serious.
But in Cheshire it is just a lovely sight through the ghostly clouds, that full moon....
I spent my full time ministry in urban churches, as odd and different as they were. And those 30 years of working in cities (Charleston,WV and New Haven and Waterbury) taught me well that the word "lunatic" really does refer to the moon.
In my 21+ years at St. John's, Waterbury, the staff of the church and the soup kitchen always knew when the moon was waxing. Things got stranger. Odd people became odder. Apparently 'normal' people became a tad 'abnormal'. The whole spectrum of life got pushed to the edges. I kid you not.
Full moon days meant lots of disruption in the Soup Kitchen and a vast increase of people wanting to talk to me about stuff that was often troubling.
Folks in urban settings are much more in sync with stages of the moon's cycle than folks in the suburbs and country. Or, at least that is my experience. Maybe if I had been in suburban or country churches long enough I might have noticed the lunar effect there too.
Full moons, at St. John's, were a mixture of dread and delight. Some of the lunar changes were amusing and moving--lots more street people wanting to confess to me, for example. The confessions, which I dutifully heard, were always less serious than the one confessing thought, it seemed to me. But of all the confessions I heard in my years as a full-time priest, I assure you that 95% of them were during the full moon!
But some of the effects of the full moon were dangerous and daunting. Almost all the potential violence in the Soup Kitchen and in people who passed through the church was confined to the five days or so around the full moon. I kid you not.
A guy we'll call Harold was drunk most every day, but as the full moon approached, he was not only drunk but mean. He went for me a couple of times but was too drunk to hurt me. And then some young men who were dangerous in the waning of the moon, did horrible things to Harold in the full of the moon and he eventually died from all that.
Don't tell me the full moon is a benign moment in the ways of human beings.
Don't even begin to tell me the full moon doesn't give meaning to the world 'lunacy'. It just does, I'm serious.
But in Cheshire it is just a lovely sight through the ghostly clouds, that full moon....
Sunday, January 12, 2014
today's sermon
So, I've been really heavy about this WV water stuff. Let me share with you the sermon (very short) I preached today at St. James, Higganum.
Still heavy but with a positive spin.
Still heavy but with a positive spin.
BAPTISM OF OUR LORD
2014
I know we have an
annual meeting to do, so I'm preaching one of the shortest sermons
I've ever preached.
There is a Sufi saying I love a lot—a
saying I think we need to keep in mind in our lives. It goes like
this: “when you hear hoof-beats, look for a Zebra….”
The Sufis are trying to tell us to
look for the extraordinary, the wondrous, the unexpected, the
mysterious in every common moment of our lives.
Good advice, I would say.
One of my professors in seminary, Jess
Trotter, who was as gentle and genuine a man as you could ever hope
to meet, told me this: “wherever you are, whoever
you meet, tell yourself this: ‘that person is the one
for whom Christ died’.”
I’d recommend that bit of wisdom to
us all.
Imagine what a difference it would
make in how you encountered and reacted to the people in your
life—your family, your friends, you acquaintances, even total
strangers—if when you came in contact with them you imagined that
each of them was the ONE—the ‘very one’—for whom Christ died.
Good advice, I would say. Advice to
transform our lives.
Just imagine what a difference it
would make if in this Annual Meeting and in our lives as a community
and individuals we always 'looked for Zebras' and knew in our hearts
that everyone we met 'was the One for whom Christ died....”
Ponder that, if you will as we move
forward.....
H2O
Day four and counting and 300,000 West Virginians still can't drink, cook with, wash with or shower in their water that was horribly spoiled by a chemical spill. (I talked about all this in a post the other day, go down to read it....) And remember their are only 1.2 million people in WV. So a quarter of the people in the state are water-less....
I also had a post about feeling guilty about being blessed a few weeks ago where I wrote about my dis-ease with the water I waste when many--perhaps most--of the people on the globe don't have unlimited access to clean water. I was writing about the Developing World but now West Virginia seems to be there, which, in a way, it has always been along with Eastern Kentucky, Eastern Tennessee, South-western Virginia and North-western North Carolina. That is about the limits of what is called Appalachia.
The first argument about Appalachia and all the poor, ignorant, misbegotten mountain people who live there is how to pronounce "Appalachia".
I guarantee you that 99.5% of the people who live there or grew up there pronounce it "Ap-pa-latch-a". But back in the 50's and 60's of the last century when the rest of the country discovered that there was a pocket of poverty in the rural mountains of "Ap-pa-lay-cha", that's how the world came to pronounce it with "lay" instead of "latch" and the accent one syllable too soon.
(Funny thing, even I grew up talking about "the Ap-PA-lay-cha Power company" that serviced vast expanses of "Ap-pa-LATCH-a" because the power company was owned by people in Philadelphia who mispronounced it from the get go....)
I spent a lot of years embarrassed about where I came from, but I got over that three or more decades ago when I decided I was sick and tired of being sick and tired about where I came from....
That's something that distinguishes Appalachia from the North East. When you meet somebody from back there for the first time, your first question to each other is 'where do you come from?' Because poor, ignorant, misbegotten mountain people have a sense of 'place' that borders on genius, you could learn a great deal and have profound insight into a new person just by knowing 'where they came from'. You understood the character and civilization and people of each little hollow and valley. The next question would be 'who are your people?' and the answer to that would reveal volumes....
I'm still not used to the North-East's obsession with asking people, on first meeting 'what do you DO?' It is the distinction I'm fond of making between 'doing' and 'being'. Doing involves us in tasks and career paths and activity. Being is about 'who you are' and 'where you come from' and identity.
What you DO and who you BE are world's apart. I'd rather begin becoming friends with someone's 'identity' than with their 'profession'.
My friend, Jim Lewis, who was Rector of the big, downtown Church in Charleston, WV, once said to me about our mutual acquaintance, Denise Giardina, "Jim, can you believe someone as talented and gifted as Denise grew up in McDowell County?"
Jim Lewis was from Baltimore. Folks in Charleston (the 'city' of West Virginia) were exotic to him, but someone from McDowell County, for God's sake, was downright primitive...
"Jim," I replied, "I grew up 9 miles from Denise. Our parents knew each other."
He looked at me as though I had shown him the crown jewels without him asking. "I can't believe this!" he said, genuinely having trouble computing that he knew two people from Appalachia (which he always said with the accent on PA and a LAY sound) who, of all things, weren't poor, stupid and misbegotten.
Here's the Truth. Those of us growing up there and those who are still there, essentially agree with the assessment that people 'from there' are 'poor, stupid and misbegotten'....That's what we were told by the media and the sociologists and the politicians and since they were the media and the sociologists and the politicians, we believed them.
After all, if smart, urbane, sophisticated folks like all the Ivy League Vista workers thought we were poor, stupid and misbegotten, it must be True.
What you learn being an Appalachian and learn fair well is this: humility.
And that might be the greatest gift being an Appalachian could give. Just maybe.
But will all you people stop ruining our mountains with strip mining and stop poisoning our water with chemicals.
Is that too much to ask?
I also had a post about feeling guilty about being blessed a few weeks ago where I wrote about my dis-ease with the water I waste when many--perhaps most--of the people on the globe don't have unlimited access to clean water. I was writing about the Developing World but now West Virginia seems to be there, which, in a way, it has always been along with Eastern Kentucky, Eastern Tennessee, South-western Virginia and North-western North Carolina. That is about the limits of what is called Appalachia.
The first argument about Appalachia and all the poor, ignorant, misbegotten mountain people who live there is how to pronounce "Appalachia".
I guarantee you that 99.5% of the people who live there or grew up there pronounce it "Ap-pa-latch-a". But back in the 50's and 60's of the last century when the rest of the country discovered that there was a pocket of poverty in the rural mountains of "Ap-pa-lay-cha", that's how the world came to pronounce it with "lay" instead of "latch" and the accent one syllable too soon.
(Funny thing, even I grew up talking about "the Ap-PA-lay-cha Power company" that serviced vast expanses of "Ap-pa-LATCH-a" because the power company was owned by people in Philadelphia who mispronounced it from the get go....)
I spent a lot of years embarrassed about where I came from, but I got over that three or more decades ago when I decided I was sick and tired of being sick and tired about where I came from....
That's something that distinguishes Appalachia from the North East. When you meet somebody from back there for the first time, your first question to each other is 'where do you come from?' Because poor, ignorant, misbegotten mountain people have a sense of 'place' that borders on genius, you could learn a great deal and have profound insight into a new person just by knowing 'where they came from'. You understood the character and civilization and people of each little hollow and valley. The next question would be 'who are your people?' and the answer to that would reveal volumes....
I'm still not used to the North-East's obsession with asking people, on first meeting 'what do you DO?' It is the distinction I'm fond of making between 'doing' and 'being'. Doing involves us in tasks and career paths and activity. Being is about 'who you are' and 'where you come from' and identity.
What you DO and who you BE are world's apart. I'd rather begin becoming friends with someone's 'identity' than with their 'profession'.
My friend, Jim Lewis, who was Rector of the big, downtown Church in Charleston, WV, once said to me about our mutual acquaintance, Denise Giardina, "Jim, can you believe someone as talented and gifted as Denise grew up in McDowell County?"
Jim Lewis was from Baltimore. Folks in Charleston (the 'city' of West Virginia) were exotic to him, but someone from McDowell County, for God's sake, was downright primitive...
"Jim," I replied, "I grew up 9 miles from Denise. Our parents knew each other."
He looked at me as though I had shown him the crown jewels without him asking. "I can't believe this!" he said, genuinely having trouble computing that he knew two people from Appalachia (which he always said with the accent on PA and a LAY sound) who, of all things, weren't poor, stupid and misbegotten.
Here's the Truth. Those of us growing up there and those who are still there, essentially agree with the assessment that people 'from there' are 'poor, stupid and misbegotten'....That's what we were told by the media and the sociologists and the politicians and since they were the media and the sociologists and the politicians, we believed them.
After all, if smart, urbane, sophisticated folks like all the Ivy League Vista workers thought we were poor, stupid and misbegotten, it must be True.
What you learn being an Appalachian and learn fair well is this: humility.
And that might be the greatest gift being an Appalachian could give. Just maybe.
But will all you people stop ruining our mountains with strip mining and stop poisoning our water with chemicals.
Is that too much to ask?
Friday, January 10, 2014
What to say? So many thoughts, so few words....
I don't know about you, but what often amazes me it that there are so many thoughts in my head and so few words to express them.
Let me be clear: I have no words for Chris Christie and 'bridgegate' or whatever the talking heads on TV and radio are calling it at this hour.
I have next to no words about the House of Representatives who seem to 'represent' a minority of Americans since they have such a hard time backing health-care and extended unemployment benefits and immigration reform to give a path to citizenship for the productive illegal aliens already here--all of which are things a large majority of Americans support.
I have less to no words to waste on Duck Dynasty, whatever it is and however crazy and offensive it is. (Like I've never wasted words on "Jersey Shore"....)
Words are precious and need to be treated with great respect and admiration.
But I do have some words for the Chemical company that has caused 9 of the 52 counties of West Virginia to use their public water to do nothing except flush their toilets. They can't drink it, cook with it, bathe or shower in it or wash their clothes in it,.
When we lived in Charleston, WV for 5 years (1975-80) most of the industry was chemicals. The plants lined the Kanawaha River from South Charleston to Nitro--20 miles or so. One of the biggest portions of the chemical plants was a division to put scents into the smoke to make the pollution smell like chocolate cake or fresh baked bread or apples. The smell made you a tad nauseous every day, but at least it smelled tolerable.
And now, today, a chemical plant has dumped thousands of gallons of dangerous stuff into the Elk River and the water supply of 9 counties. Non-profits are trucking in enormous amounts of bottled water to be distributed and the Water Company isn't sure when the water will be safe again.
Both our children, who were born in Charleston, had severe Ear/Nose/Throat problems--because the 'Chemical Valley' as that area is known locally, has an ENT problem among children several hundred times greater than the national average. An ENT doctor could do worse than work in Charleston--except he/she and his/her family would have to breath in the chemicals every day.
OK, I'm a West Virginia native and I'm pissed off about a lot of things. The coal that was taken from our mines and is now being ripped out of mountain tops has spoiled one of the most pristine and beautiful places in the country. The chemical companies have poisoned generations of West Virginians and given nothing in return. Strip mining has made major floods a constant event in the southern part of the state, where I grew up.
The county where I grew up--McDowell County--has the highest average age of any county in the US and, get this, the youngest average age of death as well.
See, what that means is all the young people leave and though the old people drive up the average age, the not so old people die at a discouraging rate.
Now the water supply for 9 counties has been spoiled.
There's only so much I can tolerate.
I love the place I came from and the multi-national corporations that have made many fortunes from the natural resources of West Virginia have gutted and polluted and poisoned the state. Enabled, needless to say, by the political leaders of the state.
I weep to myself. "Almost Heaven, West Virginia" has been turned into a living Hell....
Let me be clear: I have no words for Chris Christie and 'bridgegate' or whatever the talking heads on TV and radio are calling it at this hour.
I have next to no words about the House of Representatives who seem to 'represent' a minority of Americans since they have such a hard time backing health-care and extended unemployment benefits and immigration reform to give a path to citizenship for the productive illegal aliens already here--all of which are things a large majority of Americans support.
I have less to no words to waste on Duck Dynasty, whatever it is and however crazy and offensive it is. (Like I've never wasted words on "Jersey Shore"....)
Words are precious and need to be treated with great respect and admiration.
But I do have some words for the Chemical company that has caused 9 of the 52 counties of West Virginia to use their public water to do nothing except flush their toilets. They can't drink it, cook with it, bathe or shower in it or wash their clothes in it,.
When we lived in Charleston, WV for 5 years (1975-80) most of the industry was chemicals. The plants lined the Kanawaha River from South Charleston to Nitro--20 miles or so. One of the biggest portions of the chemical plants was a division to put scents into the smoke to make the pollution smell like chocolate cake or fresh baked bread or apples. The smell made you a tad nauseous every day, but at least it smelled tolerable.
And now, today, a chemical plant has dumped thousands of gallons of dangerous stuff into the Elk River and the water supply of 9 counties. Non-profits are trucking in enormous amounts of bottled water to be distributed and the Water Company isn't sure when the water will be safe again.
Both our children, who were born in Charleston, had severe Ear/Nose/Throat problems--because the 'Chemical Valley' as that area is known locally, has an ENT problem among children several hundred times greater than the national average. An ENT doctor could do worse than work in Charleston--except he/she and his/her family would have to breath in the chemicals every day.
OK, I'm a West Virginia native and I'm pissed off about a lot of things. The coal that was taken from our mines and is now being ripped out of mountain tops has spoiled one of the most pristine and beautiful places in the country. The chemical companies have poisoned generations of West Virginians and given nothing in return. Strip mining has made major floods a constant event in the southern part of the state, where I grew up.
The county where I grew up--McDowell County--has the highest average age of any county in the US and, get this, the youngest average age of death as well.
See, what that means is all the young people leave and though the old people drive up the average age, the not so old people die at a discouraging rate.
Now the water supply for 9 counties has been spoiled.
There's only so much I can tolerate.
I love the place I came from and the multi-national corporations that have made many fortunes from the natural resources of West Virginia have gutted and polluted and poisoned the state. Enabled, needless to say, by the political leaders of the state.
I weep to myself. "Almost Heaven, West Virginia" has been turned into a living Hell....
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Cousins 2
Mejol is my favorite cousin. She's also the only 'Mejol' I've ever met. Aunt Georgie (named after the Dr. that delivered her) found the name in a novel about Native Americans. Who knows about that?
Mejol's brother was named 'Bradley Perkins' after my father--and since my father's name was Virgil Hoyt Bradley, it was the best choice of the three--although my granddaughter Tegan's name is Tegan Hoyt Bradley. Not bad, all things considered.
Mejol was always there. Since I came late in my parent's life, they had semi-adopted Mejol and had her spend time with them. When I came along (big surprise that I was) Mejol was with us on vacations and overnights and lots of times.
Mejol got me drunk the first time ever, in New Orleans, how cool is that to get drunk for the first time ever in the drunk capitol of the country? I was 18 and getting ready to go to college, where I would get drunk lots more, but Mejol wanted to introduce me to drunkedness--the best guide since Beatrice guided Dante!
She has two wondrous children--Fletcher and Elizabeth. And they all live in Baltimore so I see them from time to time when we go to see Josh and Cathy.
But not nearly enough.
One day, when I was 15 or 16 or so, Mejol locked me in her room in Aunt Georgie's trailer and gave me Catcher in the Rye to read and put on Bob Dylan's album "Highway 61 Revisited" and wouldn't let me out until I'd listened to the whole album and read the whole J.D. Salinger book.
How much love is that? How could I ever repay that?
She is so much a part of me that I couldn't be who I am without having had her in my life.
You can't make stuff like this up....
Mejol's brother was named 'Bradley Perkins' after my father--and since my father's name was Virgil Hoyt Bradley, it was the best choice of the three--although my granddaughter Tegan's name is Tegan Hoyt Bradley. Not bad, all things considered.
Mejol was always there. Since I came late in my parent's life, they had semi-adopted Mejol and had her spend time with them. When I came along (big surprise that I was) Mejol was with us on vacations and overnights and lots of times.
Mejol got me drunk the first time ever, in New Orleans, how cool is that to get drunk for the first time ever in the drunk capitol of the country? I was 18 and getting ready to go to college, where I would get drunk lots more, but Mejol wanted to introduce me to drunkedness--the best guide since Beatrice guided Dante!
She has two wondrous children--Fletcher and Elizabeth. And they all live in Baltimore so I see them from time to time when we go to see Josh and Cathy.
But not nearly enough.
One day, when I was 15 or 16 or so, Mejol locked me in her room in Aunt Georgie's trailer and gave me Catcher in the Rye to read and put on Bob Dylan's album "Highway 61 Revisited" and wouldn't let me out until I'd listened to the whole album and read the whole J.D. Salinger book.
How much love is that? How could I ever repay that?
She is so much a part of me that I couldn't be who I am without having had her in my life.
You can't make stuff like this up....
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