What I really wanted to do....

I'm sure I've written this before in some shape or size, but, it's MY blog, so I can write what I want to....

All I ever wanted to do since, I don't know, Junior High School, was to teach. I came from two families of teachers--my mother and two of her sisters and my favorite first cousin on that side and an aunt and several 1st cousins on my father's side. Teachers: that's who we were. I was an English major, for Christ's sake--what else can they do other than teach or work at McDonald's?


In my senior year of college I had already been accepted into several Ph.D. programs, including the University of Virginia, which would have been my choice, when two professors of mine nominated me for a Rockefeller "Trial year in seminary" award. I kept telling people I didn't want to go to seminary and got it. So, for reasons I'm not yet sure about, I went to Harvard Divinity School. The rest is history.

Well, not so fast sweet-lips, tomorrow my latest class at the UConn branch in Waterbury starts. Since I retired I've been teaching every other semester in the Osher Life-long Learning Institute. It's not freshman English or Hemingway's Novels, but it is in a college and there are people who want to be there (over 50) on the edge of their seats, wanting to learn.

So, after all these years, in a real sense, I'm getting to do what I really always wanted to do.

Don't tell me life isn't full of Irony...and wonder...and completion....

Thank goodness and the Good Lord....

"The times they are (really not) achangin'...."

We spent the evening, Bern and I, with Mike and Mary Miano. We tried to remember the last time we'd seen each other. I was no help whatsoever since I am lost and awash in linear time for the most part. Mike had some suggestions, though my vagueness about time didn't even let me remember the years he thought of.

This I know, we went to high school together--Mike and Bern and I, though he was a year ahead of me and Bern three behind me. But we all knew each other. It was impossible in a school that graduated under a hundred a year not to know almost everyone.

And Mike and I were college roommates for a year and knew each other and saw each other many times during the other years at WVU.

Suffice it to say, it's been decades...maybe almost 40 years...since we've all been in a room together.

And tonight we were.

I was a tad anxious about their coming by--they live near Bristol, Virginia, in south-western Virginia are driving around the East Coast and the New England states. Just driving around, no destination, looking for historic stuff to do with Presidents. They've been on the road for over a week and plan to be (if 'plan' is a word to apply to their agenda!) for up to another week. (I have real difficulty identifying with this kind of vacation...I want to go somewhere and stare out at the ocean for as long as I can...but when they describe it, it seems almost like fun.)

I was a tad anxious because so many years have passed and people, as people do, tend to change. Mike and I were very close friends for many years in our teens and 20's. But we aren't in our teens and 20's anymore. I wondered if there would be enough connective tissue left from so long ago a relationship to enable us to move together.

I shouldn't have worried. It was remarkable how quickly the decades slipped away and the 4 of us were (not 'young again', God knows!) but still the same people, only more so, that we had been back then.

Mike isn't 'crazy' anymore. And he was one of the 'craziest' people I've ever known. But then, again, neither am I. There are more than a couple of things we did back then that neither of us would want any of you to know about! (Actually, if I'm honest, Mike was a good degree 'crazier' than I was. But I tend to attract 'crazy' and really resonate to it.) But, incredibly, in 4+ hours in our kitchen and a local restaurant, the decades didn't matter, didn't matter at all. The connective tissue survived the time. We are, remarkably, much the same people who liked each other so much so long ago. What a gift!

Bern and I will be married 44 years in September. Mike and Mary will be married 44 years in April 2014. Two old married couples separated for decades, both with a boy child and girl child--never having met each others' children, I think--both with three grandchildren (all boys for Mike and Mary, all girls for Bern and I). Lots in common, but most of our lives 'since then', very different. Mike was a mining engineer. I was a priest. Mike and Mary mostly lived below the Mason Dixon Line and Bern and I lived mostly in Connecticut.

And, as far as I'm concerned, all the twists and turns our lives had taken over the last 3 or 4 decades were dissolved in 3 or 4 hours tonight. Friendship, perhaps, endures in ways we don't automatically imagine are possible. That, if nothing else, gives a sweetness and value to life that should be unconcealed and celebrated. Really.

Mike had in his pocket tonight a pocket cross that I left in his couch or somewhere the last time I saw him. In emails and occasional communications over all these years, I have inquired about my pocket cross. And he has told me, over and again, he would give it to me only in person. As I was writing this, my phone rang. It was Mike, leaving a message that he would put the cross in an envelope and send it to me. I called him back and told him that 'possession in 9/10ths of the law and he had had it much, much longer than I ever did and it was meant to be his. Then he told me about a silver money clip I gave him when he and Mary got married (did I remember that? No!) and so he had two silver things from me.

That is as it should be. Mike deserves silver from me (gold, actually, but I'm not there to give it).

I don't know if you, reading this, can begin to imagine how finding a friend over the tides and times and flotsam and jetsam of all those years can be so precious, so rare, so very fragrant and sweet...something to ponder as years speed by and life grows shorter each year.

What a wondrous gift this day has been....Really....

Early post--G of T

I have to write early today because Game of Thrones, season 4 starts tonight and I'm a total "Thrones Junkie."

I even watched about 20 minutes of a U-Tube show called 'Screen Junkies' to review the plots (at least some of them) of the first three seasons.

It was my son, Josh, who got me into the books. Ten pages and I was hooked. I've read them all and the TV show is actually, so far, remarkably faithful to the stories. The one piece of advice Josh gave me was this: "don't get too attached to any of the characters...."

George R. R. Martin, the inventor of the series, subtitled "A song of ice and fire", tends to kill off key characters at an alarming rate.

If you're not at all familiar with Game of Thrones, it is a fantasy series set in an imaginary world that, in terms of development, is roughly in what we would call the 'dark ages' of our own history. The 'iron throne' of the 7 Kingdoms is in King's Landing. There is a North and South and then lands across the sea to the east. It is bloody and moody and full of violence from beginning to end. The fifth book came out in 2011 and the sixth is due, Lord help us, soon I hope....I'm like a Thrones addict that needs another hit.

Anyway, it's on HBO tonight and I'll be glued to it with a copy of A Dance with Dragons, book Five, because Martin has a list of characters at the end of the novels so I can remind myself who is who. (The list of characters takes up pages 995-1016, so you can understand how one might get confused from time to time!) Plus, Bern loves the show but never read the books--all of which are about 1000 pages long and I have to be able to give her some clue about what's going on.

My favorite surviving characters are Daenerys Targaryen, 'the mother of dragons', who has three and wants the Throne her father once held before being murdered. Tyrion Lannister, the only 'good' Lannister, a dwarf with a claim to the throne as well, whose awful nephew, Joeffrey, sits on it now. And Arya Stark, an 11 year old who is wandering the Kingdoms with a character called 'the Hound' trying to avenge her father's murder by Joeffrey.

According to the books thus far, those three will still be around at the end of season 4. I sincerely hope and pray so.

Watch it--it will confuse the hell out of you if you've not read the books or seen the first three seasons, but it is gloriously entertaining....

"Well, bless your heart...."

OK, this is a first--a requested post!

Ray Anderson, a wonderful, funny man who happens to play scratch golf and is an Episcopal priest (formerly the Missioner to the Deaf Community of Connecticut) emailed me to ask me to write a blog about the expression, "well, bless your heart...."

He'd heard it often traveling in the south and wondered what my take on it was.

Since I'm an Appalachian and not a Southerner, my take won't be 'the whole story', but I've known enough true Southerners to have a clue...and I heard the saying several times a day growing up. People down below the Mason Dixon line tend to say "well, bless your heart..." the way folks up here say 'have a nice day...." Like that.

Tennessee  Ernie Ford, anyone remember him? used to say, at the end of his radio and then his TV show, "Bless your pea-pickin' hearts". That was a Tennessee thing, apparently, since I've never picked a pea in my life.

Ray suggested that there was a lot of variety to the use of the phrase, and he is SO right.

First question: do they mean your actual, physical organ called 'the heart' or something metaphorical and nuanced? Both actually.

When it's a child--almost always said lovingly and with great affection--'well, bless your little heart...', I think refers to the rapidly beating, adult fist sized pumping machine in the middle of their chest that is keeping them alive and being charming and lovable.

When it's someone in distress or pain, no matter what age, it's a metaphorical, symbolic reference to the 'life-force' that might sustain them through their suffering.

Sometimes, it seems to me, it also refers to mental functions--like with someone working through a psychological issue. "Well, bless your heart...", then can mean, 'keep up your spirits', or 'don't let the bastards get you down' or even, 'I know this is going to be your ruin, but I'm hoping for you to get through it....'

But 'bless your heart' can, from time to time, turn malignant and ironic.

Like: 'I just got accepted to Harvard!' 'Well, bless your heart...(you're getting above your raising, aren't you smart ass?')

Or: 'I'm moving to New York City!' 'Well bless your heart...(where you grew up isn't good enough for you is it?')

Or: 'I'm marrying my Chinese sweetheart!' 'Well, bless your heart...(you're children won't have a chance in hell 'round here.')

Or: "Grandma, I need to tell you, I'm coming out as a lesbian.' 'Well bless your heart...(you just broke mine, you pervert...!')

Stuff like that.

It's a 'fits all situations' kind of phrase.

Have a good day....

A Modest Proposal

OK, I'm an English major so I know Jonathon Swift used that title first--a suggestion to eat Irish babies to solve the problems of the British Isles. But my 'modest proposal' will be seen as just as ludicrous by most people so I don't feel guilty about borrowing.

I have a proposal that would go a long way to deal with several pressing political problems in the United States, to whit (English major to the core, am I...): income inequality, the remarkable advantage held by incumbent members of the House and Senate (and anywhere else for that matter), and the horrible fact that money elects people, not ideas.

I haven't been left-wing nutty for a while, so it's time for my modest proposal.

Remove all limits to political candidates, parties or PAC's of any kind. Anyone, individuals, corporations or special interest groups can give unlimited amounts of money to political campaigns; however, those contributions would be taxed  @ 100%.

So, you give 20 dollars to your local town council members campaign and you also give $20 to the Federal Government. You give $1000 to your member of the House of Delegates and the same amount to the Federal Government. You give $2500 to your member of Congress and....well, you see how it works.

The Koch brothers can give a billion dollars to whatever Right Wing Nonsense they want as long as they write an identical check to the US Treasury.

And those dollars would be earmarked in the following way: 99% to social programs to help the poor and 1% to give public financing to candidates without deep pocket supporters.

Here's how that would shake out, I think.

Political Action Money would dry up immediately since most people who give to PACs don't like the government and wouldn't want to support it.

Contributions from individuals would eventually dry up because the tax would discourage them.

Until those two things happen, more money would be available for social programs.

Eventually, people would have to run for office on the basis of their ideas rather than the size of their campaign fund and we would elect people with good ideas about income inequality instead of people who are well funded.

Public financing of elections would be true in a matter of a few years.

This idea came to me while smoking a cigarette on the back porch. I know smoking is a BAD, BAD THING....but I get good ideas while committing suicide by cigarette....

Maundy Thursday

On Maundy Thursday of this year, I will turn 67 years old. Such an event has never occurred to me as a possibility.

*When I was in my teens I imagined dying in my 20's from an automobile crash or a criminal event.'

*When I was in my 20's, a horrible hypochondriac,  I imagined dying in my 30's from some dread disease with inexorable suffering.

*When I was in my 30's, I imagined dying in my 50's from a heart attack.

*When I was in my 40's....well, since, in my opinion, that's the best decade of all, except for the ones to come, but you don't know that then, I didn't think about dying at all.

*When I was in my 50's, since men often die in their 50's, I was in denial about dying.

*Once I hit 60, I was in such alien territory, having never imagined reaching such an age, I sort of forgot about the dying part, as obvious as 'the dying part' is.

And in Holy Week I'll turn 67.

I've outlived my mother by 3 years now. But not my Dad. He lived to be 83 and his brothers all lived into the late 80's too. So, maybe I've another 15 or 16 years or so, long enough to go to my older granddaughters' college graduation, maybe. Or see my son hit 60. Or have the Yankees win another World Series. Some of that, at least.

What a trip to grow old. I read a novel yesterday called Dead Man's Time by Peter James and remember this line from it. A 95 year old man is thinking about life and thinks: "The older you get, the less you care."

I love that. And I'm discovering it is true. I don't 'care' anymore about what people think of me. I don't 'care' anymore about how I look. I don't 'care' anymore about what time I get up or go to bed. I don't 'care' anymore about fashion or political correctness or being 'liked'.

Like me or don't, I don't care anymore.

I just care about waking up (whenever I do) and getting out of bed and doing whatever the hell I decide to do that day and then going to bed. I'll eat. I'll ponder stuff. I'll walk around. I'll read and think. I'll imagine what comes next (like the next few minutes!) and I'll love every minute of being alive far beyond I ever imagined being alive.

What a gift being 66--almost 67 is--every day is a gift that for most of my life, I never imagined receiving.

Happy Spring!

Today is April Fool's Day, apparently, unless I'm mistaken, coming from the advent of the Gregorian calendar, which moved the beginning of the year from somewhere in late March or early April to January 1st. Those Christians who continued to celebrate the new year in April were labeled by the Church as "April Fools". Wouldn't it be just like the church to label 'fools' even though it makes much more sense to begin the year with Spring instead of in Winter. Goes to show, I guess.

I made it through the whole day without one April Fool's joke or prank. I gave them up long ago when, while I was Rector of St. Paul's in New Haven, there was a baptism in late March. The Bishop of Arkansas, of all places, flew out to do it because it was his grandchild.

The Bishop and a wonderful, extremely active member of the parish, who happened to be an African-American woman, and I were in the sacristy, getting vested and talking about March Madness of that year.

The finals were coming up and Georgetown University was one of the teams in the running. Carol said, when Georgetown came up, "I hate Georgetown's team."

At the time, Georgetown was an all black team with a black coach, John Thompson. I was astonished when Carol said that and quipped, much to my later regret, "Carol, you must be a racist...."

The bishop and Carol and I laughed.

We did the baptism and the Bishop's grandchild filled his diaper and soiled his satin baptismal suit just as his grandfather poured the water and made the child a Christian. Irony not lost on either the Bishop or me.

A few weeks later, the church secretary brought a letter into my office from Carol. Marge was visibly shaken when she handed it to me. "Remember what day it is," she told me.

"It's Tuesday," I said. "I know that."

The letter explained that Carol was leaving the parish and filing a discrimination law suit against me because I had called her a 'racist' about Georgetown's basketball team.

I went ballistic, leaped out of my chair and ran into Marge's office screaming, 'GET CAROL ON THE PHONE....MY LIFE AS I KNOW IT IS OVER....'

Marge looked at me, obviously concerned for my mental health, and said, calmly, 'remember what day it is...."

'IT'S TUESDAY, FOR GOD SAKE!', I said, 'CALL CAROL...."

"OK, enough," Marge told me. "I regret agreeing to this," she said, handing me another envelope.

I opened it and in Carol's handwriting, the page said only  this:

April Fool, love Carol

It took me several hours to get over my anxiety and recover my equilibrium.

Since that day, 25 or more years ago, I've sworn off April Fool pranks.

Carol got me as good as a liberal can be got.....What an April Fool I was....