I never met her but I helped bury Lillian today. That's not unusual, I've helped bury over a thousand people and I think I only met a third of them. Occupational hazard. Lots of people die that I've never met but who I help bury.
Lillian was 101 years old. I once buried a woman who was 103 who I knew well, but Lillian was the second oldest person I helped bury.
She was married for 70 years. Imagine that! She and her husband had no children but people at the funeral told me she loved kids.
She drove her car until she was 95 and some relative with good sense took away her keys.
She was an organist and pianist and loved to dance.
She's someone I wish I had met.
The two people who made the arrangements were a great niece and a great nephew. Good people.
When you live to 101 and only spend a couple of years in a home, along with the niece with special needs who you cared for for decades until you both went into a home, life has been good.
Ponder for a moment what changes someone born in 1913 saw happen. Mind blowing.
She and her 10 siblings rode into town on a horse drawn wagon.
Lordy, Lordy. Bless; you Lil, who I never met. Observer of a century of remarkable change.
Tell it all to Jesus when you meet up with him in the life to come.
(I'm not sure I believe in that particular scenario, but for Lil I'll keep an open mind....)
Friday, June 20, 2014
Creatures behind our house
A few weeks ago, Bern swears that a deer ran though our yard. Jumped the very short fence and vast foliage in the back and then, after running through our back yard, jumped the waddle she's built to keep the dog in and ran out toward Cornwall Avenue. Going where? There's no woods anywhere in that direction. Maybe going to the Congregational Church or to St. Peter's. A Congregational deer or an Episcopalian deer, who knows?
And such distinctions don't much matter any more. Thomas Moore, who was a Roman Catholic priest (I always say 'Roman Catholic" since I am a "Catholic Christian" and don't want to be left out of the catholicity of it all) is offering a workshop at Wisdom House in Litchfield (run by the Sisters of Wisdom) about how to design your own spirituality, either inside or outside of an existing structure.
Which sort of makes distinctions like a Congregational deer or an Episcopal deer seem rather antiquated.
Then today, I came out on the deck while our pork roast was roasting, and Bern told me she'd seen the biggest yellow cat ever run through the open field behind our back yard. It was so big she thought it might be a bobcat.
She was still there when it ran into view again. I thought it might be a fox with a withered tale.
But our neighbor, Mark, who is a forester and can be trusted on all things wild and wondrous, told us it was a coyote, God help us all.
I said to Mark, "we're going back to nature in Cheshire".
And he replied, "not the worst thing I can think of...."
Me neither.
And such distinctions don't much matter any more. Thomas Moore, who was a Roman Catholic priest (I always say 'Roman Catholic" since I am a "Catholic Christian" and don't want to be left out of the catholicity of it all) is offering a workshop at Wisdom House in Litchfield (run by the Sisters of Wisdom) about how to design your own spirituality, either inside or outside of an existing structure.
Which sort of makes distinctions like a Congregational deer or an Episcopal deer seem rather antiquated.
Then today, I came out on the deck while our pork roast was roasting, and Bern told me she'd seen the biggest yellow cat ever run through the open field behind our back yard. It was so big she thought it might be a bobcat.
She was still there when it ran into view again. I thought it might be a fox with a withered tale.
But our neighbor, Mark, who is a forester and can be trusted on all things wild and wondrous, told us it was a coyote, God help us all.
I said to Mark, "we're going back to nature in Cheshire".
And he replied, "not the worst thing I can think of...."
Me neither.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Something Evil this way comes....
I haven't been rabidly political for a while, so why not now?
There are so many issues I could address to address the insanity of the far right that it's hard to choose.
Immigration reform, work to mitigate climate change, taxes on the super-rich, the rebirth of unions, legal abortion, gay rights, health care, what to do about Iraq, student loan reform, closing Gitmo, on and on it goes.
But today I want to go off the scale left-wing about the very fact that nothing progressive will ever happen as long as the Republicans are in charge of the House of Representatives. Having the Presidency and, nominally, the Senate, makes no difference.
Nothing besides restoring the 19th century can happen with a Republican majority in the House.
My father was a staunch Republican. His heroes were folks like Everett Dirkson and Nelson Rockefeller. If my father could come back from the dead (and I'd like that--we have lots of unfinished business to deal with) he wouldn't recognize the current Republican Party at all. It would be a totally alien thing to him. He might even consider being a moderate Democrat (which is where he was on the scale back then as compared to now....)
I'm so sick of it I could scream.
But what would I scream?
There are so many issues I could address to address the insanity of the far right that it's hard to choose.
Immigration reform, work to mitigate climate change, taxes on the super-rich, the rebirth of unions, legal abortion, gay rights, health care, what to do about Iraq, student loan reform, closing Gitmo, on and on it goes.
But today I want to go off the scale left-wing about the very fact that nothing progressive will ever happen as long as the Republicans are in charge of the House of Representatives. Having the Presidency and, nominally, the Senate, makes no difference.
Nothing besides restoring the 19th century can happen with a Republican majority in the House.
My father was a staunch Republican. His heroes were folks like Everett Dirkson and Nelson Rockefeller. If my father could come back from the dead (and I'd like that--we have lots of unfinished business to deal with) he wouldn't recognize the current Republican Party at all. It would be a totally alien thing to him. He might even consider being a moderate Democrat (which is where he was on the scale back then as compared to now....)
I'm so sick of it I could scream.
But what would I scream?
What Country People know...
I was getting out of my car at St. Peter's, Cheshire for my Tuesday morning clergy group meeting when I honked up some mucus from my bronchial tubes and saw a friend of mine across the parking lot.
"I know what you're going to do," he said, delighted, "I grew up on a farm and you're about to spit...."
So, I spat.
Country people know about spitting and know how to blow their noses without anything to blow them in.
You put your thumb on the opposite hand from which nostril you're going to blow, bend over and blow, whipping away the last of the snot with the thumb you used to close the other nostril. Pretty impressive skill, I think.
Bern thinks it's disgusting. Apparently people from Hungary and Italy don't do that (though I bet they do, at least the men!)
Country people also know, wherever their 'country place' is, which direction is where. I'm not as good about it as most country folks, but if you ask me which was is South (or North or the other two) most of the time I can tell you even though I grew up in the mountains which made directions harder than for someone from Nebraska or Kansas.
Country people can also smell a coming rain and feel, on their faces, that snow will happen soon.
Country people don't mind the smell of dung or urine, it is actually comforting to them.
Country people don't get enough credit for all that and more besides.
"I know what you're going to do," he said, delighted, "I grew up on a farm and you're about to spit...."
So, I spat.
Country people know about spitting and know how to blow their noses without anything to blow them in.
You put your thumb on the opposite hand from which nostril you're going to blow, bend over and blow, whipping away the last of the snot with the thumb you used to close the other nostril. Pretty impressive skill, I think.
Bern thinks it's disgusting. Apparently people from Hungary and Italy don't do that (though I bet they do, at least the men!)
Country people also know, wherever their 'country place' is, which direction is where. I'm not as good about it as most country folks, but if you ask me which was is South (or North or the other two) most of the time I can tell you even though I grew up in the mountains which made directions harder than for someone from Nebraska or Kansas.
Country people can also smell a coming rain and feel, on their faces, that snow will happen soon.
Country people don't mind the smell of dung or urine, it is actually comforting to them.
Country people don't get enough credit for all that and more besides.
Monday, June 16, 2014
Dew
I was looking at some old, old writing, typed on a typewriter of all things, a story about Richard Lucas and his cousin, Lizzy. Pretty bad stuff, all in all, but it meant something to me then, back when I wrote it.
The story is called "All Our World" and begins with a quote from Issa, who, I'll look up on the internet because I have no idea who he/she is but I must have known when I wrote this long ago story.
Anyhow, here's the quote: "Dew evaporates/and all our world/is dew...so dear, so fresh, so fleeting."
Whoever Issa was, he/she nailed that one in a big way.
Life seems endless from time to time, in the moment, but, like our world, life is dew...so dear, so fresh, so fleeting.
Whatever happened to typewriters? The story is typed on several different kinds of paper--some typing paper, other lined paper torn from a notebook, and, finally, some on a thin, yellow paper I remember using once but I couldn't tell you when.
It seems like I've been alive a long time sometimes. But, at other times, it seems but a heartbeat.
Dew. It's all like dew...so dear, so fresh, so fleeting.
I love the dew, though, as a retired guy, I'm seldom up early enough to feel it on my ankles as I walk through the grass. But there's something almost holy about dew--how it welcomes the day so sweetly.
I'm going now to look up Issa and see what else he/she had to say that worth pondering....
The story is called "All Our World" and begins with a quote from Issa, who, I'll look up on the internet because I have no idea who he/she is but I must have known when I wrote this long ago story.
Anyhow, here's the quote: "Dew evaporates/and all our world/is dew...so dear, so fresh, so fleeting."
Whoever Issa was, he/she nailed that one in a big way.
Life seems endless from time to time, in the moment, but, like our world, life is dew...so dear, so fresh, so fleeting.
Whatever happened to typewriters? The story is typed on several different kinds of paper--some typing paper, other lined paper torn from a notebook, and, finally, some on a thin, yellow paper I remember using once but I couldn't tell you when.
It seems like I've been alive a long time sometimes. But, at other times, it seems but a heartbeat.
Dew. It's all like dew...so dear, so fresh, so fleeting.
I love the dew, though, as a retired guy, I'm seldom up early enough to feel it on my ankles as I walk through the grass. But there's something almost holy about dew--how it welcomes the day so sweetly.
I'm going now to look up Issa and see what else he/she had to say that worth pondering....
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Father's Day
I've never given much weight to Father's Day or Mother's Day--Hallmark Card Holidays as far as I can tell. But in my childhood, people wore carnations on both days to church, red if your Mother/Father was alive, white if they were dead.
Big deal in the mountains. But I've always objected to them insinuating themselves onto a Sunday.
Today is father's day. I was still at Emmanuel, Killingworth, drinking coffee and eating a bagel with cream cheese, when my son called me on my cell phone. We talked and I talked to the three granddaughters he and Cathy have given me. Morgan told me she'd drawn me a dragon for Father's Day. Emma said they'd been playing and having a good time. Tegan, the 4 year old, said, unexpectedly, "Gampaw, it's good to hear your voice". Who knows where she got that.
Josh and I talked about The Goldfinch, a novel by Donna Tartt that everyone in my nuclear family has now read and loved.
Then, as I was getting ready to cook dinner (Sea Scallops, brochilinni and wild rice--it was Father's Day but I was cooking (Bern tells me every year, 'you're not MY father') but I was cooking what I wanted, Mimi called. (If I was on death row and had to choose a final meal, it would include Sea Scallops.)
She's up in the Berkshires because it's the 'season' for Jacob's Pillow, where she is the Development Officer. She also lives in Brooklyn with Tim, her fiancee and boyfriend for 12 years or so. But during the season, she's in the Berkshires, shaking hands and raising money. Tim works for LinkedIn, whatever that is..., and can spend a lot of time up with Mimi during June-August, when's she tied down in Massachusetts.
Josh asked me 'what I was doing today' and I told him, "waiting for you and Mimi to call".
That's really all that matters to me on Father's Day, to hear from the two people in the Universe that qualify me to be called a 'father'.
They are both so great. A lawyer and a development officer, both making much more money than I ever did, both solid citizens and extremely sane and loveable.
So, my day was made, talking to each of them and talking to 'the girls' (which is what we call our granddaughters).
Just right. Nothing left out. Wondrous.
I love them so much. They are both so great. Bern and I did something right, whether we knew it or not....
Happy father's day to everyone who 'is' a father or has one--which means everyone....
Big deal in the mountains. But I've always objected to them insinuating themselves onto a Sunday.
Today is father's day. I was still at Emmanuel, Killingworth, drinking coffee and eating a bagel with cream cheese, when my son called me on my cell phone. We talked and I talked to the three granddaughters he and Cathy have given me. Morgan told me she'd drawn me a dragon for Father's Day. Emma said they'd been playing and having a good time. Tegan, the 4 year old, said, unexpectedly, "Gampaw, it's good to hear your voice". Who knows where she got that.
Josh and I talked about The Goldfinch, a novel by Donna Tartt that everyone in my nuclear family has now read and loved.
Then, as I was getting ready to cook dinner (Sea Scallops, brochilinni and wild rice--it was Father's Day but I was cooking (Bern tells me every year, 'you're not MY father') but I was cooking what I wanted, Mimi called. (If I was on death row and had to choose a final meal, it would include Sea Scallops.)
She's up in the Berkshires because it's the 'season' for Jacob's Pillow, where she is the Development Officer. She also lives in Brooklyn with Tim, her fiancee and boyfriend for 12 years or so. But during the season, she's in the Berkshires, shaking hands and raising money. Tim works for LinkedIn, whatever that is..., and can spend a lot of time up with Mimi during June-August, when's she tied down in Massachusetts.
Josh asked me 'what I was doing today' and I told him, "waiting for you and Mimi to call".
That's really all that matters to me on Father's Day, to hear from the two people in the Universe that qualify me to be called a 'father'.
They are both so great. A lawyer and a development officer, both making much more money than I ever did, both solid citizens and extremely sane and loveable.
So, my day was made, talking to each of them and talking to 'the girls' (which is what we call our granddaughters).
Just right. Nothing left out. Wondrous.
I love them so much. They are both so great. Bern and I did something right, whether we knew it or not....
Happy father's day to everyone who 'is' a father or has one--which means everyone....
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Sometimes, a long way away
I've been having major problems with my computer for almost a week.
I lost Firefox, my highway to the Internet.
I had to call AOL three times to get back my email. Which allowed me to get to this blog.
I couldn't read any of my documents--stuff I've written and stored, a thousand documents at least, tens of thousands of pages.
What is amazing is how anxious and panicked I've been about all that.
And here's the truth: sometimes, a long way away from here, either in the past or future, none of that matters much at all.
*If I didn't answer email, people would eventually start calling me on the phone, which is one step closer to personal.
*If I couldn't get on the Internet, I could go buy a New York Times and know what's going on.
*If I couldn't get on this blog, I would miss it and, hopefully, others would as well. But nobody would die. (That's Bern's ultimate reaction to anything upsetting: "did anyone die?" she'll ask. And since nobody did...what's the upset about? It'll be alright...eventually.)
*If I couldn't read any of my documents ever again, well, I could write new ones over time.
I rail about people who are wedded to their smart phones. And yet, here I was, fretting extensively about my computer problems. I can't carry it around with me in my hand, but I am more wedded to it than I imagined.
So, my friend John came today and everything is back in order. But I've decided I spend too much time with my computer. I'm going to cut back. Check e-mails ever day or so rather than four times a day. Buy the New York Times and get my news in print. Not worry if I don't blog for a day or so. Compose sermons from scratch instead of reading old ones in my documents for ideas.
Sometimes, a long way away from my computer seems to be a good thing. A good thing indeed.
I lost Firefox, my highway to the Internet.
I had to call AOL three times to get back my email. Which allowed me to get to this blog.
I couldn't read any of my documents--stuff I've written and stored, a thousand documents at least, tens of thousands of pages.
What is amazing is how anxious and panicked I've been about all that.
And here's the truth: sometimes, a long way away from here, either in the past or future, none of that matters much at all.
*If I didn't answer email, people would eventually start calling me on the phone, which is one step closer to personal.
*If I couldn't get on the Internet, I could go buy a New York Times and know what's going on.
*If I couldn't get on this blog, I would miss it and, hopefully, others would as well. But nobody would die. (That's Bern's ultimate reaction to anything upsetting: "did anyone die?" she'll ask. And since nobody did...what's the upset about? It'll be alright...eventually.)
*If I couldn't read any of my documents ever again, well, I could write new ones over time.
I rail about people who are wedded to their smart phones. And yet, here I was, fretting extensively about my computer problems. I can't carry it around with me in my hand, but I am more wedded to it than I imagined.
So, my friend John came today and everything is back in order. But I've decided I spend too much time with my computer. I'm going to cut back. Check e-mails ever day or so rather than four times a day. Buy the New York Times and get my news in print. Not worry if I don't blog for a day or so. Compose sermons from scratch instead of reading old ones in my documents for ideas.
Sometimes, a long way away from my computer seems to be a good thing. A good thing indeed.
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