Why would anyone want to live anywhere besides New England. Sure, we get lots of snow in the winter--but that's what 'winter' is about. And there is nowhere where the leaves in Autumn involve people coming from all over just to see it.
I'll admit, the humidity of August is hard to put a positive spin on....But this day in June, how wondrous, how precious, how perfect can it be?
Temperature in the low 70's, a 10-15 mile an hour breeze, almost no humidity--how rare is that?
I read on our deck until the light was gone--almost 8 p.m. this time of year.
No fans on. Nothing feeling sticky. Just the rareness of a day in June. Several in a row now. Oh, I know August is just around a corner or two, and the snows of February will make me crazy--but for now, loving living in a four season place, give me Connecticut as the place to live.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Feeling punk, sleeping late
I woke up at 9:07 this morning, which is about average for me. I sleep well and long. I keep waiting for this old person sleeplessness to click in but it hasn't yet, not by a long shot.
But when I got up, I felt punkish--which is what I say when there is no discernible 'bad feeling' but just an overall malaise beyond definition. I took the dog out and had some oatmeal and a cranberry, banana, blueberry, raspberry smoothy that I have most morning...either with cold cereal or oatmeal or eggs and bacon or panchetia.
Bern took the dog to the Canal for the 'big walk' and I went back to bed to read the book I'm reading. When they got back, Bela found me, as he always does and we spent a couple of hours in 'the big bed' (a term he know and runs upstairs when we say it!) I honestly think he would stay in the 'big bed' all day, holding his bladder and alimentary canal for hours if one of us would stay there with him.
Anyway, we stayed there, dozing and reading (actually, Bela doesn't read and only dozes) with our cat Lukie with us for a while...well actually until 12:23, according to Bern's clock, so I got up and had a salad for lunch, still reading my book.
My punkishness had worn off by then.
So, for the rest of the day, I worked on my sermon for tomorrow, went to Big Y to get chicken wings, made potato salad, read some more, ate dinner with Bern and read some more and am now typing this.
Not the most exciting of lives, but it works for me.
I am a retired man who isn't anxious about being retired. I feel nothing but freedom and liberty and the ability to spend an extra two hours or so in bed reading with my Puli when I feel punkish in the morning.
What a life!
But when I got up, I felt punkish--which is what I say when there is no discernible 'bad feeling' but just an overall malaise beyond definition. I took the dog out and had some oatmeal and a cranberry, banana, blueberry, raspberry smoothy that I have most morning...either with cold cereal or oatmeal or eggs and bacon or panchetia.
Bern took the dog to the Canal for the 'big walk' and I went back to bed to read the book I'm reading. When they got back, Bela found me, as he always does and we spent a couple of hours in 'the big bed' (a term he know and runs upstairs when we say it!) I honestly think he would stay in the 'big bed' all day, holding his bladder and alimentary canal for hours if one of us would stay there with him.
Anyway, we stayed there, dozing and reading (actually, Bela doesn't read and only dozes) with our cat Lukie with us for a while...well actually until 12:23, according to Bern's clock, so I got up and had a salad for lunch, still reading my book.
My punkishness had worn off by then.
So, for the rest of the day, I worked on my sermon for tomorrow, went to Big Y to get chicken wings, made potato salad, read some more, ate dinner with Bern and read some more and am now typing this.
Not the most exciting of lives, but it works for me.
I am a retired man who isn't anxious about being retired. I feel nothing but freedom and liberty and the ability to spend an extra two hours or so in bed reading with my Puli when I feel punkish in the morning.
What a life!
Friday, June 20, 2014
Lil
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....)
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....)
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....
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