How did I forget?

I missed my mother's birthday this year. I never forget my father's since he was born on April Fool's Day in 1907. My mother's birthday is in July. It was July 10, 1909. My Uncle Lee Pugh's birthday was July 9, 1910 and he'd always say, "Cleo and I are the same age for one day a year...."

I don't think I've ever plum forgot her birthday before.Well, she did die a few days after I turned 25, so it's been a long time. Missing it once probably isn't a reason to go to The Home.

And though I know within a day or two the date of my mother's death, I don't remember my father's death date at all. I am normally 'lost in linear time'. I can only place things around events--'that was before Josh was born' is one, and, 'that was after Mimi was born' is another. But putting a date certain on things is beyond me.

Did you ever read Kurt Vonnegut's novel Slaughterhouse Five ? The main character is Billy Pilgrim and Billy is 'unstuck in time'. For  him it means he may wake up at 25 or 55, depending on the day. I'm not that bad, but I simply don't have a good handle on the sequence of events in linear time besides "before Josh was born" and "after Mimi was born" and, when I'm really sharp I can put an event in the three years between their births--but never the exact year.

Bern thinks it's because I'm never really paying attention--which may be so. One of huge, enormous, gigantic differences between us is that she 'really focused" and I, to be truthful, am seldom so intent on anything that you can't interrupt me and I'll be pleasant and not upset.

When Bern cleans the house or works in the garden, those two especially, I have learned after nearly 45 years of marriage and nearly 50 years of knowing her, not to interrupt (or, if I do...and I sometimes do, after all this time...expect either 'the glare' or a mumbled response.

Her computer got truly taken over the other day and she missed dinner fretting over it. I found the sockeye salmon (the only kind she will eat) I grilled and the grilled vegetables and salad wrapped in saran and in the refrigerator after I ate. I cut a wide path around her during that evening.

But my car could blow up and if you asked me a question I'd be totally yours. I live in a state of constant interruption. And I don't mind. Kind of like it, truth be known.

I can be in the middle of something relatively important (writing a sermon or working on a class I'll be teaching or reading a book I particularly love) and I'm perfectly happy to walk away from it and do something else, less important.

Part of the difference is that I'm an extrovert and Bern is an introvert. I draw energy from interaction and she draws energy from being focused. But, another part is I'm probably on the ADO (is that it: 'attention deficit disorder'?) scale and she isn't. She's the one who gets to be 'normal'. And, truth is, I've never particularly longed for normalcy! And another part is, as a priest, I've always believed 'the interruptions were my ministry.' People always were saying, "I know you're busy..." and I'd say, "not at all. I've been waiting around for this interruption...."



But forgetting my mother's birthday this year and not remembering I forgot it for over a month--that makes me wish I was more focused.

I kissed Diane Sluss

In this very vivid dream I had last night, I kissed Diane Sluss.

As soon as the kiss happened, I drew back and said, 'that wasn't a good thing....'

First of all, who is Diane Sluss (and, yes, that was her name). I went to Junior High and High School with her. She was from the very top of Jenkinjones Mountain. Another few feet and she would have gone to school in Virginia instead of West Virginia. She was very smart, so I was in class with her a lot. She was extremely outgoing and funny, so I liked to be around her. But she lived a long school bus ride from me in Junior High and I wasn't 'into girls' in Junior High--in fact, they scared me silly...except for Diane, who was my friend. And there was this: she was the greatest 'listener' I knew in that 6 years of my life. The workshop I help lead is mostly about 'listening'--and Diane, more than most everyone I've ever known--could get her 'listenings' our of the way and simply be 'present' to whatever I was saying. Rare, indeed.

When we went to high school in Gary, she was the first person to get on the school bus that came from Jenkinjones through Conklintown and O'Toole (yes, where I grew up places were named stuff like that!) and then to Anawalt, where I got on, then on to Spencer's Curve and Pageton, which was, as I remember, the last place Woodrow stopped. (Oh, by the way, the bus driver's name was, God help me, Woodrow Wilson, brother of a Methodist minister in Pageton and an all around good-guy. A couple of his nephews got on the bus in Pageton and he treated them just like the rest of us--fair and consistently. (I can't imagine driving High School Students was the best job in the world, but he did it with grace and even flair.)

{Here's an example of Woodrow's flair. He had to pull over the bus near a monument to 6 white men killed by Indians in Black Wolf--there was no drama to the place he pulled over, it's just that in southern West Virginia, there aren't a lot a places along the roads to pull over a school bus. He pulled over to read us the 'emergency school bus schedule'. It was the day that the Navy was stopping Russian ships taking missiles to Cuba and McDowell County had plans to evacuate us from school sine the largest coal processing plant in the world was 4 miles from Gary High School and thought to be on the Russian ICBM list of targets. He was half-way through reading the paper he'd been given to read when Gwen Roberts freaked out.

She ran down the aisle and tried to get off the bus. She was screaming stuff like: "We're going to die!" and "Let me off this bus!!" and "Oh Lordy, Lordy!"...people in southern West Virginia said that last one a lot.

Woodrow dropped the sheet of paper and wrapped Gwen in his arms. He spoke softly to her and rubbed her back until she calmed down. Masterful, he was, dealing with her.}

I know how masterful he was because I was sitting in the seat right behind his driver's seat with Diane Sluss. For three years Diane and I sat in the front seat behind Woodrow as he drove down to Gary in the morning and back in the afternoon. Everyday for three years. People on the bus knew better than to try to take that seat. The way down was no problem, Diane was first on the bus every morning. On the way back people just knew--that's Diane's and Jimmy's seat (Lord yes, I was Jimmy in high school until I decided to be 'J. Gordon' my senior year.)

I'd have to think long and hard about how many hours Diane and I spent sitting next to each other, talking over those years. She was a large girl, but not fat, and had a beautiful face and wondrous hair. It's not that I wasn't, at some point, attracted to her--she was shapely and attractive--it was that she was my first long time 'friend' who was a girl. We talked about everything--our heartbreaks, our loves, current affairs, movies and tv, political stuff (during our three year conversation I moved from being a Goldwater Republican, like my father, to being a left-wing Democrat and she talked me through that transition).

Truth be known, when we graduated and she disappeared from my life, I missed her not enough.

Diane gave me one of the greatest gifts anyone ever could--the sure and certain knowledge that I could have intimate friends who were female with none of the complications that men and women have between intimate friends and intimacy.

What a gift! And it has served me well over the decades since. Many of the closest friends I've had in my life have been women. And I value them mightily.

So, in my dream, kissing Diane on the bus...It was not a good thing, it was a mistake, it would have robbed both of us of one of the abiding relationships that got us through those awful years from 15 to 18.

Ride on Diane. I won't ruin the gift we gave each other.

What I want in 2016

Surveying the candidates for 2016, I've come up with what I really want. Here are the scenarios in order of what I really, really want.

1. Donald Trump vs. Bernie Sanders: there's no one I agree with more than Bernie. If we had a party, as many European nations do, called "Democratic Socialist", I'd be a member. I'm in favor of single payer health care (a.k.a. 'socialized medicine') on the Canadian model; I'm in favor of European like taxes on the rich and European like social programs for the poor. I think we should wave the cap on Social Security contributions. I never made more than $80,000 and my SS payment was almost at the cap. Let's push Trump's (and the rest of the rich) to a flat and equal % of what the middle class pays and no one would ever worry about Social Security going broke. What should be capped is how much you can received, based on need.

But the only way an avowed 'socialist' like Bernie would be elected is if he ran against Trump. In many circles, the 'S-word' is on a par with the 'N-word' and the 'F-word' as unacceptable in polite conversations.

2. Whatever Republican vs. Joe Biden/Elizabeth Warren: It's a shame that Elizabeth isn't running herself--she is Bernie without the S-word. She is the one national politician I agree with as much as I agree with Bernie. And Joe is just so lovable and awkward and 'sweet' (there I said it...'sweet' to describe a politician.) He'd be a one term President because of his age and Elizabeth would run and win and become the first woman President in 2020.

3. And must less, much less exciting than 1 or 2 to me. The inevitable Hillary. I'll vote for her because I couldn't 'not vote' and would never vote for any of the Republicans. But I wouldn't have that feeling in my heart I had when I voted for her husband or Barack Obama. I'll just hold my nose and vote.

I really want a 'real progressive'--Bernie or Elizabeth. I'm not sure it's possible, unless Bernie runs against the Donald.

We'll see--#2 seems, at this point anyway--the best of all possible worlds. We'll see, won't we....?

My glasses

I use my glasses to drive and watch TV and movies. Otherwise, I don't use them. I can't read with them. I can't type this with them. I can't eat with them because I can't really see the plate. Most of the time I'm inside, they hang around my neck like a lanyard.

I put them on to preach, since I don't use notes, but take them off to read the Gospel and celebrate because with them on, I can't see the books.

I got a card from my opthamologist telling me I need a yearly exam.

I once tried trifocals and they made me dizzy and crazy.

I can drive and watch TV with my glasses and do most everything else without them.

I had strange cataracts quite young, probably from the steroids I've taken over the years. The surgeon took me from 200/20 to about 40/20--which means I still need glasses to drive and see birds clearly in the back yard and watch a movie. Had my cataracts been only a few years later, I could be 20/20 and wear sunglasses instead of glasses that turn dark when exposed to sunlight.

It's a tad odd, needing glasses for so little and yet really needing them.

I guess I'll go for the exam but won't change my frames since they are Armani and made of graphite or something like that and weigh almost nothing. Plus, they are black and red and really cool.

Being Appalachian

I am an Appalachian person. I grew in the the southern most county of West Virginia (MACdowell County as we said it). When someone didn't emphasize the first syllable, we knew they weren't one of 'us'.

My wife grew up 10 miles or so from me--but she doesn't define herself as an Appalachian. She defines herself as Italian and Hungarian, which she is. She never had an Appalachian accent, growing up in a household that spoke English as a second language.

I've been in New England for 37 of my years (two in graduate school in Cambridge and 35 in Connecticut) but people sometimes ask me if I'm a 'southerner' because of the way I sound. I'm quick to correct them--"I'm an Appalachian!", I say and then tell them the difference.

Appalachians are from southern West Virginia, south-eastern Virginia, north-eastern North Carolina, much of Kentucky and Tennessee. Some people in southern Ohio might think they are, but they're not, trust me.

All these Scotch-Irish and British folks made it into the mountains and then didn't go further west.

Example: my grandmother used to say, "pon my swanee" when something happened she didn't expect or understand. I was an English major and discovered that there was a Middle-English oath: "upon my Swan Lea". Centuries later, my grandmother was still saying that in an altered form. Those folks just got lost in the mountains and ignored by the rest of the world. Of course, by my time, the coal mines had attracted Europeans of all stripes--like my wife--who still identified with their ethnicity rather than where they lived.

You had to grow up in a place where dawn was an hour late and dusk an hour early because of the mountains to be an Appalachian. You had to wonder the mountains endlessly as a child. You had to see the coal dust on your car every morning. And you have to know you're not a Southerner, not at all, not in any way--your identity is tied to the mountains, deep in their soil.

(untitled post)

Yesterday I was about to write a post when I realized it was Tuesday, the day I declare sometime ago, I would reject all media. I had forgotten and signed off, leaving an 'untitled post'.

So, it's Wednesday and here is the post--still untitled and not very interesting (except that it points our how forgetful I can be.)

Take a media free Tuesday--but look to see if I posted, just to keep me honest.

Weddings and Baptisms

One thing I miss about not being the Rector of a large urban church is I don't get to do as many Weddings and Baptisms as I did before I retired. I really love weddings and baptisms. In my time in the Cluster, with the three small churches, I've done a handful of Baptisms and only one wedding. I did bless another marriage but a JP did the vows and signed the marriage license since the couple had divorces and didn't want to go through the rig-a-ma role (is that the way to spell it?) that Canon Law required to be re-married by a priest. I don't blame them. I've always resented having to explain to a bishop who didn't know the man and woman from Adam and Eve, why I should be able to be the celebrant at their marriage. I knew them, for goodness sake, why shouldn't I decide? (My problem with Authority showing its head....)

This year I did officiate at the marriage of Fred and Joe--the first same-sex marriage license I've been able to sign with the blessing of my church.

Those are two things I've never refused to do for people--weddings and baptisms. I know priests who put up road-blocks to people wanting to be married in the church or baptizing children of people who weren't active members. Not me. Throughout my priesthood, I've been 'Marrying Sam' and 'Baptizing Bob'.

There are two reasons for this: first, I really, really, truly believe in the 'objective reality' of the Sacraments. I'm Anglo-Catholic in my theology if not my liturgical style. Sacraments ARE 'outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual grace'--and REALITY, I would add to that. Sacraments are 'real'. Blessing two people wanting to become One as well and marking a child as 'Christ's own forever', means just what the words say. Who could deny that to anyone--the graces of God?

The second reason is a bit more skeptical: I am not only convinced that the church is basically irrelevant in 21st century America...I embrace that truth. I like living in a pre-Nicene era of Christianity where we are one of may possibilities. So, when anybody wants the church involved in their lives, I am over-joyed and set up no roadblocks (unless having a time to meet and talk together is a roadblock--no one in my ministry has ever balked at getting to know me and me getting to know them in a non-judgmental setting.)

I did a dozen or so weddings a year at St. John's and two or three times that many baptisms every year. So I had one class for the weddings in the year (5 sessions) and one morning long session 4 times a year for baptismal families.

Over those 20 years, 3 couples decided it wasn't time to get married because of the classes. I considered those major victories since the classes saved them a world of hurting later. One came back a year later and, I know, are still married. The other two never returned. God love them and bless them--they made the right choice.

Anyway, all this is prompted because in October I'll be the celebrate at the Celebration and Blessing of a Marriage. I met with the couple today.

I always tell people on first meeting: "I'm going to ask you a question and there is really only one wrong answer. The question is: 'why do you want to get married'?"

Over the years about 75% of the couples joined hands, looked into each others' eyes and said--one or both of them--"we're in love!"

And I've said, every time, "that's the one wrong answer.'

Which frees me to talk about 'love' as an 'emotion' that comes and goes and to suggest what 'makes a marriage' is commitment, not love. Commitment is something you 'create' out of nothing--not something you 'feel'. "Feelings", I've come to believe, are highly overrated reasons for actions. Hate is a feeling. Envy is a feeling. Guilt is a feeling. Jealousy is a feeling. I would suggest none of those 'feelings' can lead to any creative action. Neither can 'love'. Actions that are positive and life-giving and creative come, not from feelings (even feelings like compassion or empathy--which create actions that feel like 'pity' to the other person) but from 'commitments'--'saying so and meaning it and standing by it in spite of feelings...."

There were lots of reasons to like the couple I spent an hour with today--they're funny and kind and enjoy each others' company and smile a lot at each other. But the reason I really like them is how they answered the question "why do you want to get married?"

She said: "We want to spend our lives together." He said, "we want to move this relationship to a new level."

Sounds like commitment to me. Writ large. I love these two people. They are very different, but so are Bern and I. Really different. Maybe balance for each other.

And we're coming up on our 45th anniversary.

(The groom said, "you can't be married that long--you aren't that old." I told him we were babies. And we were....)