The Tuner

I'm working on a revision of what I think is the best short story I ever wrote.

It's called "The Tuner" and is about a recently widowed, retired lawyer named George, who is trying to deal with his loneliness when a deaf piano tuner changes his heart and life.

When I'm finished with it, I'll share it with you.

Lots better to work on a short story than to deal with the high drama of a president who belittles, undermines and insults the security workers who keep us safe.

For a man who has bankrupted several businesses and neglected to pay workers and hired illegal aliens for his golf  course while railing about illegal aliens to criticize and demean the heads of the FBI, CIA and other security groups because they told the truth to Congress about Iran, ISIS, North Korea and other security concerns that contradicted the presidents statements is beyond unforgivable.

And those guys before congress were not what the president calls 'the deep state'. They are all people he has appointed who are truly trying to keep our country safe.

Much less stressful to revise a short story.




 

lunch with Nora

I had a long lunch today with Nora Ryan who was once. as a teen, Nora Gagliardi, and was the baby sitter and friend of our children when Mimi was 2 and Josh was five for several years.

I swear she doesn't look all that different from the teen I knew and who went on vacation with us several times.

She now has to be 50 or more, but she is still the bubbly, funny, caring person she was for our kids.

It was nostalgia time.

When she saw a picture of our grandchildren, she pointed to Eleanor and said, "I know who that one's mother is", because Eleanor looks so much like the child she baby-sat so many years ago.

There is something wondrous and even sacred about connecting to someone from almost four decades in your past.

She is back in CT and I'm going to keep in touch--something I'm not good about--but I am this time.

And when either of our children are here, I'm going to get Nora here too, to see what time has wrought.....

my day

It started weird enough.

Bern always gets up first,. except on the Sundays I go to Higganum for church, since they start at 9 a.m. I'm usually awake but I stay in bed, lazing, knowing that Bern wants coffee before encountering human beings. So she takes Bridget out and gives her breakfast. Bridget usually comes back to get in bed with me after that.

All that happened this morning, but when Bridget came back to bed, she whined at me and then threw up her breakfast beside my face.

I got it cleaned up pretty quickly with the help of wipes and the hair dryer. But it was an odd beginning to my day.

At 2, I went to see my allergist who I only see every six months since this miracle drug in a shot called Zollair has kept me mostly allergy and totally asthma free for three years. We talked mostly about the President and what a total idiot he is, rather than about my health. My doctor's wife and mother are supporters of the President and I wondered if Bern and I could stay together if we disagreed about that.

Bern made stuffed red peppers for dinner, with a salad and some broccoli. It was delicious.

Then, just before I wrote this, the dogs of our two west side, next door neighbors were out at the same time and barking like crazy which made me so thankful we have silent Bridget, who hasn't barked since we've had her as part of our family.

(We have two west side next-door neighbors since we share a long driveway with Mark and Naomi and their house is actually behind ours meaning Scott and Linda are just across the driveway. A tall fence divides their back yards so the two dogs from each house never see each other but go to the fence and bark like crazy dogs.)

Maybe if the President got his wall, we could stand at it and bark at Mexico and they could bark back.

Kierkegaard's no fool

A quote from my quote box by Soren Kierkegaard:

"Repetition is reality, and it is the seriousness of life...repetition is the daily bread which satisfies with benediction."

Think about the things you do every single day: brush your teeth, wash your face, cook something to eat, go to the bathroom, daydream, sleep, put stuff away, take stuff out from where you put it away, walk, talk, breathe, blink, straighten things up, mess up things you then need to straighten up, listen, think....

Repetition is reality!

When something unusual happens--hearing from an old friend, getting an unexpected check (or bill!), something wrong with your health, having an accident, tripping and falling down, almost being hit by a car as you cross a street, going to a new movie, hearing good (or bad) news about someone you care about, having the electricity go off, buying something you've wanted for a long time, on and on, stuff like that--you have something new to talk about.

New stuff happens, but repetition is always there. I just rinsed off the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. I do that all the time. I'm writing on my blog (which I plan to do every day now, in spite of the president), NPR is on the radio downstairs and in my car whenever I turn the motor on, night has fallen, the dog will need to go out in half-an-hour, then I'll read and go to bed....

Those are the things that are the 'daily bread which satisfies with benediction'.

I often tell people I don't know what it means to be 'bored'.

I've always thought it was because I was an only child of older parents and learned to entertain myself.

But Kierkegaard might be right--I find the seriousness of life in repetition.

Brigit's Diary

This is what I wrote to Bern this Christmas--about our new dog.

She gave me a wondrous piece of art she created out of words and paper and pictures, about our old dog, Bela.

Dogs were the theme of our Christmas this year.

Brigit’s “Diary”

9/18/2018

So, they took me, these people who have cared for me since my long trip from wherever I was to wherever I am now, to somewhere else.  It was a scary place, with lots of people and lots of cars, which I fear greatly. People came and took me on a leash to walk around. Young people bathed me and I hated it and I saw a man watching me be bathed and hating it. He looked at me softly and I wondered who he was, but then was distracted by the water and the young people and forgot about it because I was unhappy.

Then that man and a woman took me for a walk. The woman walked me and the man stayed just behind, watching. I was very hesitant to be involved with them. Then they took me back and I went in a cage—I know cages well. The woman walked my ‘kennel-mate’, a rowdy black dog, but the man stayed mostly around my cage. Very few people walked me and I remember seeing the man and woman go to their car and sit there for a while.

Then they came back and talked to the head woman of the people who had been caring for me and did some other things and then I got a new collar and lead and my picture taken and the man and woman put me in their car. The woman sat in back with me and we drove. They talked softly on the trip and then she helped me out of the car and we went into a building like nothing I’ve ever seen. Stairs on both ends and lots of rooms. They fed me and took me outside and told me it was alright to be on what they called ‘the big bed’ and then, besides rubs, left me mostly alone.

I couldn’t quite understand what this was all about. I’ve been moved around to different places with different people for a long time and this just seemed to be the ‘next place’ before whatever the ‘next place’ will be.

They’d take me down both stairs on my lead. They were very quiet and gentle. The house has a yard in back. I looked around for a way to get out of the yard and the woman spent two days making sure there was no way out. I had no idea where I would run away to, since I don’t know where I am, but ‘running’ is what I’ve had to do a lot. Running is what kept me safe.

9/25/2018

            I’ve been here in this place for a long time now. I mostly stay upstairs—on the ‘big bed’ or on a couch—except when they take me outside to ‘do my business’. Someone in the past called it that, I don’t remember who or where, but ‘my business’ is what I do outside.

They talk to each other, these people. I can understand enough that I know they want to know what my life has been like. If I could talk, I would tell them, though I wouldn’t get it straight and they could never understand. They wonder why loud noises and cars and doors scare me. They wonder why I move away from my bowl if they move toward me. They wonder why I stay upstairs instead of being with them. If I could talk, they still wouldn’t understand. I’m just waiting for the ‘next place’. This is the nicest ‘place’ I’ve been—so quiet and still—except for the box the people watch and I’ve learned to watch—I’m a quick learner. But there must be something, some place that is ‘next’. Next place has been the story of my life.

Soon, it will be time to go there.

The food is good here and the people are kind and rub me a lot and talk softly to me.

But. I know, the ‘next place’ is waiting for me.

 That’s just the way it is. The people here are trying hard—but I’ve known that before and it never lasts. Not once. Not ever. So, I’ll just wait for the ‘next place’.

Nothing else will do.

10/1/2018

            The people keep telling me that ‘this is your home’. I don’t know what ‘home’ means. I’ve started really enjoying my time here—however long it will be before the ‘next place’, but I know better than to become too accustomed to it.

            Besides, I smell another dog here.

            The people call me “Brigit”, though my name, I thought was Annie. But they noticed how I reacted to “Annie” and call me “Brigit” now. I might get used to it except I don’t know what I’ll be called in the next place. Sometimes, obviously by mistake, the man starts to say “Bel…” but doesn’t finish and says “Brigit” instead. “Bel…” must be the name of the other dog I smell in this place and in the yard. I can smell better than I do anything. I smell the creatures with long, fluffy tails all the time, and the tiny dogs on each side of the yard, and the food the man eats during the day. The woman eats upstairs with me, but the man eats downstairs twice a day. I may go down and see what he’s eating soon, but not yet. I’m not ready yet.

            But I smell that other dog, a ‘he’ dog, I’m sure, in the house and the yard. I’ll never understand who that dog is—I’ll be gone before I know, I’m sure—but he was here. That I know and I will wonder about him until I stop wondering. Which won’t be long from now. And by then I’ll be at the ‘next place’.

            The Man especially worries about my fears. He walks me at night. We usually go down the steps near the big bed and out and across the street. I ‘do my business’ because I know I must, but the cars passing frighten me and I cower. He says, “everything is alright, Bel…Brigit”, and gives me a rub, but that doesn’t make it okay for me. When I first came to this place, he’d walk me when it wasn’t quite dark, but something happened and it is darker each day. The cars have their lights on and the lights startle me, and the noise they make.

            The Man’s worry should make me feel better. But I know not to get to attached to the Man and the Woman, as good as they are to me. “Getting attached” is a mistake. I did it before and then went to ‘the next place’. I know better now. But I do appreciate the rubs he gives me when he tells me ‘everything is alright’.

10/17/2018

            OK, the longer I’m here, in this place, the less I think about the ‘next place’ I will be. I haven’t forgotten yet that there will be a ‘next place’, I just don’t think about it as much.

            And then, new people showed up. A big man and a big woman have been the only other people besides the Man and the Woman who have been in this house. The big man was loud and laughed a lot and the big woman tried to make me her friend but I wasn’t buying it.

            Then, today a man and a little person came. The little person was smaller than me and the man was a bit scary. I stayed away from them, but the Man brought the little person into the big bed to see me from time to time. She was very kind and rubbed me, mostly in the wrong direction, but I knew she was trying to be kind.

            Her voice was very sweet and she seemed to like me a great deal. I was very still with her—I still don’t always trust the humans—but she meant me no harm.

            The man went away the next day, but the little person stayed the night. It meant that the Woman slept with her in another room and I shared the big bed with the Man. I missed the Woman, but I understood.

            What was amazing to me was being in the back yard with the little person—her name, if I heard it correctly, was El-e-a-nor. She laughed and laughed when I ran in the yard. I had almost forgotten running and how wondrous it feels, until I ran with El-e-a-nor. My body remembered running, even though I had mostly forgotten about it. And the laugher of the little person—a she, I think, gave me a joy I had almost forgotten.

            Plus, she would rub me, softly and in much the wrong way, and call me “Sweet-heart”. I don’t know if that’s my new name or just something she heard from the Woman, but she called me that. Whenever she saw me, though, she would squeal, softly, “Brigit”, so I knew that was still my for now name.

            The little one’s man came back and they stayed another night and the Woman was back in the big bed and I felt glad—though I should know better than to ‘feel glad’, since this is just the ‘place’ before the ‘next place’.

            But the running and the little human’s laughter and being called ‘Sweet-heart’…I may remember that too long, so long that I will miss it in the ‘next place’ after this place. That will not, finally, be good.

            I need to forget good things quickly or they will make me sad in the next place.

11/ 1/2018

            I don’t stay upstairs as much as I did. I’m not with the Man and the Woman all the time but I go down to look for them every once in a while. And when they watch the big, noisy box, I stay in the room with them. I used to lay on a funny couch but now I get on the couch where the woman sits. When she leaves the room, I sometimes move to where she sits, then she comes back and makes me move back—but always gently and smiling, not like other people have made me move in my life before this place.

            I also go down twice a day when the man is eating alone, to see what he has and to wonder if he might share some with me. The woman eats from time to time, but mostly upstairs in the room where the big, noisy box is. I stay close when she does because I can usually expect a little bite. Then when it is dark, they both eat in that room and I’m bound to get some!

            And at night, in the big bed, I dream different dreams than I dreamed before this place. I dream of running with El-e-a-nor in the back yard and making her laugh. I dream of my meals and the treats for doing my business. I dream of being outside and running, running, running like I’ve never ran before. And sometimes I dream of just being with man and woman in the big bed. I sometimes whine in my sleep because I wish the dream were real and the woman touches me and I wake up. She thinks my dreams must be bad dreams, but they aren’t. Maybe I whine because I know all this won’t last. The Next Place is waiting, I know.

            I wish I could stop having these dreams so I won’t miss them in the Next Place. I’ve learned over my life not to risk being secure or happy because it won’t last.

            It won’t be like this in the Next Place, so I shouldn’t relax and pretend this will last.

            But no matter how hard I try not to, I find myself liking being in this place more than I should dare.

11/11/2018

            I go much of each day in this place before the next place not thinking about the Next Place. I have let me guard down too low. I am in danger of having the Next Place rob me of all my joy.

            I have to spend more time thinking of the Next Place and let go of what I’m feeling in this place.

            And, that is getting harder and harder. These people are still so kind and good and sweet to me. Which is what they say to me about me!

            They tell me, over and again, that Brigit is a ‘good girl’, ‘best girl’, “sweet girl,” “sweetest girl”, “kind girl”, “wondrous girl”.

            It is harder and harder not to believe them. Is it possible I am all that, even after all the Last Places I have been? And what will it cost me in the Next Place to believe them?

            I am still frightened by so much: opening doors, loud or strange noises, unusual noises, people carrying things, people coming near me when I eat, taking something from the Man or Woman’s hand.

            But the fear is so much less from when these people first took me to This Place. I have begun to trust them more and more though my thoughts tell me not to.

            I follow the Woman downstairs in the morning and she feeds me and takes me out and I run like I did for the little person. I can tell from what I hear when the Man is fixing my food in the afternoon and go down and try to show him how happy I am and how thankful for the food.

            “Happy” and “Thankful” are new ideas for me. I am what I am not because I mean to be ‘good’ and ‘sweet’, but because I have learned how to be to avoid bad things happening as much as I can. Yet those words are meaning things to me.

            “Happy” to be in This Place for as long as it lasts.

            “Thankful” for the silence and the peace and the kindness of the Man and the Woman.

            I am in danger now, I know, for the Next Place won’t be like this.

            But it is so hard now not to let the thanks and the happiness be enough. Just enough. Just what is right and good. Just what my life is.

            How wrong can that be?

11/15/2018

            Today was another mystery of all the mysteries of this place.

            The Man took me outside this morning and there was cold, white stuff everywhere. I’d never seen anything like it before. My feet disappeared in it and though it was cold, there was something wild and good about it.

            The Man told me it was ‘snow’ and though I don’t know what that means, I will try, in my dog brain, to remember the name. ‘Snow’ is cold like the air in this place. Where I came from, I can’t remember ever any ‘snow’ and very little cold. But this is just one more thing different about “this place”.

            I wonder what the ‘next place’ will be like? Will there be ‘snow’ and ‘cold’ or not? And will I ever know a Man and Woman like this again?

            I don’t expect so.

11/24/2018

            The Man and Woman are recovering from the last few days. I am too! I’ve never been around so many people at one time. Little El-e-a-nor was back with her man and a sweet, gentle woman I hadn’t seen before. That was good. Everything was quiet and calm. But then, the next day, the big, loud man was back and the air was full to bursting with the smells of food. Then another group—a man and a woman and three little girl humans, though not nearly as little as El-e-a-nor. And they made almost as much noise as the big, loud man, plus they had a big girl dog I wasn’t sure of. I growled once when she came to close and she mostly left me alone after that—but I had to eat in the big bed room because of her and whenever I was on the big bed the door was closed and I couldn’t come out. Somehow, that was alright with me for a while—quiet and alone is something I do well.

            But once, the littlest of the new girls startled me and I did my business inside!

            It’s the only time that’s happened in this place and I was sure I’d get sent to the next place or be punished, but neither happened. The Man took me out and cleaned up my water and spoke gently to me about it all, telling me, “you couldn’t help it, Brigit”. Nothing like that has ever happened before. As kind and good as the Man and Woman are, I was sure I’d crossed a line and would have to pay in some way that would hurt.

            (All ‘hurt’ is not pain, sometimes it’s rejection or shaming or not being fed. I’ve known all those things and expected some of them to happen. I lay on the Big Bed and thought about that. How nothing bad had happened though I’d been bad. It made me think it was safe to be out of that room with the people a bit more.)

            But then, just as everyone seemed to be ready to eat, the Woman came to the Big Bed room and laid down. I was with her much of the rest of the day. I could tell she wanted to be with the people but felt very sick, so I mostly stayed with her. She would look at the things they hold a lot and then listen to the other people in the house and smile sadly. I wondered what she was thinking about as we laid there in that dim, sad room. But I learned long ago that there is no way for me to understand what people are thinking and it is sometimes a big mistake to think you know

            The next day the big group and the loud man were gone for a while.  And so were my Man and Woman before the other’s left. But the dog stayed. I let her smell me outside and even smelled her too. I began to think she wouldn’t hurt me, but I was cautious.

            (I realize I just thought of the Man and Woman as “mine”! I shouldn’t do that! It will make going to the next place even harder. I have to be more cautious….)

            Then everyone but the loud man was back and I went into the big box room with them all for what seemed like a long time. The little one who startled me into doing my business inside is named something like Tee-an and she rubbed me on the funny couch for a long time. Everyone rubbed me and were kind and I almost didn’t mind the noise they all made. And the Woman didn’t seem as sick anymore. That made me happy. Sickness is not good, not good at all.

            El-e-a-nor’s man had left that day some time but El-e-a-nor and her woman stayed another night. The next morning the big group with the dog all left. But El-e-a-nor and her woman stayed a little longer. El-e-a-nor never stopped being good to me and calling me ‘sweetheart’ and her woman was gentle and good as well.

            After they were all gone, it was just me and the Woman and Man again. We were all tired from all that had gone on and the woman still wasn’t feeling as good as she has always been around me, but things were back to normal.

            I never thought I’d admit anything like this, but I missed the people and, a little bit, the dog. I’ve never found groups of people or many dogs that I didn’t find threatening or scary, but this was different.

            So much is different from all that was before this place. I should guard against liking it too much—but that is getting harder and harder. I’m too used to ‘enduring’ to find ‘liking’ easy. But ‘liking’ is becoming easier to feel. That’s probably dangerous to do, but I’m doing it.

12/18/2018

            I find myself not thinking about ‘the next place’ nearly as much as I used to. And I no longer feel nearly as bad about that. Some days come and go and the ‘next place’ doesn’t occur to me. I should be more cautious, but I haven’t been. Not for days and days.

            Then, this morning, the Woman woke up and held me and rubbed me and kissed me for a long time. Then the Man rolled over and joined her in all that.

            The Woman went into the little room off the Big Bed room like she does ever morning and the Man kept holding me (with this thing that sometimes whines like I do over his face) until the woman went downstairs and I followed.

            Today the woman was gone for a long while and then the man. But they both came back and when they took me out when there was still light, I did both my businesses—which I never do then, not once before—and I ran and ran with them in the back yard and came back and sat on my rug and could hardly contain myself until the woman gave me my treat.  Waiting for my treat I put my front leg up and the woman said, “shake hands with me”. I didn’t know what that meant, but I’ll try to find out, try to understand because the Woman wants me to.

            Today I realized for the first time that the ‘next place’ I’ve been dreading is never going to happen.

            “This place” is the “only place” I need to think about.  There is no “next place”.

            I am here. I am in “my place”.

            I am—what is that word I’ve heard but never understood?  Home. HOME. HOME!!!

Over at last....

The parts of the government that have been closed reopen tomorrow. The president agreed to re-open for three weeks and then negotiate about boarder security.

No one disagrees that our boarders should be secure, but the president is obsessed with his promise to 'build a wall' and the country suffered for 36 days because of that.

Those on the right wing are already breaking with him--claiming 'he's a wimp' and 'he's worse than Bush' and 'Jeb must be laughing'.

Three weeks to do what? And then what?

Hopefully Congress will agree to something in such a majority that the president can't reject it without having his veto over-ridden. Real politicians (unlike the president) know what a disaster this longest ever shut down has been. Well, he may know, but just doesn't care. As a businessman he never cared about the workers in his organization (outside his family) and trashes former confidants daily if they dare disagree in the least with him.

But Congress know better and this three weeks are their chance to stand up to the Bully-in-Chief and do the right thing.

At least I hope and pray so....

Back to the beginning

Over the years I've share my first post Under the Castor Oil tree, just to let new readers know where this whole thing came from. So, here it is again.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

My first post

Sitting under the Castor Oil Tree (March 7, 2009)

The character in the Bible I have always been drawn to in Jonah. I identify with his story. Like Jonah, I have experienced being taken where I didn't want to go by God and I've been disgruntled with the way things went. The belly of a big old fish isn't a pleasant means of travel either!

The story ends (in case you don't know it) with Jonah upset and complaining on a hillside over the city of Nineva, which God has saved through Jonah. Jonah didn't want to go there to start with--hence the ride in the fish stomach--and predicted that God would save the city though it should have been destroyed for its wickedness. "You dragged me half way around the world," he tells God, "and didn't destroy the city....I knew it would turn out this way. I'm angry, so angry I could die!"

God causes a tree to grow to shade Jonah from the sun (scholars think it might have been a castor oil tree--the impications are astonishing!). Then God sends a worm to kill the tree. Well, that sets Jonah off! "How dare you kill my tree?" he challanges the creator. "I'm so angry I could die...."

God simply reminds him that he is upset at the death of a tree he didn't plant or nurture and yet he doesn't see the value of saving all the people of the great city Ninivah...along with their cattle and beasts.

And the story ends. No resolution. Jonah simply left to ponder all that. There's no sequel either--no "Jonah II" or "Jonah: the next chapter", nothing like that. It's just Jonah, sitting under the bare branches of the dead tree, pondering.

What I want to do is use this blog to do simply that, ponder about things. I've been an Episcopal priest for over 30 years. I'm approaching a time to retire and I've got a lot of pondering left to do--about God, about the church, about religion, about life and death and everything involved in that. Before the big fish swallowed me up and carried me to my own Nineva (ordination in the Episcopal Church) I had intended a vastly different life. I was going to write "The Great American Novel" for starters and get a Ph.D. in American Literature and disappear into some small liberal arts college, most likely in the Mid-Atlantic states and teach people like me--rural people, Appalachians and southerners, simple people, deep thinkers though slow talkers...lovely for all that--to love words and write words themselves.

God (I suppose, though I even ponder that...) had other ideas and I ended up spending the lion's share of my priesthood in the wilds of two cities in Connecticut (of all places) among tribes so foreign to me I scarcly understood their language and whose customs confounded me. And I found myself often among people (The Episcopal Cult) who made me axious by their very being. Which is why I stuck to urban churches, I suppose--being a priest in Greenwich would have sent me into some form of shock...as I would have driven them to hypertension at the least.

I am one who 'ponders' quite a bit and hoped this might be a way to 'ponder in print' for anyone else who might be leaning in that direction to read.

Ever so often, someone calls my bluff when I go into my "I'm just a boy from the mountains of West Virginia" persona. And I know they're right. I've lived too long among the heathens of New England to be able to avoid absorbing some of their alien customs and ways of thinking. Plus, I've been involved in too much education to pretend to be a rube from the hills. But I do, from time to time, miss that boy who grew up in a part of the world as foreign as Albania to most people, where the lush and endless mountains pressed down so majestically that there were few places, where I lived, that were flat in an area wider than a football field. That boy knew secrets I am only beginning, having entered my sixth decade of the journey toward the Lover of Souls, to remember and cherish.

My maternal grandmother, who had as much influence on me as anyone I know, used to say--"Jimmy, don't get above your raisin'". I probably have done that, in more ways that I'm able to recognize, but I ponder that part of me--buried deeply below layer after layer of living (as the mountains were layer after layer of long-ago life).

Sometimes I get a fleeting glimpse of him, running madly into the woods that surrounded him on all sides, spending hours seeking paths through the deep tangles of forest, climbing upward, ever upward until he found a place to sit and look down on the little town where he lived--spread out like a toy village to him--so he could ponder, alone and undisturbed, for a while.

When I was in high school, I wrote a regular colemn for the school newspaper call "The Outsider". As I ponder my life, I realize that has been a constant: I've always felt just beyond the fringe wherever I was. I've watched much more than I've participated. And I've pondered many things.

So, what I've decided to do is sit here on the hillside for a while, beneath the ruins of the castor oil tree and ponder somemore. And, if you wish, share my ponderings with you--whoever you are out there in cyber-Land.

Two caveates: I'm pretty much a Luddite when it comes to technology--probably smart enough to learn about it but never very interested, so this blog is an adventure for me. My friend Sandy is helping me so it shouldn't be too much of a mess. Secondly, I've realized writing this that there is no 'spell check' on the blog. Either I can get a dictionary or ask your forgiveness for my spelling. I'm a magna cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa ENGLISH major (WVU '69) who never could conquer spelling all the words I longed to write.