The Spirit of '76 Hallowe'en

Halloween, 1976...

Unfamiliar curls in my stick-straight hair bobbing, with my little sister Alyson and a few other younglings keeping up with my hasty pace, the gypsy-to-be in me skipped/raced for once to Mrs. Hayward's b o r i n g 6th grade classroom. The great granite boulders of the hillside looked coolly down upon us, and the palm trees waved us along in the fresh autumn air. Gripping paper sacks with our costumes in our sweaty hands, we raced over the train bridge, and two long blocks down, joined up at the corner of Jurupa and Riverside Ave with dozens of other paper-sack grippers en route to school.

Our feet crunched the bushels of fallen pods, along Briscoe Street, under the canopy of pod-laden Limburger cheese-scented carob trees while the sacks' contents met with approval or disapproval amongst the walkers.

The morning dragged on inexorably through a bog of spelling lessons, math drills, and chapter readings.

Bursting forth from all exits for lunch and our longest recess like a flock of sparrows, we kids tittered and chirped during foursquare, tether-ball, and on the big concrete pipe under the pepper tree in anticipation of the parade. The teachers in our modular class block headed for their lunch break in varying stages. Mrs. Sompayrac snuck off to the gate by the parking lot to grab a quick smoke with Mrs. Ryno during the exodus, Mr. Stephenson popped his head into Mr McGoon's to tell a bad joke, and Mrs. Hayward and Mrs. Bates ambled slowly to the teacher's lounge in weary anticipation of the 33rd Halloween Parade of their teaching careers. At that same school, no doubt.

It took approximately 128 hours in kid-time for them to return, after the bell rang, as we all lined up in boys' and girls' lines at each door, poking each other and engaging in general grade-school stupidity.

 Finally, finally, the gaggle of upper grade teachers were spotted -- walking as though to execution down the long covered sidewalk from the office, past the library doors, and disbanding reluctantly with great jangles of keys in hand to their respective doors.

It took approximately 5.3 seconds for every kid in the upper grade block to bust out their own paper sack, as soon as the word was given, and costume up.

My unfamiliar curls had somehow miraculously lasted through the day, thanks to copious amounts of Dippity-Do and my mother's Final Net hairspray lacquering them in place. My colorful skirt (snagged from my older sister Karen's closet), her hand-me-down white fluffy peasant blouse, strands of my mother's costume jewelry, and a big colorful scarf holding back my curls greeted me as I checked my gypsy-image in the wavy mirror over our classroom sink. I'd been given some old mascara, for the occasion, from Karen, and my lashes darkened ever so magically in that fluorescent light. Transformation not yet complete, I held a tiny sample tube of bright-red lipstick from the Avon Lady's most recent visit with my mother. As I applied it I thought of my mother and every Avon Lady in my childhood looking at lipsticks, over cups of fragrant tea.

The girl in the mirror became suddenly beautiful. The awkward sturdy girl with a giant forehead and big shoulders and big teeth disappeared into a vision of gypsy loveliness. Blonde curls bobbing, red lips smiling, the for-once-in-my-life-pretty-as-BeckyBottel-in-the-class-next-door beautiful. My gypsy feet floating, I  paraded out with the class for the school festivities.

From the sidelines, as the Oldest Kids in School, we 6th graders had to fawn over the kindergartners, which were too cute, the first graders -- among whom my sister dressed-as-a-fairy-Alyson numbered -- and then the rest of the young ones, until it was our turn to stroll along in the last Halloween Parade of our Official Childhood. We strutted and sauntered through the halls, at the lofty ages of eleven and twelve, owning the moment. Having skipped kindergarten, I was ten, yet still sauntered in my gypsy-euphoria as though I were as old as my peers.

The euphoria lasted through the evening, at least for me, when my dad let me go with a gaggle of my older peers, on our own to trick-or-treat, way down on Sunnyside. He had escorted me with Alyson on our own cul-de-sac and up on Pachappa Drive, skipping Dr. Kushell the Dentist who gave us apples and lectures on good dental hygiene. ( You'd think he'd be happy in the rise of business after such an event...) We had to solemnly swear to stay in the horseshoe ( a great curving of streets leading back to the walkway, which led to OURS) and then we were off. Margaret Kish, aka the Wicked Witch of the West and Jeff Cassidy,  dressed as Einstein of course with that shaggy hair, and a few others raced down the seriously scary-at-night walkway which gave passage from the canal bridge on our street to the neighborhood below.

Between two fence lines spanning the length of  back yard/house/front yard, we held our breath and thundered through the inky darkness expecting to be murdered any second by Unseen Forces Behind the Slats.

Emerging unscathed, with pillow cases in hand,
we plundered every trick-or-treat bowl offered along the way.
Both sides of the 1950's-built neighborhood of comfortable one-story homes witnessed our journey, including hitting the two houses on the short segment exiting to busy Riverside Ave. Briefly considering doorbell opportunities along the homes half way up the block on the Forbidden Outer Street, we turned inwards, back into "the horseshoe" as promised, to pinball back and forth up Mono Drive and out onto the OTHER side of Sunnyside, right by the gate to our old playground of our former school. Now home to what were then-labeled TMR students
(trainable mentally retarded), we glanced over, momentarily saddened at the locked gate to OUR PLAYGROUND.
 Short-lived reminiscing gave way to Our Mission.
We soon cheered up as we made the final dashes back and forth towards home.

Once again surviving the seriously scary walkway, Jeff promising to get Margaret safe to her house as the bottom of his seriously scary hillside driveway, I ran down my now-empty street.

Was it midnight? How long had we been out there??? Creepy noises creaked from behind the cypress trees at the corner house. I scrambled past our next door neighbors' house because they freaked me out during daylight, charged through our front door armed with my loot, and safely shut it behind me.

Sitting under the billowing hood of my mother's beauty-case hair dryer like a mouse under a mushroom, Alyson looked at my pillowcase containing unknown treasures. Her big brown eyes bugged out.  She had already sorted out her candy, put away her fairy costume, and taken her shower. The antiqued-olive green kitchen clock read 8:15!! I had never been out that late on a school night! Without parents!!

I snuck her a few fun-size Milky Ways to enjoy while her hair dried, stashed some others  in the folds of my gypsy skirt to stash in my room -- then dumped the rest into the big wooden bowl for my mom to inspect, my dad to plunder, and for me to pretend to limit myself to two pieces a day until consumed.

Halloween, 1976. ♪ Those were the days...♪

Aurelius, a pecan tree, the American dream

Yesterday this scene emerged in varying shades of grey, on a rainy cold morning. An hour ago, soft morning sunlight gilds the towering pecan, creating the illusion of autumn on yet-green leaves. 

Minutes later the light reveals the 'true' color of the leaves, which, as every second grade science student should know, appear green due to chlorophyll  (reflecting green in light). Late this afternoon, the branches will appear black, silhouetted against the setting of the sun.

Second graders also know the only true light comes from the sun, and that Thomas Alva Edison managed to invent a device to create artificial light, which we utilize in proliferation to this day. In so many regions, our man-made illumination blocks the stars from view during the night. 

We've created cities shimmering with artificial starlight. Night falls in the big city: skyscrapers reflect the glitter of signage advertising enticing venues; streetlights and security lights billow clouds of light into the heavens while protecting the millions of inhabitants scurrying around at all hours of the night. 

Granted true light for a portion of each 24-hour turn of the earth, and powering our own illumination for the other, we generally use light to see things in a manner in which WE want them to appear. It's all perspective. What our mind accepts as reality and truth remains eternally subjective to timing, weather, and perspective. How we see and understand remains completely at the mercy of  the weather or events surrounding us, and where, why, and who we are. "Everything we see is perspective, not the truth. " Marcus Aurelius 

Case in point. A southerner might see this pecan tree as a source of holiday pie offerings, crunchy bites of pecan deliciousness in a glazed delirium of sugar and butter. City tree crews might see it as a nuisance to power lines, while environmentalists embrace it as a gift of life-giving oxygen and sustenance, never to be touched.  

From the ground, a lofty haven for chattering squirrels just out of reach from guard-dog Labradors. From 30,000 feet up, a speck on the passing prairie below the clouds.   

Regardless, this pecan remains a pecan tree in any light or shadow, windy, rainy, snowy, or sunny day, until such time as it evolves into firewood or furniture. Light cannot morph it into an apple tree or an ash, nor can rain rearrange its' atoms into a palm, nor can wind reshape it into a rose bush, mesquite tree, or anything else. Long ago, a pecan dropped into the ground by chance or design. There it grew and flourished. So it shall remain until it is removed. 

America grew as the pecan did. Planted, watered, harvested again and again. Perceived in a myriad of ways, from foreign observations to domestic grumblings and accolades. Seen as a bountiful source of life, a nuisance, a lofty haven for lofty chattering persons. A territory still fought over, harbored greedily, held for ransom in domestic political battles. 

Yet America itself remains constant. Mountains soaring into the heavens, deserts stretching, plains reaching, forests teeming with life, oceans lapping at the shores. Ever beautiful in sunlight, shadow, ice, heat. Ever sought after, lustily, by explorers, settlers, politicians, and enemies alike. Ever divided by her own settlers, as to how to live within her borders, and by whose rules. Ever squabbled over as to the rights of so and so, instead of working together to honor the privilege of all. Working together to honor America. 

"Oh beautiful for spacious skies for amber waves of grain for purple mountain majesty above the fruited plain
America! America! God shed His grace on thee, and crown thy good, with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea...

O beautiful for glory-tale, of liberating strife, When once and twice, for man's avail, men lavished precious life. 
America! America! God shed His grace on thee, Till selfish gain no longer stain the banner of the free.

Oh beautiful for patriots' dream that sees beyond the years, thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears
America! America! God shed His grace on thee, till nobler men keep once again thy whiter jubilee..."

Keep dreaming. One day, we will wake to a new dawn where nobler men keep once again a whiter jubilee. 

two score and four years ago

My oldest son Randall, my niece Rachel, and Jon's #4 (out of five) daughter, Hope, all arrived in 1989. Rand showed up in time for Mother's Day, after a L O N G last three weeks of expectations HA. Rach and 'HopeE' arrived within 4 days of each other in September. :-) 

Sweet, sweet, sweet babies. The world at large...turbulent year, much?

•The Exxon Valdez oil spill in which the tanker hit Prince William Sound’s Bligh Reef and spilled an estimated 11 to 30 million gallons of oil on March 24. 

•Salmon Rushdie published  The Satanic Verses.  Ayatollah Khomeini ordered a ‘fatwa’ on him – a command ordering followers of the Muslim faith to kill him. The fatwa was lifted in 1998.

•Students protested the Chinese government, at Tiananmen Square, filling public spaces with masses of citizens in early June. No one knows what happened to “Tank Man”, who stood in front of government tanks .

• The Loma Prieta earthquake struck San Francisco minutes  before Game 3 of the World Series, flattening roadways, destroying neighborhoods, claiming lives.  

•Major League Baseball all-star, Pete Rose, gambled on the Game as a manager. The all-time leader's glorious reign came to a tarnished end. 4,256  hits, 3,562 games played, 14,053 at-bats, 10,328 outs still stand in the shadows of Charlie Hustle's gambling hustle. Unless decided otherwise, Rose won't ever be entered into the MLB Hall of Fame at Cooperstown.

•NBC carried the #1,#3, and #4 most popular television shows, with the second runner up from ABC. "The Cosby Show", a jazz-loving obstetrician with an attorney wife and hilarious kids in a posh brownstone, played against "Roseanne" -- chronicling an overweight blue-collar couple raising obnoxiously hilarious kids in  middle-class America . "Cheers", a Boston tavern, housed an ersatz family of one-lining lonely middle-aged adults. "A Different World" showcased the college lives of  one of the Cosby Show kids  and her counterparts,Yuppies all. 

Like the Griswolds in 1989's "Christmas Vacation", women sported big hair, over-sized geometric jewelry, and quarterback-sized shoulder pads in all of our clothing. Even our T-shirts, for crying out loud. Sweater patterns, male and female,  ranged from prim polka dots to abstract mayhem ; men wore wildly printed genie-type pants or equally broad-shouldered suits or equally bad sweaters, and we all wore these types of eyeglasses. 

Two score and four years ago, Randall James, Rachel Christine, and Hope Elaine, you were each welcomed into this crazy world by sets of parents who loved you, despite our bad hair and seriously horrid fashion choices. ( Rachel's dad, my brother Kirk, and the Hopester's pop, Jonathan, never really made any bad fashion choices. HA ) We meant well. We still do, even if some of us are a quarter bubble off plumb. ( Not naming any names, since mine would be in the mix. HA )

Two score and four years later, this insane culture seems to have run amok. Take heart. This world runs amok all the time. Look at the elimination of the dinosaurs, the Dark Ages, the Crusades. Then look at the Age of Enlightenment, the American Revolution, the astronauts on the moon. 

While you grew up, the Hubble telescope launched, the Berlin Wall came down, apartheid ceased, dictators were deposed. As mortals, we often look bad in retrospect, yet we make improvements moving forward. 

Here's to the next 24 years, 1989 Trio and your counterparts.  May you each have the ability to look back and laugh at folly and success, silliness and strength,  and learn from triumphs and also turbulence. 

Be blessed. 

sea scents

Bargain shopper that I am, I picked up a pack of blue crabs on Friday in the seafood case, in the Day Old Fish section. HA Not Yet Day Old, and 40% off! Snapped them up with a portion of sockeye salmon, and popped in the freezer upon arriving home.

Yesterday I put on a crab boil for my lunch. ( My sister Alyson and I each fell in love with men who do not happen to share our love for seafood/fish, so we indulge when they are away. :-) It works out for all of us. ) I have never prepared a crab boil. Dunno if I did it right, and don't really care. I liked it. :-) Corn cobbettes, little blue crabs, a slice of fried bacon, some clam juice, pepper, and potatoes. Jumbled the steaming assortment in a big soup bowl, dabbed all in real live butter, and ate heartily, thinking, "Ahhhh... the smell of the sea." 

Briny, earthy, salty. Took me back to childhood days, bobbing along the jetty at Corona del Mar on the Southern California coast, checking out the mussels clinging tightly to the rocks at the base of the mile-high structure. Unseen, over on the other side, yachts and sailboats floated out of Newport Harbor out to sea while I scraped my knees on barnacles, poking at sea anemones when the tide went out.

Took me back to the homecoming Jonathan and I shared in the fall of 2011. Bob Seger softly wailed, "down on Main Street..." while we breathed deep of surf-spray and sea scent, along the palm-lined Carlsbad avenue. "Ahh, the lovely funk of the ocean," my practical man remarked, and I giggled, at him, and the apt description. Lovely funk it is. Beach air. Lovely Funk. It is lovely, and it does funk...but in a delicious way. 

I suppose it could be labeled "Sweet Sea Sweat" if one could make scented candles of it. Not such a great marketing idea, but accurate. I suppose Sweet Sea Sweat would NOT entail a lucrative endeavor. No, not so much. Candles scented with real beach air wouldn't sell. At all. Those labeled WITH sea-supposed scents rarely smell of the sea. Laundry, laundry, or laundry lingers in the air after one breathes in supposedly sea-scented wax.  Yankee Candle offers one that comes close, mostly smelling of  Coppertone lotion -- like saltwater taffy. Not the lovely true funk of the coast. 

Yeah, no. True cents of shell smell, seawater, mussels -- no market for stinky scents in the home fragrance realm. After all, Stink-Elimination IS the intended purpose of the home fragrance realm. Roses, raspberries, vanilla, lavender. Flowery, fruity, fresh-baked. Fishy? 

Mmm mmm nope. No roses or raspberries along the rocks of the jetty. Only salty/sunny/sandy scent memories. Happy ones. So true for the scent of the sea in my recent culinary adventure. Closest to home I could get out here on the prairie. 

This morning I retrieved the crab-boil pot from the refrigerator to shell the remaining corn and crab meat. Pulled off the heavy lid, and the 'beach air' rose into my kitchen like a welcome friend. Straining the butter-bacon-clam-crab broth into a freezer container, I thought lovingly of all the Good Days at the beach back home. Away from work, away from school, away, away, away, in a rare retreat from reality. I cradled corn cobbettes in my hand to shell, dug my fingers deep into the sharp shells of the now orange-y blue crabs while my memories plopped into the briny broth with the boiled bits.

Sun on my skin, sand under my feet, surf drumming a slow, inexorable, hushed heartbeat on the curved stretches of coastline. 

Good days where friends and I played in the water, achieving the Perfect Tan with Hawaiian Tropic; later my kids and I jumping the waves, making drippy castles, finding hermit crabs. Happy days with my nieces and nephews, their perfect little-kids-skin glistening with saltwater, their eyes bright, and their seaside naps deep with the hush of the waves. Hours spent on the end of the jetty with a friend, watching the water swirling among the rocks. 

If I close my eyes today, all those years later, I can still see the water rushing and bubbling and lapping around my feet. If I close my eyes today, I can see the palm trees against the blue sky and feel Jonathan's hand in mine as we went home, together, two autumns ago.

When next I pull the frozen corn-crab broth from the freezer, to thaw and simmer; add milk, butter, and more potatoes for chowder, I'll be 'home' again. For a few moments.

Lovely Funk. Better marketing. :-) Sweet Sea Scent. As Anne Morrow Lindbergh would say, a gift from the sea.   

The Listening Post

Last week at Office Depot, I bought 12 spiral notebooks for 12 cents.

12 cents!!!!!

I don't even have anyone in public school any longer, but I had 12 pennies in my purse and hadn't gotten anything at that price since 1978, so I snapped 'em up. HA 

After 3 kids/18 years of mandatory purchasing of crayons, Kleenex, and notebooks, I relish this second year in which I did not have to buy school supplies. One married, and two on their own. Hallelujah! 

We are in the migration between parenthood and grandparenthood...and it is odd. Good! but odd. 

Where is your heart in this back-to-school season? 

Freaked out at the thought of your five-year-old starting kindergarten? 

Relieved at middle-schoolers out of the house/off their phones during most of the daylight hours? 

Wistful in anticipating/remembering graduations? 

Grateful that your offspring survived catastrophic illness? 

Wondering if your first-year lesson plans are adequate? 

Looking forward to retirement?

the Listening Post is open

all comments are unpublished

all are anonymous unless revealed by the author 

be blessed

Gilbert Creek

Mable Gilbert ( listed in Texas Handbook Online ) among other first achievements in Texas history,
" was the first white settler in Wichita County. His daughter Hettie was the first white child born in Wichita County. He had 3 creeks, two springs, a post office and a town named in his honor in Texas."

So says the Texas Handbook. :-) Also, you can find Gilbert Creek ( not that it has any water in it during this drought) marked with a highway sign on the way to Burkburnett, about ten minutes north from here. Tech-geek connection: Town named for Samuel Burk Burnett, founder and proprietor of the famed 6666 Ranch, had a daughter who married the founder of the Tandy Corporation. As in Radio shack. Quarter horses and electronics. Smart family. :-)

A new generation of Gilbert has arrived in Texas. More than likely not related to Mr. Mable, unless his ancestors were also stowaways on a ship from Ireland, as were Jonathan's. HA ( As an aside I personally find it hilarious that each of our ancestral immigrants arrived here with little regard for the rules. Jon's as stowaways and mine running an illegal moonshine still. HA But I digress.)

Jonathan's youngest daughter pioneered her way here in early June, via Amtrak, taking in the sights along the way. Cemeteries along the railroad tracks, endless deserts in Arizona, checking for illegal aliens jumping the Rio in El Paso -- from a safe distance.

She's on a journey for sure. Jumped ship, so to speak, from a tight bundle of siblings who lived, ate, and thought together for 18 years, without much influence from the outside world. 15 or so of those years were without Jonathan's gentle, gentlemanly, geeky influence due to deployments (and detachments, not consciously or maliciously... but part of the rotten deal with custody grabs.)

We are also on a journey. New parents, so to speak, although we have nine adult children between us, because we have never been the parents of a teenage daughter together.

Jon raised her older sisters pretty much on his own while he was in the Air Force, due to her mother's chronic health issues, so he's no stranger to a gaggle of little girls and their assorted perceived catastrophes.

I had the triad of boys on my own, for the most part, but boys are like bear cubs. They wrestle and roll around on the floor roughhousing, indulge in flatulence no matter where they are, eat a lot and often, and sleep a lot and often. Boy cubs also indulge in movies that no momma bear should ever watch with them. HA.

My boys were adults or on the cusp of adulthood, as were all of her siblings save she and her twin brother, when God led me and Jonathan back to each other, so we didn't do any joint parenting.

Often I feel very much like I did as a new mother, not sleeping much, wondering if I'm doing everything I need to for the child, blasting myself when I make mistakes, not knowing what she likes to eat or what she needs when she cries.

Don't get me wrong, she's not a baby.

She's a brilliant young woman who has been described to me by one of her former elementary teachers as "the brightest student I ever had". Like her father she possesses great imaginative powers, a quirky sense of humor, and is also adorable. Like her father.:-)

I remember the first time I gave newborn Randall a bath. He had to have sponge baths until his little navel healed up properly, and so the day finally came at about two weeks of age, to take the plunge. HA

I was so nervous. I'd never cared for a tiny baby before, much less with hormones raging and sleep evading and praying to Jesus that the squalling slippery infant would not pop out of the little tubby and onto the floor.

I finally got him bathed and dressed and was rocking both of us to sleep in my rocking chair in his nursery, when his father arrived home for lunch and to check on us. I told him about our morning adventure. He asked me if I had introduced him to the water slowly, getting the baby used to the water and the temp and everything. (Having a sister twelve years younger can be an advantage in baby care. PPbbTTT. )

I'm still nervous. Nervous to damage this already fragile but brave soul forging out on her own, without her posse at hand to look out for her. Nervous that I won't say or do the right things. Nervous that the highly unsuccessful girl in me will transfer over to her, and I will create a clone of my monster self by imprinting. Dear God.

Dear God.

I'll pray that she lands on her daddy's side of "Gilbert Creek"... the side where practical calm rules the day, whimsical thought lightens the mood, and thoughtful, loving sense resides. Annie Oakley, the spirit guide in my world, probably oughta put up her horse for a while and sit for a bit in the the rocker. I don't want to sink in the soft sand of Gilbert Creek and pull our new daughter down with me whilst I ride rough. I want to hand her the reins when she's able so she can choose her own path, equipped with everything she needs to live a good life out here on the prairie. Like Mr. Mable did.

Think I'll sit in the rocker for a while linger before we saddle the horses again.

Slaying Dragons

French legend holds that St. Martha (of Biblical-Good-Housekeeping fame) tamed a dragon that lived under a bridge in Tarascon-- by singing songs to it.

How in the world did St. Martha end up in France, you say? Another legend holds that she and her less-busy sister Mary, their resurrected brother Lazarus, along with Mary Salome and Mary Magdalene set sail with Joseph of Aramithea. The same Joseph, by the way, who gave up his burial plot for Jesus, Who didn't end up occupying it for more than three days.

But I digress.

St. Martha  (just plain old Martha back then ) allegedly tamed a wild beast comprised of six short legs like a bear's, an ox-like body covered with a turtle shell, a scaly tail that ended in a stinger, and a lon's 's head. Martha had some serious courage.

 According to legend, she tamed it with hymns and prayers, took it into town where it was promptly attacked by villagers. No surprise, it died, and Martha seized the opportunity to preach to to the crowds -- many of whom turned to Christianity. 

I've evolved into a Martha-like housekeeper, much to the surprise of those who Knew Me When. HA

I like to stay busy, and I tend to slay dragons that I see on my horizon. Although I have a pretty good singing voice, and pray often and fervently, these days it takes more than singing to slay dragons. 

It takes courage. Courage, that comes from surviving a lifetime of Unusual Events.

Courage to do the Biblical thing, and go directly to someone who has offended you, and not call a committee meeting to mediate. “If your brother or sister sins, go and point out their fault, just between the two of you. If they listen to you, you have won them over." Matthew 18:14-16 

Courage,  to stand up to people who would censor your thoughts. 

For example, escaping my old boss at the newspaper, who wrote me up once for reporting loss in revenue -- due to the temp covering my desk undercharging my accounts (while I was in the hospital) Wrote me up for "pointing fingers". Huh. "Pointing fingers"... when I was reviewing my personal sales accounts in my absence, and upholding company interests. Never heard a spreadsheet called pointing fingers. 

Or today, accused of violating Diocese policy -- which in fact I did not. "You are not allowed to communicate with parents on Facebook" -- from the person who until today, was ON MY Facebook.  HUH?? Did not use social media during the workday for the incident in question, did not use Official websites for personal use, did not state that my views were that of the Diocese, did not use sexual overtones or contact minors. (Yeah, that's in the communications policy... written out but not enforced much... just gonna walk away from THAT one. ) 

And, sadly, I did. Walk away. Not going to stay and be accused of nothing, by people who are simply afraid to lose donations to the church budget. "Never sacrifice quantity for quality" is apparently not their credo.

I loved my job. Loved my babies. They loved me. Their moms called, and texted, and messaged in frustration and horror, and bolstered my bruised spirit. "We love you..." 

Therein lies my comfort. 

Moms, who call to ask me to sing the songs from Circle Time so they can sing the One Song THAT NEEDS TO BE SUNG at bedtime. HA 

The moms who call,and ask if I can babysit because their kid LOVES me. 

I have to remember, kids that I had in preschool and later in high school youth group in CA are on my Facebook as thirty-year-olds, today. Kids I had here in junior high Sunday school, ten years ago, are still my twenty-something buds. 

"IF THEY LISTEN TO YOU, YOU HAVE WON THEM OVER." Thank you, St. Matthew.

I've definitely won some people over, across my lifetime. :-) Moreover, they have heard about the power of God.

Getting back to the Bible,  the Book of Proverbs offers "six things the Lord hateth, and the seventh His soul detesteth", namely:

1.    A proud look

2.    A lying tongue

3.    Hands that shed innocent blood

4.    A heart that devises wicked plots

5.    Feet that are swift to run into mischief

6.    A deceitful witness that uttereth lies

7.    Him that soweth discord among brethren

Not sure where asking someone to stop hurting your feelings lands on that list. 

Pope Francis has some pretty big dragons to slay. I pray for his courage. I pray he survives. I pray...and I will sing hymns as prayers, as I always have. "All hail the power of Jesus' name, let angels prostrate fall, bring forth the Royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of All, bring forth the Royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of All!" 

Onward to other Adventures, other dragons. Most immediately -- the arms of the one person in the world who actually listens to me... who will be here in our house, in a week. 

Onward, to other Adventures, with my Jonathan. My partner-in-dragon-slaying. :-) 

♪ Bridge Over Troubled Water ♪

Blissfield, Michigan, has bridges. Not the stately covered ones of Madison County,

Iowa, perhaps, but the famed Three Bridges. One, the pedestrian bridge, crosses the River Raisin on its' way winding through the sleepy little farm hamlet on land that looks much like the Texas prairie. Big sky country, broad horizons, and a barn every now and then. (The river, named by the French for the wild grapes that grew along its banks, was the site of a major battle in The War of 1812, so don't think it's just a silly name. I did, then I looked it up to find out WHY it had a silly name. HA) My dad would have crossed this bridge a few times, as a child and a teen,dreaming of leaving the sleepy hamlet to Do Great Things. 

But I digress. Sort of. 

The pastor at the Easter service I celebrated this morning took a different tack from the usual Easter story. So often Protestant preachers go sneaky Catholic/Jewish guilt-laying, on the twice-a-year Easter-ers, heavy into the anguish of the Crucifixion to backlight the Resurrection in order to grab at the hearts and souls of the congregation. Instead of reminding us we NEED TO BE BROKEN, this man spoke of a builder. 

This man spoke of Jesus the carpenter. The carpenter who had to size up a piece of wood and create something out of it. The carpenter who, when faced with crucifixion, took the wood and the nails and the ropes that bound Him to it and built a bridge to the Father. 

A bridge that didn't exist before then, because the Father stayed hidden in the Holy of Holies -- until Jesus built that bridge with His death and tore the Temple curtain from top to bottom. Not a curtain like we have in our homes, either, but a 30-foot high, 3-foot thick hand-loomed curtain that veiled the Ark of the Covenant. No human, no team of humans, could have rent that weaving in half, let alone from the top down. He spoke of walking across that bridge, and picturing the Cross beam, on Jesus' shoulders, under our feet. 

Easter. Bridge Building 101.

I've been trying to rebuild bridges. I didn't burn them, as much as I threw flaming spears, put up barriers and planted bramble. Some may never be re-established. Some probably should not be.  Some are coming along. Fortunately for me, the girl who passed Woodshop with a B-, I don't have to keep slaving away at the renovation and repair with my meager skills. 

Jesus, the carpenter from Nazareth, can clear the brambles and the barriers and brush away the soot from the flaming spears, most of which grew cold more than a year ago. He already has -- and strengthened the supports to others that have long been kindred spirits on the Journey.  

On my Facebook page, a reference which might seem silly,  I can count more than a few Friends who used to loathe me for speaking the Truth --  bridges which Jesus has built to folks who probably would have rather seen me fall off of them and float down the river, at some point or another. 

Jesus took nails, cross beams, and rope to make a bridge to the Father in Heaven, leading us, as the pastor said this morning, away from condemnation, sin, and un-forgiveness. 

A Bridge leading us from trying-so-hard-to-be-holy-and-forgiven that we keep checking our lists of How to Be Good and What I Did Wrong, instead of checking in with Him -- to find what He wants for us. 

Jesus has taken the broken pieces of this girl, literally, and made something new.( I have the scars to prove it.) 

He does the same for all who come to the entrance of the bridge, which, if Catholics and Jews might look closely, is just beyond the empty tomb... 

Like Simon and Garfunkel sang once upon a time, He's the bridge over troubled water, laying Himself down. 

We don't have to Do Great Things, nor redress our Bad Things until we get it right, nor be forgiven by someone representing Him. 

We've got a Pedestrian Bridge which He built on good Friday. Keep looking ahead to the other side. 

"When you're weary  Feeling small   When tears are in your eyes   I will dry them all 

I'm on your side When times get rough And friends just can't be found 
Like a bridge over troubled water 
I will lay me down 
Like a bridge over troubled water 
I will lay me down 

When you're down and out    When you're on the street    When evening falls so hard 
I will comfort you 

I'll take your part     When darkness comes     And pain is all around 
Like a bridge over troubled water 
I will lay me down 
Like a bridge over troubled water 
I will lay me down 

Sail on Silver Girl, Sail on by   Your time has come to shine  All your dreams are on their way 

See how they shine  If you need a friend I'm sailing right behind 

Like a bridge over troubled water 
I will ease your mind 
Like a bridge over troubled water 
I will ease your mind"

♪ Skyfall ♪

Last Wednesday, at the prompting of my heart and spirit, I flew to my father's home state to arrive at his birthplace.

The next two days I spent caring for, praying for,  and about with his younger sister, on hospice. The little sister of whom he was jealous ...and it turns out he had a right to be.

At the end of HER life, her children, friends, and community  love her and looked after her in return for her years of dedication to their father and to them. 

Barbara Ann. My phantom aunt. HA not her fault that she remained a shadowy figure for years to us, since she lived in Michigan, and we never ventured further than Colorado on summer vacations. Apparently, 1300 miles one way was our limit. As a preschooler, my over-imaginative self thought she was the girl on the bread trucks. Hey. They had the same name. (And the same hair). HA ( I KNEW she wasn't the girl on the beach boys' song, since I don't think she ever wore a bikini, nor hung around  Doheny - or any other CA beach. )

The youngest of the three in my dad's family, she measured a model of strength to me. 

Stalwart, steady, rarely  venturing out of her hometown save for the occasional trip to Detroit  or to Ann Arbor to shop.  One of those was to fly her father's funeral in 1977. We had the odd family occurrence of a funeral AND wedding all in one week. When the life celebrations had passed, we took her to see the Pacific Ocean along the Santa Barbara coast. Fitting, I think, looking back. She radiated sheer joy to wade among the waves, barefoot, slacks rolled up to her knees, feeling the sand and seashells in between her toes. 

A letter my dad wrote to MY mother, back  in college, talked of that same glee, a young Barb who propped up her senior portraits all over the house, to include one against the toaster, so that wherever she went, she could gaze upon her smiling self.  Typical big brother, squashing little sister joy. Sigh. ;-)

That same girl stayed with another family in Hillsdale while her folks moved back to Blissfield, for the duration of her senior year so that she could take languages and get a better education than in the little hamlet where she was born -and would remain. 

Dad probably harbored envy because she had a firm grasp on what eluded him. Barb lived a contented life. Smitten by a local high school football star, an All-State ranked player, she'd gone off to college dreaming big dreams. 

Quitting in her undergrad years to be with her fiancé , who had big dreams of his own, a football star for Michigan state. Most tragically, he was savagely attacked in his dorm room and suffered brain damage. She went to him and never left his side. A once bright young man, now limited to the ranks of the working class. Barb worked as a secretary for a Realtor, making slim ends meet, with my cousin Linda making dinner for dad and two younger brothers while her mom finished up long workdays. 

Barbara Ann.  Her middle name may  have been homage to her grandmother, Anna, a little slip of a thing standing in a starched blouse and crinoline skirt, hair pulled back tight. Squinting through spectacles intense humid June heat, in a photograph from a 1922 family picnic. The Peter were precise and practical farm folk - sending registration forms for such events to get a head count. Necessary practicality - the 1922 photo shows upwards of 100 people stretching over four generations. Barb followed the family precision. 

Started a career as the town librarian when her oldest had graduated high school and her youngest was 8, a career that her friends and neighbors will talk to you about to this day. Some of them have saved certificates earned by their children in her summer reading programs! They'll tell you she was strict and sometimes stern at the library, but that she loved the kids who loved to read like she did.

Yep, that's my aunt Barb. Necessarily practical to a fault. Pretty disciplined, indeed, she was the kind of housekeeper who, when she went into labor with my cousin Bruce, stayed at home until she finished up the supper dishes. Then it was time to go.

I had a hard time leaving her on Saturday, even though she had slipped into the end stages. We weren't close through the years,  but in her lay the last vestiges of my long-gone grandparents, aunt, and father -- and the lady who loved the beach that day in 1977. Sigh.

Got on the plane to go home and the opening of the in-flight movie of the day made me weep a little. "Skyfall". James Bond doesn't ordinarily induce tears. But having seen the film already, knowing an ancestral estate Played an important plot point...the lyric to the theme got me. 

"This is the end Hold your breath and count to ten Feel the earth move and then Hear my heart burst again

For this is the end I've drowned and dreamt this moment So overdue I owe them Swept away, I'm stolen

Let the sky fall When it crumbles We will stand tall Face it all together...

Let the sky fall We will stand tall At skyfall"

I did the dishes at your house, Aunt Barb, straightened things, up, and left it nice so you'd be ready to go, for the last time... :-), and on Sunday afternoon, you did.

We will stand tall, with your kids and granddaughters, and beloved widower, while their sky falls, today. 

Give everyone a hug for us...

Thank you, Pope Benedict. Thank you...

Nearly ten years ago now I worked in the daycare of a local church. Dealing with a sociopath husband, three teenage and pre-teen boys, and younger and more ridiculous hormones of my own, most days gave me grief. I emerged from a bathroom break once, heart heavy, praying my way through the day, and made the sign of the cross over myself, as if hugging myself in prayer.

Not long after the 'director' of the daycare summoned me to her inner sanctum. " Some one saw you cross yourself. ARE YOU CATHOLIC?"

My California-psyche sat stunned at the narrow-minded, pointed-ness of the question.

"I'm sorry, what did you just ask me?"

Venom dripping from her sharp tongue, she repeated."ARE YOU CATHOLIC?"

Huh. I looked at her and said evenly, " As my employer you should know that, under federal law, you are not allowed to ask me any questions like that. What else did you need?"

She didn't have much else to say.

I think I've always been slightly Catholic.

Of course not baptized or raised as such, but living with the constant need for approval from other human beings, all in the name of God, of course, is very Catholic.

Wait. I take that back. On a few levels, I was raised as a Catholic, disguised as a Presbyterian. HA

The late 1960's and 70's in our household, like many others, left little room for varying thought, sex=sin, church attendance: mandatory; God watches naughty little girls -- but Jesus loved me, ♪ this I know, and like all the "red and yellow, ♪ black and white ♪ little children of the world". That was our world back then.

Yes, He does. My born-during-the Depression parents couldn't help it. One side moved from church to church in the Mennonite community, the other grew up United Brethren; both generations fresh out of the tent revival days at the turn of the century -- where EVERYONE WAS A SINNER GOING TO HELL.

Watching the resignation of Pope Benedict put the seal on my decision to not complete my journey into Catholicism.
 Two weeks ago I beat myself up over "not finishing another quest, what a loser I am." The very next day the head of the Church ( in which I'd tried desperately to understand and fit into) stepped down, stating, "After having repeatedly examined my conscience before God, I have come to the certainty that my strengths due to an advanced age are no longer suited" for the task."

If the Pope can step aside then it's okay for me to do the same, thought I.

And then the Christian in me realized how very Catholic I have lived. Who cares what the Pope chooses for himself? Why does that matter to me????

Granted, Catholicism has done much for the world. Established hospitals, schools, given remarkable aid to poor nations. Done much for humanity and....stayed rooted in humanity.

"On this rock I will build my church, " declared Jesus. And He did. The tomb of St. Peter lies below the Basilica. The Church that sings, " we profess your death o Lord, and proclaim your Resurrection, until You come again..." at every mass, has yet to let go of the death, and yet to fully live in the Resurrection. They still want you to focus on becoming holy... which, for us fully human peeps, is unattainable.

I can't ascribe fully to a faith system that says that Jesus' mother is as holy as He is. He was fully human AND fully divine. She was fully human. Like us.

I can't ascribe fully to a faith that only allows the approved to accept the gift of the Eucharist, the body and blood of Jesus given to all mankind.

I can't ascribe fully to a faith that requires your sins to be absolved by one of your peers, in a confessional. While confession and accountability are necessary for a healthy soul, Jesus did not hang six hours on the cross for me to be forgiven by a seminarian. That's going a little bit backwards. The Jews HAD to go to God through a priest, as well, until the Crucifixion, when the Temple curtain ripped in half, from bottom to top at the moment of His death.

A curtain woven three feet thick and ten feet high. Ripped, in half, to reveal the Holy of Holies. From top to bottom. No human force could have done that.

So I went backwards in my quest to move forwards... which is okay as long as you look at the past in the rearview mirror and not make a u-turn.

I've realized that I've lived my life like some sort of crusading Scarlett O'Hara, always dependent on the kindness of others, and always measuring myself against myself and (what I perceive to be) other's standards, and, not unlike the Catholic church and other zealous religious factions, throwing MY faith into other people's faces trying to coerce them into MY way of thinking. That's not faith.

That's religion.

That's the humanity of faith, the rules, the laws, the doctrine, the dogma. The knowledge.

Webster's sums it up nicely: "a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, especially when considered as the creation of a superhuman agency or agencies, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs."

Human affairs. 

Millions of  Catholics bewildered as to what will happen now, since the normal order of their faith system has been disrupted by a human choosing to be human, and not divine. 

I asked my late father, on the one face-to-face visit we had in 20 years, why in the world he became an Orthodox Jew -- after living a life as Christian proclaiming the freedom of faith from such oppressive religion. In his alcoholically academic vagueness, he mumbled, " I was always looking for more answers."

I'm my father's girl. Always looking for more answers, the surety, the inside scoop, the cocky confidence that comes from Knowing All and Seeing All, and being able to Explain It All. Oye.

It's time I step past the rent Temple curtain, the one torn from top to bottom by an unseen, inexplicable force, beyond the human affairs and into the space which only contains God. No answers. Just God. 

"We proclaim your death oh Lord,♪ and profess your Resurrection, until You come again..."

THAT'S the mystery of faith.