Christmas Day the Next Page

Tags

Christmas, Contrarian, Essays, God, grace, Vietnam

In 1970 my friends and I were getting grossly drunk on Christmas Eve. I make no apology for that. I was in Vietnam and there was to be a Christmas Truce. Since we would have no “work” the next day, we were giving ourselves the gift of a few hours of oblivion from the tedium and trials of a never ending year. At midnight the sounds of “Silent Night” started to come over the airfield speakers, sung by the congregation of the post chapel.

Eerily, everything else became quiet. First those on guard in the bunkers (because they were more sober), and then everyone else joined in.  As the verses went on, and the words became less familiar, the unsolicited singing tapered off into murmurs. The choir finished with a beauty I can find no words to put to measure.

I have had my highs and lows, my good Christmases and bad, before and since. Still, I can think of no isolated five-minute period of my life that captures the duality of life so clearly. I have never been so acutely homesick, miserable and lonely, as in those few minutes, but I also felt a Community of Spirit larger than all others.

Love can be defined as “a joining with another, or others, in a mutual experience so powerful no words can depict it, and for which no words are needed.” I have never been in such a large group of complete understanding, as when I looked around at the faces of the five or six guys who were drinking with me. We spent a few moments in complete silence, each knowing there was no way to describe the intensity of our wants, and that while the specific wants were different, the intensity of the hunger was the same.

The turmoil between joy and sorrow is the drama of life. Without conflict there would be no prose or poetry. It is not easy to see the positive in the midst of the negative. Clouds remain clouds until a person is capable of penetrating them to find the silver lining. However, I would offer, sad stories only remain sad because the teller or the listener does not finish.

There can always be hope if we are allowed to turn the next page of life. No matter your religion, the story of the First Christmas is one of gloom if you do not read past the Day of the Cross. An innocent baby born, lives a good life and dies in pain and ridicule, because of misunderstandings and prejudice. Hardly a plot I would presume to base one of the world’s major religions on.

But our existence tells me that that story is not finished. The great gift of the Christmas story is that each of us gets to turn our own page to tomorrow.

It is hard not to think of gifts at Christmas time. I have been given many wonderful things. I am never at home unless I can quickly point to an object and say “this or that marvelous person gave it to me.” But I have been given further gifts, so portable, that if I am wise, I should never lose.

Those are moments of understanding I have felt with another. Sometimes to grand they can hardly be hinted at. Sometimes fleeting and beautiful in their smallness and words become too ugly and large.

I have seen others laugh or cry at words I have laughed or cried at while writing. I have shared a silent laugh with another over an inappropriate body noise. I have felt the comfort of another sleeping in my arms, and I know the comfort of Grace. I have the  knowledge that while I was not my best yesterday, or today, I am free to be better tomorrow.

Blessings to all.

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Fearing Not I’ll Become My Enemy in the Instant I Preach

Tags

bigotry, extremism, Left, political rhetoric, racism, right wing

As usual Sherry’s recent posts have made me think. As a white man I feel embarrassed when I see the subtle and even overt racism that has recently been displayed on our political stage. The question isn’t, “Is there any racism or bigotry being displayed?” Or even how much. The question is how do people of intellect address it?

When I returned from Vietnam I had had my fill of violence and liked to describe myself as a pacifist. The problem with that was that I was angry for a whole variety of reasons. I forgive myself because I was young, in my early twenties; I did not understand that passivity and anger mix worse than oil and water. It took me several false starts to realize that it is impossible to defeat violence using violence as the weapon. No matter which combatant wins the contest, violence has the final victory. Further, it is equally impossible to hate hatred and hate mongers out of existence. Simple math tells us, add even a small amount of hate to hatred and you multiply the monster.

I am disappointed that all the news outlets prefer to report on the personal conflicts rather than the policy differences. I am fairly aware of the world, but have only a vague idea of how other countries handle health care. Most of what I do know has been filtered through the lenses of the right or the left. Why couldn’t one of the major networks spend some of the time they talked about who called who what, and tell us how Japan, Germany, England etc. etc. handle this issue. Wouldn’t we be better served and more informed if this approach was taken.

I understand the importance of an individual, who feels his position is moral, voicing his views to the majority. Silence in the face of oppression by the masses is being a coward. However, that is not our present situation. Last November we all cast our ballots and elected Obama as our president. Therefore I offer that the bigotry of the present is a small, albeit vocal, minority. At his peek in the 30’s Father Coughlin was able to reach as many as 40 million Americans, with his smears against Jews and FDR. Many many more than our current simpletons advise. Our nation survived Coughlin we will survive this. I don’t diminish the ugliness of the racism. I am only pondering a response.

I am a professional football fan. Better said, I am a Green Bay Packer fan. In the early seventies many times televised games would be interrupted by some idiot (clothed or not) running onto the field until he was finally captured by security. These single individuals were able to disrupt the entertainment of the many. When all of the networks agreed to quit showing the morons it ended. It seems we live in a country where some people are not satisfied being cretins, they want spectators. My suggestion then is simple, I refuse to be the audience to dimwits. I choose no longer to respond to the stupid signs or the stupider talking heads who encourage them. I will try to not even mention their names or organizations. They spend enough time and money promoting themselves, they do not need my assistance. If there is disagreement on policy I will answer, but if the discussion becomes ad hominem, I will return to the silence of our meadow. I will try to do this no matter if the personal attack come from either the left or the right.

I say “try” because it is a continuing hard lesson for me to accept that, “I’ll become my enemy in the instant that I preach.”

*My apologies to Bob Dylan for borrowing a line from his song “My Back Pages.”

Crimson flames tied through my ears
Rollin’ high and mighty traps
Pounced with fire on flaming roads
Using ideas as my maps
“We’ll meet on edges, soon,” said I
Proud ‘neath heated brow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I’m younger than that now.

Half-wracked prejudice leaped forth
“Rip down all hate,” I screamed
Lies that life is black and white
Spoke from my skull. I dreamed
Romantic facts of musketeers
Foundationed deep, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I’m younger than that now.

Girls’ faces formed the forward path
From phony jealousy
To memorizing politics
Of ancient history
Flung down by corpse evangelists
Unthought of, though, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I’m younger than that now.

A self-ordained professor’s tongue
Too serious to fool
Spouted out that liberty
Is just equality in school
“Equality,” I spoke the word
As if a wedding vow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I’m younger than that now.

In a soldier’s stance, I aimed my hand
At the mongrel dogs who teach
Fearing not that I’d become my enemy
In the instant that I preach
My pathway led by confusion boats
Mutiny from stern to bow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I’m younger than that now.

Yes, my guard stood hard when abstract threats
Too noble to neglect
Deceived me into thinking
I had something to protect
Good and bad, I define these terms
Quite clear, no doubt, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I’m younger than that now.

Copyright ©©1964; renewed 1992 Special Rider Music

　

The Escalation of Expectation

Tags

anniversary, Humor, life in the meadow, The Contrarian

 

 

The pleasurable prediction of future events is like a narcotic to some. Always it requires ever increasing doses to achieve the desired result. Today was Sherry’s and my anniversary. Last year we both forgot about it until over a week later. This year being our tenth, I didn’t want that to happen again. Now I’ve mentioned before that Sherry is a wonderful cook, still she will use any excuse (Valentines day, her Birthday or our anniversary) to get out of putting heat to ingredients and making a meal. Anyway last night I say: “Babe, how about I drive the three-miles to the local chicken shack and pick up a bucket of wings tomorrow, so you don’t have to cook on our big day?” I didn’t get the fluttering eyelids and the loving sigh I thought was coming my way. No I get the frowny face, with just the hint of a lower lip sticking out. I quickly crank up the offer; “How about I put my best bibs on and we go to a fancy-eating pizza joint?” Now I’m not talking about a toaster oven pizza slid across some beer damp bar. I’m thinking of one of the major chains that advertise on television. Still no flutter of eyelid, and the sigh sounded more like a snort of disgust. I’m standing at the plate with two strikes. I know I have to at least hit the ball on the next pitch, fair or foul, or this game is over. “Okay! Okay! How about best bibs, a shirt with a collar, and we go to some place that has cutlery?” She makes the added condition that the silverware not be plastic, and then agrees. I feel somewhat stuck, but if my lady wants high class she gets high class. Sherry says she is in the mood for Chinese and she will find us a place to dine in the morning.

Today as I was about to get dressed for our big date, Sherry says; “Aren’t you going to shave?” Give an inch and they take a mile. I have a pretty good memory, and I’m reasonably sure I had shaved within the last week, certainly the last ten days. By any standards I am a great husband. Two, sometimes three time a year I gather wild flowers from our meadow and bring them to Sherry. I always lift my feet while she is vacuuming the carpet. Sherry never has to tell me more than three or four time to take the trash out. When I do I’m only quietly sullen, never loud. Still I am being punished on our anniversary. Of course I shaved without complaint. We had a great meal and a nice time together. Yet I am wondering what will be my lot ten years from today? Will I have to make reservations at some joint where I have to tip the violin player? Will she expect a second honeymoon?

 

A short note about my own expectations

I am fortunate and am entitled to Veteran’s health care. The VA has been rated as the most effective by several different organizations. Even so they are going to have to amp up their mental health care if somebody does not resolve the health care problem of this country, because I am going to go seriously crazy. I’m already starting to talk to the TV set; that can’t be a good thing. Every day I hear GOP pundits go unchallenged when they state, “We have the best health care in the world.” What a load of bull. We spend twice what any other nation does, we rank 27^th or something in longevity, worse in infant mortality, etc etc. Sure if you are rich or have an interesting enough disorder you will get top notch health care, but that doesn’t make “Ours the best in the world.” The British make the Rolls-Royce automobile, but I would hardly call their auto industry the best in the world. Most of the cars made there are crap, They even put the steering wheel on the wrong side for Christ sake.

I know the newscasters who come into our homes via the tube like to think of themselves as journalists. They even bemoan that journalism is such a lowly rated occupation. Just dividing up the time equally between the opposing factions is not journalism; that is reporting. A reporter can tell us about a bank robbery or a storm and that is fine. A journalist should pursue the facts to the story’s end. I recently heard a caller to C-Span sum this up better than I can. She said; “I’m sick of you just dividing the time between the Democrats and the Republicans with no comment. The Dems tell us the sky is blue, the Republicans tell us the sky is red. Its night for God’s sake and when will you people point it out to both of them that the sky is black?”

IN MY DEFENSE:

As you have become accustomed to, the Contrarian exaggerates to a slight degree. I cook usually six days a week, and frankly, I cook from scratch. I don’t do boxes of stuff and I don’t do frozen entrees. I cook, slaving over a stove with whisk and micro plane, garlic and herb, deglazing and oven roasting, carefully creating dish after dish to succulent perfection.

You’d think, therefore, on one’s anniversary, one might get a bit more than the back end of the Troy Store for a “romantic” dinner, the first offer. The second was a slide by the pizza parlor in Center Point.

As to the shaving, oh don’t get me started. This “goatee” crap was a gift for my birthday, unsolicited by me, and he hasn’t stopped whining since. Shaving every two weeks is his idea of keeping up. And worse, he mewed the entire afternoon about “beard hairs” scratching his tummy and neck. Since when do you get loose hair from shaving with cream?

At least he insisted that I sit in the car while he got out to lock the wheels into 4-wheel drive for the trip down the lane. That was gentlemanly of him!

Sherry, the much maligned perfect wife.

Don’t Palinize Me!

Tags

Essays, Humor, The Contrarian, toothaches

 

 

 

 

Some of the recent posts on A Feather Adrift have caused me to feel real sympathy for Sarah Palin. To be unfairly smeared by an obviously left leaning blogger is not pleasant. I ask that Sherry honor our men and women in uniform and “quit making things up.” In the mean time I think it important to set the record straight.

First I will address the issue of sock sorting. Sherry’s idea of sorting socks is to just separate them from the rest of our clothing. I am a morning person and like to hit the day running, but first I must find a proper pair of socks. To secure a match I must dig through a wicker basket large enough for a pony to nap in. I have socks in there that are full and fluffy and only washed once or twice. I also have socks that are just waiting to be put on so my big toe can poke through. This is what I describe as the dilemma of ‘thick and thin’. Everyone who has seen the movie “Flight of the Phoenix” (the original; the one with Jimmy Stewart) knows that most humans have a dominate leg as well as a dominate arm. Without the aid of a compass a man would wander in circles in the desert. I think it dangerous to compound this natural frailty by throwing a thick and thin sock into the mix. Even worse, recently Sherry has purchased some socks very similar to mine. So now I must delay the start of my busy day by sorting boy socks and girl socks as well as the thick and thins. I won’t horrify the readers by telling them how many times I have been forced to delay the start of my busy day by resocking.

My second area of discussion will be about the Surgery. I know Sherry told the story as if it were just about a sore tooth. The paper work I got from the dentist did not distinguish between oral surgery and tooth extraction. Therefore I must assume they are equal in severity. Henceforth I will just use the former while discussing the saga of the tooth. Modesty makes it difficult for me to admit that I am an extremely stoic person. Sherry shortens the suffering I endured, because I spared her from the majority. Rather than two or three days of my tooth bothering me, I remember two or three weeks of blinding pain.

Before I go on I would ask the younger readers to get their parent’s permission to read further. There is no way to tell this story accurately without rating it R for violence and adult language (sadly no nudity or sexual content is needed).

Sherry called,  and an appointment to see a dentist was made. When we arrived the usual stupid paper work had to be filled out. All the while this was being done Sherry was complaining how uncomfortable the chairs were. I patted her of the head and tried to reassure her that everything would be fine. Then she noticed that the dentists had a collection of animal skulls on the wall. She is sensitive and of course this upset her. I would have reminded her of the real reason we were there, but the blood from biting my tongue made it too difficult to speak. After the required hour my name was finally called.

First there was the X-ray, which wasn’t too bad. I was in a small room by myself and it didn’t take all that long. Then I was led into the main dental area. It is one huge room with scores of chairs separated only by small bath-towels suspended from the ceiling by wires. The room was filled with the unholy sound of the high speed dental drills, the anguished moans of the patients, the smell of burning bone and calcium, and the laughter of the staff. One can’t fault Dante for his failure to perfectly describe hell. Modern dentistry had not been developed while he lived. Through all of this I am being led by a twenty three year old chatter box, who just got a new puppy. Normally I’m very good at nonverbal communication. I have been told that I have the ability to yell without speaking. My pain and the swelling of my face must have disabled this ability. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get through to this gal that I was really not interested in the story of her eight-week-old Great Dane getting sick and throwing up on her pillow.

The next usual hour passed and the dentist finally made his appearance. He glanced at the X-ray and said the tooth would have to be pulled and walked away. Chatter box told me how much everything would cost for the examination, and as an after thought asked; “Did you want to have the tooth pulled today, or do you want to make another appointment?” “Today”, I gurgled with my bloody tongue. Another half-hour wait and even more stories about that rascally Great Dane, before the dentist made his way back.

 He jabbed around in my mouth with some kind of hypodermic harpoon, and then left again saying; “We have to let that soak in for a while.” I have to be honest and tell you readers, after the Novocaine began to work I didn’t mind the chatter boxes stories about the future Marmaduke. The dentist’s idea of “letting it soak” was to chat with the office staff for forty minutes until the Novocaine had nearly worn off. He then came back jabbed around with the harpoon again and without a word of warning ripped out a part of my body.

I feebly make my way to the waiting room and we pay the bill, all the while Sherry continues to complain how uncomfortable the chairs have been and how unsettling all the skulls were. Sherry then decides we must fight traffic and go to WalMart for my pain medication. Even thought there were at least three drugstores that could have been hit by a strong man throwing a rock from the parking lot of the dentist. A half-hour later when we get to WalMart Sherry says quite sternly “You wait here, I’ll fill the prescriptions.” After forty minutes the Novocaine wore off, I was in real pain, and I was suspicious Sherry was shopping for more than drugs. My normally patient persona had evaporated. I’m not sure if the young man parked near us thought I suffered from Tourette’s syndrome or I was Glenn Beck contemplating how much I loved this country. I’m sure he thought something because of all my twitching, cursing and the tears running down my swollen face. Of course Sherry was innocently standing at the Pharmacy counter when I went in to check on her. Although she did have a large box of peanut- brittle for me.

Even though the pain medication was merely medium strength, I have been able to compartmentalize the pain. I still suffer, but do so once again in silence. I am happy to report dear readers, that the surgery was successful. I have taken myself off the critical list and am happy to report my condition as ‘stable, but guarded’. I still think I need to continue to avoid ‘excessive activity’ as the paperwork from the dentist required.

One might wonder how Sherry and I get along when our view of reality is so different. Let me tell you this; Sherry has brought many wonderful things into my life. The joy of hearing her laughter. The taste of the wonderful meals she prepares. Companionship, etc. etc. Yet the most important thing about Sherry and my relationship is not the many things she has given me, it is something she has taken away. My loneliness. A couple of autumns before I met Sherry I wrote the following piece.

Depression 

With each pass of the moon/

Dark deepens and the night grows longer.

I would cry foul!

But I know not the Referee,

Or the Maker of the rule.

 

Tempest tossed and tried,

Mettle tested and strengths bested,

Wants wanting and voids left void.

Little doubt life’s not just dreary;

But most times cruel.

 

Sweet bats of memories/

Hang inverted in the cavern of my life.

Cold — dim-Fall;

Contrast of seasons of happiness;

That were but are not

 

The Hollow-days are upon me,

Merchants quarter-hour reminders/

Of parts of me beyond my sphere.

People gathering to laugh and love,

Lonely —- I sit and rot.

 

Moving, talking, doing;

Any of these can shorten the sentence.

Fear, anxiety and desperation/

Are some of the many things/

That rob me of my choice.

 

Even these bleak words/

Are from the struggle of my way out.

From the bottom of the abyss,

I am only able —

To scream without a voice.

 

Sherry has so effectively removed the loneliness of my life that while I have the intellectual memory of writing that, I have no emotional connection to the pain that prompted it. I don’t say that all my memories are wonderful, or even good. I simply say that Sherry has made them all better. Simply said; A clown can make you happy, but your soul mate will make your life happy.

The Great Air Hose Incident

Tags

Humor, Literature, Troy Mills

I grew up on a farm near a wonderful small town of two-hundred-and-fifty people by the name of Troy Mills. Troy7, as we locals referred to it, was already past it prime by the 50’s and 60’s. The mill that gave the town its name was only a foundation and a crumbling dam. There had been a bank once, but it might have been closed since the Depression for all I knew.

Even with this urban decay, there were still many businesses in the Troy of my youth. Two grocery stores, two trucking firms, a hardware store, a barbershop, an auto-repair shop, and the Troy Mills Consolidated School.  This last was of course the largest building in town with an approximate enrollment of 240 students, kindergarten through twelve.

Troy was an unincorporated community and had no mayor or city officials of any kind. Troy relied on the county for police protection, which was okay, because I can remember no crime. The county was also responsible for the upkeep of the streets, and the care and replacement of the four stop signs that governed traffic.

This unincorporated status also meant that Troy did not have a municipal sewage system until late in the 60’s, which was well after the events of this story. All of the homes and the school had their own septic tanks, and since all of the business owners lived in Troy, there was no need for indoor public restrooms. There was the archetypal outhouse behind Walton’s gas station, but since no locals had used for it, it was not even supplied with fresh corn cobs.

Mike Oliphant rant the other gas station, taking over from his father-in-law Charlie Winstoffer. Even though this older gentleman had turned the reins over to his son-in-law,  he still liked to “help” out. Old age had slowed this gentleman down, and even with two aids, his hearing was almost non-existent.  He was old fashioned and somewhat peculiar. Often he would delay a customer while he removed and replaced their hubcaps so that they would all be aligned. Even so, I imagine he thought he was a great help and it would have been hard for his son Mike to tell him he was no longer needed.

Now I was not at the station the day my story takes place, but I can attest for its veracity. I heard the story from two men who claimed they were there, both giving the same account. In all of my life,  I never knew these men to agree on anything, or tell any story the same way. Since their account of the “Great Air Hose Incident” was identical, it must be taken as gospel.

It seems that one day while Mr. Winsoffer was minding the gas pumps, two ladies, from regions unknown, stopped for a fill-up. They were driving a shiny new car and very well dressed. After their car was gassed, the oil checked, and the windshield cleaned, (remember this story takes place in the early 60’s), they demonstrated how unfamiliar they were with Troy Mills, and asked to use the restroom.

Because this was an unheard of request in Troy, and as I have said the senior Mr. Winsoffer was nearly deaf, he asked them to repeat themselves. Both women shouted, “Restroom!” The story goes that the old gentleman thought they were asking for a whisk-broom. Anyway, in his most courteous manner he told the ladies, “We don’t have one, but if you pull up over there, I’ll blow it out with the air hose.”

Now I don’t know how long it took the women to start laughing, but I bet they had a tough trip the six miles to the town of Walker. That would have been where they could have found the nearest restrooms they had sought in Troy, where all they had been offered was a replacement for a whisk-broom.

Reformed Apathetic

Tags

God, religion, theology

Recently in her blog, my sweetheart referred to me as a “Reformed Apathetic Agnostic.”  Since I am a Reformed Apathetic, I am able to offer a correction. If I were still an Orthodox Agnostic, I would be too bored to discuss anything religious. Apathy and agnosticism are mutually exclusive. A truth is, when I was agnostic I had great passion for all things spiritual. I was seeking answers and I have never found anything as interesting as the quest for knowledge. I shouldn’t speak for other Apathetics; as you can imagine we don’t discuss our beliefs among ourselves much. Still I think most of us do come to our belief after passing through agnosticism.

I truly believe there is a God. My mother was raised in California and often told the story of being on the beach one day and overhearing a tourist say, “It’s not as big as I thought it would be,” after seeing the Pacific for the first time. That is how I feel when I see the God of my understanding reduced to a particular denomination, sect or building. He’s not as big as I thought. The God of my understanding is so mysterious it makes all human attempts at understanding silly or arrogant. Worse, it can be dangerous. The Hagees, Robertsons and bin Ladens of the world threaten our future. When one begins to view his understanding of God as superior, the next inevitable step is to view himself as superior. These attitudes of superiority foster imperialism and create conflict. How often in history has genocide been excused as a form of conversion?

I see all religious dogma, as a result of man’s quest to understand God, not as God’s communication with man. In fact, I view those who claim to receive messages from God, as either frauds or psychotic. So the rituals that are practiced in the various religions are made by man, not God. It matters not if it is taking communion, praying five times a day on a shawl, or bathing in the Ganges. When I see people genuflect I wonder: How do we know that  is how God expects us to approach Him. Perhaps He or She would prefer that we drop our pants, turn around and spread our cheeks so we can prove we are not bringing contraband to the alter.

Why Won’t the Boar Perform?

Tags

Literature, short story

I know I am in danger of angering many in the animal rights groups, by the telling of this tale. Not wanting to incur the wrath of PETA or the SPCA, I must make it clear I do not condone the actions of my friend I tell of, nor was I a participant.

The Story:

A friend of my youth, I will call him Kevin, because that is his name, was in chronic disagreement with his father. One saw day, the other saw night. One said, “wrong,” the other said, “right.” As with most cases of constant conflict, there were periods when the enmity peeked for all sorts of reasons. I’m sure there were also valleys, but they never seem as interesting to talk about. During one of these peeks, Kevin’s fathers purchased an expensive boar to improve his swine herd. The father was not one to spoil the child by sparing the rod. Kevin had learned to be sly in his attempts to retaliate for both real and perceived wrongs.

As Kevin told the story, he went to the hog pen with his BB gun adn waited. When the boar approached his first sow to accomplish the task he had been purchased for, Kevin shot him in the testicles with a BB pellet. Naturally this caused the animal to reconsider his options. He snorted around until nature drove him to seduce another of the ladies. Kevin again let go with his weapon, and the boar put his away. This battle went on all afternoon, until the boar finally surrendered without having fired a shot. Kevin was surprised at how quickly the boar had decided to keep his relationship with the ladies strictly platonic. Even when two or more of the attractive gilts would mud wrestle in the wallow he showed no interest. Kevin’s father never learned why his prize boar wouldn’t perform.

Now this can be seen as a sad story about a dysfunctional relationship between a father and son, or an even sadder story about the the loss of relationship between boar and sow. yet, as I was recalling this story I had to wonder: Would the Bush Administration’s failed “abstinence only” sex education program have been more effective had all the facilitators been issued Daisy Air Rifles?