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Friday, December 20, 2019

A holiday remembrance

   I started writing Christmas stories when I was in Texas, working at the Brady Standard-Herald. This one  centers around a wonderful Christmas memory involving Mom.
Whether you observe Christmas or another winter festival tradition, it is my hope you are surrounded by loved ones and you are safe, happy, warm.
Besos y abrazos.
*****
Christmas Eve, 2013
   Christmas is fast upon us. Heck, in New Zealand, it is well underway. So how do you feel about Christmas? Are you bubbling over with barely-contained joy or are you tempted, in your unnamed fear and dread, to try to outrun it? Perhaps most folks find themselves somewhere between the two extremes, depending upon what circumstances they face on any given day or even how they slept the night before.
   I am partial to the sounds of the season. Music stirs my soul. Some days the stirring is like trailing my fingers through a gentle stream. Other days I feel like I've been through a blender on high speed. No wonder James Bond wants his martini "shaken, not stirred." Regarding Christmas music, I have yet to hear a rendition of  "Carol of the Bells" that is not thoroughly enjoyable, while one of my sisters likes any and all versions of "Little Drummer Boy." There is a melancholy softness to be found in "What Child is This?" and "Coventry Carol." I feel sultry and sexy when I hear "Santa Baby" and I can hardly sit still when "Jingle Bell Rock" is playing. Undoubtedly there are incurable curmudgeons who despise all holiday music, which is their prerogative. So what does music do for you?
   What with the deplorable state of the economy, health care, morals, you name it, it is easy to be very cynical, despite the "magic" of the holiday season. The degree of cynicism is a choice we make when we get up every morning. It may start with the decision whether or not to drag oneself out of bed.
   Sometimes there is no choice: you have a job, therefore you must get up. Your job might be parent, student, rocket scientist or buffer but, whatever it may be, YOU have to do it.
   Besides my paid position, I feel it is part of my job to go out into the world on a daily basis and look for something to write about, laugh about or even sing about. And then share that with others. I enjoy what I do, both vocation and avocation. It is my nature to be a joy seeker but I also consider myself a cynic/realist, having once told a friend that cynicism ran so deeply in my family that we had developed a mutant chromosome and it had become a genetic trait.
   If you find yourself unable to capture that elusive holiday spirit with music, perhaps you can entice it with food and drink. Seasonal foods and beverages abound as do the traditions that surround them. One of my dearly departed friends used to host an annual homemade eggnog bash that heavily emphasized the "nog" portion of the concoction. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite like a three-story house filled with two or three dozen well-lubricated voices belting out Christmas music and show tunes to invite Christmas "presence."
   Tamales are popular any time of year and making them features prominently in many family holiday traditions. The first year my [late] sister Teri came to Texas, we made bean and cheese tamales, since Teri was vegetarian. By the second year we decided that was too much trouble and we settled for bean "borrachos" and masa sticks.
   Christmas 2007 found four of us sisters gathered together. The youngest sister had come to Brady from San Diego, California, one was visiting from Las Vegas and two of us resided there. Our parents came down from Tecumseh, Michigan.
   We girls were up to our elbows in masa, meat and corn husks, preserving a tradition. It was also something of a rite of passage as I realized that I am the viejita-elect. As the eldest of my generation, the torch has been passed to me. Will the flame continue to burn or will it sputter and die? Only time will tell. I think it may flicker but I will probably break down and buy some corn husks and at least make a few dozen masa sticks, from time to time.
    Christmas Eve church services are another wonderful tradition. I grew up in a home strongly influenced by church. It was with immeasurable joy that I joined my parents and the youngest of my siblings at the Brady Presbyterian Church on Christmas Eve 2007 and took Holy Communion with them. We wept unashamedly and it was good for the soul.



   Whatever this season holds for you, I pray you will be blessed with the grace to persevere. Big cry-baby that I am, I get all choked up by the simple phrase, "God bless us, every one." May you indeed be blessed and might we all hear "tidings of comfort and joy."

Tuesday, December 17, 2019

The Snark Before Christmas

Once upon a wintertime

Well my dear, here we are:
   I was writing out Christmas cards and listening to NPR (National Public Radio) when a pal texted me.
Pal: Can you believe November is gone?
Me: Christmas is right around the corner.
Pal: Yipee!!! Whatcha doin'?
Me: Writing out x-mas cards
Pal: Yeah, I gotta do that
Me: Starts to put me in holiday mood ... the rum and coconut coffee doesn't hurt ;)
Pal: I don't know what would put me in the mood
Me: Getting laid would work wonders for me
Pal: Girl, I don't know about you, lol [In case you forgot, that's textese for laugh out loud]
Me: I still have a healthy sex drive - so sue me

   The frenzy that began with Black Friday is gaining speed, much like a snowball rolling downhill. I recall hearing about Cyber Monday [for online shoppers] and 'Giving Tuesday' - apparently so one can *atone* for all the shopping one has done in previous days. Even when I could physically shop til I dropped, I had no interest in it: waste of time and money as far as I'm concerned.

   Friends are beginning to ask about my Christmas plans and whether or not I'm going to South Carolina. (Unfortunately, not any time soon.) On my immediate agenda: write out cards to global contacts, as those will need to be sent sooner to have reasonable expectation of timely arrival; get haircut; attend Christmas parties at Tecumseh Senior Center and Orchard Terrace; put up holiday decorations; get out of this funk I've been in.
   This is one of those letters that gets written over span of couple days. When I checked Facebook, learned a friend had tagged me in a post to let me know she appreciated my letters to her. It couldn't have come at a better time: had been feeling sorry for myself, thinking I didn't make a difference to anybody. We all need actual or virtual pats on the back from time to time.
   Got cards mailed to far-flung recipients - specifically those outside United States - and just as I had expected, next day brought postcards from Australia. I was a couple days late in sending birthday greetings to Tecumseh Senior Center participants; hope they are kindly disposed toward me and in a forgiving frame of mind.
   Still have quite a few actual cards to address. I readily confess some are postcards with holiday stickers and have already *forgiven* myself on grounds so few people even write anymore, that it will do. I'm big on self-forgiveness: it's good for my mental well-being.
   Out to breakfast recently, told my companion I wasn't sure whether to call this  The Snark Before Christmas or Visions of Sugarplums. Decided on former, thinking nobody even knows what sugarplums are. On that note, shall wrap this up and post.
Wishing you well, Jo Ann

Monday, December 9, 2019

catching the bus

Bus 2019: Destination: Rainbow Bridge

   When Angela woke up outside, she wasn't scared, just bewildered. She decided to look around; see if there were any interesting odors to sniff. She wouldn't go far, as she did not want Cecil to fret.
   Rick's bus had been leaving all year: he was dying of cancer. On the last day of November 2019, he got on and left town. As he boarded, he saw a dog across the road and asked the driver if it were okay for her to come along. "Sure thing, buddy: we're all going to the same place." This bus' destination was Rainbow Bridge.
   As Rick and Angela made their way down the aisle, he saw a familiar face. "Hey Mel, good to see ya again." "Howdy, Ricky Joe. Where'd ya get the dog?" "She was in a field across the road from where I got on. Weren't ya girl?" Angela woofed, "Yes; I figured it was alright to follow you. I'm pretty sure I won't be going back to Cecil's."
   Mel said, "There are people on here I don't know but my oldest daughter, Jo Ann, knew all of us. Did you know her, Angela?" "We never met but I heard of her: she wrote letters to my human."
   It was then Dad took it upon himself to play host, and show Rick and Angela around. The first guy they saw was Pat, a diabetic amputee, whom Jo Ann had met at the nursing home where she had gone for rehab. He had died on Halloween and Jo found out, early in December.
   Passing Carolyn, Dad explained, "I don't recall this woman but we sorta have a history: one of her daughters was married to one of my godsons. Frank died in her house." Both Rick and Angela were surprised. Others present were: Father Rick, a Byzantine priest who had gone to school with Jo Ann; Mary Jo, another schoolmate; Denny, an old fellow who used to have breakfast at Big Boy; Troy, a fellow who died in Virginia: during a trip south, Jo Ann had spent a night with him and his wife; Connie, the egg lady's mother; Hazel, who lived to be 108; Norma; and Dawn.
   "Norma was one of my wife's dearest friends," Mel said, leaning down to give the old woman a hug. Then he explained, "I remember Jo bringing Dawn and her son, Wolfie, over to the house. My wife told the boy, 'They call me "Wolfie" too because I like meat.' That made him smile and put him at ease. I sure will be glad to see Zulema again; it's been almost six years."
   At that point, the bus rounded a curve in the road and was no longer visible from Earth. A week after Rick's service, Bella, another old dog, caught the bus. The day after that, there was a memorial for Wynell, a 95 year old, whom Jo remembered lovingly from Methodist choir. She had died back in October but Jo didn't get the news, until it was mentioned in a Christmas card.
   Souls cross the bridge but memories linger in the hearts of those who remain earthbound.

Friday, December 6, 2019

Celebrate weeds


  Much has been written about the "indomitable human spirit." When one contemplates some of the horrors which have beset humans: famines; wars; pogroms; authoritarian governments; one sees how they were withstood through human endeavors to "rise above." In the space of one month headlines included: a murdered journalist and subsequent attempts at cover-up; several pipe bombs, mailed to prominent critics of 45th U.S. president;  threats by that same president to have military personnel fire at immigrants who throw rocks; and eleven people slain in a place of worship, by an anti-Semite. People are in serious need of good news. I found some.

Dear One,

   Remember when I used to write letters all the time? Then I got caught up in social consciousness and started writing about "issues." Issues are important, of course, but so is personal communication. I love writing letters - so I am getting back into it. After one of the residents here passed away, her family had an estate sale, raising money to cover her final expenses. I purchased the bulk of her stationery and related supplies.
   Saturday morning, I woke to clear skies, after spending the night in a bed not my own. Breakfasted on a piece of panettone, a delightful Italian sourdough bread with golden raisins and bits of citrus peel. This was washed down with a cup of stout tea. Bidding farewell to my host and the dogs, I got in my car, to drive home. 
   Trees around here are showing autumn colors; some of which are absolutely brilliant. Several trees were ablaze in vibrant reds and yellows. It was such a beautiful day, it almost made me wish I had a dog to walk. My canine friend in the mid-west has not felt much like walking lately but I'm sure this day would have roused his enthusiasm.
   Arriving home, I changed clothes and went for a walk. Returning to my apartment, I wrote a letter, then perused social media. Checked in with a friend and we made dinner plans: pizza and beer. I spent some time making notes on subjects to be addressed in upcoming letters and whiled away an hour or so adding subtle shading to my supply of illustrated postcards.
   The notion of weeds came to me because the term is used disparagingly for most part, if not exclusively. I like "weeds," seeing them as underappreciated flowers. That's kind of how it is with some people: they get called names and suffer other taunts and indignities because society doesn't know what to do with them.
   Retirement gives me an appreciation of life's slower moments and I find a vast richness in the mundane. Not everyone is so blessed as I, but a lot of people just don't know how to find joy. If it is within my power, and if a willing pupil should come along, I will try to share what I have learned. I am also a student, willing to learn from others.
   I'm sure I have rambled somewhat but hope you know, this letter was written with love. Maybe it has given you some thought to mull over. Even if it just provided a small diversion, it was worth the effort.

May peace and contentment be afforded you, 
Jo Ann

Monday, November 18, 2019

The poor you have always with you


   When resurrecting my blog, some condensation occurred. True, some articles fit together more aptly than others but it seemed worth putting these particular 'eggs' in the same basket. The running theme, when one has been determined, is used as the title for the now-composite blog. (jbd, 2019)
*
   Christian Scriptures tell us that Jesus said, "The poor you have always with you." Apparently, some consider that a reason to not aid the unfortunate; lest they go against the word of God. My outlook holds it to be a challenge issued: to see if those of us who have been blessed with more, would share with those who have not.
   While I'm on my soapbox, don't tell me the economy is doing great, while there are people working two and three jobs, in an effort to keep body and soul together. Unless/until there is a burgeoning middle class, "the numbers" [usually stock market] don't mean diddly-damned-squat. I mean really: while there are people going to bed hungry and/or without access to potable water, nobody should be a billionaire. Criminy, it's no damned wonder that Jesus wept.
*****
   Mid Twentieth Century, when I was a child, the planet's entire population scarcely numbered three and a half billion. It has now more than doubled; heading towards triple.  I seem to recall a statistic from my grade school years, that the population of the United States of America was 200 million. A lot has changed since then: I have dwelt on this earth for over six decades, and the population continues to grow at an alarming rate. In spite of this, women are often compelled to have babies they either don't want or can ill afford.
   Not so very long ago, a former classmate had posted a meme on Facebook, saying the 85 richest people in the world, had more wealth than the poorest three-point-five billion people, combined. Do you realize how many zeroes that includes? Eighty-five individuals to three and a half billion!
   In the comments following the meme, one of my friend's acquaintances wondered what caused such disparity, to which my response was, "Politics/greed, mainly." Apparently, that touched a nerve in another contact, who felt the need to take me to task, saying, "Don't jump to condemn, disdain or assume that rich people are corrupt in some way simply because they're wealthy. Some might be but at the same time, many others most likely are not. Wealth envy is also a form of greed, you know. Remember Jesus' parable of the responsible steward." My first inclination was to blow it off or, at most, comment in a Facebook status update. Talking it over with my roommate, [this was probably 2012, during my first couple years back in Michigan] who supported my statement of inequity being a result of greed and politics, it seemed worthy of a blog post. Greed is expressed in many ways, not least of which is being able to hide money in off-shore accounts, to avoid taxes. That did not used to be the case in the United States, outside of the criminal element. Unfortunately, grand-scale greed has been deemed respectable, and therefor suitably rewarded. Anyway, I had neither condemned, disdained, nor made any assumptions regarding anyone's level of corruption. Also, seemingly contrary to this person's own assumptions, there is no envy of the wealthy, lurking in my heart. But if being rich isn't a crime, (and in my humble opinion, more often than not, it is) why is being poor treated as one?

***
(Eyes, planks, and Myanmar)
              
   It has been said [and variously attributed], "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." One can only hope to be so fortunate as to catch a glimpse of that justice in one's lifetime. There are also sundry proverbs and adages which assure "What goes around, comes around." Maybe; don't hold your breath.
*
   Not so very long ago, maybe 2018, someone posted a tweet extolling Myanmar as a wonderful place for a retreat. This someone was then chastised for promoting tourism in a region where genocide is committed. The laudable lives side by side with the reprehensible, throughout the world. Natural beauty, or immense wealth, across the street from a village whose residents are starving as a result of human-generated famine. It is nothing new.
   Can't you just hear the furor, should visitors be discouraged from coming to the United States?


Prominent Tourist: I had a wonderful time in United States; there are wonderful places to visit. Everyone should come.
Global Public Media Source: Are you insane? Look at what they are doing to those poor bedraggled asylum seekers. Their law enforcement personnel are really just a bunch of thugs, who prey on persons of color. Plus, the citizenry is gun-crazy: you could get shot.

   Trust me, Individual One's digits would be worn to a frazzle, during the ensuing tweet storm. He probably would have trouble picking a target for the first burst of outrage. He sees the 'speck' in his brother's eye, but not the 'plank' in his own. (A reference to New Testament [Christian Bible] passage: Gospel of Matthew, Chapter Seven, Verses three through five.)
   It is advisable to clean up one's own mess, before calling attention to some other party's situation. Excuse me: that is the way of "accountable" people - those who rely on distraction and deception, employ less forthright tactics.
   In my frustration, I will resort to my fall-back position and try to treat encountered individuals with kindness. It usually works. But just for a moment, allow me to digress, returning to a certain set of thumbs. With a number of elderly people running for office of U.S. President, I wondered if a thumb-wrestling contest might be more entertaining than a debate, then figured 45 would have an unfair advantage. 
*
(Fruit of the poisoned vine)

    All relationships are fraught with potential dangers. When a toxic personality is added to the mix, run for your life. Seriously. Run - with all due haste. Toxicity can take varied forms and come in a variety of strengths and guises. Whether or not humans are made "in the image and likeness of God," once that product "rolls off the assembly line" anything can - and usually does - happen. People do not live in total isolation - not even hermits. Experiences gained through contact and interaction shape one's psyche.
   There are many disorders which can distort a personality. Since people live in communities, distortions are not contained within the affected self but leach into surrounding persons and situations. If a person contracts a deadly and highly contagious disease, that individual is placed in quarantine. The penal equivalent of quarantine is solitary confinement. Alternatives to those two extreme solutions can include restraining orders, divorce, even "unfriending" on Facebook. It isn't always so simple - not to diminish the accompanying trauma of even the least of these actions.
   If you have ever been in any relationship in which abuse was a factor you are likely aware that knowing the need to get out and actually leaving can be miles apart, as it were. Whatever actions are or are not taken will affect the lives not only of the immediately concerned individuals but also their satellite people. And not just current generation, but progeny. One recalls the John Donne (1572-1631) quotation "No man is an island."
   There are persons who have chosen to break the cycle, by remaining childless. Others have taken a less drastic path, instead changing parenting tactics. Both courses of action require tremendous inner strength - not only from the central character but supporting cast of friends/relatives. If you are in any role of an unfolding drama, I applaud you - and wish you a successful run.
   Whatever choice a person makes, is determined by a variety of influencing factors; some are chosen by a given participant, others are dictated by society at large or an individual's societal circumstances.

   By 2050, it is projected there will be 1.5 billion people over age sixty-five. I recently heard of a program to use "grandmothers" to help people overcome depression. We need to help each other; in so doing, we help ourselves. In this scenario, older persons [hopefully, there are also participant "grandfathers"] get to feel useful and impart the wisdom of life experience, while younger folks get the undivided attention of someone who has been in a situation similar to their own. Presumably, there is a commensurate pay scale but it is probably less than that of a medical professional. So far, I have not heard of doctors claiming the elderly are stealing their jobs; goodness knows, there will always be a place for practitioners of healthcare professions. No one need be left out of helping others: it begins with kindness.

Sunday, November 10, 2019

As we remember ...

'Unknown' soldier finds place in the Heart (of Texas)

   Remember the story of Eleanor Rigby? According to the Beatles' song, she "died... and was buried, along with her name. Nobody came."
   Such was nearly the fate of a gentleman who quietly passed away during the month of October. (I do not recall the year with certainty but know it was within first decade of Twenty-First Century.) Given the global population is fast approaching ten billion, people live and die anonymously every day.
    This man, estranged from his son, had no other known family, not many acquaintances, and fewer friends. His part-time caregiver had power-of-attorney; she and those who transported him to and from medical appointments probably knew him as well as anybody.
    Though loath to speak ill of the dead, it seems evident the man lacked even rudimentary social graces.
    His health status had declined to the point he faced the certainty of spending his remaining days in the nursing home. His little dog was placed with a family known to his caregiver and Mr. S. was taken to the Brady West [nursing home] facility.
    He really didn't want to go and apparently had no intention of staying: he died that same evening. 
    Events proceeded rapidly - there were no funds to embalm him, so he would have to be interred within 24 hours. It was thought a pauper's grave would be his final resting place but, going through his papers, his attendant found documentation of United States military service. There is a section of Rest Haven Cemetery (on Hwy 87, in Brady, Texas) set aside for McCulloch County (Texas) veterans who die impoverished. City of Brady workers dug a grave.
      With some hastily made phone calls, a small funeral cortege was assembled. This included a preacher, the caregiver and her husband, one or two veterans and their wives. Also standing in attendance were a couple members of Brady City Council, as well as the funeral home workers who had delivered the body. Two women brought flowers from their yards.
      Those gathered offered the solemn dignity which all God's children deserve. A few words were spoken, a short silence observed, then there was a quiet dispersal as the grave was closed. A small flag was placed as a temporary marker.

It had seemed a pauper's grave was all that was in view.

He got flowers and a flag; as a vet'ran, 'twas his due.
________

   It has been more than a decade since a member of the writing group I attended, related this incident and asked if I could write it up for the Brady Standard-Herald, where I worked as proofreader and occasional columnist. The couplet used to close, was my contribution to a dead soldier's memory. The woman who told me about this was one of the city council members in attendance and she also brought flowers. She died earlier this year.

Friday, November 1, 2019

The Shield

   On harsh winter evenings, people while away time as best they are able. Confined by the weather, some read, listen to music or find some other means to amuse themselves. I like to write.
   A drawing I had seen spoke to me - in a voice so nearly audible it could have been disconcerting, had I not understood how my mind works. It looked like anime background, and the visual, not to mention that persistent Voice, prompted me to write a story. When Muse speaks, we mortals had best heed the Voice.
  ***
   Sometimes one wakes, surprised by the surroundings amidst which one finds oneself. Nat'varen Dushja had gone through life in a mostly somnolent state, interrupted by stages of full consciousness. It seemed Fate had conspired with denizens of the underworld to surround Nat with oppressive spirits. Like others, he "went through the motions," not only because his sense of honor and duty demanded it, but because he simply knew no other way. "Normal" is rigidly defined by one's culture and one's experiences therein. Thankfully, a brave few break the confines, expanding the definitions, making them more fluid. Though they may initially be ridiculed, eventually, they are perceived as visionaries and pioneers.
   Many have spent years, whole lifetimes in some cases, in this state of semi-wakefulness. Wizards invent and market potions, some which could more accurately be called poisons, and hawk them shamelessly, often needlessly, to unwary persons. Charlatans develop programs to bend the psyche. Not to say all of those who worked to alter chemical or mental balances do so out of greed, but many are dissuaded from the path of altruism by the lure of riches.
   It was well Nat had been blessed with an inner strength that accorded endurance, but he also had a valiant champion, a guardian. She had hovered, unbeknownst to him, outside his immediate sphere, until their paths were destined, eventually, to cross.
   Beryl Zagovornik was a Golden Dragon who had, during her middle years, attained the rank of Protector. Initial awareness of Nat'varen was superficial, and had come through a third party. Her first encounter with Dushja had been established in of a shared dream. Although Nat, not used to dreaming, chalked it up to "something he'd eaten," Beryl had recognized the portent's significance, having been a member of the Protectorate for eons. Her perceptiveness and empathy had garnered her comrades' high regard. Her empathy, however, had cost her dearly, leaving her decidedly more vulnerable than in her youth. Ironically, it was her vulnerability which was the source of her greatest strength. It was also undeniable that she was growing weak: Nat'varen Dushja may well be her last case. Whether or not the mission were completed, for that responsibility rested ultimately with him, when she had fulfilled her role, she would return to her home world. There, Beryl would live out her years among those who knew her best, until she either left this plane of existence and returned to the cosmos, or she were once more summoned to an extraordinary case that demanded her special talents.
   During moments of introspection, Beryl experienced doubt: were her talents really anything special, did she really serve a purpose, or was she just an aging dragon with a penchant for intervening in the lives of others? Was she deluding herself that those lives she had touched were better for the interaction? She felt certain her own life had been enriched and could only hope others felt similarly.
   Guardian spirits take various forms, according to the world of their origin. Some but not all, can take on the likeness of the species to whom they are assigned. Harking from a small orb in Drakonski Nebula, Beryl was a lovely dragon, whose golden scales glimmered with a warm, rosy glow, like burnished copper in firelight. Many of her kinfolk lived off-world, due to crowding: small planets have difficulty supporting and sustaining great numbers of large inhabitants. Beryl used to regret her inability to shape-shift, but over the course of millennia, one comes to self-acceptance and she saw not only the beauty but the practicality of her form, even taking into account her flaws and foibles.
   The dream wherein Beryl met Nat held a world, forbidding, foreboding, cold and dangerous, yet strangely beautiful, if not comforting, in its chill cleanness. There was uncertainty, which is a given. Crossing treacherous icy terrain, required a great deal of focus and skill not to trip. A misstep could spell disaster, if not death. And though the phrase was often bandied about in a trifling manner, surviving such an error in judgement may well prove a fate worse than death: death brought an end to an individual's misery, while struggling to come back from poor timing and other mistakes often proved more troublesome.
   Throughout her life, Beryl had given of herself, wanting to help others enjoy life. She felt how many were gladdened by her presence, her influence in their lives and it gave her immense joy. Sadly, there were those who reached a point where they saw her not as a helper, but an opponent. Those beings were no longer inspired but intimidated and though they blamed Beryl, what intimidated them were their own insecurities.
   As a protector, one tried to gauge how much influence to use in a particular case, how involved to become. Mortal beings, whether dragon, dog, human or amoeba, are subject to design flaws - rendering life a guessing game, even on the best of days, under the most favorable conditions. One did the best one could with the subject and information at hand, hoping Immortal Beings would be pleased, or at least amused and inclined to be generous.
   There had been a handful of cases in which Beryl had crossed physical lines of interaction. Dragons did not play by the same rules as some professions and there had been no judgement of impropriety levied, no chastisement for "immoral conduct." Those encounters had made her cautious, wary, hesitant to become involved with another human - which was exactly the reason she found Nat'varen Dushja so perplexing!
   The coldness of that dream world was only too real for her, physically and emotionally. Yet she saw Nat's struggles and despite her better judgement, her dragon heart was touched. Furthermore, her mind was intrigued by the intellectual complexity she sensed.
   Could she confer some of her dragon-ness, and if she could, would Nat comprehend? Never before had she dared consider the possibility, much less contemplate putting it in motion. "Don't be a fool!" her mind screamed at her, or rather, Don't be a bigger fool than you've already been. Beryl chided herself, knowing it was coming to terms with her own mortality that made her desperate to make a difference. She saw so much promise in Nat, so much potential. She just wanted to be part of it!
   Self-preservation demanded a return to the homeland forthwith, but was quelled by the desire to reach just a little further, just this once. It may yet prove fatal, but Beryl would use the dragon-fire in her heart to thaw part of the frozen wasteland and nurture a life nearly as spent as her own.
   No regrets and no looking back, Beryl would do all within her dragonhood to help Nat'varen Dushja conquer his foes, be they without or within. If he triumphed, she would rejoice, should he stumble, she would try to help him regain his footing.
   Protectors are strong and steadfast and while there was breath in her dragon body, Beryl would stand by Nat, until relieved of her post, dismissed by her charge or overcome by forces beyond control.
   Stand strong, Nat'varen Dushja, you are called to boldness! Grasp the weapons made available to you and master your world!

Saturday, October 12, 2019

MAPPS show the way


12 October, 2019
   The United States is seems always in the throes of schemes (AKA "campaigns") to place a candidate in the White House. There are all sorts of promises to "Make America Great Again" - which probably do not amount to the proverbial hill of beans. Military strength and economic standing seem to be the focus of both media attention and financial backers.
   Positive impact of exposure to music, drama and other non-athletic programs have been recognized. Yet it seems electives in these fields are always the first to be sacrificed when any budget cutting is implemented.
   Raised in middle-class America during the second half of Twentieth Century, I have been fortunate: the cartoons I watched featured soundtracks of classical music. Television shows often had theme songs with [more or less] sensible lyrics and, in the old movies I watched on a black-and-white TV set, even the thugs had a reasonable semblance of manners.
   Talking with my youngest sibling once, she suggested I write about a school program she has proposed calling MAPPS: Music, Arts, Penmanship, Prosthetics Support. Having already alluded to the importance of music and art, I would like now to dwell on the two "P"s.
   Penmanship is again being taught in United States schools after having been deemed  obsolete, for a period. It makes me sad that some were denied this enrichment. Of the handful of individuals with whom I am in regular correspondence, fewer than half reply in cursive. The ones who do are in the "over 55" age range. Some older people stop writing as their hands start to shake with infirmity of age, but I have seen the script of nonagenarians, which is well-shaped and legible, if slightly wavering. We seem to be in such a hurry. But really, what's the rush? Unless one is allergic, shouldn't one take time to *stop and smell the flowers*?
   Prosthetic devices are becoming increasingly visible among the general population. The manufacture of these items is, I would surmise, a billion-dollar industry. All too often need gives way to greed, and a person is denied something which would enable them to become a productive member of the community because they simply cannot afford it. In an age when 3-D printers can crank out a foot for a duck, why is any person forced to use a stick, padded with a wad of rags? Where are our priorities?
   Awareness of prevailing conditions is a start. From there, we must think, learn, and do - each according to our abilities. My sister believes in my ability to communicate and hopes my "putting it out there" will make a difference. I hope so too.
   Candidates for office should be required to spend as much promoting arts education as on their campaign. That might be a way to limit the mega-bucks spent by special interest groups. As it stands now, we are failing not only present and future generations, we are dishonoring past generations.
   Everything seems to be about the bottom line, which in this case, I suppose, is: Do we really want to be great or do we just wanna have the most guns and 'win the most games'? who are we really, and does it even matter?

Monday, September 30, 2019

Stop the war now!

30 September, 2019

   War has nothing to recommend it. Oh sure, some people speak of the ways war is a boost to economy. One who takes time to notice telling details, will likely find those who tout economic advantages of these deadly conflicts, have little or no actual "skin in the game."
*
   Daily, one becomes aware of individuals who are at grave risk from the ravages of disease. Some are refugees from war-torn countries; some are seeking political asylum; some are the working poor. United States "middle class" seems in danger of disappearing, leaving ultra wealthy individuals and the very poor. It has been pointed out that being rich is not a crime. I believe unless a person uses wealth to better the lives of others, perhaps it should be. Undoubtedly, some will say mine is a "sour grapes" attitude but I assure you, it is not. My wants and needs are simple and I live well, within my means. I do think my lifestyle should be a universal minimum standard. I have no problem with some being extremely well-to-do: just so long as no one is so poor they do not have the veritable pot to piss in. It may just be my opinion but I don't think a "war on poverty" is supposed to eliminate it buy killing off poor people.
   Some argue the wealthy may spend as they see fit, because it is their money. Is it really? Unless wealth was earned solely by one's own physical labor, someone else contributed to it and should rightly be given due recompense. CEOs whose salaries exceed the earnings of company workers - by several hundred times are, not to put too fine a point on it, crooks. There are companies that often do not pay workers a living wage: said workers must work multiple jobs and/or apply for assistance.
   To add insult to injury, United States legislators are implementing/seeking ways to make the process more difficult and re-evaluating participants, to force "able-bodied" people to work a minimum of twenty hours per week. (This may also be happening in other countries besides U.S.) Ostensibly, this is being done to reduce the number of recipients and weed out "welfare queens." These boneheads just don't get it: with few exceptions, those who can work are already working - most of them much harder than many of these glorified bean counters ever even thought about working.
   Privilege messes up priorities: people who have always had  life easy, often think less fortunate individuals are "slackers." Money can also affect memory to a point at which the "nouveau riche" forget obstacles which impeded them. We as individuals need to live our own lives to the best of our abilities. We should also, as society, make it a priority to help disadvantaged individuals recognize their full potentials.
   You may think this blog's title has nothing to do with its content. Too often, war is glorified, to stir up fervor for warmongers' selfish desires. Language also exhibits way too much militarism, in further misguided glorification. Feelings of "patriotism" are being co-opted into nationalism. Residents of countries that have taken in refugees, now grumble that their national identity is being destroyed. When cultures meet, they should find ways to blend, instead of clash.
   We need to open our hearts and minds to change, instead of being bound up in isolationism. Rigidity leads to breakage, whereas flexibility is the way to attain enduring strength. Do not be afraid of change: welcome it as a means of renewed and increased potential. Give peace a chance.

Monday, September 23, 2019

When Love leaves

Fourth Quarter 2019
Dear One,
   Autumnal equinox has come to the region in which I dwell, and I have been answering several missives. Sometimes I need to refer back to previous letters, to form adequate responses and apply context. A most thought-provoking query has come my way: What do we do when God leaves? [And how do we know? - this is my own question; not put forth by asker of first query.]
   Verily, I had not pondered this supposition, ere now. Church leaders insist God never leaves, insisting that if we feel bereft, the "fault" is within us. Having known love to dissipate, seemingly of its own volition, my friend and I challenged that stance and discussed it at length.
   Those brought up "churched," are taught God is Love. There are many forms and fashions, designating kinds of love: parental love nurtures a child; filial love is accorded members of one's family [biological or chosen]; erotic love is that shared with one's partner; and agápi is selfless love. Obviously there are nuances and shadings which individuals grow into, throughout life experiences. If we hold that God is Love, must we not also see Sacred in Truth; Light; and Creativity: for do not those forces also come from/embody Love?
   I began to wonder if maybe we humans put too much onus on our deities - Supreme or otherwise. If one is inclined to ascribe power to a supernatural entity, one likely expects said entity to be around when needed. When it begins to feel that God has gone away, one understandably feels betrayed and abandoned, particularly if it seems Almighty has just lost interest. I once phrased this sentiment thus: "It seems God should always be there, unless we *declare emancipation;* like when kids divorce their parents. Or maybe like a semi-neglected spouse. You know - when there's no more 'magic' but there's no call for divorce either."
   Perhaps believers do Sacred a disservice, holding God to impossible standards. After all, does not even Creator of All That Is, deserve the occasional "bad hair" day? Who among us knows how perturbed and frustrated a Being can become, during Time without beginning or end?
   My own prayer life bears little to no resemblance to its former self, which is not the impediment some may suppose. My attempts to be a better person are no longer motivated by hopes of meriting placement in some unseen Kingdom; merely by a desire to be and to do, good. If ever a deity were 'there,' It will continue to be so, despite any action or inaction on my part. Anyway, I have for years held the belief that the further humans drifted from revering Goddess,the worse off the species became. What else lies behind the mania to subjugate women and deny their human rights/body autonomy?
   Do you ever question the validity of [the] Three Ohs: omnipotence; omniscience; and omnipresence? Even if God's own self is not a man-made construct, surely the concept [of God] most assuredly is. Personally, I believe part of the problem can be laid squarely at the door of western culture, which deals so much in black and white, when most things are shades of gray. Westerners deny themselves the charms and comforts of mysticism: either something can be proved beyond shadow of doubt or it is dismissed as "smoke and mirrors." What a miserable excuse for a life.
   If one but gives one's heart and mind a bit of creative space, one finds oneself thinking elevated thoughts. Perhaps one will write New Be-Attitudes: Blessed are the inconvenient, for they shall raise awareness; Blessed are those deemed "insignificant," they too have meaning; Blessed are the weirdos, for we shall persevere - and one day, lead the lost. This last brings to mind climate activist Greta Thunberg. Some likely deem her "weird," as the young woman acknowledges she has Asperger syndrome. Greta is undeniably a force to be reckoned with and as such, may well deliver us from ourselves. At the very least, she will help show the way.
   If you are one who believes in God, I hope you are able to "keep the faith," even if you *lose your religion;* faith is, by far, the better of the two.

Friday, September 20, 2019

The straight poop

   The incident of myocardial infarction which affected my life, occurred 6 September, 2010.
An infarction is defined thus: obstruction of the blood supply to an organ or region of tissue, typically by a thrombus or embolus, causing local death of the tissue.
   Maybe it's just me, but did you notice similarity between the words "infarction" and "infraction"?  Latter is approximately synonymous with "misbehaving." So, in other words, my heart muscle misbehaved.
   Time adds perspective to life events. Now that it has been a while since my coronary incident, I thought I'd share the experience. May you find it informative and amusing.
*****

Shannon Medical Center: San Angelo, TX
7-14 September, 2010

   "Going undercover" generally implies an element of intrigue, a degree of danger, a hint of romance. Well, there was definitely a degree of danger - hence the phrase "serious as a heart attack."
   Now if you don't like a movie, a play or a meal, you can walk out and go someplace else and that's that. Anyway, while there are movie critics, theater critics and food critics, where are you going to find an unbiased hospital critic? Do hospitals solicit big name patients with exotic illnesses or conditions and offer discount treatment for a good review? Actually, I have been informed that big city hospitals do, in fact, solicit celebrity patients. But it's not like people wander in off the street and say, "I think I'll have the heart catheterization: Do you have a particularly recommended surgeon?"
*
   As an aspiring journalist, it behooves me to recognize the story potential of whatever circumstances I find myself encountering. This is the story of my inadvertent stay at a top notch medical care facility.
   It began 6 September, 2010, while walking Baby, my neighbor's overweight dachshund. After making the block, I was pretty well winded and felt like a cylinder the diameter of my forearm was running from between my shoulder blades to my sternum. Reclining on my friend's sofa, I experienced pain so intense it nearly brought me to tears.
   That afternoon, a certified ECA (Emergency Care Attendant) advised me to seek immediate medical attention. The stubborn need to proceed at my own pace [plus just not having an appetite for the condescension of some medical personnel] caused an 18 hour delay in following his advice. Plus, I was loathe to be chastised for my weight and not taking my meds. (If a fat person walked into a doctor's office, carrying a severed limb, the first question would undoubtedly be, "What are you doing to lose weight?")
   Tuesday morning, I called a friend who had to come into town for work, so she could take me to the Heart of Texas Memorial Hospital, Brady, Texas. On the way, a call was placed to my pastor. Upon my arrival, Lyndy, the ebullient desk nurse, was taken aback: she didn't get a whole lot of heart attack walk-ins.
   Applying the cuff, she "clocked" my blood pressure at 226/186, which is pretty much the medical equivalent of blowing through a school zone at 80 mph.
   I recall an IV being started. Thankfully it wasn't "curtains" though it was definitely, "Goodnight, Nurse."  A groggy state of consciousness was reached around 1:30 p.m. I remember eating a sandwich and  making a passing comment to my nurse about Jesus "reclining at table." Later a friend helped me fill out the menu for the next two meals. She advised the roast pork for supper and it was very tasty.
   Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I was attended by Ronnie, Tammie, Brenda, Bertha and other dedicated care givers on Shannon's staff. I saw a couple people I recognized, including His Grace, Bishop Michael Pfieffer, OMI.
   Thursday evening, being deemed stable enough to move, I was transferred to a room on the fourth floor, since ICU had a bed crunch. I always wondered what it would be like to take part in a "fly-by-night" operation - and now I know.
   Meeting Glory and Molly on fourth floor, I put on my sleep mask and went beddy-bye. The staff commented that I wasn't the typical Intensive Care patient, meaning I talked ... extensively and coherently.
   During the course of the weekend I was privileged to meet Katy, Cody, Judith, Rosa, Olga, Rachel, Kacci and Ashe. Also Mallory and Felipa from dietary services and Paige, Abigail, Laura, Brandon and Alma.
   Saturday, I put on a pair of jeans and went for a stroll, commenting, "Wearing the latest in semi-invalid wear..." During Monday's stroll, I sang, "She's a walkin', talkin', party doll."
I like to think they'll miss the entertainment value.
   Around 4:45 Saturday morning I met Darlene, whom I shall evermore call "Vampira." She was an engaging, gnome-like woman who came in to draw blood. Apparently it was good for her, as she came back 12 hours later and did it again. She and I had compatible humors. She said it was time to feed the bats and I said they must have developed a taste for "Hemo-Lite" seeing how I was down from a 16 hemoglobin count to an eight.
   Brandon, a 29-year-old RN, reminded me a lot of my son and became a personal favorite. We shared a similar sense of humor, too.
   An endoscopy and colonoscopy were scheduled to determine source of blood loss. Drinking that four-liter bottle of electrolyte solution was perhaps the worst trial of the whole ordeal. Then I was NPO (nothing to eat or drink) after midnight Sunday. The procedure did not take place until almost 2:45 p.m. Monday.
   I met Laura, one the neatest people, who understood my warped sense of humor. We sang bits and pieces from Rocky Horror Picture Show. What a gas!
   Speaking of gas, she told me one of the medications I would be receiving would have an amnesiac effect. I asked, "Like the neuralizer thing on Men In Black?" "Yeah," she said, "like that."
  Tuesday morning, a new set of student nurses came onto the floor, among them were Edwina, Sara and Jacqueline.
   Finally, around 2:30 p.m, Brenda, the RN had my dismissal papers ready. She went over the list of new meds, side effects and all that. I said, "I can just see me finally starting to date and we get romantic. He'll be asking, 'Baby, did the earth just move?' and I'll be saying, 'I thought it was my nitro pill kicking in'." The nurses laughed and Brenda left to get the requisite wheelchair.
   I was given the go-ahead to remove the telemetry heart monitoring patches and wires. Stepping out of Room 469 one last time, I exclaimed, "Live, from Shannon's fourth floor, it's JoAnn Dalgard - unplugged!" Brenda rolled her eyes and told me to get in the wheelchair.
   Jacqueline and Edwina came along. The chair was parked at the curb, I gave hugs all around and got into Debbie's car. We hit the street around three o'clock and stopped at a drive-thru' to get drinks. 
   Later I learned my friend Fr. Chris Roque had stopped to visit, missing me by about a half hour.
   Got back to Brady and attended Cursillo reunion group, where everyone was surprised, loving and very welcoming. My friend Debbie took on the role of nursemaid, keeping me at her house until Friday. She would have kept me longer, but I felt ready to sleep in my own bed.
   Though afflicted with post-procedural anemia, exacerbated by anti-occlusion medication, my overall experience was positive. Please feel free to take my word for it - Shannon Medical Center is a great hospital. You don't have to go finding out for yourself.
   A couple words of caution, if you are at all sensitive about your age, leave that inhibition at home: the only one who did not ask me to verify my date of birth upon entering the room was Alma the housekeeper. Secondly, if you want to sleep in the dark, take a sleep mask.
   If a hospital stay is in your foreseeable future, I hope you find excellent care and comfort are readily available.
  
   Stay healthy. If you must go to the hospital, I hope it's to visit someone else.
***
[September 2019]

   Since 2010, I have had to get a cardiologist's 'go-ahead' for surgery: from December 2017-June 2018, I have endured four major surgeries, in pursuit of walking straight. I can now do over two miles; my year-end goal, is to walk at least three. Having just reviewed a comprehensive blood panel with my cardiologist, I am confident of making it.

Wednesday, September 11, 2019

Too big to fail; or too big to manage?

   As you see, this has been updated before. Watching a video Facebook post on the eighteenth anniversary of the bombing of Twin Towers of World Trade Center, and as campaigning has already begun for the 2020 U.S. election, it seemed time to publish it yet again. The U.S. is not the only actor on the world stage: Boris Johnson is desperate to use any means possible to crash out of the European Union, and Benjamin Netanyahu wants to annex territory which is currently occupied by Palestine. Greed for wealth and power, turns people nasty.
*****
15 August, 2012
   This piece was originally written shortly after the 2008 election and, at that time, was titled "My *kingdom* for a political candidate with integrity!" Since United States politicians are in perpetual campaign mode, I have updated and modified it enough to make it timely. I hope registered voters will exercise the hard-won right to vote.
***
   I suppose that rhetoric comparable to the following will find its way to newspapers and magazines from now at least until Inauguration Day, and very possibly until the 2012 election. It will be variously disguised as political commentary, guest columns and letters to the editor. I may as well have my say.
   When someone asked how to spell "Barak," not being "up on Middle Eastern names"- I said, "the Hebrew spelling is B-A-R-A-K and  the Anglicized version includes a 'c'." I declined to further elucidate that the name means "lightning" or that the Barak of biblical mention was a soldier during the reign of Deborah. No use wasting my breath.
   When this person further opined they didn't know what the country had come to when people thought that a man named "Barack Hussein Obama" was the best man to lead America, I asked myself, "Does this person believe what they profess?" For months I had heard many of my Christian friends proclaim, "No matter who wins the election, God is in control!" Several of the people who stated that so firmly were avowed supporters of the Republican Party's candidate for the Office of the Presidency, John McCain. Furthermore, I believe they fully expected Sen. McCain to emerge victorious, because on more than one occasion I heard the sentiment "Even if Barack Obama wins" prefacing the "God is in control" statement.
   So, since an overwhelming majority of those who went to the polls chose to put forth the Democratic Party's candidate as President-elect, was the declamation "God is in control" a profession of faith or merely a sound bite?
   The calendar which sat on my desk at work had a quasi-philosophical statement at the top of each month's page. I hadn't noticed November's until the morning of the fifth when I read: "The best way to predict the future is to invent it." That is exactly what the American people did in the 2008 election - invented the future.
   I hope and pray that we are prepared to handle our invention and only time will tell what this decision bodes for the nation.
   But, just as a person rarely succeeds or fails all alone, neither does one person run the entire country unaided or unadvised. Our system of checks and balances curtails the limits of one person's power. And so it should be.
   Undoubtedly, the winds of political change are blowing with a minimum of gale-force velocity - but it takes a good stiff breeze when one is trying to winnow out the chaff. I proposed, more-or-less flippantly, that perhaps it was time to consider a triumvirate. We could take the [2008] Libertarian Barr, the Democrat Obama and the Republican Palin and name the trifold entity "BOP."
   It seems to me that as the size and demographics of this country have grown, shifted and evolved, it may be time to seriously contemplate moving the nation's capitol. After all, Washington, D.C. is as far removed from most people's reality as Washington State. (Probably more so.)
   It is an undoubtedly radical proposition, but what if the country were divided into rough quarters? The Northwest would comprise Alaska south to Oregon, then jog over to Colorado and Utah, (can't have California in the Northwest Territory), going as far east as the Dakotas and encompassing Wyoming, Iowa and the expansive plains of the Wheat Belt.
   Hawaii, California, Arizona, New Mexico, Oklahoma and Texas would constitute the Southwest. From Minnesota south to Kansas, then eastward to the Atlantic seaboard and inclusive of the New England states would be Northeast, leaving the Gulf Coast states and Missouri, Georgia and the Carolinas to be the Southeast. [This is a think-piece, not a geography test; I know I did not name each state individually, but I'm sure most of you get the drift.]
   Each section of the country could elect a governor, which would in effect add four more people to the chain of command and hopefully put the president in closer touch with more of the people. The nation's capitol might be headquartered in Kansas which is pretty much the midpoint of the contiguous forty-eight. Compromise is all about middle ground and shades of gray.
   With regard to the election, it is way past time for the media to expand its coverage of all the candidates. The Libertarian Party has emerged as, if not "a force to be reckoned with," at least as an entity worthy of our consideration.
   Considering how important the position of President is, there should be more of a choice. In reality there is more of a choice, but that is not well publicized. Robert L. Barr Jr., the 2008 Libertarian candidate appeared on many ballots. There was also a line for write-ins, but I would surmise that many Americans were not even aware of their existence, much less their names. The rest of the world at large, is more aware of the candidates and consequences than many U.S.citizens.
   For the record, the other announced candidates for the Office of President of the United States of America in the 2008 election were Cynthia Ann McKinney, Charles O. Baldwin and Ralph Nader. At least a lot folks have heard of Ralph.
   There is also a joke concerning why there are 50 contestants for Miss America and only two for President. [The punch line has something to do with the swimsuit contest.] As has been noted, there are more than two candidates for President. Maybe we should look into having a First Runner-up? Another option might be to not link the vice presidential candidate to the top dog. Perhaps they should appear on separate lines of the ballot? Mix-and-match might make things interesting.
   I cannot understand those people who do not vote. How dare they toss aside such a hard-won privilege? Yes, it is in many ways unthinkable to ponder the sacrifices and atrocities endured to procure the right to vote. However, if we don't think about it from time to time, we are apt to forget, leaving ourselves in danger of losing this freedom.
   The text messages and jokes which abound may help to allay the fears, disappointments and resentments of those who send and tell them. One I heard was, "If the Founding Fathers had known it  would come to this, they'd have picked their own cotton." 
   Maybe they would have. Would have done them good. Or, at the very least, they should have paid a living wage. People are not property.
   Perhaps their short-term intent was to keep women, persons of color and those they deemed of inferior social status out of the world of politics and decision making. It seems there are those who still want to keep [some of] the rest of us "enslaved" and "in our place."
   I choose to believe and fervently hope the long-range vision included what I heard as a child, "Any kid born in America can grow up to be the President."
   Therefore, even if you are disappointed with the 2008 outcome, if you took the time to cast your ballot, be proud.  If you are among those who decided it wasn't worth your time or effort, you should be ashamed. Please encourage all eligible persons to register to vote in upcoming elections. Apathy is the death of democracy.
   As the United States approaches another election day, it is imperative its citizens do not give way to apathy.
   When Esau sold his birthright for a bowl of stew he at least had a full belly. If you have the opportunity to vote and do not, you are selling out. And what have you got to show for the price you pay?

Wednesday, August 28, 2019

Tie-dyed fabric

   Sometimes leaders are placed in positions for which they are ill-prepared. Depending on how situations are handled on the global stage, tensions can escalate and the results can be not only frightening but costly in terms of human lives and resources. All humans are to be treasured, not only for individual talents but simply because they are.
*****
  27 August, 2018                                                                                                           

   White supremacist groups and their proponents have begun to complain about United States' "changing demographic." They are disgruntled because white people are becoming outnumbered by persons of color. Their core belief seems to be that whites should "dominate." Others of us maintain that American ideals are not about color, but decency toward all.
   Racists would have the populace believe that "foreigners" are destroying the fabric of American life. Is it not much more likely that these layers enrich United States? "Assimilation" should not mean having to deny one's heritage; just incorporate it into belonging.
   Have you ever been dining in public, especially at an establishment offering cuisine from a nationality different than your own? At such times, one might hear a language, other than what one speaks. There is no need to mumble that local vernacular should be spoken: it is simply quicker and easier to convey a direction in one's native language. The disgruntled murmurers should just enjoy the dining experience offered and not get their [individual and/or collective] panties in a wad. Of course, this doesn't just happen in restaurants but whenever or wherever it occurs, one need not get one's knickers in a twist. Here's an idea: if you have a burning desire to know what someone is talking about, learn a different language. It will expand horizons. Might also come in handy when doing crossword puzzles.
   One of my favorite memes on this topic is a picture of crayons in several shades: all are labeled "flesh." I remember "flesh-toned" band-aids too ... and thinking, "But everyone isn't pinkish-tan." Trust me: contrary to opinion of white-supremacists, there is nothing inherently superior about having pale skin. In regions that get a great deal of sun, it might even prove detrimental.
   Human bodies are beautiful and should be celebrated: not only in all their myriad forms, but whatever beautiful color. It is the soul - that indefinable essence, which matters. Seek serenity, find wholeness and joy, release the hurts and injustices that have been done you, so you can live a healthy and satisfying life. Those in your community need not look like you, any more than you need look like them. Embrace your own beauty, as well as recognizing that others are beautiful too: just maybe in different ways. Diversity keeps life interesting and should be embraced, not feared.
Blessed be - And wrap yourself in flamboyantly tie-dyed fabric.

Wednesday, August 21, 2019

Goodbye (but I'm not ready)

   Though I first put this story online four years ago, it may have been resurrected from my college creative writing course. It seemed time to share it again.
*****
6 August 2015  
Though telling a Twentieth Century story, some of these events and situations seem anachronistic. When my child was in elementary school, he asked questions like did my family have a car when I was little, because Teacher had said people did not have cars "in olden days." That's what happens when you tally up four or five (or more) decades: your early years become "olden days."
_____

   It was Tuesday night, third week of spring term. It had been a beautiful day, warm and sunny; after class, boys in Wing Two had played a quick game of touch football. At nine o'clock, everybody was studying, when the phone rang: long-distance call for Jimmy Christianson. He came out of his room and went over to the telephone. Putting receiver to his ear, he heard his mother's voice, "Hi, Jimmy." She sounded tired,  old, far away. The boy made no response. "Son, your grandfather is dying; he wants to see you. How soon can you get home?"
   But Jimmy hadn't heard her last question because his mind was spinning. Grandpa? How could Grandpa be dying? He was too old to die - he'd outlast the mountains! Besides, I just got a letter from him today, saying he felt great and was looking forward to our next fishing trip: Houghton, end of term ...
*
   Memories flooded Jimmy's mind. When Jimmy was four, Grandpa had made him a bow, using green willow wood, whittling slender branches for arrows. Then Grandpa had showed the boy how to aim, using a bale of straw for target practice. There was that hot July day when Mom was cleaning the back porch and Grandpa had salvaged some canvas. Using a leather punch, he'd made holes along three sides, sewed it together with a strip of tough cowhide. After supper that night, Grandpa had presented Jimmy a quiver. The boy believed it must have been just like Indians used to make, being hand-sewn.
   There was a strong bond between the two generations, evident even to casual observers. Jimmy and Grandpa had grand escapades - Mom would be overheard telling Dad she didn't know which of the two was worse - which amused and sometimes exasperated members of the middle generation. Mostly though, they were wise enough to see this time as a vital part of life.
*
  Joshua James Chrisianson had found numerous occasions to take his grandson fishing. Ten years ago, they'd gone to Carp River, where Jimmie had caught his first "keeper," a fourteen-inch rainbow trout. Proud lad and prize catch were captured on film, by equally proud grandsire. Asked if he wanted to have it mounted, or filleted for supper, logic told the boy hunger would not be satisfied by looking at a fish stuck on a hunk of wood. Besides, there were pictures.
   So Old Josh, as neighbors called Grandpa, took a filet knife from his tackle box and taught Jimmy how to gut, gill, and filet his catch. For a nine-year-old, the boy did pretty well. Mom and Dad were proud when the saw the snapshots and there was no need for stories about "the one that got away."
   At thirteen, Jimmy received his first gun. His birthday was in May and most of that summer was spent shooting at tin cans. Jimmy, Dad and Grandpa also went to the rifle range at least three times a month. By November, Jimmy was ready for deer season and got his first hunting license. Old Josh, his buddy Jake Watson, and young Jimmy, went to Iron Mountain for a weekend of hunting, "roughing it" in a hunting cabin. Only Jake got his buck, but the thrill and excitement stayed with the adolescent.
   Through the years, Grandpa was always there when Jimmy needed someone to talk to, help him out, or advise him. There was Summer 1973: Jimmy was a second-stringer on high school baseball team and Grandpa worked Grandpa worked with the boy every spare minute. Sore muscles paid off when Jimmy made first string and was recognized as Most Improved Player. He got his varsity letter that year. As a sophomore, Jimmy wanted to play football, and Grandpa talked his daughter-in-law into letting Jimmy try out for the team. He proved to be an excellent athlete. Old Josh loved sports, and also pushed his grandson academically, feeling a strong body didn't amount to much, without an equally strong mind. When Jimmy graduated in 1976, he was co-valedictorian and Most Valuable Player, both accomplishments testified to Joshua James Christianson's dedicated tutelage.
   To celebrate, Jimmy and Grandpa had spent three weeks in Washington State. Both enjoyed themselves immensely; Jimmy with youthful exuberance, Grandpa recollecting his own boyhood. Tall green trees, unbelievably blue skies, and clear streams brimming with fish. One rainy day, the two contented themselves just marveling at their surroundings. They smiled at a ladybug, making its way from tip of leaf to stem, set back, upon encountering a big drop of rain, going in opposite direction. They spent their last day canoeing down rapids, their small craft seeming almost insignificant on the vast waterway. Upon return to dry land, they had changed clothes and prepared a sustaining meal of bacon, potatoes and onions, and campfire coffee. One last night *away from the world,* under glittering stars, with sounds of crickets and bullfrogs. Tomorrow, they'd head home.
   It was a three-day drive back to Ohio. Sun, woods and river held a charm the two were reluctant to leave, but Jimmy needed to get back and prepare for further adventures in the world of academe. He planned to go to a community college, just to round out basics, then attend a trade school. Jimmy already anticipated a term break, when he could go hunting or fishing with Grandpa.
***
   Now, however, Grandpa would be going off alone, leaving Jimmy behind. Jimmy had enjoyed his time with Grandpa, made the most of every opportunity; in that, there were no regrets.
 *
   "Tomorrow, Mom: I'll go see the Dean after my test ... I'll catch a bus. Leave the light on. Okay?" Jimmy returned the receiver to its cradle without a word, went to his room and closed the door. Sleep brought dreams of Grandpa. The tears would come later.

Sunday, August 11, 2019

A whisper in the Universe

11 August, 2019
This is a story originally published in 2013 as "Across the miles of time and space:" it is something I wanted to resurrect from the archives and put forth anew.  jbd
*****

   In still darkness of a cold winter morning, somewhere on the North American continent, a person lay awake in the predawn hours, pondering Fate. While huddling beneath a layer of blankets, so thick it impeded movement, a prayer formed, and simple heartfelt words went forth from a sleepy mind, into the vastness of the Universe. "May the warmth of my spirit, joined with the fire of kindred souls, surround someone deeply in need, so chill may not end that life, but it might continue and the world may be a better place."
***
My beloved friend,
   It has been too long since we held each other close and I feel I have neglected you in not writing sooner. My reports to the Committee will not be nearly as extensive as that esteemed body may have wished: I find myself more or less confined to one continent on this planet. Not physically, mind you, but financially. Though not impoverished, neither is it possible to flit hither and yon on my current budget. Although I have not been able to access other continents, it is well that I have made my "home" on one to which a wide variety of individuals come. Regarding the physical aspect, I am going to try one of the less conventional routes: it is certainly worth a try.
   Have I ever told you about the Lady in the Harbor? An inspiring work of art and a thing of beauty, she proclaims: "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" (Sonnet titled The New Colossus, by Emma Lazarus, 1849-1887)
   Sadly, some have found the doors locked against them, the borders patrolled by snipers. Certainly border patrols should check for weapons, dangerous drugs and whatever else may threaten the safety of the populace. People are often "profiled" for the color of their skin or their lack of language skills. I think borders should be matters of geography only, not politics. But you know me, a pacifist who never met a stranger.
   Being where I am, I encounter a vast number of individuals from different cultures and countries. Detailed reports on those cultures apparently satisfy the Council of Elders, as I have been neither recalled nor chastised.
   You may be amused to know there are others like myself dwelling on this "third rock from the Sun." Sometimes I don't even have to go looking for them: they come to me. One individual who has come to my attention is Pharr-nah'um, though he now employs an appellation designed to help him blend in. Here on Earth, he has adopted "Frank," the name of his host body's original, or at least immediately previous, occupant. Only recently has Pharr come to the conclusion he has a Latino "heritage," so I may have to start calling him "Paco." It amuses me in a tender sort of way when he says, "I'm Mexican now." I told him simply, but matter-of-factly, we had an outpost *there* too. His eyes got big as he asked, "You've been there?" My sole response was an enigmatic smile. It's best not to tell everything one knows. So many times while in Texas, which is itself another world, someone would say, "You don't have to tell everything you know." I listened and took the advice to heart. Recently, I have learned the term "star children" is employed to describe/explain us. Perhaps, in time, we will be fully accepted into the populace and not have to disguise our origins.
   Frank came to Earth approximately a quarter-century ago. I should specify that is not one of our centuries, but Earth years: 365 days per year, 24 hours per day. Ever fourth year is Leap Year and they add an extra day, but you get the idea.
   He came from a little known region in the Outback of the Milky Way galaxy. We met during a holiday season, in a communal gathering place. With him were "his" wife and two of their grandchildren. He proved very companionable and occasionally, we would take a stroll and chat. Thus we learned we both had ties to Far North Country.
   After several months, he divulged his origins. I was astonished, but never doubtful. It is my belief he did so because he sensed not only a sympathetic soul, but a kindred spirit. When one has been a long time in a foreign land, among strange people, one seeks someone in whom to confide, with whom one can be oneself. Then again, it is entirely possible Pharr has been here so long he has simply lost his edge and his sense of discretion.
   I have yet to determine what brought "Frank" to Earth, and perhaps I will never fully ascertain the reason. It may be of no consequence to my ultimate purpose.  Maybe Pharr-nah'um was just passing by when the host body became available and he decided to drop in. Another possibility: he may be a fugitive from his home planet, which I won't divulge even to you, dear friend, in case he is a secret agent and would be in severe jeopardy if his cover were blown. Far be it from me to consciously compromise another person's mission, another being's life. Perhaps he ran away from home and simply could not find his way back.
   It is possible Frank is an exile or political refugee. What is important to me is his companionship. It is also a relief to have someone with whom one can "let down one's hair" as an idiomatic expression phrases it.
   As he divulges his secret to more and more people, I cannot help fearing for his safety. Insofar as it depends on me, I will protect him from ridicule. He's quite a scrapper and probably doesn't require any assistance or validation from me, but my presence will be available if and/or when, needed. I stand by my friends, sometimes to my detriment. A schoolmate once remarked on my propensity for collecting "broken" people. Truly, there is a tender spot in my heart for those whom the world has thrown away or deemed somewhat less than "worthy." Someone has to champion society's underdogs and since dogs have always appealed to me, it seems my destiny.
   Not so very long ago, Pharr and I went for a twilight stroll with two of the quadrupeds in his care. Overhead, lights were visible, signaling the presence of some flying craft. "How do you know that's not a spaceship?" he queried.
   Well, of course, I could not be absolutely certain but postulated if it were, those guiding the craft would be wise to keep on going. Some Earthlings are so smug and self-righteous and there have been a number of films which have portrayed these less-than-admirable traits. There are those who would murder and dissect other sentient beings in the name of their *God-given right* to know. It makes me so sad.
   It dismays and disgusts me that some people continue to treat other creatures, particularly other humans - but also non-humans, as if they own them! What do you suppose it will take to convince them the best relationships are partnerships?
   True, there are work animals - actually, we are all, in effect, "work animals," but workers are most productive if treated well and not exploited. I suppose we must live within the bounds of society, which decrees our "pecking order" to a certain extent, but there is never a justifiable reason for cruelty or exploitation.

***
   I find the efforts to communicate between peoples and species remarkable at times and woefully inadequate at others. There are numerable sources which do translations - which vary in quality and accuracy. There are also those individuals who care nothing about trying to understand any language but the one to which they were born, their mama-loshen or, mother tongue. There are even individuals who regularly communicate with non-humans. Unfortunately, the practice does not enjoy a great deal of credence yet. Many of us continue in our hope for future enlightenment.
   Language, spoken and written, is a fascinating device, is it not? The hominid bipeds dwelling here are born with the ability to produce all the phonemes of every [human] language, but lose many of those that remain unused, which causes different accents and is part of the reason older people find it difficult to learn a different language or speak it naturally. Languages engage the senses as well as the intellect. There are the sounds one hears as well as those one makes. The eyes are used to read, obviously, but some of the Eastern languages also delight the eyes with their fanciful curlicues and delicate brush strokes. The different tones employed by various tongues provide a rich symphony to accompany day-to-day life. The tone-deaf or xenophobic might use the term "cacophony," in the most derisive way possible, as it seems their habit to dismiss anything unfamiliar in disparaging terms. They relegate whole cultures to insignificance and irrelevance.
   Do you not find such creatures pitiable? They deny themselves much richness, at the same time thwarting the alien who may wish to share something of him/herself. Here is a planet with such rich diversity in languages, species and ideology - a veritable feast - and some would have us subsist on soda crackers and water, proverbially speaking.
   Mind you, some would consider themselves blessed indeed to have such meager fare available. It is truly unacceptable that any should go hungry amidst such plenty. Should one choose to fast or deny oneself in order to ritually purify the body or seek spiritual enlightenment, that is a matter of choice. But to insist that everyone starve because you have chosen to do without, is wrong. Yet there are fanatics who would deny not only themselves, but everyone. It is beyond my ken. In a world abounding in sensory delights, those who hunger and thirst, whether for knowledge or food, should have opportunity to sate themselves.
   Languages and species are becoming extinct at an alarming rate, yet some neither know, nor care. Early in the Twenty-First Century, the last native speaker of a lesser-known Scots dialect died. Just happened to catch that on the news, yet so many more pass completely unnoticed. It wounds my soul to know there are beings who pass out of this plane of existence with no one to mourn them. Some go unnoticed in death, as they did in life.
   I have now spent six [Earth] decades on this planet - half a lifetime in our world. One is amazed by how much there is to celebrate and how much to grieve! Do I have the words to tell you even part of the story? And if I do, shall my heart not burst in joy or break in sorrow at the telling?
   Where to begin? Might as well start with the people. They can best be summed up as a "beautiful mess." They are given these glorious bodies to inhabit which, even with so-called flaws, are exquisite, extraordinary marvels of design!
   For the moment, let us exclude the more tragic cases and address the "average" person. The male of the species stands, I believe, somewhere between six feet and two meters tall and carries on his frame roughly 190 pounds, abbreviated lb [one pound=16 ounces] to 100 kilograms, Kg. It seems overall,  men are quite content with themselves as they are. The female of the species is typically smaller than the male, and much less content, overall. [This dissatisfaction is encouraged by patriarchy, to diminish the innate power of women.]
   In ages long past, it seems to have been women who held governing power and they were revered as life-bearers. It is unclear to me what led to women being perceived as less worthy, less able, but it seems they are so considered.
   Political machinations aside, there is an even more pervasive threat against the well-being of the people. When it happened, I am not sure, maybe it has always been a factor, but some demented entity saw fit to appoint itself an expert on "beauty." Among the results: sex is used to sell everything from drain cleaners to auto insurance. A sacred mystery has been stripped of its beauty and dignity, for something as insignificant as monetary gain.
   "Fashion" comes not only from outside one's gender, but from within. Whalebone corsets were once all the rage and women have more or less willingly disfigured themselves through the ages. Who knows how many ribs were broken, trying to achieve "wasp" waists, or how many feet were rendered useless by binding? For longer than you can imagine, people have been told how they should look to attract a mate, get a job, rise in social ranks. Although both sexes are subject to these arbitrary standards, it seems women more readily accept them. Women are taught to be ashamed of the talents with which they are imbued, as well as their glorious bodies.
   Within the last few years, some director doing a guest spot on a morning show, said there had been a part open for a "nerdy" girl. Of those who auditioned, the best actress was considered "too pretty" - as if brains and beauty could not possibly co-exist in the same person - so he decided to "frizz her hair a little." This is one area where men fare only a little better than women.
   Intellectually gifted persons are most often portrayed as socially and sexually inept and somewhat undesirable. I have always found smart to be sexy. I wonder if the unflattering stereotype is perpetuated because some less-than-brilliant people have only their looks going for them? Though loathsome and pitiful, some find it necessary to demean others just to make themselves feel better.
   Generations of women have starved themselves into a false idea of beauty and some have died as a result. This has got to stop! It is gratifying that some bold, innovative people have rebelled and thereby reclaimed their bodies. It renews hope in the species. Make no mistake, they have so very far to go, despite their progress.
   Ah, mijn liefste, how I long to dwell once again among a people who revere their home, respect themselves and cherish others, regardless of race or species. What serene joy one would know, could one live a life free from fear. Yes, we were once a warring people, who very nearly destroyed ourselves and our planet. Thanks to the Source of Life, we denounced the madness of self-destruction. Obviously, the humours run high in some individuals and for a time our world regrettably allowed Might to become "Right." It seems that's where this world is. Pray the good which dwells within them, conquers the evil seeking to subject them. Some of these poor fools think compassion a weakness to be overcome. Alas, they could not be more wrong.
   There is so much promise, potential, they simply must wake up before they totally destroy themselves and this planet. Sadly, there seems to be no "device" that will force realization, rather they must come to it in their own time. I hope they do not run out.
   On the morning of 14 December, 2012, in a fairly quiet New England town, East Coast, United States of America, a gunman murdered more than two dozen people, about two-thirds of whom were elementary school students. This, after shooting his own mother.
   [Half-way 'round the globe, another madman, this time in China, attacked 20-some children with a knife. But at least the Chinese kids survived. This attack occurred within days of the other.]
   It boggles the mind: what kind of monster attacks innocent little children? Perhaps not a monster, so much as someone dreadfully misunderstood? Both these events will be analyzed for days, weeks, possibly years, to come. People will look at: issues of weapons control, some thinking more weapons to be the answer; treatment of mental illness, many treatment facilities being closed; even, incongruous as it may be, whether or not there is prayer in school - though this latter-most seems politically motivated and inconsequential to the tragedy.
   The real monsters are those with no sense of decency whatsoever, who perpetrate scams, playing on  people's sympathy, or exploiting their gullibility, for monetary gain. Despicable.
   Once again, people will tear their hair and ask, "Has the world gone mad?" And there seems to be no answer or, rather, an unwillingness to claim accountability. Pictures of the Connecticut shooter show a youth with haunted eyes. Obviously evil exists, but these people are made, not born. This boy in a man's body was once a child as innocent as those he destroyed. Was he denied parental love, was something short-circuited in his brain, did he use mind-altering drugs? The world may never know.
   It seems the media, claiming the people's right to be informed, glamorize these episodes. Sadly, they either cannot see or do not care that they are contributing to the destruction - of the species, the civilization, the planet.
   Should it come to destruction, I wonder if persons like "Frank" and myself will remember how to get back to our homes far away - if the violent shock waves spare our far-flung planets.
   As it is, Earthlings may be in danger of breeding themselves out of existence. Not content to let nature take its course, some can, for a price, add their "two-cents worth" to the gene pool, whether or not it is advisable. It matters not whether they will be fit parents, only if they have the money to afford the requisite procedures.
   There are now more than seven billion humans populating Earth. Population has more than doubled during my brief tenure here. And yet some two percent, yes you read that correctly - 2% - control upwards  of 85 percent of this world's wealth. Adding to the injustice, those with the money do not even bother to be "benevolent despots." If the haves even condescendingly cared for the have-nots, it might be considered a redeemable quality. Instead, it seems the ultra-wealthy want to starve the poor, not just into submission but out of existence - as though by eliminating a social stratum there will be more for them. Do they not realize goods don't just materialize: someone has to manufacture them. It's not as though they would be willing to get their own hands dirty. They probably think that is why *God invented Third World countries* - to be exploited.
   Being  just "middle class," at least in the United States of America, apparently isn't good enough any more. It seems most people there seem to think they have to be "super-rich" to matter. Other cultures appear more gracious and realistic. There is an adage: "Do not educate your children to be rich, educate them to be happy, so when they grow up, they will know the value of things, not the price." Would that more people adhered to this.
   This planet could sustain all its inhabitants, numerous though they be, comfortably; or at very least, adequately. When the One whom Christians refer to as the Christ [Greek: anointed] said "The poor you have always with you," I believe it was a challenge - issued in hopes humanity would prove the statement erroneous.
  Tell me, what do you think are their chances of learning the value of a life not based on a monetary system? My heart aches at not being able to convince more of them that one's value lies in being worthy, not in one's "net worth." I will have more confidence in this species when they learn to cherish one another, regardless of age, gender, income, weight, size, shape, sexuality or any other arbitrary or external difference.
   Often, it seems to me I have failed in my purpose. What difference have I made? Even among my nearest and dearest, there are those who do not grasp the concept of living within their means. The thing that keeps me living instead of giving up and dying, is hope. Whether or not the hope is justified remains to be seen, but as the tomorrows continue to come, this individual will be on hand to greet the new day and see what it holds in store, for as long as Sacred decrees.
   It has long bothered me that the United States, more than any other culture, seems to neglect their elderly, often to the point of abuse. One is aware that many cultures used to "cull" those who were weak or impaired, to maintain the strength of the tribe. It wasn't all bad. But to dismiss viable, productive people merely because they have crossed some invisible line and reached a certain age is absurd. People use the visible, the tangible, to determine worth, ignoring intangible values, such as spirituality, experience and intellect. When the value of spirituality and other intangibles is questioned, I ask the one posing the question to consider an existence devoid of art, music, literature or other diversions. Even so, there will always be those who cannot see merit in what they deem unproductive. Those poor souls are already dead inside and their bodies do not know it.
   Realization has been a long time coming, but I now know this is my last stop in the galactic journey and there are those I will never, in this life, see again. Although an "infant" upon arrival, I had to have been old enough to have experience "under my belt" to find my way here and make a go of things. My degree of success is still in question. Being away for so long has caused me to forget some things for a time, which is undoubtedly how that morsel of information eluded me until recently. I am now aware, and fully accept, this is the second half of my lifespan. I intend to live it to the fullest!
   There are no regrets, as this has been a rich and rewarding existence. So many extraordinary individuals have crossed my path, either in the flesh or by some other means. Among those in the former category are my family, of whom I must mention my children, David and Dawn. One I carried in my body, the other came into my life as an adult. They will forever remain in my heart.
   There are so many friends who have changed my life, but I would be seriously remiss should I fail to mention Angelina, John and Lynda, Delta and Debbie. It is no exaggeration to say that without their intervention, I may well have died.
   Those in the "other means" category are no less dear to me and now I cannot imagine a life without "Macc," who has himself become one with the cosmos, as well as Debra; a Judge in South Carolina; and oh so many others. Sputnik and his human are also part of my universe and I value the laughter and joy they have brought me. I have touched them and they have touched me. Well, Sputnik is not aware of my existence, but at least one of his humans is. My most cherished dream is to actually meet some of these people to whom I now feel so deeply connected. In recent cycles, orbiting Sun, that dream has been partially realized.
   I do consider myself fortunate to have found a family so accepting of the wide range of talents and personalities exhibited by my "siblings" and myself. For years, it seemed I was more like Dad's side of the family, but age has given me a stronger physical resemblance to my mother. Then came the stunning revelation that she did more than just give birth to me: she was the vessel through whom I entered this world! The extent of her sacrifices becomes clearer, humbling me.
   Even in her growing frailty, she possessed an undeniable, indomitable, strength. She awes me still, and I am proud, indeed honored, to be her firstborn. Each moment spent with her is etched on my heart. Since last we communicated, that lovely woman has departed this realm and is now part of The Eternal Oneness.
   The man who parented me and helped shape my values always stood as a larger-than-life patriarch, revered and respected not only by his children, but nieces and nephews - for two or three generations. Should my circle of influence spread so far, I would hope those affected would bless my name, as I bless his.Though he is bent with age, he remains indeed formidable.
   Time and again, it comes to me how fortune has smiled upon me. Every child should be welcomed into a loving home and have basic human needs met. All creatures deserve to be surrounded by love and beauty. Our home was not opulent but definitely more than adequate and the key element was love: our parents loved each other and us - as a family and as individuals. That love is an inextricable part of who we are and may well have affected our DNA.
   We should all aspire to leave the place looking better than we found it, that's what being a good steward means. If nothing else, may I be remembered as a good steward, a friend of the Earth, a friend of its inhabitants, a friend of the Universe.
*****
   Hopefully, this lengthy missive has not worn out my welcome with you. There were many other points considered, but it may be better to leave them for another time. This is not the last you will hear from me: there are too many words yet unwritten, unspoken.
   This will ultimately be finding its way to many who do not know me as you do, and for that I am thankful. For that reason, it has been designed not only as an intimate correspondence between myself and you, my very dear friend, but a love-letter to the far reaches of Time and Space.

Grace and Peace,
J.