Bingo, babes, 'n' beer

'Allo cherie,
   It has been too long since my last missive to you, so this is an attempt to assuage my guilt. As for this composition's title, I hasten to add "not necessarily in that order." Some thought was given to alphabetizing them, or listing by occurrence. Ultimately, I opted for what rolled off my tongue easiest.
   My social calendar frequently has a 'feast or famine' feel to it. Some stretches have uninterrupted days, with nary an activity to be had; next thing I know, one thing gets piled on top another. It would have happened this month with the monthly reunion luncheon and bingo, but for a teensy scheduling miscalculation. You see, the floor of the community room [at the apartment complex where I live] gets waxed, every three months. In May, the floor was waxed on third Thursday - which is usually bingo night. That also happened to be same day I met high school friends for lunch. It was my good fortune not to have to play a double-header. Babes, third Thursday; bingo, fourth Thursday; and beer, yet to come, tomorrow afternoon, on fifth Thursday. Last Thursday of the month is when Tecumseh Senior Center has its "Social Club" outings. We generally take off November-February, due to iffy weather and winter holidays.
   There are several letters on my desk, awaiting reply. Some people will receive newspaper recipe enclosures. I often get letter prompts from Facebook. This morning, walking to mail drop-slot, a letter began its journey to South Carolina. I hope soon to receive confirmation that an errant missive has finally reached the Asian subcontinent. A correspondent from Missouri, recently sent several selfies; one of which will be cut down to put in a locket. Notification has been given that other letters are en route.
   This morning was so humid, the morning walk was completed indoors. Completing rounds just before nine o'clock, I waited for manager's office to open, so a work order could be submitted. Last night, bedroom curtain rod became detached from the wall, necessitating a visit from the maintenance man. Mid-morning, new housekeeper arrived and duties were performed satisfactorily. At one o'clock, the movie Cool Running (1993), about Jamaican bobsled team, was shown. If you know anything at all about me, you are fully aware that I am a big softy and cry easily. So I teared up when they qualified for entry and in a couple other spots. The tears came in a veritable torrent when the team shouldered their sled and walked it the last several yards, to cross the finish line. June events are already filling up my datebook.
   A communal meal which coincides with one tenant's birthday, will be held first Friday in June. Sliced chicken breast will be my contribution; maybe a dessert salad, if I feel ambitious. That's all the news I can think of but I shall be sure to write again.

Sincerely,
Jo Ann

Between holidays

   Now that United States has destroyed the charm of Memorial Day, which is really May Thirtieth, by moving it to last Monday of May, it just doesn't mean as much to me as it used to. I've cobbled together bits and pieces to tied us over until Muse presents fresh inspiration.

*****

Mother's Day weekend

13 May, 2012

   Friday, 11 May, went to Lenawee County to spend some girl time with a friend. We had ice cream and a good visit. We walked to the bus stop when her little boy got home from school. One of the things I thought about as we passed St. Mary's on the Lake was the Arthurian story involving the Lady of the Lake. I remember a TV movie of an Avalon story that alluded to Marian stories being Christian covers of Goddess stories. Seems entirely plausible.

   With all the woman hating and oppression that seems to be so prevalent, women need to assert themselves and make their presence felt. We are a force to be reckoned, not trifled, with. For an allegedly evolved species, humans have a lot to learn about how to treat one another. Just a hint: love and respect.

   On the way home, the aroma of fresh sweetcorn filled the air, evoking olfactory memories. I also passed a field sparsely covered with a short red grass or the stubble thereof. After so long away from my native state, I don't recognize the agriculture. In fact, I question whether or not I even belong here. Michigan, maybe: Washtenaw County, not so much.

   Saturday, 12 May, going to the 4-7 shift, noticed a large patch of lily-of-the-valley. Picked one fragrant little stalk and took it to the old lady I was sitting with. Making two people that happy over something so simple was wonderful. I encourage you to try it sometime.

   Sunday, 13 May, Bishop Wendell Gibbs Jr. was at St. Luke's for Baptism, Confirmation, Reception and Reaffirmation. When he laid hands on my head as I was reaffirmed, I felt such holiness. Then I went down to Lenawee County to see Mom for Mother's Day. Let me tell you, I hit the mother lode in the joy department. Got to see two of my sisters, talked to brother Mark and to my son. The funny part about the latter-most was, I answered when David called and he said, "Happy Mother's Day, Grandma." I told him it was his mother to whom he was speaking. Waited, hoping my niece would make it before I left, but she didn't. Still, it was a good day; watching Mom enjoy the orioles at the bird feeder and the way she smiled when Kelly brought her a begonia. Truly, my cup runneth over!

***

 POSTSCRIPT: His Grace, The Right Reverend Wendell Gibbs Jr. was at St. Luke parish on Ascension Thursday, 9 May, 2013 for an area-wide Confirmation, Reception, Reaffirmation ceremony, involving five or six parishes from the Diocese. One older lady, from another parish was confirmed, and I stood with a friend as he was confirmed. It was a lovely evening and it warmed my heart to be a participating witness.

(Songs of the homeland)

17 May, 2012  

 "How shall we sing the Lord's song in a foreign land? If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither! "Let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I do not remember you, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy!" (Psalm 137: 4-6 Revised Standard Version)

   In the middle of summer, we often think of reunions, visiting family or former classmates. Not everyone is so fortunate. People are away from home for all sorts of reasons. Soldiers are on tours of duty that take them away from loved ones and homeland. They may also find themselves in mortal danger.

   Sometimes one experiences separation as the result of an unfortunate choice. This is the case with prisoners or persons in rehab. Not every absence from home is dire. Students may visit a foreign country, gaining a wealth of experience and information. Yet in the midst of adventure, one is often homesick. A person of my acquaintance is trying to get her paperwork straightened out so she can get on with her life. Bureaucratic red tape is a hassle, at the very least. She misses her kitties and her adult child. Happily she has found a situation cat-sitting which seems tailor-made, and is getting settled.

   While longing fills the heart, fond memories ease the loneliness. Maybe there is no going back physically, but there is a place in your soul where joys remain untarnished. "When a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong. The stranger who sojourns with you shall be to you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God." (Leviticus 19: 33-34 RSV)

   As you read this, I find myself sojourning in a place that is familiar, but hasn't been home for nearly two decades. It is the state of my birth, a place where I spent the first four decades of life. While in Texas, there has developed a fondness for people who would have remained unmet had circumstances not brought me here. Where to stay? Where to go? A quandary.

   It is good to be here, renewing old acquaintances and meeting other persons in the flesh who have become known via the Internet. The future is uncertain to greater or lesser degrees, depending a lot on one's health and financial well-being. Should you find yourself in dark and dire circumstances, sing a song of your homeland. Your country of origin certainly, but your eternal homeland too.

   Music is the language of love. As such, it comforts us and alleviates our fears. Give voice to the song in your heart. Remember, even if you are not in your homeland, you carry it with you.

*************

I have, since writing this article, returned to my native Michigan. The journey has been bitter-sweet and I feel torn. It will take time, but faith will sustain me.

Grace and Peace

***

(I no longer serve in Eucharistic ministry.)

19 May, 2012

The circuit-riding preacher brought religion to the people

Sometimes the "church" didn't have a roof, much less a shiny steeple

Folks gathered underneath a tree or just out in a field

At a campfire, hungry souls were fed and wounded souls were healed

The legacy has been passed down to those who fill the role

A chaplain takes a Bible, entering a prison or a foxhole

Sacred space is a frame of mind, it can happen anywhere

As two or three are gathered or in solitary prayer

The circuit that I ride is here within the town

I take the sacred elements and visit all around

I see people on their porches or lying in a bunk

One time the car was full, so I had a Body in the trunk

But most times the box is right beside me, handle gleaming in the sun

And I go into the 'hood, with Jesus riding shotgun.

National *holi-daze*
26 May, 2012
Talking with a friend, who is an American veteran, I opined several national holidays seemed to have lost a great deal of their significance when changed from their original dates to a Monday, merely for the sake of a three-day weekend. He said that had been done largely at the instigation of the travel and tourism industry. It just seems a damned shame.
This was first published before I left Texas, it has been updated, as seemed prudent. jbd

*****

   Leaving for work this May morning, I noticed it was beginning to rain. Having lived several years in a drought-ridden part of Texas, I am reluctant to dictate the Almighty's business, figuring an omnipotent deity does not need my meager input. Besides, I enjoy the smell of rain-dampened earth. It was also raining when I left work, coming down a little harder.
   Several may be disgruntled by rain disrupting holiday barbecue plans. I must tell you, I was pleased to note some were not deterred from carrying out a genuine observance of the holiday, a truly holy day of remembrance. Passing a small rural cemetery, four or five people wearing rain gear, were seen putting flags and flowers on graves.
   It has been so long since Memorial Day was observed on its original day, I was no longer certain if it is 30 or 31 May, so I used a well-known search engine to determine it was the Thirtieth.
   It seems people actually grumble now when national holidays come midweek, because they are "deprived" of a three day weekend. Certainly other countries have national days of observance, and I pray they will not adopt the sorry custom of the United States, moving them to the Monday before, turning a day of solemn remembrance into an excuse for a shoe sale, a "beer and BBQ blowout" or other meaningless frivolity.
   Perhaps some, like myself, remember when Memorial Day was called Decoration Day. Kids were off from school, parents were off from work, and families went to place flowers on the graves of loved ones, whether they'd been in service or not.
   My childhood memories of Decoration Day center around Fairfield Cemetery, near Jasper, Michigan. These hallowed grounds are the eternal resting place for the mortal remains of dearly departed on both sides of my family. We would take lilies-of-the-valley and/or irises, as I recall, and place them on the graves. Then we'd kneel at the foot of the grave and say a prayer, finishing with, "Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them." My brother and I would usually take a drink from the pump, cupping the water in our hands. It tasted sweet and earthy.
   Simple memories which evoke simple pleasures. Monday, after work, I shall go and visit the living and perhaps even the dead. I shall distribute hugs, kisses and kindly thoughts accordingly. May you be blessed, in your observances and your memories. If you know someone who is unable to stop at the grave of a loved one, maybe you can go by, say a prayer, lay a flower: it costs so little and means so much. We are, after all, part of the same family.

(reflections)
29 May, 2012
   It's amazing how much happier one's existence becomes when seeking the joy in life. That thought rode with me all the way back from Lenawee County to Washtenaw. Then I read a friend's blog and learned that she also had been learning to take time to enjoy time with others. When we realize how precious and fragile time is and come to terms with our limitations and morality, I think we are inclined to make the most of what we have and live life to the very fullest.
   I enjoyed my day with Dawn and Wolfie. We had a great lunch, then went to a nearby cemetery. The scent of irises was so strong, it felt like we were surrounded. It wasn't cloying in the least, but comforting for being so substantial. We walked around a bit, noticed the graves marked with flags. Saw some graves so old the engraving was no longer legible. Then, we stopped for an ice cream treat, which we took back to the house to enjoy in air conditioned comfort. Dawn made me a care package and I left to visit my parents.
   Mom was feeling a little hungry, but it would be at least another hour-and-a-half before my sister would be over to prepare their supper. So I opened my "goodie bag" and shared with them. Leftovers can provide a feast not only for the tummy, but for the soul. This wasn't "Chicken Soup for the Soul." I'm talking barbecue!
On that note, I'll share some of my prose.

Besides DQ:
I have nothing against the fine people who make Snickers Blizzards and Hung'r-buster burgers.
But what I really like about Texas is that you've got a drive-thru' beer barn attached to a place where you can get tattoos and body piercings.
So, like you and maybe a friend grab a six pack and drive around a while. A couple hours later you come back, but you don't drive through the beer barn. You go into the tattoo parlor and come out "branded," or with a chunk of metal in a previously non-perforated part of your anatomy.
Don't get me wrong; I'm a fan of body art and body jewelry. In fact, I have a couple tats and I wear 18 hoops: Six in one ear and a dozen in the other - Symmetry is highly overrated.
I know this doesn't always rhyme, but these are the ramblings of my mind...
So a friend and I went for a drive the other day. Coming home, we stopped to gas up the car. Something made me think of those "Chicken Soup for the Soul" books.
You know, somebody has made an awful lot of money off those.
Anyway, I got to thinking: even though chicken soup is supposed to be good for you - nourishing and comforting and all that, sometimes you just don't want chicken soup.
I'm kind of the layman's philosopher-slash-theologian and I tend to think outside the box.
WAY outside.
And what I'm thinking is that sometimes your soul needs a cheeseburger and a beer ... and maybe a side of curly fries.
This isn't about how many books I might sell. I just want to know I've done what I could to give somebody something that will carry them a little bit farther down the road.
So even though I don't like smoking, if your soul needs a cigarette, I'll try to find a match.
Because what nourishes my soul, is trying to help you find what your soul needs.
L'Chaim!

Stay who you are

   Nearing completion of my seventh decade, I decided to pick up an application for a U.S. passport. Perusing the invasive list of information requested, I decided to rant in writing. The form demands the name of my Current or Most Recent Spouse. Reasonable human that I am, I can sort of understand providing name of a current marital partner. But what about the person who is trying to escape an abusive spouse? In my opinion, divorce should dissolve all ties and the need to divulge those names and former relationships. If the question remains in place, there should be an expiration date: let''s say five years. At least the question isn't only asked of women.
   Then there is the matter of renewing one's driving license. The most recent notice sent to me, informed me I was not "Real ID" compliant. Fortunately, I have on hand certified copies of my birth certificate and marriage license, to show name change from Baugh to Dalgard. I never took second husband's name; I remembered what a bother it was, having to register with Social Security for first name change. Besides, it's a no-account name.
   Anyway, that is the basis of my argument for refraining from getting married: being able to live one's own life without needless complication. In misogynistic cultures, that deny a woman's right to govern her own body, women would do well to find [sure-fire] ways of avoiding pregnancy. Parents need to laud the virtues/benefits of auto-eroticism and break the cycle of shame. Churches need to mind their own damned business. You know, that caring for people thing.
   Also, anyone who cares one whit about humanity or ecology should do whatever possible to ensure [what I am choosing to call] reproductive justice. This means promoting the right of women to make their own choices for their lives and their bodies. It also means supporting and electing representatives who uphold these rights. In places where basic human rights are denied, establishing voting rights is a first step. The planet is currently experiencing a plethora of morally weak leaders, relying on "strong man" tactics/politics. It would appear the word "conservative" has come to designate someone who is just plain mean: punitive mean and stingy mean.
   It is indeed ungodly, unconscionable, and altogether unacceptable that women's lives are held in such low regard. Just who the hell do legislators and religious fanatics think they are, to foster, promote, and enact legislature, designed solely to enslave women? As heinous as this behavior is, when exhibited by men, it is so much worse when our gender is betrayed by one of our own. Meting out eternal damnation is not my bailiwick but I certainly do not envy their fate. I saw one meme to the effect that women of childbearing age in one state would have to undergo monthly exams to determine whether or not they were pregnant - and have a doctor sign off. Failure to do so would incur the state's wrath and punishment would ensue. I'm hoping this was a false alarm: the logjam of paperwork would be horrendous and work on any number of vital projects would be halted. I cannot help but think of thousands of rape kits, nationwide, that remain untested. Oh; but those would be a nuisance to men. God forbid. Well, not God - the Good Ol' Boy network. This is what "patriarchy" looks like. It is neither pretty, just, nor fair.
   Parenthood should be honored as a sacred trust; perceived as a joy - but it can be neither if it is regarded as a punishment. Every child deserves to be wanted and cared for. Isn't that the world you want to live in? Help achieve it.

This didn't go as planned

   You may have seen a meme which asks "What is your dragon name?" Instructions for discerning this are: [Your name, backwards] the [current mood], Hoarder of [last food you ate] and [object to your left]. Most people use given names; I primarily give my surname. I have since put my given name which, backward, is "Oj." A lot depends on mood; sometimes the more sober and somber "Draglad" is required. Recently, a letter was dispatched to Draynim the Abiding, from Oj the Generous.
   Some would slander dragons, equating them with demons. I chalk this up to weak minds and petty fears. Certainly there lies within the souls of all living creatures, that spark of divinity which is too often subverted. It is sad that all nonconformity, whether of form or ideals, seems automatically to be labelled "evil." Is this why some folk are so obsessed with *slaying* these powerful beasts? What have dragons ever done to deserve such a fate?
   Alas, that is a question which could well be asked of other groups which are demonized and marginalized: immigrants; poor people; ethnic minorities; LGBTQ persons; far too many others. Racists claim discrimination when those they would oppress, are given equal rights. How pathetic is that?
   I am fast realizing this cannot be about dragons when there are more pressing issues to discuss. we will leave the fate of dragons for a time when there is not so much social upheaval. So let's get in there and get our hands dirty, shall we?
   Via Facebook, I follow the vlog [video blog, for those unfamiliar with the term] of Beau of the Fifth Column. This bewhiskered young fellow [I have reached such an age that anyone south of the half-century mark is "young"] comments frequently on the deplorable state of U.S. politics and policies. During a recent segment, Beau addressed the issue of crying babies. For once, he did not refer specifically to those unfortunates being tear-gassed at U.S. southern border. Instead, Beau was talking about those nameless "least ones" that fill shelters - when there's room.
   On a recent Saturday evening, I attended an appreciation banquet for Neighbors of Hope, a local outreach ministry. After a lovely meal, we heard speakers from various ministry coordinators and a couple testimonies from participants.
   Dee Crane, director of the ministry branch which focuses on women and children, mentioned some depressing statistics. I didn't take notes but was not particularly surprised to hear that approximately one-third of school children in Lenawee County, are living below the poverty level. Shocked, yes - but hardly surprised. It is sad that many seem to dismiss this appalling state of affairs as "the new normal." There is nothing "normal" about an affluent country subsidizing its billionaires, while condemning its most vulnerable occupants to an existence of extreme poverty.
   Affluence is too often seen as a reward for morality; such that they are sometimes equated with each other. We must disabuse ourselves of the notion the wealthy are more worthy, simply by virtue of their net worth. The "war on poverty" should not be open season on poor people. So often the question "(But) What can I do?" arises. Whatever is within your means: donate; participate; advocate. Show kindness to the oppressed. Don't judge someone for making "poor choices," - especially if  you don't even know what their options were. Chances are, any given individual is doing the best they can in any given situation, with the resources available.
   Kindness makes the world a better place; be kind. Please. Thank you.

When the rain stops

Below, I have combined entries originally published under three separate titles. As the tapestries of our lives are woven, the changes in thread pattern are not always readily discernible. Passage of years can blend elements which previously seemed disparate.

___________

Humility and humanity
7 May, 2012

   There is a Serbian proverb which says: Be humble for you are made of earth, be noble for you are made of stars.

   Anyone familiar with Ash Wednesday traditions know the admonition, "Remember, man, that thou art dust and unto dust you will return." That addresses humility.

   Some might find it a struggle to find nobility in wearing ashes. Perhaps because the concept of humility is largely absent from Western culture. At the very least, humility is misunderstood, often misconstrued as weakness.

   The Western world seems to pride itself on independence, "pride" being the operative word. But nobility should not be confused with haughtiness. Nobleness is carrying oneself with dignity. National pride shouldn't be "My country can kick your country's ass." It should be, "All of our citizens have enough to eat and their basic medical needs are met, so we reach out to others."

   Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh, a poet human rights activist has said, "In Buddhist psychology, we speak of consciousness in terms of seeds. We have a seed of anger in us. We have a seed of compassion in us. The practice is to help the seed of compassion to grow and the seed of anger to shrink. When you express your anger you think that you are getting anger out of your system, but that's not true. When you express your anger, either verbally or with physical violence, you are feeding the seed of anger, and it becomes stronger in you. It's a dangerous practice.

That's why recognizing the seed of anger and trying to neutralize it with understanding and compassion is the only way to reduce the anger in us. If you don't understand the cause of your anger, you can never transform it."

   Look inside yourself, see what grows there. If it is compassion, nurture it so it may provide shade for those in need. If it is a poisonous plant, dispatch it with all haste, but know what lies at the root so you can keep it from growing again. There is justifiable anger, which springs from seeing evil or injustice done to the defenseless. When encountered, one should attempt to transform it, applying prayer, education and whatever else is in one's arsenal.

Here, I insert an old note: [unsure of date]

   Since Wednesday, I have attended three services for the departed. There is another tomorrow. I go not because I'm morbid or a "funeral junkie" but because those who remain need to know that their loved one mattered to the community at large.
   Do we begrudge the time spent saying goodbye? Some individuals opt for a graveside service because they don't wish to impose on the busy schedules of others. [I have chosen such for cost and because I will likely have outlived any potential mourners.]
   The Judaic culture sits shiva for seven days. It is good to honor the dead. The world should stop for a moment and take note that a loved one is missing. Our busy lives will go on, but remember those who are absent. They mattered.

   Humility is not servitude but servanthood, it is knowing one's place in the universe. I find nobility and humility eminently compatible.

(harvesting rainbows)

8 May, 2012   

My task each day from now until I cease to draw breath, is to find joy. Not merely seek it, but find it. I have made a conscious decision to live my life this way.

   From time to time, I have thought this was a goal to pursue, but putting it into practice only lasted a few days. It just seems different this time.

   Between shifts one day, I strolled around the pond on the grounds. The fountains were running and in the spray, rainbows were visible. I thought of a friend who says he looks for rainbows and, looking deeply enough, usually finds them.

   Thinking of the three hours just finished, I was mindful of my aching biceps, tired from lifting my patient out of his wheelchair to shower and go to the bathroom. This is my job six days a week. Granted it's only 27 hours per week and I know I am darn lucky to have  a job. Then that night, checking Facebook, this post: Be kind to everything that lives – Omaha

   Not always easy, especially in the short term. But take time to think about some of the people who annoy you. Then give consideration to why. Is it beyond their physical or mental control?

   I confess moments of weakness, when my thoughts are, shall we say, somewhat less than noble. Most of the people I encounter through work, given a choice, would not be in the shape they are, nor would many of them be in the surroundings they are.

   It is my joy and privilege to brighten their days whenever possible. One gentleman, in his mid-90s, used to work in the garment district in New York.

   He sits alone at breakfast, but has taken to inviting me over. Sometimes I take a bagel with me and when he has his, I have mine. Sometimes he insists on splitting his banana. I think it bolsters his self-esteem to be able to give something tangible. We chat, he asks what I've done lately, we share a few laughs. When he introduced me to his sister as his "girlfriend," we all chuckled.

   There was an old advertising jingle which said, "Life's simple pleasures are the best." I couldn't agree more.  They're out there, just waiting to be discovered.

   Find them - you won't be disappointed.

(Sunshine through the rain)

9 May, 2012   

   Back in the spring, I went for a walk with Martin (he's the fellow mentioned above, who worked in New York), someone I met at work. He gave out early on, having not been out in a long time. Time has taken a toll and, in his mid-90s, he now uses a walker, but he was glad to get out and breathe "real" air. I told him we'd work up to longer walks. He was pleased, which made me happy.

   After Martin went in, I continued to walk. Went by the fountains again, hoping to see light bent by refraction and reflection, but the full spectrum was not evident. After a while the violet band became visible, as the sun hit the water at just right the right angle.

   Taking time to note simple yet amazing things, I saw evergreen trees standing tall against a slightly overcast sky, an inch of new growth showing light green against the older, darker, color.

   It is amazing what one sees when one is determined to drink in the world until sated. And still, people walk around with blinders on, oblivious to the marvels all around.

   Later, arriving at church for choir practice, I took time to stop and smell the irises, roses not yet being available. Teri, my late sister, even taught her little dog to stop and smell the roses, she felt it that important.

   My sister in Texas called and asked me to give the folks an extra hug from her next time I saw visited.

   Another day draws to a close. Anticipation for tomorrow's wonders will enhance my dreams, which will be chronicled in another post.

*

   It is now several months later and this remnant was added. I still see Martin from time to time, but no longer have long enough breaks to go walking with him. [Besides, it is cold right now.] There are new wings to the building, new employees. New residents come and death has taken a few to a different place.

   The world is a place of enchanting beauty, if one remembers to look beyond the trouble and sorrow. May wonder enhance your dreams and your tomorrows.

____________________

[May 2019]
   I have, from time to time, wondered whatever happened to Martin; he always reminded me of Herbert Lom - as he appeared in later years. Most likely, he has gone to his eternal reward. I have only returned to the facility a few times since retiring and it has now been four or five years. Occasionally, I write to former coworkers. There are currently several letters in my "To be answered" file.
   Awake in small hours, I thought about how I wanted to revise this piece for presentation. A followup article came to mind and it will hopefully be published soon. As you go about your life, remember to be kind in the face of adversity.

Blessed be.

El quatro de mayo

In 2012, I was still a member of the labor force, working as a caregiver. At that time, I still wanted to go back to Texas but the ache to do so was diminishing. My home is here in Michigan; here I will likely remain. I have combined old entries to produce this new one.

***

4 May, 2012

   Decided to go down to Lenawee County, pretty much on the spur of the moment. Headed down U.S. 23, since I could drive 70 mph and have fewer turns. Arrived in Dundee by 2:15, so stopped at the dialysis center and got Mom. Sister gave me money to take her to Wendy's, before bringing her home. On our drive to Tecumseh, Mom asked if I wanted a fry, which she fed me as I drove. I think a momma bird always enjoys nurturing one of her chicks. It fulfills their purpose, validates them. I suppose I am being silly, but so what? Not enough people know the joy of silliness, so I try to remind them.

   Got Mom home. She finished her meal, then took a nap. I went to see my friend Doug and we spent a goodly portion of the afternoon trimming up his little dog. I will probably go down every weekend this month. How can one little dog have that many snarls?

   Prior to that, however, I looked up the address of a high school classmate. She lives practically right around the corner from Doug. So we went over and I walked up to the yard sale going on. I spotted Debbie immediately and she knew me as soon as I spoke her name. Amazing how fast 40 years can just melt away!

   Did a bit of running around, stopping at the post office to buy some 'postage to Europe' stamps for when I write to my friend in the Netherlands.

   At six o'clock, I started back to Ypsi. The eastern sky was nearly black with clouds, but smeared across a portion was an arc of rainbow. I reflected there is much beauty and joy to be found in everyday life if one is willing to see it.

Hope there are rainbows among the dark clouds of your life.

(2 May, 2019)

   These past seven years, I don't have any particularly spectacular recollections of "el quatro de mayo," although two days prior to above entry, I wrote this:

A night at the opera

2 May, 2012

   Cultural opportunities abound in the greater Ann Arbor area. This past spring, friends and I attended Opera on Tap at Frenchie's in Depot Town, Ypsilanti, Michigan.

   Since it was held May First, the evening's theme, quite understandably, was May Day. Think SOS though, as in m'aidez.

   First was "Granada," performed by Ko Kaiden, wearing "Brunhilde" horns. My friend Gabby said, "That's Ricky Ricardo's signature tune!"

   Next was Verdi's "Pace, pace mio Dio." If I understood Leslie Smith over the crowd, the story is about a man who kills an older man in the opening scene. Turns out the dead guy is the father of the girl in love with with our fugitive, now hiding out at a monastery. She plaintively sings for 'peace, peace, my God.' [Opera seems to have something in common with Greek tragedy.]

   Sonja Srinivasan gave us Dvorak's "Song to the Moon," a tale of hopeless love: a water nymph for a human. Sarah Flammer's rendering of "Your Daddy's Son" from Ragtime was full of pathos.

   "The Way You Look Tonight," Best Song of 1936, from Jerome Kern's Swing Time was done justice by Leslie's powerful voice.

   Liyan Sun closed the first set with "Fly Home Little Heart," the story of a young man gone to war and the lover who waits at home.

   The second set opened with Strauss' "The Presentation of the Rose." Called upon to deliver a gentleman's token of affection to a young lady, the delivery boy find's himself falling in love with said young lady. She return's his feeling. Complications: 'aidez moi.'

   "Losing My Mind" is something to which anyone in a situation of unrequited love can relate. The poignant "What Good Would the Moon be?" is a question asked countless times by someone who has it all - except for the person they love.

   The evening's last song was "For Good" from Wicked. We've all known someone who, for better or worse, has unmistakably changed our lives for good, that is to say, forever.

Although this was my first encounter with Opera on Tap, it most assuredly will not be my last. The events are scheduled for the first Tuesday of every month. To book your reservations for Opera On Tap: call 734-483-5230.

We must cherish the cultural opportunities that exist, making them available to everyone. Which means we MUST keep PBS!

[NOTE: Opera on Tap is still an active concern in Washtenaw County; regrettably, I have not been back since summer 2014.]

***

   This is probably as good a time as any to explain the title given to this piece. Back when I lived in Brady, I remember some radio promotion of Cinco de Mayo. The Anglo announcer uttered some gibberish about "el cinco de quatro." I called the station and said that didn't even make sense, explaining the fourth day of May would be [called] "el quatro de mayo." My explanation was recorded and played later.

4 May, 2019
   This morning, I had breakfast with two neighbors; we combined our repast with a study we are doing. On our way home, we passed a yard filled with tulips and daffodils. I noted the number on the house next door and when I got back to my apartment, addressed a postcard, to Occupant of Pink House, at number I surmised to be their address, and mailed it off.
   Tonight, after a supper of leftovers with a friend, I plan to go to Flying Otter winery for the music event to be held there. It is a chance to expand cultural and societal horizons and is bound to be cheaper than Match.com.
   Spring is making its presence felt in Michigan; some people are even starting to walk around barefoot. That's about all the news to report, at the moment.

Godspeed and May the Fourth be with you.

Lusty May

On 1 May, some observe the rite of Beltane, a spring festival most widely celebrated among Gaelic peoples and neo-pagans. It has been a long time since a man has looked on me with desire but my mind can still recall the thrill of being pursued.

***

Once upon never: sacredly profane 

   Exhausted body and soul, Tom knelt before the hewn-stone altar completely drained,  following a three-day fast. He had an ambiguous spirituality, but prayer and fasting were what men did before being knighted. Though he'd yet to turn twenty, he was already battle-scarred and world-weary, having served several years as page, which was the way these things worked.

   Tom often seemed to be one of those people who "fall through cracks." When only a few months old, he had fallen through a crack in the floor, a tremor having shaken the house where he and his mother lived. Village monks cleared rubble a few days later, unearthing a scrawny, malnourished little wretch. Digging deeper, they saw his mother had not survived: the orphan was taken to the monastery.

   Found a week after Easter, the child had been given the name Thomas - because the monks had their doubts he would live. On a whim, he was assigned the middle initial "J" for January, the time, based on his size, they figured he may have been born. This would also distinguish him from the monastery's other resident Thomas.

   Since no family had claimed the lad, the Order had housed and educated him in their ways. They were not, however, a cloistered order and young Thomas had been exposed to pagan influences as well as Christianity. He often thought longingly of the warmth of Beltane fires and the Samhain rituals. At thirteen, his as-yet-untested manhood had found release in sacred frolic with a comely priestess of the ancient rites. Years later, he still experienced a swelling in his loins when he thought of her well-formed breasts, the slight roundness of her belly and the fullness of her thighs and buttocks. At times he wondered if their union might have resulted in pregnancy, but left that concern to various deities.

   Tom knew the good friars would be scandalized to hear him speak of any but "The One True God." Yet his heart, soul, and mind embraced the mysticism of nature. He was comfortable in his own mind that he was leading a good life: he acted in good conscience; treated others fairly; protected widows and orphans. Seldom the aggressor, he nonetheless defended the rights of those unable to fend for themselves.

   Now he had spent three days in prayerful vigil, fully cognizant the fast had induced a transcendent state. Tom prepared to end his vigil by going to bathe in a nearby stream. Afterward, he would break his fast, taking plain but nourishing fare. Coming to the body of water, he saw it shrouded in morning  mist and thought for a moment he saw his priestess. Entering the coolness of the stream, it seemed his vision had taken form, for a maiden bathed there also.

   On impulse, Tom reached for her, thoroughly expecting her to vanish as the mist burned off. Yet she did not. Mildly surprised to find this man sharing her bath, she yielded not only willingly, but avidly. Twining her arms about his neck, she kissed him fully and eagerly on the mouth. Feeling her nipples grow taut against his chest, Tom felt a swelling in his nether regions. Grasping her around the waist, he lifted her supple body and entered her, nearly delirious at the warm, wet, welcome. Time seemed irrelevant as the two consummated their passion.

   Spent yet exhilarated, Tom remained unsure if what had just happened was reality or dream. It mattered not. "God" or the gods would sort it out. The Fates would spin and cut the threads of his life and, if they were kind, he would end his days in glorious battle after a night of triumphant and ardent lovemaking.

   Onward to the battlefield of life, and to the victor go the spoils.  

***

    Throughout his twenties and even into his thirties, Tom entered battle when necessary, which is to say, whenever the reigning monarch desired acquisition of more land, or felt brute force would quash ideas of rebellion. Not feeling deep-seated loyalties, Tom was wont to switch his allegiance - for a price.

   In due time, he had left the confines of the monastery and built his own home, hoping one day he would find a woman who would share his hearth and bear his children. 

* *

   There was a matron named Hannah, who served the abbey as washer woman. Like many of the villagers, she secretly observed mystical rites long engaged in by her elders, while making a show of following the teachings and practices of the Church of Rome. 

   Tom had been aware of her from his youth but in his early years, she was merely another adult in a child's world. Hannah had been kindly enough, but the youth had no reason to believe he had any more distinction in her memory, than she did in his. During his tenure as page and knight, she had occasionally done his laundry and he had, in his turn, taken her some game, if he had been lucky in the hunt. Hannah had made meat pies sometimes, and tarts or pastries from wild berries she had gathered. Once in a while she would hug him or brush a kiss on his brow, but he had thought nothing of it.

   Hannah, whom many villagers called Aunt Honeysuckle, because of her sweet nature, was a great one for defying convention but as no one felt threatened, her mannerisms were accepted as amusing quirks. She had a quick wit, an apt mind and a keen ear for languages. She had taught herself the rudiments of reading and writing, but kept it a closely guarded secret, as only males of the gentry were taught these skills and she did not fancy being declared a witch.

   Hannah had taken to wearing her hair very short: she had first cut it in a fit of raging grief for her husband, who had died when she was still young enough to be considered a blushing bride. Other men wooed her, but she was not inclined to "settle" for mere comfort. Life was a struggle but she survived, even thrived, to a degree. As time went on, the conveniences afforded by bobbed tresses convinced her to keep her locks shorn - it also pleased her not to be plagued by lice, as many were.

   Her mode of dress was something less than high fashion, which could be said of anyone in the lower economic strata. She did not object to wearing castoff clothing, if it were practical, and had availed herself of a pair of handsomely-tooled boots whose sole fault was not being fashionable enough to suit their well-heeled erstwhile owner.  

   Returning from an extended tour of duty, Tom was strolling through the village, when he heard a familiar musical laugh. He scanned the crowd and found Hannah, grown gray and stout over the years, a smiling and pleasant neighbor. Making his way closer, he addressed her rather formally, "Good mistress, do ye remember me?"

   After a moment's quizzical look, she declared, "Ay, 'tis Tom, who oft brought me a bit of game and enjoyed my tarts. Are ye come home now, lad? Would ye care to take supper with me?"

   "Surely, I would. Thank ye."

   "You remember the way to my cottage, at the edge of town. Come around dusk and share my provender."

***

    Feeling whimsical, due to the mild evening, Tom picked a few wildflowers for Hannah. He also had a small measure of good wine, which he knew would taste better, when shared. As he neared her domicile, tantalizing aromas intrigued his nose. Hannah bobbed a little curtsy as she welcomed her guest. A pleasant evening of good food and delightful conversation, cheered on by wine, ensued. Tom regaled her with tales of his adventures.

    Twilight became dusk, then full dark as the two continued to talk and drink. Finally, the fatigue that follows good food and good wine beset them and Tom said he would make his way home. "Nonsense," declared Hannah, "I'll make a pallet by the fire." Wisely, a bit drunkenly, Tom offered no dispute and was soon bedded down. Tipsy in her own right, Hannah dropped a kiss on the young man's head and went to her own sleeping quarters.

   Both were lost in their own dreams, as celestial entities followed their paths in the sky. While the heavens displayed the glory of countless stars, Tom stepped outside to relieve himself, then stumbled drowsily, and somewhat uncertainly, back to bed. A goodly portion of the bed was occupied by a form he didn't remember being there when he went to sleep, but he crawled into the inviting warmth under the covers and nestled down, next to the plump, softly snoring figure, throwing an arm over.

   As an ample rump wriggled against him, Tom was aroused, but still not fully awake. Snuggling close, inhaling heady woman-scent, he used his mouth and hands to explore the delectable terrain. Hannah's plump breasts were nuzzled and the nipples sucked, making them erect. As Tom's hands caressed her receptive and responsive body, Hannah murmured in delight and, in her turn, showed herself to be a skillful lover. Calloused hands stroked smooth warm thighs and, as fingertips encountered dampness, Tom eagerly explored Hannah's depths. He lowered his mouth, tasting her, savoring her sweetness and sucking her labia. When Tom brought his head up to kiss Hannah, tasting her scent on his mouth drove her wild! She came up,  pushing against him, lowering him onto his back, then kissed him from chin to belly to thighs, finally taking his turgid penis deep into her warm, wet, mouth and was satisfied when she heard his gasp. She savored the power she felt, making a man tremble in pleasure. She then raised herself to look down at his naked glory for a moment, before lowering herself to take him within her.

   Kisses, some slow and sensual, others urgently demanding, rendered lips slightly swollen and yet longing to give and receive the taste and pressure of more kissing.

   Each partook of the other until sated, then dreamed some more. When full light came, bringing cognition, there were tender smiles and no need for shame, the rites of pleasure being a birthright. Hannah and Tom found new pleasure in seeing each other in the full light of day and sated their lust anew.

*****

   Time came and went as it is wont to do. Hannah gave birth to a well-formed child, naming him Hanson - not only a contraction of "Hannah's son," but she found her little boy handsome, and the word-play amused her.  The village had its share of children born *on the wrong side of the blanket,* so little Hanson was not burdened with undue scrutiny.

   Tom had married a lesser lady of the court and thus cemented his allegiance to the crown. It was not a love match - but that was a rare thing anyway. The union was suitable, by all accounts, and produced issue. The firstborn child was a little girl, christened Elspeth.

   When young Hanson was a toddler of  about three years, Hannah was forty years old; practically ancient. It was unfortunate she died when her child was yet so young but Divine Providence intervened, in its own inimitable way. One day Hannah had taken her son into the village: to do errands; catch up on gossip; see people. Toward day's end, she was resting under a tree, while Hanson gamboled nearby. She drifted off as her son played - and never woke. Evening came and the air grew chill. Hanson began to cry, when unable to rouse his mother. As Fate would have it, Tom wandered by, drawn by the boy's wail. He recognized Hannah; kneeling, he felt Death's cold pall. Yelling to other villagers, he sent one for a priest.

   The practicalities of the situation were expedited but the question of the child remained. Hannah had no kin to speak of - if she did, they were distant in both geography and lineage. Tom may have been the person who knew her best. He also was all too familiar with orphanage life and could not in good conscience choose that life for someone else - not when he held enough power to prevent it. The lateness of the hour prompted him to take the child home, so the tot would at least be warm and well-fed.

*

   Tom's wife was a kindly woman and accepted the child into the family. Hanson was a playmate to Elspeth and a surrogate big brother. As Hanson grew, he learned from Tom the things boys learn from their fathers. He grew up, grew old, and died: that is the pattern of life, as we know it.

   Each generation ponders those that went before and those which will come long after. All any of us do is to learn well and make wise decisions - and try to do it with kindness.

*****

   In its inception, this story was only a fantasy, written to intrigue a young lover. Later, it grew into a tale that longed to be told. At one point, part of it was submitted to a writing contest. All stories involving individuals are never-ending; at least until an apocalypse occurs. I doubt I will be around for that, or if I were, that I would be the chronicler. This is my little saga; make of it what you will.

jbd