The Sisterhood of Invisible Women

   A friend posted to Facebook something one of her friends had shared:

   So, I have recently began to struggle some with the things I can no longer do as well as I used to along with feeling the hurt of no longer being "cute or pretty," not that I think I ever really was but the older you get, the more you really know you're not the "cute one." Have you ever thought: “I’m fat;” “I’m old;” “I’m not enough?” For me, all the time.
   I was young once. My brain sometimes forgets it no longer is. To all my female friends from 40 years and up: Most of us are going through the next phase of our lives. We're at that age when we see wrinkles, gray hair, and extra pounds. We see the cute 25-year-olds and reminisce. But we were also 25, just as they will one day be our age. We aren't the "girls in their summer clothes" anymore. What they bring to the table with their youth and zest, we bring with our wisdom and experience. We have raised families, run households, paid the bills, dealt with diseases, sadness, and everything else life has assigned us. Some of us have lost those that were nearest and dearest to us.
   We are survivors: warriors in the quiet. We are women, like a classic car or a fine wine. Even if our bodies aren't what they once were, they carry our souls, our courage, and our strength.
We shall all enter this chapter of our lives with humility, grace, and pride over everything we have been through, and we should never feel bad about getting older. It's a privilege that is denied to so many.🌻

***

   Sometime ago, I began subscribing to a couple of e-newsletters: The Girl God, and Nonviolence News.

(from The Girl God)

“We live in a reversal society. For example, the idea that Eve came from Adam is a reversal. It’s ridiculous. Who could believe that? It’s contrary to all biology. But with that myth in mind, people can justify somehow the idea that God is male. And therefore that male is God. And that he’s the origin. But he’s not the origin. The Bible is full of reversals.” -Mary Daly

   Quality of life, should not depend on the "quality" of the package containing it. Perfectly good cornflakes come out of a box that got dropped a couple times. But unlike consumer products, people should not be "marked down" just because the packaging is a little dinged up. Western culture, and more specifically United States culture, seems really hung up on appearances. That hangup and resultant discrimination is abundantly apparent to every middle-aged, slightly dowdy, woman who has been denied a promotion or raise, in favor of a younger colleague. The suggestions of women are frequently dismissed as "unworkable" - yet are lauded as nothing short of brilliance, when made by a male. There may be vehement denial but I would submit it is the denial of a guilty conscience. For over one hundred years, March 8th has been recognized as International Women's Day. It has been demonstrated repeatedly that when women and girls do better, everyone benefits.
   The title of this piece came to me because I was feeling ignored but I knew it wasn't just me - and it isn't just women. We all have a tendency to get caught up in our own immediate microcosm and stop noticing the wonder, as well as the horror, going on around us. Yes, we need to wash our hands and substitute elbow bumps of Vulcan salutes for shaking hands. We also need to listen to people and celebrate the accomplishments of women; not assume that doctors, lawyers, or other authority figures are male; not assume that a woman is only a surrogate for some man who had "more important" things to do.
   If you only focus on changing/improving two areas of your life, be mindful and be kind; if that is more than you can handle, simply be kind: that alone, will make the world a better place.

No death unsung

No death unsung
13 February, 2012

   Death can be delayed, but cannot be indefinitely forestalled. If one is ill, one can seek treatment, make preparations, and seek to spare loved ones needless hassle and heartache, by attending to the mundane details.
   In this age of instant information, extended family often learns a relative has died, via the Internet.

***

   On the evening (EST) of 11 February, 2012, the world received news that singer Whitney Houston had died. It was all over Facebook and other Internet sites. A lot of people took the loss personally. On the morning of 12 February, 2012, a 92-year-old woman died as I held her hand. I pressed the call light, the RN was summoned to pronounce, and I murmured, "Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord and let perpetual light shine upon her."
  Then a nurse aide came in, and together we cleaned the body. The office was notified and, my job finished, I took my leave. That death I took not just personally, but intimately. Barely had the words "She's dead" escaped my lips, than I was assigned a new client. [That new client/caregiver relationship was to last fifteen months.]
   My roommate noticed I was home early and, hearing why, asked if I was alright. I told her I was, then changed clothes and went to church, arriving in time to robe for choir. The rector bade me welcome, after several weeks' absence. I told her why I'd been able to make it to church, and she wanted to know if the lady was alone. Assuring the reverend of my presence at the deathbed, she clasped my hand and smiled. 
   As we sang the Gloria, I felt we were singing with my departed patient and all who behold the glory of God. 'Blessed are those who mourn, for one day they shall laugh.'

***

(2020)

   Rereading this entry from a distance of eight years, I can tell you I now have a deeper understanding of Death and am more familiar with Its wiles and whims. Mom entered that final embrace, in December of 2013. During calendar year 2019, fully a dozen persons of my acquaintance, left this plane of existence, including Dad.
   Approaching the end of my seventh decade, I occasionally wonder who will mourn my passing, when the time comes for me to depart this "vale of tears." Given personal and family history, I expect to ride Earth for several more laps around the sun which lights the solar system in which I dwell. The people who regularly receive letters from me, will be glad of that news.
   Yet this planet sustains so many humans, pushing toward eight billion, that people die virtually unnoticed all the time. Some may only be discovered after the fact.

   The first week of July 2015, was rather harried and I struggled to process and make sense of it all. I had made several trips back and forth to Ann Arbor; in addition, someone I had known virtually my entire life, was hospitalized with serious injuries. That led me to edit and re-post an old column, titled "My brother's keeper," from July 2012. 
   It seems to me all of the world's woes can, at some point, be traced to greed and looking out for "Number One" instead of each other.

   "In the course of time Cain brought an offering to the Lord from the fruit of the soil, while Abel …  brought one of the best firstlings of his flock. The Lord looked with favor on Abel… Cain greatly resented this and … said to his brother, ‘Let us go out into the field.’

   “When they were in the field, Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him. Then the Lord asked Cain, ‘Where is your brother Abel?’

   “He answered, ‘I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper’?" (Genesis 4: 3, 4, 5b, 8, 9 New American Bible)

   It is to be hoped no one would wantonly slay another, yet that very choice is made every day. Some will use the "I had no choice" excuse, but there is always a choice. Laws of what some refer to as "common decency" dictate we are indeed our brother’s keeper. There are now over seven billion people inhabiting the planet we call Earth: number of humans occupying planet surface has doubled in less than six decades. What or who determines an individual's right to live? How do we reconcile, keep our sanity, humanity?

***

   There is much discussion/debate regarding issue of health care and the reform thereof. I have not yet seen verbal interaction devolve into a knock-down, drag-out, which is probably just as well, as it would likely not be covered.

     A lot of the buzz I hear is people not wanting to be told who they can see, when, or how often. One friend wondered if death of Sen. Ted Kennedy would be used as a "guilt" card to get reform passed. [It took a long time afterward to get affordable care passed, so I would say not.]

    Folks are scared to death of "socialism," though as an ideal, it is probably how early Christians strove to live. "All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to everyone as he had need." (Acts 2: 44-45 New International Version)

    There are other Scriptures which, I believe, point us toward caring for one another's basic needs. Consider New Testament book, James 1:27 "Religion that is pure and undefiled before God and the Father is this: to care for orphans and widows in their affliction and to keep oneself unstained by the world." (New American Bible) Or James 2: 15-16 "Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, 'Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed,' but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it?"

   Though health care reform is not a religious concern per se, a lot of Scripture and prayer would seem to lead us in direction of caring for the less fortunate.

   Once, during Evening Prayer, we used Suffrages A (page 122 Book of Common Prayer), which read, in part:

V. Let your way be known upon earth;

R. Your saving health among all nations.

V. Let not the needy, O LORD, be forgotten;

R. Nor the hope of the poor be taken away. 

   There are a lot of people who just *hope to God* they do not get sick or who do not go to a doctor because, even if they found out what was wrong, they couldn't afford to do anything about it. I have said, only half jokingly, "Garlic is my antibiotic of choice and hugs are preventive medicine." [As of May 2014, am grateful beneficiary of Affordable Care Act, and am able to get needed medicine to control blood pressure.] But we need more.

   Though some denounce "survival of the fittest" as a qualifier, that premise governed existence of species for millennia. Individuals who were not physically capable of supporting themselves and had no one to provide their needs, died. We now have means of keeping such creatures, human and nonhuman, alive - but at what cost? For many peoples, separating oneself from one's community when weak and dying is viewed as *taking one for the team.*
   With institution of social programs to aid the less fortunate, some people feel they can dictate who is deserving of help. People are reluctant to pull the plug or deny costly services to helpless newborns, afraid to be labeled "baby killers." The stigma applies less stringently to elderly persons still, at least as individuals, we are loathe to admit a desire to save money by denying care to someone who will never be able to repay.
   There have been models of generosity through the ages: Buddha; St. Francis of Assisi; Jesus; Mother Teresa; Dorothy Day; who met need where they saw it - without a lengthy interrogation to determine if the victim were "deserving."
   Some wonder why God allows suffering, while maintaining there is sufficient wealth to feed and care for all the world's inhabitants. Therein, I believe, lies the answer. Creator gave us souls and free will and probably has hopes that we will use our gifts wisely.
   What, then, constitutes wisdom? Do we make our own comfort a top priority and give scant concern to welfare of others? If one is a member of the fortunate elite, does one then have an obligation to share one's good fortune? I am not defining "elite" as the top one or two percent who control obscene sums of wealth, consuming disproportionate amounts of planet's resources. I speak of anyone who has access to clean water, adequate food, and a place to sleep, sheltered from the elements.
   As long as we callously turn our backs on those less fortunate than ourselves, we are truly a "lower life form." If we are truly evolved, a higher life form, everyone should be noticed.

   "Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved Mankind; And therefore never send for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” (John Donne)
   Tragedies, such as school shootings and weather disasters rightfully tug at heartstrings. Even celebrity deaths bring people together in grief. We need to consider that we are not alone on this planet or in this universe.
   How hard it is sometimes to lay arrogance aside, especially when one feels it is one's only suit of clothing and does not wish to appear before the world naked and vulnerable.
   In the wake of tragedy, and there is a new one almost daily, heroes emerge.  Russell King Jr., a victim of the shooting in Chardon, Ohio was an organ donor. His family said, "...his heart still beats." (Note: This piece was originally composed in 2011. In the aftermath of the Aurora, CO carnage, 19 July, 2012, I hope there will be a donor among the victims who will save other lives.)
   Even more than I hope my heart continues to beat for a long time, I pray each beat will be lived in love and grace. When it beats no more, I hope your life is better for having known me.

From the steppes of Russia

Many years ago, I edited several installments from a science teacher, into a piece for a small, independently owned, Texas newspaper. As the narrator was a county resident, he was accorded a goodly number of column inches; within reason. The task called for a strategy of WMD. No, not Weapons of Mass Destruction but Words Mostly Deleted. [Editorial humor, don't ya know?] Given location, I surmised the "Catholic" church visited did not belong to Roman Rite; rather, it was likely Russian Orthodox.

***

 Russia: Land of the Czars

Getting there
   Former presidential candidate Sarah Palin may have been able to see Russia from her back porch, but I had a more intimate perspective. Rather than being "on the outside, looking in" my son Boone and I were on the inside, looking around. In the following paragraphs, I shall try to take you along on our journey, which began quite some time ago.
   After a presentation for "Operation Chemistry" at the 1998 National Science Teachers Association (NSTA) national conference held in Boston, two scientists from Los Alamos National Laboratory approached me. They invited me to join the Critical Issues Forum (CIF) program, developed as an international research program for high school students primarily from USA and Russia, but also from other countries. The program is committed to worldwide non-proliferation of WMD, Weapons of  Mass Destruction. After years spent developing this program, colleagues around the world became comfortable enough within the group to invite one another for home visits. When a friend emailed me from one of the "closed cities" and asked me to come for a visit, I recognized it for what it was.
   So difficult were the travel papers to fill out, we had to have special help. But it has been said a journey of a thousand miles, begins with the first step. We stepped on to a plane in San Antonio, Texas and stepped off at Sheremetyevo-2 (SVO) International Airport, into another time zone, another country, another world.
   One thing I must point out, foreign countries smell different. Not necessarily "bad:" just different. Sometimes a sense of paranoia overcomes you; mainly from knowing you can't just whip out your cellphone and call somebody from home to come and get you. I couldn't help thinking of Daniel in the lion's den.
   We were met by somebody who took us to Sheremetyevo-1, the Moscow airport, which handles domestic flights. Following a ten hour layover, we hopped a plane to Krasnoyarsk City. The last leg was a two-hour drive to the closed city of Zelenogorsk. This is the site of a secure facility, closed to tourists. But Boone and I had come as invited instructors, which accorded us certain privileges. Upon our arrival, many of the locals told us we were the first Americans known to have visited their city  where tourists are "persona no grata." There may have been no other way to visit one of the "closed" cities in Russia; my specialized background helped, as I could provide content my Russian friends were seeking.

"Special" education
   Making introductions: Coqva savut? (What's your name?) Minya savut Clabe. (My name is Clabe.) There is a difference between a "gymnasium" and a regular Russian "high school." At the latter, students learn two languages: their native Russian and either English or German. A "gymnasium" is a step above; in addition to the basic curriculum, students take on the challenge of extra language classes, which meet daily.
   Many schools in Russia experience difficulties with drugs, alcohol, and gangs, as do schools in the States. They seem, however, to have found a way to deal with social apathy: they do nor support a welfare state. Young people are encouraged to do well school and become productive members of society. The approach is Biblical: if you don't work, you don't eat. (This hardly bodes well for individuals with either learning disabilities or physical handicaps. - editor's note)
   In one 'special' school, a Major escorted us to a secluded place, where he displayed an arsenal that sent shivers up and down my spine: an Ak-47, grenades, a bazooka, rifle, shotgun, handgun, gas masks and so forth. You know, the usual school kit. This was one of those sensitive moments it seemed in our best interests to not ask too many questions, though I did wonder if this were some kind of ROTC (reserve officers' training corps) program? Just let me say they play "Sink the battleship" on a grand scale, out in the forest.
   After a particularly rough school day, the principal may call a meeting at the bana (sauna), where the vodka flows freely. There is also smoked cheese, lox, fresh fruits and vegetables, and comestibles unknown to me. Vodka loosens the tongue and people speak freely; but what is heard or seen in the bana, stays in the bana. When the vodka runs out, the meeting is adjourned. It may be 4:00 A.M. when the meeting ends but morning calisthenics always commence promptly at eight o'clock. Another school day, another ruble.

Borscht Belt cuisine: "soshlik," it's what's for dinner
   Having years of experience, I like to eat.Many of the foods we were served were a bit bland for our tastes: Russian moms don't use the spices we're used to. Any table top in the United States is likely to have garlic salt, season salt, ketchup, Tabasco, picante and more. In Russia we hardly saw more than salt and pepper - and sometimes we had to ask for those.
   Food is plentiful in the Siberian areas we visited but very expensive; often too costly for those on a meager income. Some things are the same all over: I recalled I had once asked about hunting and the Major told me, "Yes, there is hunting in Russia. If you have the money and can clear the paperwork, you can buy a hunting license. Sadly, much game has been poached, so hunting is no longer a realistic possibility."
   At breakfast, Boone and I were less than enthusiastic as we stared at bowls of glop. It was porridge but even the cooks couldn't say what kind. Sometimes it was runny, other times, thick. Boone avoided it like the plague. One time we had "pizza." Boone and I both watched as it came out of the oven. As in Japan, tomato sauce is not used on Russian pizza. Now, try not to gag: they use mayonnaise. Plus, they really like onions ... and fresh, unpasteurized goat cheese. But one thing to remember when you are with a host family: you never want to insult the cook, who is usually the momma. Nope, bad idea. So we did the best we could, smiled politely and said "thank you" to the momma. Swallow; nothing like it. Please may I have some water?
   Texas roadside barbecue offers some fine eating. In Russia, you might find roadside "soshlik." This is made from chicken or pork, marinated in something I never could identify, cooked over a fire in an open metal cooker. It is served on a birch branch, rather like shish-kabobs. I'd be willing to eat it again, given the chance.

Family life
   The cars
   Russian vehicles are smaller than most one would find in the Western world. Folks could not grasp the concept of a family truck. Describe a Ford F-150 and, in general, they had no idea what you were talking about. Petrol is expensive and, as in the States, comes in grades. Let's begin with some basic conversions. One gallon is equal to 3.78 liters, one liter costs 29 rubles. So, 3.78 x 29 = 109.62 rubles; 109.62, divided by 30 (rubles to the dollar) and you are paying $3.654 per gallon of gas. This is about a dollar higher than what we paid in Brady before we left. I will add that we also had to pay an exorbitant exchange rate to convert our currency. as usual, we reserve the right to complain.

Parents are the same, the world over
   Life in Russia is like life in the U.S. - kind of. The people work, marry, raise kids, and worry about paying their bills. Parents get sick and still go to work; it's different if a child gets sick. But people usually do not go to the doctor until there is no other choice. Instead, they "self-medicate." Sound familiar? The point is, we can relate; people are people and we need to try to get along.

*****

On our way home
   Many think the Church is dead in Russia: prior to 1991, it existed mainly underground but experienced a rebirth in 1993. With an escort, I visited a beautiful Catholic church and gave the preacher three New Testaments. The Brady camp of Gideons International provided two cases of New Testaments, which were gone in a flash.
   I had been charged with teaching at a top level school which prepared future political leaders. now, after many weeks, it was time to say Da Svidaniya to our Russian friends and return to the United States. The day before we were to leave, we learned no one was available to escort us through the airport. This would have been an excellent time to panic, save for the realization that God is in charge.
   Next morning, around 2:30, one of the teachers picked us up, drove us to the airport and hugged us goodbye. At the gate, we studied our instructions, mostly in Russian, and continued to pray. Minutes before boarding, we heard English spoken for the first time in several weeks. I approached a group of oil field workers, who were being rotated back to the States, after their time with a Caspian Sea oil firm. The leader told me he'd been away from home four months and had really missed his Bible study group. I'd been keeping a New Testament to read on the trip home but gave it to him; he thanked me.
   I'm sure the trip back was just as long as the trip over but knowing I was coming home, made it go more quickly. I'm no John Denver, but as I stepped off the plane, my heart sang, "Gee it's good to be back home again."

JADE and GABRIEL

   Jade delved into her psyche in pursuit of a memory embedded long ago. As is the case with those who have grown older, the memories closest to the surface were those of her childhood: there was five-year-old Jade in a rowboat with Grampa Chaffee and Papa and they were catching bluegill and sunfish. Jade remembers the smell of the fish and the fact that she caught the greatest number that evening. She enjoys the nearly imperceptible rocking of the boat and feels the worms wriggle in her fingers as she baits her own hook. The fish would be cleaned yet that night and refrigerated. The next day they'd be dipped in cornmeal and Grampa would fry them out in the back yard, using his camp stove and they'd be so crispy and delicious. Jade savored the flavors of her youth for a moment.

   She did not plummet like a rock sinking to the bottom of the lake; her descent was gradual, and even on the way down, the thought occurred to her, "this must be the way a would-be fossil felt as it found its place in the La Brea tar pits:" gravity pulling one's weight against the resistance of the dark mass. But this was not the time for such fanciful thoughts: Jade was a woman on a mission, searching for the key to secure a friend's release.

   Gabriel was more than a friend - he had come into her life at a crucial time and had eased her transition from middle age to what was termed, "near elderly." How many times had Gabriel told Jade that she didn't need him, that she had a strength that came from within? Ah, dear Gabe; couldn't he see that need was subjective, a matter of perception? Jade had always known that her life, i.e. the accumulation of days, weeks and years, would continue in the absence of her lover, but it would be an existence of diminished capacity.

   Time enough later for these extraneous thoughts: she must find that key. Although she did not let her age define her, Jade realized that she had reached the point in life where memories did not come to her so much as she came to them. Jade and a chronologically distant memory drifted within reach of each other: she was a child of four and it was winter. Mom had built a snowman and painted a face in watercolors. It was beautiful, as were all of her mother's creations. But of course, Nona Chaffee was a gifted artist and everything that came from her was imbued with grace and beauty, including her children. Jade and her siblings were all creative; draftsmen, painters, builders and performing artists.

   She glimpsed yet another remnant of the past: climbing the tree in the front yard of Grandma's house and picking apples. A little further away, this from the years of early adulthood, there was a quilt which everyone in the family had worked on; it was to be presented to Jade's grandparents on the occasion of their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Soon Jade would be allowed to sink into her reverie and not re-surface, but right now, Gabe needed her words one last time; so she let those memories which were currently irrelevant drift away.

   Many years before, when Jade was describing to Gabriel the effects, both positive and negative, of her sister's cancer treatment, he had interjected, "God, I hope you're there when I die!" and so, of course, she'd told him she would be. Now the time had come: too soon for her but years past what Gabe had presumed would be check-out time from the motel of life. Jade spun words much the way a spider spins a web but her words were not meant to ensnare prey; merely to create a delicate piece of work with transient beauty. Gabriel had been entranced by Jade's web and let himself be transported whither-so-ever her words carried him. Now she would spin a web of intricate detail, every word breaking her heart, because it would take her beloved Gabriel away from her.

   Jade's search for that elusive key continued and, at last, there it was: as with the best of memories, it was multi-faceted, involving all her senses. Once again, Jade breathed in the scent of Gabriel's cologne and her pulse quickened. The air surrounding her was gently stirred by a ceiling fan. Jade's power of speech was involved in absentia: Gabe had asked her to 'just be quiet and let him have his moment,' so Jade had acquiesced and found herself immersed in a most exquisite state of euphoria as beautiful music lifted her out of herself. Gabriel had described it as music "to live to or die to ... to look into a woman's eyes ... " and Jade told this man she loved that perhaps he could die looking into a woman's eyes. Jade knew, even as the words came from her mouth, that she was foretelling their future. Jade returned his gaze and was nearly overwhelmed by what she saw: it was a look that went beyond sadness to world-weariness; there was such a willingness to just let it all go. So Jade stored that memory with a few others that had been labelled, "we will not speak of this again."

   The time had now come to speak; Jade would use her command of words to evoke a memory for him and release her beloved Gabriel into the arms of another lover - Death; that winsome beauty whose embrace would transport him to the place he so longed to be. Jade couldn't quite believe how willing she was to let Gabe go, but she knew that she was willing because she loved him so very much and she'd had him far longer than she'd ever dared to dream. Now it was time to bid him adieu and send him toward his final destination, where he would be reunited with the men in his family. After years of separation, Gabriel would rejoin the stalwart individuals who had shaped his life, moulded his character, and made him the wonderful man he was, (though he never could see it).

   Jade composed herself, gathering the strength that Gabriel had always known lay within her. She summoned all the words at her command and looked deeply into Gabriel's eyes, holding his gaze. Now Jade began to speak: her voice soft, slow and deliberate. It invited him to let his spirit drift free of his weary, ruined body; to travel with her to a memory long since forgotten. Jade felt that by letting Gabriel lose himself in her eyes, being the portal through which he passed from this world to the next, that perhaps a whisper of his soul would remain bonded to hers - a tracking device, if you will: so that she could find him in the mists of eternity and be joined to him again.

   Jade would have accompanied Gabe on this journey but for her promise to deliver his eulogy. She had written most of it years before, shaping the words, turning her phrases as an artisan turns wood on a lathe. She would craft something beautiful to pay fitting tribute to Gabriel, who was the other half of her, the man she had been destined to love even before she knew him.

   Finally, when she had fulfilled her promises, Jade could immerse herself in her memories. Once again she would meet Gabriel, and share eternity with him as she knew she was meant to do. On the temporal plane, where she left her body, her breathing would become slower and softer, until that last breath was taken, the beating of her heart would come to a standstill, the green eyes glaze over. Her existence on Earth cease; then her life would begin.

Gone fishing...

   Having been raised in Michigan, I am familiar with ice fishing. It is a lot more deliberate than the summertime form of the diversion. One does not spend several hours whiling away the time, maybe drinking a few beers, sitting in a shanty, with one's posterior growing numb from cold, not to mention one's face and extremities, just for the heck of it.

   Jesus said to Simon, "Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch." Simon answered, "Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets." (Luke 5: 4-5)

   Sometimes I wonder if maybe this has been cleaned up; either by or for the church. Sure, Simon Peter respected Jesus, but maybe he thought to himself, "Hey, who's the fisherman here? I was fishing before you even knew where Lake Galilee was!" Or even, "Oh man...I've been up all night, I stink, I'm tired, I just want to go home, clean up, have something to eat and hit the sack."

   Do we ever do that? "Geez, Lord, I put in 60 hours this week; I don't want to get up at seven o'clock on my day off." Gotta love Peter; "If you say so, Lord." Simple, not necessarily easy.

   Giving his sermon, Rev. John Fritts, at one time the rector of St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Brady, Texas, said fishing was a noble occupation. He went on to enumerate elements of the down side, saying it was dangerous and tiring, mentioning an episode of Mike Rowe's Dirty Jobs.

   Speaking of Simon Peter's partners, Rev. Fritts mentioned "the esteemed firm of Zebedee & Co." Two millennia later, the company continues to thrive. They even have a weekly company party and everybody is welcome.*

*****

    I never did finish wherever I was going with that but maybe I can address that now and together we can flesh it out. For starters, I found a place where it was necessary to add a footnote. One would hope that love is first and foremost in your heart. It matters not nearly so much that one profess allegiance to any rite or prevailing deity as it does how one treats one's fellow planet, universe, or even neighborhood, dwellers. In recent years, and more so since 2016 United States' presidential election, nationalism has asserted its snide voice and raised its ugly head. Xenophobia is being desperately promoted as patriotism. But let's unpack this whole "Love one another" issue.

   Many church services end with the words, "Let us go forth to love and serve the Lord." But is it really meant; or does it have qualifiers? I will again refer the reader to the footnote I made. My personal point of view is that churches, or "The Church" should be like "Doctors Without Borders." The latter group focuses on healing unwell/damaged bodies; the former, on sick souls. There will always be a contingent advocating for strict[er] borders, maintaining that they are necessary to, in so many words, 'keep out the riff-raff.' Certainly xenophobes find nothing wrong with their mindset, nor do they comprehend people who find this rigid position undesirable. How many folks truly question their motives? Personal accountability proves even more difficult, definitely more abstract, when several world leaders hold nationalist opinions.
   What is to be done? Make kindness a minimum standard. Start locally, by loving and serving those around you. It will make the world a better place.

* Depending, of course, on who is throwing the party. Sadly, not all denominations recognize others as being in full communion.

January thaw

   Nodding off in front of my computer, after a satisfactory lunch with a high school friend, I perused my archives for something to amuse my devoted followers and came across the following.
Santé et bon appétit

***

(First published in January 2015)
Bonjour cher,
   Here I sit, having toasted some small homemade pretzels and brewed a pot of Mystery Tea: while working, had thrown a small baggie of various teas in a satchel, to have on break. Found them after retirement.
   Temperatures here are mild for this time of year, in this zone. Woke to *Anthem of the Hoover Queen:* somewhere above me, one of my neighbors persists in running vacuum at least once or twice a week. Thankfully, this does not commence until after 8AM, while the pacing/clomping about, ensues anytime after 0500 hours. Fortunately, am not a light sleeper; never would have survived childhood in a large family if I were.
   Last I heard from you, a passel of college students lived downstairs: you commented on savory but unfamiliar cooking aromas. Do they play much music? As long as it is melodic and not too loud, it doesn't bother me.
   Today's mail brought two beautiful postcards from a penpal in Argentina, as well as a couple letters with Carolina postmarks. All that mail shall brighten this overcast day. Had some snow accumulation earlier; looked like a feather pillow had been torn open.
   Attended auditions last night and read quite well. Have not been active in theater for decades. Now waiting for call from director. One of the monologues he had me read was about getting fitted for a new bra - a subject to which I can definitely relate. The other was about what a bother purses are. I really think my chances are pretty good.
   Guess after supper, will go visit Man Upstairs. One of my neighbors asked why I go up there so often. Told her, he's good company and makes me laugh. Then she wanted to know, "Well if all you want is company, why not get a dog?" Are you kidding me? Pet deposit is three hundred dollars and ya gotta clean up after them; Man Upstairs is house broken and free.
   It's a chilly Friday night here in Tecumseh, Michigan, as we head into the fourth weekend of 2015. It has been a reasonably productive and most enjoyable week, particularly in the Bingo department: Monday at senior center, made back my fifty cents; Wednesday at the library, netted four books; and last night, here at the apartment complex, made a grand haul - head of cabbage, bag of carrots, frozen dinner, tube of blueberry refrigerator biscuits, dish soap and small box of candy!
   My errands for this twenty-third day of January included lunch at senior center and purchase of six pounds boneless beef short ribs. Got home, put three pounds in freezer, other three in deep pot, topped with water, bit of salt, pepper, thyme and turned on burner. Rinsed two cups Basmati rice, adding to meat. Friend called, we went to dinner  and I got back in time for evening card game.
   Perusing collections of stories I had written, came across one I hope you will find amusing.

***

   After fifteen or sixteen years, I had begun to suspect maybe I had been too long in Texas, but the time came when something happened to confirm my suspicion as certainty. I was, as Poirot says, "Exercising zee little gray cells" by working a crossword puzzle, when I encountered the clue *Red Bordeaux.* This much information was available to me: _ _ A_E_. All that came to mind was, "Who is Red Bordeaux, and what team does he play for?" Obviously, I had been dazed by Friday night lights.
   Now I will have to join Oenophiles Anonymous, because the other wine lovers won't want to acknowledge me in public. What's next? Will I embarrass myself by requesting a sommelier to bring a bottle of Chateau Ripple, or a glass of vintage Boone's Farm? Don't get me wrong, I'm no snob - I love Boone's Farm but come ON! Really, I did one of those V-8 forehead slaps when I finally deduced the word I'd been seeking was "claret." Which reminds me, did you ever see that Bellagio commercial with the LL jumping out of the name, running after the grape, and stomping it?
   Am reminded of world history professor who regaled us with following anecdote; While traveling, he had stopped at a convenience store for something to eat. Going through the beverage selections, he encountered his first bottle of Ripple and asked clerk what it was, receiving this reply, "Ripple, my good man, is a fine 89-cent wine." [This was the 1960s.]
   Anyway, guess I should be thankful not to have misread Bordeaux as Boudreaux, but it is small comfort. I recalled an episode of Murphy Brown in which a truckload of potatoes was dumped on Veep's lawn, after Dan Quayle had put an "e" on the end of singular form of potato, and wondered if anybody would leave a bottle of wine on my porch. Because, that would be okay, you know.

Resolved: commit to an ideal

   I'm already seeing comic strip references to broken resolutions, so it seemed a good time to address the topic in a blog.

***

Mid-January
 Many individuals are reaching the point at which one's resolve to make changes and "be better" begin to weaken. While many aim at "self-improvement," it is largely within the physical realm that efforts are concentrated.

   On 1 January, the western world starts a new calendar year. New Year resolutions provide a way of
redefining ourselves. Perhaps we should consider a shift in focus from physical to: spiritual; intellectual; or even metaphysical (if, indeed, we even know what that is). Would that not be a step toward making our world a better place to live?

   If we took the time to consider how our everyday actions reflect on our ethics, would we still do most of the things we do? Of course, some would argue that "over-thinking every little thing" would bring life to a standstill. That is not my intent, but a little soul-searching could enhance one's prudence.

   Prudence and practicality dictate many of our everyday actions. But occasionally we encounter a situation that challenges us morally. How do we face the challenge? "Hemming and hawing" seems to be a time-honoured tradition, especially among those of us who tend to procrastinate. There are several "hot button" issues, some of global import, others more particular to certain countries or regions.
   There is a Facebook group called International Citizens United, (ICU) with the motto, "All for one and one for all." ("Tous pour un, un pour tous.") A phrase from the Statement of Purpose: The International Citizens United group page is a place for building unity and understanding between all people on the planet. Please check it out and, if you are so inclined, request membership.
   Climate change is affecting all of us, in one way, or another. Even the smallest everyday action has a consequence. The amount of rubbish one generates can have an impact on the increasing temperature of the planet. For instance, how often do any of us attend some group function and find food served on disposable plates, which will end up in a landfill? Not to mention, bottled water. If trash is incinerated, how many and what kinds of pollutants, go into the atmosphere? It may cause minor inconvenience and subject one to a certain amount of ridicule to take one's own place setting, cutlery, and reusable container for beverage but one then has the satisfaction of not contributing to waste which may well end up in a body of water; making said resource unusable for either consumption or recreation.
   Sometimes one can find a bargain, a two-for-one: maybe you could take public transportation, or even walk; that way you are responsible for fewer carbon emissions going into the atmosphere and you get exercise. Win-win.
   Make this a year of commitment: your future and the world's may depend on it. No pressure.

  Happy New Year.