On Hissy-Fitting and Lickety-Splitting

Great Big Baby Dog Woodrow, Old Lady Dog Callie, and I were lying on our bellies looking out my attic-bedroom window at 6:15 this morning.  Snuggling in bed with your dogs looking out the window together in the early morning is one of the great pleasures of life.  I commend it to you.

While we were gazing at the ice-covered woods, the dogs began throwing a hissy-fit.  If you are not from the American south, you may not know that a hissy-fit is a tantrum.

The Cambridge Dictionary defines hissy-fit as a sudden period of uncontrolled and silly anger like a child’s.  I do not think people from Cambridge throw hissy-fits. 

In addition, one does not HAVE a hissy-fit.  One THROWS a hissy-fit.  I do not know why.  

Perhaps it’s because throw is a strong verb.  A good hissy-fit is always thrown.  Most recently I threw a hissy-fit when I dropped my phone in the bath.

But back to the dogs’ hissy-fit.  They threw it because Young Red Fox was lickety-splitting down the cart path. 

The Oxford Dictionary defines lickety-split thus: as quickly as possible.  OD says lickety-split is an adverb, but I prefer it as a verb.  I know the word more intimately than the writers of OD do because I’ve been lickety-splitting all my life, and I doubt that anyone who ever worked on the Oxford Dictionary has ever lickety-splitted.  I can’t imagine a wizened don sitting in a dusty library telling another wizened don, “I need a definition of perspicacious lickety-split.”

Please note that I like verbing nouns, adjectives, and adverbs.  Lickety-splitting is a more powerful verb than running lickety-split.

Lest you wonder whether verbing is a verb, it is.  Antimeria/anthimeria is the act of changing one part of speech into another, such as verbing.    If you change the word, it’s a derivation.  If you don’t change the word, it’s a conversion or a zero derivation.

Lest you think this essay is pointless, let me assure you that I have a point: life is too short to throw hissy-fits by annoyances lickety-splitting through our lives.  Like other people’s antimeria:  Yesterday I was lickety-splitting past another white-haired woman who was throwing a hissy-fit about her daughter-in-law’s use of the word cocooning, as in, “We’re staying home cocooning this weekend.” 

I wanted to say, “Lady, at our age, life is too short for throwing hissy-fits.

“Instead, we should each go home and snuggle on our beds with our dogs and gaze into the snow-filled woods.” 

Dogs who get hissyfied by foxes lickety-splitting by.

Hissyfied?  One of my favorite antimeria is making predicate adjectives by adding fied to almost any part of speech.  So I hope you have been smartified today because I taught you about antimeria/anthimeria. 

And I hope you stop lickety-splitting for the rest of the day, get unhissyfied, and go snuggle with your dogs on your bed and stare out the window together. And thus be blessifed.

 

 

 

Young Fathers and Cell Phones

I sat near a father and his three children at McDonald’s last October.  The boys were maybe eight and ten.  The little girl, perhaps five.

The children ate quietly.  The young father, who wore a ball cap pulled down, hunkered over his cell phone texting or playing games.  The entire time.  The little girl repeatedly tried to engage her daddy, but he didn’t even look up.  The little boys didn’t even try.

I wanted to shake that young man and say, “Grow up!  Be a father! Put your toy away and talk with your children!”   But I didn’t.

Today I went to HFC for lunch: Higdon Ferry Café.  Tasty, inexpensive, country fare.  Local color.

When a young father wearing a necktie came in with his little girl, I perked up.  She was four or five.  I thought, Watching them talk and play together during their meal will be delicious. 

But as soon as they sat down, instead of playing with his little girl, the man grabbed his cell phone and started playing with it. 

When the waitress came, the child ordered.  I couldn’t hear what she ordered, but her father said, “No, she can’t have that.”  Then he ordered for her and himself, not taking his eyes off his toy.

I thought, He probably doesn’t have enough money to pay for what she wanted. He ordered what he could afford.  He’ll put down his phone in a minute and talk to her.  Ha.

When the waitress left, the little girl tried valiantly to visit with her daddy, but he ignored her and continued playing with his phone.  When she reached for him, he grabbed her arm and hissed, “Be still!”  She continued trying to engage him.  He grabbed her arm again and spat, “Stop it!”  Thirty seconds later, he grabbed her tiny wrist and snarled, “Shut up!”

Then she said something and he jerked her up and pulled his right arm back as though he were going to backhand her.  I gasped.

I knew not to make a scene.  She would suffer the consequences later if I embarrassed him.  But I had to interrupt this escalation.  So I plucked a small toy from my purse.  I walked over to him.  “May she have this toy?” I asked.  “It’s hard to sit still for a long time. I know because I’m an old first-grade teacher.”

He neither looked at me nor spoke.  His lips formed a thin, white line, but he took the toy.  He realized that someone- maybe everyone- had been watching him.

This afternoon, I have tried to see the world through that young father’s eyes.  What heartache could cause a daddy to ignore and then threaten his little girl so he could play with his cell phone? Had he just lost his job? His fortune? His love?

I don’t know the answer. 

But I do know the prayer.

Father God, turn men with children into daddies.  Make them patient.  Make them gentle.  Make them kind.  And teach them that their children are infinitely more important than fancy phones.  Amen.

 

The Kindness of Strangers: Green Beans

Last week I took my car to Little Rock for its 12,000 mile oil change.  The dealership sits on the east side of six lanes full of hurtling traffic.  A supermarket sits on the west side.  Although rain was falling intermittently, I was determined to walk to the supermarket to eat lunch while I waited because I like their fried chicken and tender green beans. 

I zipped up my raggedy bum-around jacket, took a deep breath, and then barreled into the traffic.  I dodged three cars to get through the first three lanes to the median, but I made it. 

I scrabbled over the stickery bushes on the median. No mean feat, that.

The second three lanes were easy after the first three and the median, and I reached the parking lot safely.    

The rain started pouring, so I ran the last twenty yards to the supermarket’s doorway.  By the time I got inside, I was a mess: wet, cold, bedraggled.  My bum-around coat was neither waterproof nor warm enough.  My white hair was plastered down on my head.  I suppose I looked like I didn’t know where my next meal was coming from. 

A woman I had not seen before waited on me.  She had the leathery skin of someone who had worked outdoors all her life, or perhaps had smoked for years, or drank too much.  She didn’t have any teeth.  She’s had a hard life, I thought.  She looks like she doesn’t know where her next meal is coming from.  I wish I could help her.

“Lunch special, please,” I said.  “Fried chicken.  Dark.”

She dug through the chicken for a thigh and a leg.  “Sides?” she asked.

“Corn.  And green beans.”  She ladled me up a scoop of buttery corn. 

“What other side did you say you wanted?”

“Green beans,” I said.  “They look real good.”

She raised her head and studied me for a long moment. Then she served me a giant helping of green beans.  She paused, then dipped her spoon in the beans again and added a second big helping.  She looked up, and at the moment our eyes met, I read her thoughts.  She’s had a hard life, she thought.  She looks like she doesn’t know where her next meal is coming from.  I can do this to help her.

So that day, two old women touched each other’s hearts.  She and I saw in each other a needy stranger.  I knew I could do nothing for her, but she knew she could do something for me.  She ladled me a mountain of tender green beans.  And the gift of kindness to a stranger.

 

 

The Gore Thanksgiving Ritual

My father, Harold O. Gore, Esq., was a devout Episcopalian whose profound Christian faith guided his life, so in 1980, he started a new Thanksgiving tradition in our family.  I am asking you to make it part of your tradition.

But first, a story that took place 21 years later.

In 1991, at the age of 80, Daddy knew he was developing Alzheimer's disease.  In 2001, on the night before Thanksgiving, my mother ordered a pizza from Papa John's for dinner.  My brother, Halbert, had arrived at their house minutes earlier from his 500 mile trip, and I from my 300 miler. The four of us sat down at Mother's tiny kitchen table.  Mom placed the pizza box in the center of the table with paper plates and napkins around it.

"Say grace, Daddy," she instructed.

By this time, Daddy was deep into Alzheimer's, but he always said grace before meals, so we four bowed our heads.  Daddy clasped his hands before his chest and closed his eyes.  But he couldn't remember how to say the "Bless this food to our use and us to thy service..." prayer that Episcopalians often use.  We sat quietly to give him time to think.

Then he opened his eyes.  Hands still folded devoutly, he looked at the pizza box and read from the cover, "Better ingredients, Better pizza, Papa John's. Amen."

Mother, Halbert, and I echoed Daddy's amen, chuckled, and then wiped the tears from our eyes. 

That has become a traditional Thanksgiving memory in our family, and sometimes, in reverence and humility, we actually offer it as grace over pizza.  God understands.

But that was not the tradition Daddy started in 1980 that I am hoping you will adopt.  The night before Thanksgiving that year, Daddy called Halbert and me into the living room.  "Children," he said, "I want us to start a new Thanksgiving tradition tomorrow.   We will each steal off quietly from the festivities and telephone someone to tell them that we are thankful that they are in our lives.  The person we call must not be a relative.  We will not tell each other whom we called or that we have made the call.  This is to be strictly between ourselves and that one other person.  Please think tonight about whom you will call.  We won't talk about this again."

Halbert and I looked at each other.  This was the way our daddy lived his life: quietly, humbly, thankfully.  And his tradition remains ours today. 

On Thanksgiving Day, we slip away from the festivities and call someone- not a relative- for whom we are thankful.  We do not have a conversation with that person.  When that person answers the phone, we identify ourselves and quickly say, "In our family, on Thanksgiving Day, we each select one person for whom we are thankful.  Then we call that person and thank them for being in our lives.  You are the person I wanted to call this Thanksgiving.  Thank you for your kindness to me."  Then we hang up.

Halbert and I agree: Thanksgiving would not be Thanksgiving without our daddy's ritual. 

I know that he agrees with me when I urge you to adopt our ritual.  Your Thanksgiving will never be the same.

Tales of a Book Room Lady: A First-Class Man

I am The Book Room Lady at the local humane society thrift shop (or charity shop, as they say in Britian). 

As The Book Room Lady, I spend two afternoons a month sorting through books that people have donated.  I have to decide which books to put on the shelves and which ones to put in the "FREE" box.  Some I have to throw away because they are so mildewed or silverfish-infested that no one should take them home.  But that's another post.

For every newly-donated book I shelve, I have to discard one we already have.  We have limited space, so if I decide to shelve a newly-donated book, I have to remove a shelved one in that same category, eg. fiction for fiction, biography for biography, etc.  Simple geometry: I only have X cubic inches of space for each category of book, so one in, one out. 

I quickly screen the new donations for obvious faults you wouldn't believe I have to screen for: Does the book have peanut butter on it?  Are the pages water-damaged?  Cockroach chewed?  But once a book has passed my screening, then I have to examine it more closely.  That's when I make some wonderful discoveries because people tuck things into books. 

I've never found money, although I've heard stories of purveyors of used books who have.  I find lots of notes in nonfiction books, ideas the reader wants to remember, like "Good mutual funds for retirement," or "Possible paint colors for the kitchen."  Occasionally I find shopping lists or to-do lists and wonder whether the groceries got bought or the chores got tackled.  I sporadically find commercial bookmarks with insipid verses that make me cringe.  

Sometimes, though, I find notes that are remarkable.  Yesterday, in book on how to be a better father, I found two index cards.  A boy's name was written on each, and then what appeared to be the result of the father's introspection after interviewing each son.

Bruce- Spend more time with him.  Play video games with him.  Invite him to go to the gym.  Play basketball with him.  Why don't I do those things already?  Why did I not know that he wants to spend more time doing things with me?

Stephen- Praise him when he does something right.  Listen to him when he has a problem.  Don't try to fix it.  Don't criticize.  Just listen.  What makes me always criticize him?  Why am I acting like my own father?  He always criticized me, never would listen to my problems without telling me what a screw-up I am.  Why am I treating Stephen like my dad treated me?  Why haven't I learned from his mistakes?

I wonder whether those boys are fathers themselves now.  I wonder whether that man became a better dad than his own father was.  God bless him. I hope he did.

But the note I found that has moved me most was one I found last spring.  Written in an old book, on a yellowed piece of paper, in an old man's shaky handwriting, it read, "Dan Smith: a first-class man."  Then it had a phone number. 

A first-class man.   Wow.  To be called a first-class man is a thing devoutly to be wished. 

I thought about "a first-class woman," but something changed for me in the translation. 

I think of a first-class man as brave, strong yet gentle, humble, a man who spends time with his children and listens to them without criticizing, a man who would lay down his life for his family and friends. 

I think of a first-class woman as wearing an elegant navy skirted-suit and heels.  I see her directing a board meeting or speaking on behalf of endangered whales at a senate hearing. 

I don't know why I have those pictures in my head, but I do.

Sitting there in the book room in the thrift shop, I picked up my cell phone and called the phone number listed as belonging to the first-class man.  It was disconnected.  I wasn't surprised.  The first-class man probably died long ago.  The old man who wrote the note probably died long ago, too. 

The first-class man's name was so common that trying to find him or his family wasn't practical.  So I put the note in my wallet, brought it home, and tucked it in a book of my own for safekeeping.  To throw away a note with the name of a first-class man on it seemed... well... it seemed.... just WRONG.  Maybe some day after I am dead and gone, a book-room lady will find the note as she goes through my books in her charity shop. Maybe she will take it home and tuck it into her own book to continue to keep it safe.

All summer and fall I have wondered what kinds of things one need do in order to be called a first-class man.  I want to do those kinds of things, to be remembered in that way.  I want to be that kind of person. 

So tomorrow, and every tomorrow hereafter, I will try to do something befitting of my image of a first-class man.  I will try to live my life so that although I happen to be a heterosexual woman, after I die, someone will think of me and tuck a piece of paper in a book, a piece of paper that says, "Millie Gore-Lancaster: a first-class man."

A Prayer for Clean Underpants

I just threw a load of white cotton panties and tee-shirts into the washing machine.  They made me think about what Teacher Extraordinaire Jean Hoard taught me.

One day Jean said to a kindergartner, “Honey, let Mrs. Hoard help you.  You’ve got your tee-shirt on inside-out.”

He said, “That’s the way Mommy wants it.”

Certain the little one was confused, Jean pulled the shirt off over his head, turned it right-side out, and saw mustard smeared all over it. 

“I don’t got no clean clothes,” he told her, “So Mommy turned my tee-shirt inside-out.  Just like my underpants.  I been wearing them all week.”

“Why doesn’t your mommy wash them?” asked Jean.

“We don’t got no washer.”

“What about the laundromat?”

“We don’t got no car, and she’d have to walk and carry the basket, and bad drug people hang out between our house and the laundromat.  She’s scared to go.”

“I see,” said Jean.

“We got to wait until somebody who gots a car can take us.”

When you’re poor, washing clothes is an ordeal.  If you’ve got a washer, does it actually work?  Is your electricity turned on?  Your water?  Your gas to the hot water heater?  Do you have a dryer?  Or a clothes line, and if so, will the weather cooperate?  Got detergent?  Is a laundromat close enough to walk to, one basket at a time?  Will your toddler run into the street while you carry the basket?  Are you able-bodied enough so that you can walk?  Is public transit feasible?  Do you have access to private transportation?  Money to pay for it?  To run the machines?  Is walking down the street safe? Is the laundromat safe?  Are your clothes wrinkle-free, and if not, do you have an iron, ironing board, starch, and the physical ability, time, energy, know-how, and skill to iron them?

I never think about those things when I toss in a load of laundry.  I take clean clothes for granted.  For Pete’s sake, I can afford wrinkle-free clothes and fabric softener. 

People who lack basic clothing suffer.  They suffer.  They shiver and sicken when cold and wet and muddy.  And dirty clothing spreads disease.  Honest. 

The emotional tolls are high, too: children skip school because not having enough clothes is humiliating.  Other kids make you the butt of jokes:  Aren’t you wearing the same shirt for the third day in a row? I knew you were coming because I could smell you.  

We can help.  We can go through our closets and donate the GOOD clothes we don’t wear.   (Throw away stained, torn, or tacky clothes. Nobody wants trash.)  Remember the 80/20 rule: We wear 20% of our clothes 80% of the time.  The rest could clothe the naked.  Didn’t Jesus say to do that?

We could clothe the naked AND enjoy clean closets. 

Time for my whites to go in the dryer.  I’ll fold them with new eyes. 

So today, this is my prayer:

Thank you, God, for clean underpants.  Bless the poor who don’t have any.  Move our hearts to donate good, serviceable clothing to charity and to buy new underpants to donate, too. And maybe to throw in a few dollars more.  To clothe the naked like you said.  And to then appreciate our clean, organized closets. 

This week when I see someone whose clothes are dirty and who smells bad, remind me, Lord, how hard life is for the poor.  And that while I have two dozen pair of clean underpants in my drawer, they may be wearing their underpants inside out because one pair is all they've got.

Amen.

What My Plumbing Problems Reminded Me About What Dr. Helen Raschke Taught Me About Poverty

Our water got turned back on yesterday.  We’d sprung a geyser a week ago, so since then, we’ve only had water for 20 minutes a day, long enough to shower, brush, flush, and fill the bathtubs for future flushes.  We knew we needed new pipes, so after the third plumbing call in as many weeks, I bit the bullet.  We now have all new pipes ($3,904), and although the plumber is an affable fellow, I hope never to see his butt again.

Living without running water for a week made me think about what the late Dr. Helen Raschke taught me about poverty twenty years ago.

Before I met Dr. Raschke, I thought poverty was about having to make instead of buy Christmas presents.  I knew that public schools provided poor children free breakfast and lunch, that Medicaid paid their doctor bills, and that the government subsidized their housing.  I thought that covered everything. 

Boy, did Dr. Helen Raschke open my eyes.  A marriage and family therapist who was led by her profound Episcopal faith, she had established a free legal clinic to assist women in poverty.  She happened to be the wife of my Episcopal priest, Dr. Vern Raschke, which is how I came to know her.

Helen told me, “People who live in chronic poverty are not simply people who lack disposable income.  They are Multiple-Problem People.

 “Multiple-Problem People have physical and mental health problems.  They have employment problems, school problems, legal problems, marriage problems, and problems with their neighbors and families.  They are often illiterate and have learning problems. They lack adequate housing, transportation, child care and health care. 

“They get their water, electricity and gas cut off, and then they can’t afford the deposits to get them on again.  Without power, they can’t use the refrigerator, stove, or microwave, so they use their limited funds to buy junk and fast food until the money runs out.  When the water is cut off, they can’t shower, wash their hair, or even flush the toilet. Think about it.”  

She then explained about the inability to provide for basic needs like deodorant, soap and toothpaste.  And even sanitary napkins.

Then she switched to cultural disadvantages of Multiple Problem People.  “They don’t know things that you and I take for granted: They don’t know that dirty dishes attract vermin, that their child needs a regular bedtime routine, or that they’re never going to win the lottery.”

Then because she knew that I’m an animal lover, she added, “And they don’t know that the dog tied to the tree in the back yard needs fresh food and water every day, much less that he needs to be permanently unchained and running free in a fenced yard, or that he needs shelter, regular veterinary care, and companionship.”

Then she began to explain how the problems interacted to create new problems: For example, if a mother had neither dependable transportation nor a strong social network, those two problems interacted with each other so that she couldn’t even go pick up a bottle of diarrhea medicine for a sick child, who then became sicker and therefore missed a week of school, which convinced the teacher that he was irresponsible, which...

So here am I today taking my running water for granted.  This morning, I washed a week’s worth of clothes and ran the dishwasher.  This afternoon, I relished my shower.  Washing my hair was darn near erotic.  I even gave new puppy Woodrow a warm bath.  And I shouted, “Yee-ha!” when I flushed the toilet. 

All those things I take for granted.  All those things I forget that poor people don’t.  So tonight, this is my prayer:

Oh God who created and then parted the waters, this night provide water for thy children who have none.  Bring thy rains so that the dying dog who is chained to a tree might have a sip to quench his thirst.  This I ask Thee, Lord, in the name of Thy Son who walked upon the water and who turned water into wine.

Amen.

 

On Loss and Gain: Shelter Dogs and Life Changes

Two days ago when we adopted our new dog, Laird Woodrow the Wirehaired of the House of Gore-Lancaster, I did something that gave me pause at first, but in retrospect, I know was right.

Woodrow, then called Jack, shared a cage with a female named Allie; she seemed a couple of years older than he.  They had wire-haired-ish faces, but different coloration and body builds.  She was snow white with a large brown patch; he was retriever gold with an eggshell muzzle.  She was taller and leaner, her face pointier, her mustache more pronounced. He loved people; she didn’t approach.

On the day we adopted him, the shelter attendant had to drag Woodrow-To-Be outside to meet us.  Long strings of fear-saliva flung from his whiskers, and he flattened himself on the walkway as she dragged him. I’ve seen roadkill less pancaked. “Sorry,” the attendant said.  “He’s not leash trained.”

I said, “He’s probably scared without his cage-mate.”

“Oh,” she said, “That’s his sister.” 

Whoa. “I didn’t know that,” I said.  “Petfinder doesn’t say they are pair-bonded.  I don’t want to break them up, and we can’t take them both. So we better not take him.”

“That’s the problem,” said the lovely young attendant, “People say exactly what you said; everybody thinks they’re cute, but nobody wants to separate them, so they don’t get adopted.”

“I understand that.”

“But the bigger problem is that they’ve been here over three weeks.  The shelter director has passed them over for euthanasia twice.  They’ll both have to be put down soon.”

“Oh.”

“If you take Jack, Allie has a much better chance of getting adopted.  If you take him, she might be saved, too.”

Oh, I thought.  If they stay together, they’ll almost certainly both be euthanized.  If I take him, he’ll be saved, and she might be euthanized.  But she might not.  At least she’ll have a shot at being adopted.  We might save both dogs by taking one.

Meanwhile, Woodrow cowered in front of us.  But our dog Callie liked him immediately; she play bowed.  That was the first criterion: Callie had to like him. Tenderhearted Husband Don liked him, too.  That wasn’t much of a hurdle because Don’s a softie for dogs.  Dad commended Woodrow as a charming fellow, so the deal was done.  Dog Pound Jack was to become our Woodrow.  Allie would lose her brother, but because of her loss, she would have a real shot at being adopted, too.

The Jack/Allie Catch 22 has led me to think about the need for sometimes letting go of people, things, and old roles in order to embrace new joys that life has to offer. You see, two objects cannot exist in the same space at the same time. And once a space is made available, something must fill it up. Because Nature abhors a vacuum. That’s physics.  And metaphysics.

This year, I’ve had to let go of my role as a college professor.  Sometimes it’s been a struggle.  But making that space has allowed me to regain a role I had to sacrifice long ago: now, in the autumn of my life, I can once again say, I am a musician. 

This year I watched a widow let go of her grief and become a beaming young lover once again.

I watched a shy, friendless old woman let go of her solitary life and move into assisted living where she has learned how much fun sharing a meal with new friends can be.

I watched a man let go of a home he could no longer care for and thereby find that freedom from homeownership pulses with possibility.

So losing something offers the possibility of filling the vacuum with something new, and perhaps in its own way, better.

So this is my prayer for Allie, whose brother I took from her yesterday.

Creator God, to save our Woodrow, I have forced dear Allie to give up her brother.  I beg that Thou wilt transform her loss into gain; I beseech Thee to send her a person who will shower her with the love that we pledge to shower upon her brother.  And Lord, I beseech Thee to embrace with Thy peace all the dear shelter dogs who this day must die because they have no one to love them.

Amen.    

 

 

Everyday Miracles: Toast-Stealing Dogs, Dancing Leaves, and Spider Silk

This morning a dog stole my toast.  Actually, the dog was mine.   Because she was sitting on the bed when I crawled in with my breakfast tray, and because I set the tray down and held my plate in my hand in front of me but was looking behind me while I was scooting backward against the headboard, and because she was sitting directly in front of me, she thought I was offering it to her.

She was delighted to be offered a piece of buttered toast (imported Irish butter, no less), and took it.  I turned around to see her sitting stock-still on the bed in front of me with a whole piece of toast in her mouth. 

What a delightful surprise!  A day when a dog unintentionally steals your toast is a harbinger for miraculous, magical things to come.

My friend, Jessica Dunn, is less than half my age but far wiser than I. She has an old soul.  Last year she told me, “You have the gift of miracles.”

“Huh?” I said.  “I can’t do any miracles.  Oh, I can make a fine pot of Chicken and Dumplings, but that’s where my miracle-making ends.”

She smiled.  “You have the gift of miracles because you see them all around you in the little things in life.  Few people realize they're seeing miracles every day, but you do.”

Oh.  If that’s the gift of miracles, I guess I have it.  So I knew that if my dog stole my Irish-buttered toast, I should encounter at least one more miracle today.  And within the hour, I did.

Husband Don, toast-stealing dog Callie, and I took a walk.  We’d gone only fifty feet when I saw a sweet gum leaf hovering in the air about five feet from the ground.  It tumbled and twirled and danced.   It careened out and flew back, but it stayed hovering in the air.  It knew we were watching, so it showed off.

“Hey, Don,” I said.  “Look at the leaf!  It’s a miracle!” We stood quietly to watch it. 

“It’s stuck on a spider-web strand,” he said. 

“I know!” I said.  “And isn’t it miraculous that it is?  And aren’t spider webs miraculous?”

“I guess,” he said.  “What are they made of? And how do spiders make them?”  (He had a lousy fourth-grade science teacher.)

“Spider silk.  They make it from a gland in their bodies. Once for ounce, it’s five times stronger than steel. NASA studies it for spaceships.”  I’m afraid of spiders, but their architectural acumen and artistry delight and amaze me. 

So today was a day of little miracles, and for that, I offer this prayer.

Thanks God, for everyday miracles.  Thanks for a dog who unintentionally steals my toast, a sweet gum leaf who dances in the air, and the architectural marvels constructed by a fellow earthling with a brain the size of a grain of sand.  Miraculous, magical world. Thanks, miraculous, magical God.

Musings on Musical Trolls

Last Saturday morning I was decorating the serving tables in the church parish hall for coffee after the Sunday service.  Created an autumn explosion of color with all the usual fall accoutrements: pumpkins, acorns, pine cones, leaves pulsing with color, and one of my signature items scattered with abandon: river gravel instead of confetti. 

My unexpected, funny elements were my trolls playing musical instruments. I love them.  I have thirteen of them.  I have two cellists; three sax players who may be blind because they are wearing dark sunglasses; and three beatific, angelic-looking euphonium players wearing Norse helmets with horns.  I don’t know whether they play euphoniums or baritones because the instruments look the same on the outside to me.  About their only difference is the shape of their internal bores.  I don’t spend much time worrying about that.  But I like the word euphonium better than baritone, so that’s what I choose to think they’re playing.

I also have five demented-looking drummers.  They don’t look like they’re dangerous.  They just look like they’re nuts.  Together, I call them Five Demented Drummers and The Band. 

Five of my trolls peeked out from amidst the leaves and behind the pumpkins on my tablescapes.  Most people never even noticed them on Sunday.  But I knew they were there.

I think the woods are full of trolls who play musical instruments.  I think they sleep in the summer heat; their furry tails sweat, and having sweat run down your tail is most unpleasant, so they reverse hibernate.  They hide in their caves in the winter, but they don’t sleep; they sit by a roaring fire in an enormous fireplace in a cavernous hall and play troll music.  And dance.  Eat biscuits and jam.  Blackberry jam.  And fried pies.  Blackberry.  Drink blackberry ale.  I like that image. 

My musical trolls come out in the spring and fall.  In spring, they play music in the light of the moon.  And right at dawn.  You have to listen closely because the birds sing so loudly.  But if you are patient, listen intently, and believe, you can hear them.

But fall is the musical trolls’ favorite time of year.  They stay outside all day playing their music.  You can’t see them because of the fallen leaves, pinecones, rotting logs, pumpkins.  They take tiny knives and axes and burrow their way into the pumpkins from the bottom where the pumpkins are lying on the ground. You don’t see anything when you walk by; the trolls’ hiding-pumpkins don’t look like jack-o-lanterns.  They look like ordinary pumpkins.  But the trolls see you.  They drill tiny peepholes into the pumpkins so they can watch you as you walk down the trail, enjoying the fall color, blissfully unaware of them.

I am a joyful Episcopalian, and I figure that if God could choose to make something as irritating as human beings who are endlessly troublesome, then that same Creator could choose to make something as delightful as musical trolls who aren’t any trouble at all.

So put on your favorite old sweater, grab your walking stick, and go take a walk through the woods this afternoon.  Drink in the splendiferous fall color, bathe yourself in the smell of the wood smoke, and drench your ears with the sound of troll music that underlies the song of the birds and the rustle of the leaves. And when you hear it, remember to use your manners and say, “Thank you, God.”

G’fernock.  That’s troll for Amen.

 

 

 

Someone's Strangers

Saturday morning I decorated the tables in the church hall for fellowship after the Sunday service.  I was wearing my tee-shirt that proclaims “I’m a Joyful Episcopalian.”   My friend, Dan, an old lawyer who wears a patch over his blind eye, was locking and loading the coffee urns. 

I finished decorating and goodbye’d Dan, who was still puttering around in the kitchen.  I wheeled around the corner and into the narthex. A wild-eyed woman clutching her purse to her breast startled me. 

Tall woman, too thin, shoes and dress expensive and immaculate.  Dyed hair wild.  Eyes too, darting like a rabbit pursued by a fox.  Thought she might dart and run out the door if I approached her too fast.

“May I be of assistance?” I asked gently.

“I’m lost!” she cried.

You’re a stranger, I thought. Then, People get lost in the village all the time, but this is different. Something is terribly wrong here.

“Okay,” I said.  “I’ll help you.”

She said, “I think I have Alzheimer’s.  I can’t remember anything!”

I said, “I understand.  I won’t leave you. You don’t have to figure this out alone.  I promise.” Then, “Where are you trying to go?”

“My mother’s house.  I can’t find it.  She didn’t call to let me in the East Gate, but the officer knew me because I come all the time.  He let me in.  I don’t know why my mother didn’t call.  But she didn’t.  And now I can’t find her house.  I’ve been driving around for a long time, but nothing looks familiar.  I didn’t know what to do, so I came here.” She blinked back tears.

“Good idea,” I said, thinking, Church is always the best place to go when you don’t know what to do.

“What’s your mother’s address?”

“I don’t remember,” the Stranger said.  “It’s somewhere on Delfina Way.  But I can’t find it.”

“If you have it written down somewhere in your purse, I’ll put it in my GPS and lead you there.”

She got out her driver’s license and gave it to me: Little Rock.  An hour and a half away.  “Okay,” I said, “That’s your address.  I need your mom’s address.”  She dug some more.

“I don’t think I have it,” she said, abandoning the purse search.

I smiled at my Stranger. “Okay. We can work with that.”

“I know she lives on Delfina Way,” she said hopefully. 

“Then follow me.  I’ll put that into my GPS, and we’ll drive around it until something looks familiar.” I started toward the door.

“But I don’t know where it is!”  She didn’t understand what a GPS was, and I wasn’t going to be able to explain it to her, so I said, “Come to the kitchen.  My friend Dan is there.  He’ll help us. He’s lived here a long time.”

I led her to the kitchen.

Dan said, “Delfina Way’s right there.” He pointed out the kitchen window.  “First right turn.”  I thought momentarily about him being a pirate standing on a crow’s nest on a ship pointing to an island and shouting, “Land ho!”

“I’ve been driving around and around there,” the Stranger said, “But I can’t find it.”

“I’ll call the front gate,” I said. “Tell me your mother’s name.  They’ll look it up for us.”

“I don’t remember Mama’s name.”

Umhm.  Lady’s right.  She has dementia. 

“Then follow me in your car,” I said.  “We’ll drive around until you can remember her name or see a familiar house.”

We hurried out to our cars. 

A dog was sitting in her car, windows rolled up.  Panting.  Too hot to leave a dog in a locked car.  But this lady didn’t know her mother’s name, so I couldn’t blame her for locking a dog in a hot car.

“This is my dog, Sheeba.  She’s Shiba Inu and Basenji.” Sheeba struggled to get loose from her doggie seatbelt.  “She’s all I’ve got. I don’t have any children.  It’s just Sheeba and me.  And my mother doesn’t like her.  When we come visit, Sheeba has to stay outside.  I have to tie her to the porch because Mama doesn’t have a fenced yard.” My Stranger’s eyes filled with tears.

“I understand,” I said. 

I started my Subie and my Stranger pulled in behind me.  As soon as I turned onto Delfina Way and came to a fork, she pulled up beside me.  “I think it’s this way,” she called through her passenger window and pointed to the left.

“Okay, you lead.  I’ll follow.”

She pulled ahead, drove fifty feet, and stopped.  I pulled up beside her and lowered my passenger window.  “Nothing looks familiar,” she said.

“Do you remember your mother’s name?”

“Sue Roberts,” she said, as though she’d known it all along.

I called the front gate.  Guard gave me the address.  #123.

“Follow me,” I said.  “We’ll find it.”

Roads here in the village wind around, circle, divide, circle back, wind around in the opposite direction, and end up somewhere you’ve never been before. But we’d reached #79 and were headed in the direction of #123 when she pulled her car up beside mine again.  “We passed a road going left,” she called. 

“I know, but follow me. I promise we’ll get there this way.” She pulled back in behind me.

In three minutes, we pulled up to #123.

I got out of my car. “This is it,” she said. 

“I’ll go in with you to make sure your mom’s okay, but we need to get Sheeba out of the car first.  It’s too hot to leave her in it.”

“Mama doesn’t like dogs,” the woman said.  “I’m not supposed to take her inside.”

“Okay. We’ll check on your mom and hurry right straight back.”

Mama was fine, but angry.  She was on oxygen, sitting at the kitchen table.  House was spotless.  No dogs allowed.

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

“I was lost,” my Stranger whispered. She looked down as if she’d had a lifetime of being yelled at by this crone.  Then she whimpered, “You didn’t call the gate to let me in.” 

“I called right after they’d already let you in.  That’s why I knew you were lost again.”

Again.

“Who’s that?” she demanded, pointing at me.

I stepped forward.  I felt like I had to protect my Stranger from her mother’s wrath.  I’m an old, retired college professor.  I’ve lived through having a gun held to my head by a stranger who wanted to kill me, survived a brain tumor, beat congestive heart failure, sued the city where I lived, and been tried by a renegade bishop on a Canon 13.  I don’t scare easy. 

“Your daughter was lost.  She couldn’t remember your address.  Or your name.  She came to our church.  I promised I’d stay with her until she was safe.”

“What church?” she demanded.

“Holy Trinity.  Episcopal.  Top of the hill.  Even though your daughter was confused, she knew that someone at a church would help her.”  Someone… Someone at a church will always help.  And sometimes, Someone lets us humans be eyes and hands and feet…  “So I found out where you live and had her follow me here.”

I stayed to help my Stranger get her dog settled on the back porch: bed, water, tether.  She couldn’t remember how to attach the dog to the tether, didn’t remember that the water bowl had to be filled.

I went back in the house to talk to the mother while the daughter was on the porch apologizing to the dog that it couldn’t come inside.

“Your daughter didn’t even remember your name.  She said she thinks she has Alzheimer’s.  She definitely has some form of dementia.”

The old woman’s eyes teared.  “She doesn’t have any family but me.  No husband, no children.  Just me, and I’m on this oxygen and my brother has to take care of me.  I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.  She can’t make this trip from Little Rock again.”

“No,” I agreed.  “She can’t.”

“She doesn’t want to go into an assisted living center, and I can’t take care of her.  But she can’t live alone any longer.”

“No, she can’t.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.”

I left the house after that, sad for my nameless Stranger.  Sad for her mother.  Sad for her dog, Sheeba.  But at the same time, a Joyful Episcopalian. 

Because being joyful doesn’t mean never being sad.  Being joyful means finding Christ’s peace in the midst of life’s sorrows.  Being joyful is knowing that when you’re lost, church is the best place to go.  The safe place.  A place where you can find Someone to help you. 

Sometimes you only need to sit quietly in the sanctuary and feel the Someone’s presence. But sometimes the Someone works though an old lawyer with a patch over his eye.  Or through an old woman who is honored when Christ finds small ways to allow her to be of service to Strangers and their dogs.  An old woman who wears a tee-shirt proclaiming that she is a Joyful Episcopalian.

Amen.