Merry Christmas Break

I'm taking an undeserved break for about a week. I hope all my readers have a joyful and restful Christmas. During the holiday season keep your feet on the ground, your eyes on the stars, and the bugs off your windshield. See you in early January!

RIP Larry Greenawalt

Oh God, how many times am I going to have to go to the beach and cry? I wouldn't give up the fact that there are so many people I know and love, but when they die it's excruciating. Larry Greenawalt was the accompanist at Trinity United Methodist in Central City when I attended there. His exuberance is hard to convey in writing. He died a few days ago when a blood clot in his leg went to his heart, killing him instantly and without any pain. He was not quite 55 years old. I will miss how he called me "darlin". I will miss him as "Mr. G" with his children's music business. He was a total kid magnet. I will miss his extraordinary keyboarding skills and funny music. If only you could have heard his "My Grandpa Is the Santa Claus at Wal-Mart" which ended, "Now this is funny. Uncle Fred's the EASTER BUNNY!" Then there were his performances with his sidekick Karen Kohler in their show Das Kabarett. He loved an audience and we were happy to provide one. As I write this I'm listening to his Das Kabarett song "It's All a Swindle" first written in 1931 by Marcellus Schiffer and called Alles Schwindel. Excerpt from song:

Papa swindles

Mama swindles

Grandmama's a lying thief

We're perfectly shameless

But we are blameless

After all it's our belief

Nowadays the world is rotten

Honesty has been forgotten

Fall in love, but after kissing

Check your purse to see what's missing!

Everyone swindles some

My son's a mooch

And so's the pooch!

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

Politicians, they're magicians

They make swindles disappear

The bribes they are taking

The deals they are making

Never reach the public's ear

The Left betrays, the Right dismays

The country's broke, and guess who pays?

But tax each swindle in the making

Profits will be record-breaking!

Everyone swindles some,

So vote for who

Will steal for you!

Maybe this is a song about the world Bernie Madoff grew up in.

Nobody did it all better than you, Larry. I know you're bringing love and laughter wherever you are. I'll see you again someday.

Love, Ann

United Methodism in the 21st Century

Woo hoo! My church is thinking young! In Pittsburgh, there is a church publicity campaign going on that features cell phone text messaging. Our 18th-century founder, John Wesley, would have loved this. He used the most current technology of his time, the printing press. And he caught a lot of heat for that. We are getting some heat for this too. Some are saying it's "gimmicky." Too bad. I say we need to go where the people are, and texting is where the young people especially are. Danette Howell, of our advertising and marketing group Igniting Ministries, has been working on this. She posted the ABC news show discussing it on Facebook. I hope it spreads and spreads. If you're interested in church text message advertising, here's the video.

The Dawn of Reflection

After a good night's sleep, I woke up this morning less in the mood to throw a pie or shoe at someone. I revisited the previous post and realized that all writing is autobiography in some way, and pie-throwing is especially so. I understood in the light of dawn who I want to pitch a pie at.

It's the guy who just contacted me asking me to be his friend on Facebook. It was his second try. I ignored his first one. I'll call him Reverend Weasel Ooze. Weasel was on my Probationary Perceptive Panel long years ago, when he was less than straight with me. Okay, I'll be honest. He lied to me. After all this time I could overlook that. But a few years later Weasel, still on the PPP, prevented a good friend of mine from getting ordained. This man, Chuck, was in his probationary period at the time. He ran into Weasel one night while dining with his teenage daughter at a restaurant and they chatted. Weasel loved telling dirty jokes. He told a very raunchy story in front of Chuck's young daughter. Chuck asked to talk with him in private and got furious with Weasel. Weasel muttered an apology, but later went to the PPP and managed to block Chuck's ordination. Our loss. Chuck went Presbyterian.

Weasel has a penchant for saying one thing to the face and another behind the back. I was stunned to get two "friend requests" from him. He must be desperate. I know I need to forgive Weasel. Basically, I have. Not completely, because forgiveness is a process, but I'm working on it. But there is a difference between forgiveness and watching my back. Weasel is treacherous. I trust him as far as I can throw him. To avoid him is not un-Christian. It shows street smarts.

Because I have sort of forgiven him, I will not keep a pie crust and whipped cream on hand in case Rev. Weasel Ooze ever shows up at my door. But it's tempting. Oh, it's tempting.

Pie-Throwing Potential

One place where I would like to see pie-throwing is after a new pastor's Probationary Period. Probationary Period in my denomination is how neophytes earn their initiation (or not) into the hallowed circle of fully ordained pastors. During this time of testing, the new pastors, called probationers, work in churches on a trial basis under supervision. For a three-year period, they have to go on twenty-four hour retreats every other month with the Probationary Perceptive Panel (PPP) for continuous observation and assessment. The PPP are the pastors who serve as evaluators and gatekeepers. After the three years are over, the PPP decides who gets accepted and who doesn't. The dread of being rejected after three years of work is huge. I got through my Probationary Period just fine, thanks to all that drinking. How else to manage the stress?

After getting ordained, the no-longer-neophytes probably have a grudge or two against at least one of the PPP authority figures who loomed large in their lives for so long. Just after ordination, the ex-probationer should be encouraged to throw a pie at the PPP member of their choice. It would be cathartic. It would also help to equalize the relationship, making it more collegial. Furthermore, if one particular member of the PPP was the chosen target of an unduly large number of pies, the PPP might decide to re-evaluate that person's place on the committee. The pie-throwing would provide a crude but effective visual of exactly who it was the newbies didn't like.

Thoughts like this keep me from making any real progress in life.

Throwing Shoes, Pies, and Fits

Ever since that Iraqi reporter threw his shoes at President Bush, I have been pondering the possibilities of throwing things. The shoe-throwing turned out to be good for that shoemaker's business. Suddenly orders are pouring in for similar shoes. Possibly what people will most remember about this presidency will be a flying shoe.

We threw things at HiTekk in Central City when I worked there, but not shoes. HiTekk sales representatives were notorious for throwing balls around. One Saturday morning a young man threw a ball into the air and accidentally hit the sprinkler system, releasing enough water to ruin $300,000 worth of computers and copiers. He was, as the HiTekk euphemism puts it, "freed to pursue other opportunities."

At HiTekk we also threw pies on certain occasions. If a team met its sales goal for the month, team members were sometimes allowed to throw a pie at their manager. This was wildly popular. It would never work in the church. Pie-throwing only works at masculine-oriented organizations. HiTekk is so masculine, when you walk in the door you can smell the steroids. It is tough, muscular, sports-minded, and competition-driven. And that's just the women.

Vive la difference. My church is a world away from that. HiTekk runs on testosterone, while the church runs on estrogen. This is true even though there are both men and women in each place. I contemplated what it would be like if a given Region paid all its benevolences before all the other Regions did, and someone was allowed to throw a pie at the Regional Poobah. It wouldn't work. Some of the RP's are so popular that whoever was getting ready to throw the pie would put it down. Through tears, he or she would say, "I can't do this. I like you too much!"

Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

I have to salute Christmas now as it is almost here. Along with the carols, I am trilling "Happy Christmas" by John Lennon and "Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time" by Paul McCartney. What's Christmas without Mary, Joseph, the infant Jesus, the angels, the shepherds, the wise men, and the Beatles?

This video of the Nativity banishes all the commercialism at least for a while and brings Christmas into its own again. Two gay Christian friends forwarded the link. I have often wondered at how earnest and sincere is the faith of many gay Christians. It is all the more striking because of how some non-gay Christians treat them.

This Nativity scene comes across as authentic. The people really look like people that came from that region, and the manger looks like a manger, and it's all there. It is truly all there.

Fighting Over Pink Floyd

Myra MacDonald gave me a hard time, in a good way, about the Pink Floyd Total Art blog post. She and her son Eddie used to fight bitterly about Pink Floyd when Eddie was a teenager. I was not surprised to hear that Eddie is about my age. We had our share of Pink Floyd fights in my house back then too. They were one of the ultimate rebel bands and parents in those days hated them. It was delightful.

"Eddie," Myra remonstrated, "We are country-western people." Eddie shot back that Pink Floyd had transformed the universe. "You and your Purple Floyd," she would sigh. Eddie would widen his eyes in horror. "Pink Floyd, Mother! Pink! PINK!" Meanwhile, I was softly singing somewhere in Ohio, "All in all you're just another brick in The Wall." The Wall was another of those bestselling-albums-of-all-time creations that Pink Floyd generated. And here they were in the 1990s still playing. The Pink Floyd Grandfathers. I invite you to go with me through their song "Time." I've heard that the basis for all religion is the fact that human beings live and one day we will die. I've never heard that fact conveyed in more powerful or poignant terms than it is here. This video has had more than five million views. I scrolled down through the comments on the video. One writer admitted, "This song scares me to death."

Sea City Scenes

My favorite Euro-style cafe on the edge of Sea City is closing. I will miss it, but its prices were a little high. Even in its "Everything Must Go" sale, the owner offered a painted wooden hutch priced at $2400. Obviously I have been hanging out with the local aristocracy. After stopping there today for the last time, I headed into Sea City and once again saw someone holding a sign for The Sleep Shop saying, "Going Out of Business Sale." This store has been going out of business for six months and counting. Every time I drive up to the intersection, summer or winter, there is someone holding that big yellow sign nailed to a wooden plank. It is usually a dark-haired young guy plugged into an iPod, singing loudly, chewing gum while singing, and looking bored to death in his role as professional street corner sign-holder.

I drove on to get my hair cut. Next door to the Cost Cutters salon was a Marble Slab Creamery offering sundaes and milkshakes. I gained ten pounds just looking at the word Creamery. I will consider offering them my business if they become a Skim-Milkery.

Discovering Smalltown Citizens

When I first arrive in a place, everyone looks alike. Not alike in the way of being identical twins, but one is pretty much the same as another because I don't know everyone's stories yet. But now after six months here, the individuality is standing out like separate colors in a rainbow. I learned from their Christmas letter that Stan and Esther Essofigus have three sons. One is a high-powered attorney, one is a vascular surgeon, and the third works in Washington DC in the FBI. Imagine having three kids who are that outstanding in their fields! And I don't mean cornfields either, to make a bad pun.

I continue getting acquainted with Lola Flushpoole too. We talked on the phone after the eviction and destruction in the house across the street. She said she has a good idea who demolished the upstairs window after the tenants were evicted. She says she knew him as a kid and he was a big, nasty boy who grew into a big, nasty man. I am not printing his name here as I like to keep safe.

And I'm also getting to know members in the Smalltown Kiwanis Club, of which I am a member. After our Christmas party at Garza's Restaurant tonight, two of the guys, Ron and Juan, were hanging out at the front door making fart jokes. No, I was not the one who started it. But once it started I provided a scholarly, sophisticated perspective to the discussion. I told Ron and Juan that the world's oldest recorded joke was about farting. The New York Times reported recently on an ancient scroll someone dug up in Egypt. It declared, "Something that has never occurred since time immemorial; a young woman did not fart in her husband's lap." That joke dates back to 1900 BC, folks. How much have we changed?

Mouse and Abandoned House

Last night, the questionable grandmother across the street and her sizable brood of grandchildren got evicted. I feel sorry for those kids, but the house was filthy. This is not the house of a thousand cats next door that I've discussed before. This is the house directly across the street. In Smalltown, when people get evicted they respond by trashing the place before they go. The house has a broken upstairs window and debris scattered all over the place. It looks like a fraternity house after an out-of-control party.

Shrieking and yelling greeted me as I came into the Smalltown church office today. Normally Myra MacDonald, our staff nurse Paula Silva, and I are fairly sedate so this was unusual. I went to investigate. In Paula's office I discovered that we have a church mouse. It ran over Myra's foot. It has been eating the peanut butter and crackers we stock for the homeless. Myra and Paula just got back from the grocery store across the street with mousetraps for our offices and sanctuary. All I need on the fourth Sunday of this blessed Advent season is mice introducing themselves to the congregation. "Hi, I'm Minnie and this is Mickey. Mind if we run up your legs?"

Highlighting the Truly Dreadful

People almost always recall bygone eras as better than they were. It is tempting during these economic times to retreat into nostalgia and I have done my share. Today I fought that inclination and found some old cartoons online that I used to watch in the 1960s in elementary school. The best ones, such as Scooby-Doo, get recycled again and again. Thank goodness these others didn't qualify. One such cartoon is Clutch Cargo, pictured above. It was known as "limited animation" and indeed its animation was limited. It had almost none. If you're a glutton for punishment you can see Clutch Cargo on YouTube here, but I'd advise not going there. The most remarkably awful feature is the super-imposition of human mouths on the cartoon characters.

Continue awfulizing if you must with the 1963 cartoon "Hercules" by Trans-Lux's television syndication, may it rest in peace. This is a rendition of the ancient Greek hero with little basis in actual Hellenic myth. Its memorable features are a total ignorance of the actual Hercules story, appalling dialogue, and a centaur named Newton who says everything twice. Its one mini-redeeming feature is Johnny "I Can See Clearly Now" Nash singing the Hercules song during the opening and closing credits.

Just another reminder that Way Back Then, not everything was so great.

Pink Floyd Total Art

I've long been enamored of Pink Floyd's music. Earlier this year they won an award in Stockholm, Sweden for "their monumental contribution over the decades to the fusion of art and music in the development of popular culture." Their 1973 album Dark Side of the Moon (DSOTM) was on the Billboard 200 highest selling music albums chart for a record-breaking 741 weeks. I did the math. That equals 14 years and 3 months.

A while back I was blown away by the video of the two DSOTM songs "Brain Damage" and "Eclipse." During a trek to Fry's Electronics megastore in Austin, this music video played on a giant HDTV on a continuous loop for about three straight weeks. The first surprise I had was that Pink Floyd band members are not young guys anymore. When I first saw the lead singer I had the politically incorrect thought "Look! There's Grandpa!" It didn't matter. I went back to Fry's several times just to see it all again. It was almost never without spectators. Old men stared, young boys and teens stood with mouths open, and we midlifers just went "oooh."

The interweaving of music and image here seems magical to me. I concede that most people don't have Pink Floyd's cash flow, but many churches do have a certain level of funding and a wealth of talent with which to blend image and sound, to show people all over again who Christ is. And why He is worth following. I have faith in that.

Those making comments on the Pink Floyd video are all ages. The band seems to transcend generations. You can watch it here. Now imagine it on a giant screen.

What happens at 5:07 on the video still gives me goosebumps.

Slick Shyster Shenanigans

Pedro Perez is back. Yes, the one and only Pedro Perez, who just a couple of months ago was grandstanding about the new detention center outside of town. Our church secretary, Myra MacDonald, clipped his tailfeathers at a community meeting, calling him on the carpet for making misleading statements. Pedro went home humbled, but by no means discouraged. Then we held a meeting of our own where townspeople could get information and ask questions in an honest but non-inflammatory exchange of opinions. Pedro did not attend. Now he is back to raise a ruckus about "Cancer in the Colonias" with weekly luncheon meetings (lunch provided) to generate outrage about the issue. It may be a good cause for all I know, but if I were a betting woman I'd put money on Pedro positioning himself to run for County Commissioner.

Even in Smalltown, population about 12,500, we have people who think they can get away with something. It isn't just Pedro. The latest "Can You Believe This" story involves the pastor of the First Mega Holy Roller Hallelujah Church on the near west side of Sea City. He's a young guy in his thirties who drives a BMW and lives in a tony neighborhood not far from Smalltown which is about 25 miles northwest of Sea City. His church is loaded with rich people who donate lavishly.

Myra MacDonald met this pastor while helping her neighbor Sheila with a garage sale. The young man was browsing the unsold merchandise outside Sheila's garage late last Saturday morning. He was admiring some old baseballs and good-hearted Myra gave them to him. Then he admired the beanie babies and said his little boy would love one of those. "My kids like beanie babies," he said wistfully. Myra gave him one. Later he came back with his little girl and asked for another. He ended up with several.

Next thing we knew, Sheila had discussed the incident with her neighbor, Janice. Janice is an active member of the First Mega Holy Roller Hallelujah Church. Janice tells Sheila that this young man was bragging from his pulpit in Sunday's sermon that he had done some research on the Internet. He said he had acquired collector's item beanie babies for free at a garage sale and was selling them for a handsome profit on eBay. Janice has his sermon on tape and is getting ready to confront him about it. Myra has already called him to say tactfully that she gave him the beanie babies in error and needs them back. His response? "I'll have to talk to my kids about it. They'll be disappointed."

I feel sorry for him. Between Myra, Sheila, and Janice, he is going to realize that, as Jesus said, what one does in secret will one day be shouted from the housetops. In Smalltown, the time between a person doing something in secret and the secret being shouted from the housetops is usually about five minutes.

In Honor of Moms

Every now and then a video is so brilliant it leaves me speechless...between gasps of laughter. If you like that kind of thing check out "The Mom Song" and then recall whether your own mother said any of these things to you. If you're a mother yourself, you may be able to relate to it too.

If any young men are reading this, here is a pickup line that no beautiful hottie can resist.

"Hey, my mother's a mother. And your mother's a mother too. So that gives us something in common!"

Whole World Gonna Be Gettin Mixed Up

Everyone is becoming a generalist. My favorite Chinese restaurant in Sea City now offers Filipino cuisine. In the past, if you wanted to dine in the Philippines way, you had to go to a Filipino restaurant. No more. The Asian buffets now have a Korean section so I can get Kimchee with my won ton soup. On the way back to my table I can stop at the Mongolian BBQ section. I thought I was in a restaurant, but instead I was taking a world tour.

I'm used to this. I live in Smalltown. All little towns are places for generalists. You can't really specialize here. There aren't enough people. The smaller the town, the more hats everyone wears. I remember my first church north of here, in Microtown. One of the first businesses I saw was John Walters' Gas Station and Dry Cleaning Service. Next door to it was the Hatfield Real Estate Office and Copy Shop. Now big cities are getting into the act too. Customers have many choices, just like I did at the Asian restaurant. Life is turning into one giant buffet. Maybe God likes it that way. We have been so separated from each other for so long, perhaps it's a good thing we're meeting, greeting, and eating each other's food. Last night I stopped by the Middle East Market to pick up some hummus and pita bread. In the corner next to the baba ghanoush, baklava, and tabouleh salad was the alcohol. It is now possible, with one stop at this market, to wash down your couscous and goat cheese with Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill, Fuzzy Navel, or Blue Hawaiian.

Catching Football

Sometimes I actually watch football. Except I watch it in my own non-traditional way, focusing less on game tactics than on sideline theatrics. I especially love the way some commentators get hooked on a word or phrase and then repeat it constantly. In the 1970s, Howard Cosell did this all the time. But it still happens today. I heard a commentator a few weeks ago overwork the word situation.

"This is going to cost that quarterback a first down situation. Now we have a penalty situation. They were definitely offsides so that is a yellow flag situation. The coaches are going over the defense situation. The halfback is out of bounds. He hit a cameraman, so we have an injury situation. But it looks like it's not a serious situation. The clock has run out so we're in a halftime situation. So before we take a commercial break here's the replay situation."

I left the living room and went to the kitchen to create a sandwich and chips snack situation.

Substantial Lesson in Leadership

As I've discussed in a previous post, our church has one Bishop over a large Area. The Area is divided into seven Regions, each with its own Poobah. Therefore the Bishop is assisted by seven Regional Poobahs (RPs). Currently, two of these RPs are women and five are men. Being an RP is not easy. It entails enormous responsibility. Whenever a church or pastor has a serious issue, challenge, or threat, the RP is called in. Therefore it is essential that each RP conduct himself or herself with the demeanor befitting such an important office. It is a serious and crucial endeavor. The healthy functioning of an entire region is under the RP's purview. The implication is clear: every RP carries himself or herself in a way that engenders great respect. The message is unmistakable: Few are chosen for a position with responsibilities of such magnitude and one's personal presence should reflect that gravity. This is the message that RPs convey.

Shown above is J.L., the new RP of the Central City region, totally not getting this message.

Feeling Like a Natural Woman

This scene is always a welcome sight when I'm walking on the beach as I was today. After an overdose of iced tea I can scramble over several dunes until I am hidden from human sight. Then I am free to take a Back To Nature break. I am sure it happened many times when humans lived, hunted, and gathered on the African savanna. Of course, I always watch for any overhead planes or helicopters, but they do not come by often. It is so rare that I can be anywhere unseen by another person. The introvert in me enjoys that. And it is mildly subversive. I like that too.

I am polite, however. I always remember to turn off the light and hang up the leaves when I'm done.

Sigh of Sweet Relief

Esther Essofigus does not have cancer. I found that out a few days ago. She and Stan are hugely relieved, I'm sure. It is sometimes hair-raising to be a pastor because I worry about Smalltown church members' health issues right along with them. But Esther's tests came back fine. That spot or shadow on the liver was nothing of concern. Whew! I spent a happy time yesterday evening hanging Advent greens with Esther, Stan, and others. (That's Esther at the far right in the picture.) We all hung greens, then reds too. Red Christmas ornaments and poinsettias got intertwined with the Christmas tree and the greens circling the Advent wreath. There were also pine cones nested in the greens, so that would qualify as "Hanging of the Browns." Not to be confused with the Cleveland football team, which does not deserve hanging.

After watching the church sanctuary get festooned with garlands of greens last evening, I took today off and chatted via computer with my friend Shane. Shane was my first manager at HiTekk when I worked there. Shane is nothing like me and maybe that is why we get along so well. He has sandy brown hair with a receding hairline, wears gold-framed glasses, and is about six feet tall and slender. His politics are the polar opposite of mine. I loathed the sight of him when we first met so our friendship is something of a miracle. On one occasion when I was conducting sales training for young HiTekk sales newbies, I had a minor issue, the nature of which I no longer remember. I was tired -- conducting training eight hours a day is tiring -- and I guess I was whining about the problem, or at least Shane thought I was. He listened to me politely as I described the issue, but without saying much. Shane is not a sympathy-giving kind of guy. A few days later I mentioned the dilemma again. He inquired, "Did you get over yourself yet?" By this time I had learned that with Shane I had better give as good as I got. I narrowed my eyes to slits. "I will get over myself the day you get over yourself, SHANE!" He threw back his head and laughed demonically. "BWAAH-HAHAHAHAHAH! Never!"

Before I left, I told him he was so low he could play handball against the curb.

He was just as tenderhearted when I was a new sales rep myself and he was my new manager. I complained to him in the first week because I was getting all these calls for esoteric HiTekk accessory items and did not understand the lingo. I told him the requests sounded like, "Do you have a Whingleberry that fits into my Dickory-Dock?" Shane laughed. "You gotta watch those Whingleberries. That sounds like a strawberry on steroids."

Some people take getting used to, and for me Shane was one of them. But we have been good for each other. I have learned a certain toughness from him, and he has learned new methods of relating to me. We give and receive help in strange ways sometimes.

Mini Micro Musing

Apparently this is a true story of a gentleman writing a letter to his bank.

Dear First Valuable Bank,

In view of what seems to be happening internationally with banks at the moment, I was wondering if you could advise me correctly…

If one of my checks is returned marked "insufficient funds," how do I know whether that refers to me, or to you?

Playing Poor

Today I feel poor. I am anything but poor, however, as I live in the United States of America and own my own car. This puts me in the top 5% of the world's wealthy, so I am not going to stop helping the truly poor. So many people are far worse off than I am. Nor am I going to give in to fear about money, because that is corrosive to faith.

Still it makes sense to economize in these times and I am doing that. I am thankful that I have the best bedsheets that Dollar Tree offers, and the most luxurious clothes from the clearance rack at Beall's. I am joyous beyond measure for my spicy chicken sandwich from the Superduper Dollar Value Menu at the fast food joint down the street. That may seem facetious. Actually it isn't. It's unbelievable to have the cash on hand to just walk up and buy a ready-made sandwich from someone. Most people in Zimbabwe, the Congo, and Niger can't do that.

There are patterns to financial prosperity or the lack thereof. A friend of mine, Bryan, once noted that the north side of a city often seems more prosperous than the south side. This is true in Central City and Spanish City anyway. It is also true of the American continent. North America and Canada are more prosperous than South and Central America and Mexico. Bryan said this principle even applied to the small hamlet in which he was born, called Flanco, population about 300. Flanco lies a few hundred miles from here. Bryan noted of tiny Flanco that "all the double-wide mobile homes are on the north side of Flanco."

RIP Kathleen Baskin-Ball

It's an odd feeling when someone dies that I sat next to in seminary. Kathleen Baskin-Ball, or Kathy Baskin as she was then known, just died after a two-year battle with cancer. Kathy helped me giggle my way through a seminary class called Systematic Theology. As I usually break out in hives at anything systematic, she did me a great service. Systematic Theology (ST) was just as much of a grind as the name implies. ST was to us seminarians what Three-Dimensional Calculus is to engineers. But Kathy made it bearable.

She had long brown hair, sparkling brown eyes, a million-dollar smile, and an infectious laugh that I heard often. Not only did she have an endless supply of cheerful chatter, she seemed to think I was the most eloquent and also the wittiest person she had ever encountered. That was her gift. It says much more about her than me. Kathleen Baskin-Ball was elected clergy leader of the North Texas Conference delegation to last spring's General Conference, a denominational policy-making meeting that draws Methodists from around the world. A good number of those who knew her thought she could have been elected a bishop if she had lived.

Goodbye Kathy. I will miss you. The youth of Kathy's church are trying to raise $10,000 for cancer research in her memory. I hope they make it.

Evolution in Everyday Events

I've noticed a curious phenomenon in places when men and women interact socially.

At a holiday party at my home, a mixed group of guys and gals were standing around in the kitchen, holding their drinks, and telling outrageous stories about their kids to peals of laughter. Then one of the women mentioned that there was a serious Black Friday sale this weekend at Penney's. Immediately the men's eyes glazed over and they began to migrate into the living room to talk about football.

I have seen this drama staged time and again. What may be occurring is our evolutionary histories playing out. Women were food-gatherers for eons before we moved into houses with electricity. We shared stories about where the best fruits, nuts, and berries were located. Today that translates into, "Honey, Penney's is all right, but you should see what they have at Dillard's!"

Men were once hunters. They talked about strategies for getting the mammoth to fall into the trap they had set. Football may be wildly popular with the guys because it mimics the kind of skills needed to snare a 9,000 pound hunk of live meat for the family barbecue. "Zog, you fake left. Mog, you run right. Zug and Boog, you go for the blitz..."

Some may call me sexist, but I can't help thinking there is something to that theory. Of course, thoughts like this prevent me from getting any real work done.

Holiday One-Liners

Just got back from a Thanksgiving hiatus. It was great to visit Cheyenne and husband Bruce in Central City. We always drive together on Thanksgiving morning to Bruce's sister Florida's house. On the way to Florida's turkey feast, we sing Arlo Guthrie's song Alice's Restaurant. A Central City renegade radio station plays this song every Thanksgiving day at high noon and 6 pm and we always catch it at one of those times, singing lustily, "You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant..."

In addition, with everyone in jolly holiday mood, I heard several good one liners. Cheyenne, using her cell phone as we drove along, mused, "I tried to call my aunt Jan, but she isn't answering."

Bruce quipped, "I guess she has caller ID."

At Florida's house, a sumptuous mini-mansion outside Spanish City, I learned a new Spanish greeting from one of her cousins there for the feast. He told me to greet a friend by saying, "Como esta frijole, cabrito?" which translates "How have you bean, kid?"

Over turkey, several folks remarked on the disproportionate number of left-handed people at the table. I was one of them. I was happy to tell the crowd that God created us all left-handed. And we remain so until we commit our first sin.

After returning home, I called my friends Roger and Pat in Sea City and wished them Happy Thanksgiving. Roger told me he and Pat were having 40 people over for turkey.

"Holy Cow!" I exclaimed.

"Is that a Hindu greeting?" inquired Roger.

Locking Eyes on Puppies

Oh, I just saw this. What a simple and sublime idea. Some puppy owners have streamed live video into their puppy room with six Shiba Inu pups. Warning: if you start watching these babies you may be unable to stop, especially if you're a sucker for puppies like I am. Who would have thought that having a window on six puppies could be so fascinating. Check it out: six beautiful puppies here. But don't say I didn't warn you if you can't get any work done after you go there!

Hark Back to the High Tech World

I got an Instant Message (IM) recently from Jonas, a friend back from when I worked at HiTekk in Central City. Jonas got married, much to his surprise and that of everyone around him. No, Jonas is not socially retarded or congenitally ugly. He is a gamer. By his own admission, he spent so much time playing computer games that he had no time to date. He once told me, "If I ever get married, it will be a virtual marriage, resulting from virtual dates in computer chat rooms. We will have virtual kids, just like in the computer game The Sims. And we will have cybersex only.

"Then twenty years later we will meet and I will find out I married somebody's parakeet. People will point us out on the street and say look, there's Jonas and his wife "Pretty Bird" Burton."

While Jonas did not date often, it did not prevent him from commenting on others' dating lives. Another HiTekk coworker, Donna, once met a man on eHarmony.com and was waxing enthusiastic about meeting him. "He says he's a pilot!" she exclaimed. "And he says his business has something to do with agriculture."

"Aha!" Jonas retorted. "He's a crop duster!"

For Here or To Go?

The number of choices I have to make in a day has risen exponentially. Even going into a restaurant taxes the brain cells.

"You can order off our regular menu or our Diner's Specials. And on the back is our Weight Watchers menu too. Your choice. OK, you want the steak. Great! Do you want that cooked rare, medium rare, medium, medium well, or well done? You can have steak fries, cottage fries, French fries, or plain old fried potatoes with that. Unless you want the vegetable of the day, which is a choice between a squash/carrot medley, green beans almondine, or broccoli rice casserole. You get either soup or salad with that. Salad? OK. What kind of dressing? We have ranch, thousand island, Italian, honey mustard, raspberry vinaigrette, Russian, or Venezuelan Beaver Cheese bleu cheese dressing. While you're waiting on your order, we have two TVs for you to watch. You have a choice between watching twenty-two guys beat each other to a pulp playing football, or a woman cheating on her husband in "As the Stomach Turns." You can have your beverage of choice in a cylindrical glass or one with four corners. You can use a straw, or not. We want you to have a hand-picked, tailor-made, customized restaurant experience with us. Unless you'd rather not. Your choice."

I wonder if we get so many choices about nonessentials to obscure the lack of choice about many essentials. We do not get to decide that we want our infrastructure refurbished and our schools (all of them, not just wealthy suburban ones) adequately funded before we start wars. People with little money in the inner cities are not free to choose better schools for their children. Many of us do not get to choose hospitalization without the danger of bankruptcy. Getting prescription drugs from Canada where they are cheaper? Forget it.

But we can have our burgers with or without fries, or get fruit salad instead. It is completely up to us.

Day-Off Reminiscences

When the present gets difficult, I retreat unashamedly to nostalgia. Given the popularity of old Westerns in this town, I am not the only one. As the economy has gotten worse, more people seem to gather around the TV at Garcia's Restaurant to watch Bonanza, Gunsmoke, and The Virginian. I try to keep it in perspective though. In the 1950s and 1960s things may have seemed more stable, but we also had the Korean War and Vietnam. And children hiding under their school desks during atomic drills. Duck and Cover, everyone!

As an antidote to fantasy nostalgia about the good old days, I recalled today the bad old days at my first job, Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chips. I was a high school senior at the time. The year was 1976. Arthur Treacher's was located in a suburb on the west side of Cleveland, Ohio. I was the worst Counter Girl that Arthur's had ever seen. I could not even keep my orange and green checkered headscarf on straight. But I eventually developed a passable skill level and managed not to get fired. I also learned much about life there.

My manager Laurie Perkowski had a boyfriend called Jimmie Tedesko. Laurie was nineteen, with strawberry blond hair and freckles. Jimmie was a fine upstanding character who was wanted by the IRS for tax evasion. Laurie and the assistant manager, Jeff, told us that if Jimmie was in the back room with Laurie (making out) and someone walked in and asked if Jimmie was there, we were to lie and say no. After all, it might be undercover law enforcement coming to arrest him. I will never forget the night Jimmie and Laurie had a fight. Laurie had to go to work and left Jimmie at her house to cool off. The next thing that happened was Jimmie calling Arthur Treacher's to tell Laurie that he had her car and was going to total it. All I recall is waiting on customers and hearing Laurie's tearful voice in the background, "Jimmie! Jimmie! I'm so afraid of you!" Jimmie was a bigot too. He called women of color "Sugar-Boogers" and that was one of the nicer epithets he used for those of other races. Jimmie really needed someone to feel superior to.

Jeff, the assistant manager, was a real angel as well. He made dope deals over the same phone Jimmie used to torment Laurie. Jeff was the top marijuana salesman in town. I used to wonder how he paid for such a fancy sports car on an assistant manager's salary. Now I know.

Years later, one of my pastoral colleagues recalled how drug-laden the 1970s were. We were having American Indian Awareness worship services at that time and burning a lot of sage during worship in a tribal circle. My colleague Sam cracked, "Kids, this is what a Steppenwolf concert smells like."

Way Too Much Drama

The longer I hang out in Smalltown, the more I am convinced that I lived a sheltered life before I got here. There is a barrage of real life around here. Sometimes too much and too real. It is terribly rude of Smalltown to let it all hang out like that.

First of all came the death of Lars Johanssen, a member of my church who was first-generation Swedish. He was such a sweet little man. In my first five weeks here, he brought me a weekly watermelon fresh off the produce stand a mile out of town. He only stopped doing that after a hurricane blew away the produce supply and the stand closed down. Lars was a retired electrician and helped me get electrical work done at my house. Everyone in the Smalltown church was nuts about Lars so this is a tough death.

Still thinking about Lars' death after I hung up the phone in my office yesterday afternoon, I drove over to Mighty Fortress Is Our God Lutheran Church for the community steering committee on time banking. A group of pastors and laypersons from various churches meets there to eventually launch a time bank, which is like a money bank except that people bank "time dollars" for their labor. For example, someone may watch a neighbor's kids for an hour and bank a time dollar for that. He or she can then ask someone to provide an hour's worth of yard work. All labor counts the same, whether it is an attorney's legal work or fixing someone's plumbing.

That is a digression. Back to the main story. I arrived at the time bank steering committee to find out from the Presbyterian pastor Sophie that she had had a baby taken from her. Here is the story on that. The baby's mother was addicted to drugs and the baby was not thriving. Sophie took the baby and literally saved his life. Yesterday the mother came by the office and demanded her baby back. Under state law, if Sophie had not yielded, she could have been arrested. Sophie is now working with Child Protective Services -- if they can be called that -- to get some legal cover so she can get the baby back and legally keep him until the mother is functional enough to take care of him.

I can think of one good way to solve these vexatious issues of birth and death. I am going into business to license who gets born and who gets to die. If it is a problematic death, such as Lars', I will act like a bureaucrat and put it off indefinitely. That way the survivors would not have to deal with it for a long, long time. And I am going to grant or deny licenses to breed. That mother would have been firmly refused a license to reproduce until she got her drug problem under control. She would have had birth control residue put in her water supply to make conception impossible. This kind of thing would provide much-needed chlorine in the human gene pool.

Sometimes, folks, I gotta laugh to keep from crying.

The Story of a Basket

Here is the basket. It is a basket full of gift items. It contains a teddy bear, cosmetics, candy, chocolate, gift cards from Bealls and

Wal-Mart, a journal, pens, crossword puzzle books, and teen magazines. Behind it is a hand-crocheted lap blanket.

This basket traveled with four Smalltown church women to the home of a teenager named Rhonda. Rhonda was badly injured in a car accident by a drunk driver last August in a nearby town. Since the accident she has been unable to walk or attend school. She completes schoolwork at home, in between physical therapy sessions. Her mother is divorced and works full time. She takes care of Rhonda with the aid of family members. Talk about stress.

When we took the basket to Rhonda's house, it was hard to see her sitting in the wheelchair with that ugly scar on her leg. Maybe it was hard for Rhonda to see us seeing her, too. It was difficult to tell how she felt about receiving the basket full of gifts. Her three-year-old niece McKayla immediately adopted the teddy bear, however. She ran around the house hugging the soft animal the whole time we were there.

The trip to the house with the basket needed to happen, although we were confronted there with how monstrously unfair life can be. Discipleship, in the sense of literally following Jesus to places He might go, can be hard work and risky business. It is not always appreciated.

But I would not live any other way.

Nonsensical Notions

I was wandering around Target today and saw underwire bras on sale. I read somewhere that wearing an underwire bra increases a woman's chance of getting struck by lightning. That is one of those strange ideas that wormed its way into my consciousness and bypassed my critical faculties. I realize now that it makes little sense. A bolt of lightning has a low probability of going cloud-to-ground and doubling back in an arc to hit the underwire in a bra. Suddenly I felt less afraid and my world seemed brighter. I could have applied the same logical reasoning years ago when my mother told me that if I made a face or crossed my eyes, I would stay that way forever. Or that green M & M's arouse passion. Are there people with very little to do who sit around and make this stuff up?

Living with Chronic Adventure Syndrome

I had another adventure tonight to add to my collection. When I was young I searched for adventure. Now adventure just comes and finds me. It saves a lot of time.

I was leaving a large bookstore this evening when a run-down woman with a stained green jacket and a tangled gray ponytail came up to me in the parking lot and asked for spare change. I responded to her request as I do to all such queries. "I don't do money, but if you're hungry I'll buy you a sandwich."

She accepted my offer and then added, "I need money too." I repeated that I did not do money but would do the sandwich. That is called my broken record technique. Just keep repeating what I will and will not do. She accepted that, and followed me into the bookstore. We went over to the cafe. She said she wanted a ham and cheese sandwich and I ordered one for her. I seemed to hear an inner voice warning me that this woman had no boundaries, and that I would need good ones. So I remained in a kind but extremely firm mode. She asked for money again and seemed agitated. I responded calmly, telling her the sandwich would be ready soon. She mentioned her urgent need to catch a certain bus or, she said, she would be out in the cold for hours. It did not make a great deal of sense, but I repeated that the sandwich would soon be arriving. It did. She put her arm around me, hugged me, and said thanks, I kept a close eye on my purse and pockets, and also said God bless you and good luck catching your bus. I did my best to be wary like a snake and innocent like a dove, as I was once counseled to be.

Mother Teresa said that Jesus often comes to us in distressing disguise. That was true tonight.

Funny Funky Town Names

Today we had an audience with the pope, I mean Bishop. Same thing. We went to Dragonfly City in the north part of the region so that those who usually have to go south to Sea City did not have to go so far this time. It was an interesting meeting, but talking with my colleague Christine before the meeting was more interesting. Christine has had a tough time of it as she just had back surgery and will not be back to full strength for several more weeks. But that hasn't affected her comedy at all. She told me about people she knew from a small town in the vicinity called Odem. She said they told her that Odem sounded like "something you should keep covered up." I thought about that and then asked, "Did you hear about the clergywoman who was considered an ideal candidate to be promoted to Regional Poobah? The only reason she didn't get the job was that she couldn't keep her Odem concealed." Christine and I had a hard time settling down for the meeting. Only with great difficulty did I remind myself that one of the fruits of the Holy Spirit is self-control.

I Had a Vision

One of the benefits of being a clergywoman is that I get to have visions and people don't think I'm going psycho. Or if they do, they keep that thought to themselves. I was walking on the beach yesterday and as I watched the seagulls swooping and hollering, I had an epiphany.

Years ago, as a very young woman, I longed for a certain kind of friend. A friend that really understood me, and showed that understanding by how he/she talked with me. I was blessed. I found a few friends like that.

Years ago, as a new young clergywoman I longed for a mentor. I wanted an older, more experienced clergywoman that I could go to either in time of perplexity, to seek counsel; or in time of celebration, to rejoice when something great happened in my ministry. I never found that clergywoman.

But on the beach, I suddenly had a joyous realization. I had longed for a certain kind of friend and I have become that friend. I had longed for a clergywoman mentor, and I have become that mentor. As Mohandas Gandhi said, "We are the people we have been waiting for."

Trunk and Treat

Trunk and Treat in the church parking lot on Halloween was a new experience for me. We decorated our cars, donned costumes, and showed up at the church with candy and other treats in our trunks. I wore my Lady of Ancient Rome costume that I got at the Costume Superstore in Sea City. I walked into the church in my long dark (fake) hair, toga, sandals, and flashy jewelry. I tossed my head in disdain at the others gathered there and sneered, "Ha! Christians. I must tell my dear husband Caesar. The lions are getting a little hungry." Unfortunately I have no picture of me in costume as I was behind the camera.

We advertised the event extensively in the Smalltown Sentinel, the grocery store, pizza parlors, pediatric clinics, and ice houses. On the big day, about 80 kids showed up along with their parents and grandparents to collect treats. Several of them told us, "God bless you." One mother informed us that she was terrified this time each year. She wanted to let her kids trick-or-treat, but was worried about their safety. The church parking lot provided a place that was both fun and safe. I wonder where else these children and families need "sanctuary" and how we might provide it.

Pictured at the top is the Pumpkin Cowboy who served as the Grand Marshal for the event.

Crackups in Coastal City

I wandered to Coastal City recently for a day off. There seems to be something about a beachfront town that generates humor. It could be the sea salt in the air, the many tourists with Hawaiian shirts covering their beer bellies, or the constant feeling of a fiesta about to happen. At any rate, signs like this one are common: "Fernando's Fish Fryer. You Hook 'Em. We Cook 'Em!" It reminded me of silly things we used to do as children. We would answer the phone, "Grady's Graveyard. You stab 'em, we slab 'em!" Sometimes we would pick up the receiver and say, "Right Field. Mickey Mantle speaking." On one occasion, I answered a ringing phone by saying, "Thanks for calling your local bakery. Which crumb do you want to speak to?"

Occasionally I would get the overwhelming urge to impart a crucial fact. "Hello, did you know that death is this nation's Number One killer?" On the same ghoulish note, I once answered the phone with this announcement, "Hello, we've started a new method of population control. Death penalty for parking violations!" On a lighter note, as teenagers we sometimes greeted callers with, "Thank you for calling the Fat Farm. We don't skinny dip, we chunky-dunk!" Little did I know I would one day qualify to be chunky-dunked myself.

I'm amazed that people back then continued to phone us.

More Retreating Results

There were many hilarious moments at the recent Clergywomen's Retreat. We did some good-natured complaining about difficult church members, nicknamed

"alligators." I am curious to know if church members also have a nickname for difficult clergy. If so, I wonder what that nickname is. I hope I am never associated with it. I am so lucky in Smalltown. I have not run into any alligators. If anyone in Smalltown is reading this, please understand that this is not a challenge for you to become one.

Anyway, I told the clergywomen that I had the perfect solution to the alligator issue. I suggested that we round up all the alligators and make them live in one place. We will have one church for all of them. We will call it Alligators United Church. We will send the most dysfunctional pastor in the region to serve there. Off the top of my head I can think of several likely candidates for the job. They shall remain nameless.

One of my colleagues exclaimed, "That would be the largest church in the area!"

Talking Outside the Box

If I say things like this too often, someone will put me in a box. With bronze handles on it!

I just got back from the Umpteenth Annual Clergywomen's Retreat. It was in Hilltown near sparkling lakes, rolling countryside, and deer. It was quite a change to drive three hours and see this land of hills, rivers, and undulating roads that on occasion I had to downshift my car to navigate. Arriving at the retreat center, I had a glorious reunion with clergywomen I had not seen in years. One enjoyable encounter was with JL, a newly promoted Regional Poobah. The way our church system works, we have one Bishop over the entire area. We have seven Regional Poobahs (RPs) who oversee the clergy and churches in each of the seven subsections in the Bishop's area. JL deserves the honor of being an RP in the swanky Central City region. She is simply great at whatever she does. JL's green eyes sparkled as she described to me the honor of being given our new Bishop's Super Secret Cellphone Number. Imagine being able to call the Bishop any time day or night. That is seriously special.

I had a restless night on a bed that felt like one of the roads I'd driven in on. The next morning we had a discussion about how to deal with conflict in the church. The retreat leader, Rev. Lavender Fish-Dodge, talked about how conflict in the church can be a useful channel for change if it is managed well. She said that one of the needs for change in the church is using more visual media. This is something I am passionate about, so I raised my hand and told her how true her words were. I added, "Maybe it's time to rethink our ordination vows. Right now, elders in our church are ordained to Word and Sacrament. Maybe we need to be ordained to Word, Image, and Sacrament."

There was a stereophonic gasp at this statement that told me I had stepped over the line. Everyone in the room seemed to draw an audible breath at the same time. I am not sure how to interpret that. Two possibilities suggest themselves. Perhaps it was the sound of a paradigm shift, or perhaps it was the sound of my name being gently sucked off the guest list for next year. I will probably pay for my audacity. You know what?

I'll risk it.

By the Way, We Just Had an Election

Much as I try to avoid getting into political discussions, we just had an, um, election, if you didn't know. Barack Hussein Obama is going to be our next president, just in case you've been in a rabbit hole playing video games this past week. I and some of my more reverent colleagues have been soothing panicky parishioners who think this signals the beginning of the End Times. I tend not to think in this Rapturous way though. It is another election, albeit a high-stakes one. The pendulum swings right, then left, then back again. The sun will keep rising, the bills will keep coming, and family and friends will keep calling -- as long as I keep bathing.

Thought for the day: Can cross-eyed teachers control their pupils?

More Local Characters

Not all the characters in Smalltown go to my church, though it sometimes seems that way. Mary Palooza attends the nearby Lutheran church. Mary is in her sixties and has had breast cancer. She has dyed black hair and wears contact lenses so she does not need glasses. She has a somewhat weather-worn skin from working in her yard for years. She also has a very forward-looking chest profile, to put it delicately. Well, I put it delicately, but Mary does not. She told me at a recent Smalltown committee meeting, which we both attended, that she had just been to her radiologist for a mammogram. She gets mammograms frequently to be sure she is still in remission. "I had this new young lady radiologist who just finished X-ray school. I got undressed and went up to the machine and I just flopped those things up there," she sighed. "That gal tried not to look surprised but she blurted out, 'Mrs. Palooza, you don't ever go braless do you?'" Mary answered, "Just to take the wrinkles out of my face honey!"

Mice in the Hice

The plural of mouse is mice so the plural of house should be hice. Here in Smalltown the mice are headed for the hice. Lifelong residents of Smalltown tell me that when the mice come in this soon and in such numbers, it means we're headed for a tough winter. I learned to bait a mousetrap yesterday from my neighbor Matt Carter. Matt and his wife Rita are in their 70s, have lived here for years, and know mouse behavior patterns. So far I have trapped two mice. I have a strong stomach as a rule but it is still hard to eat breakfast after disposing of a recently deceased mouse.

By the way, the plural of vortex is vortices and the plural of index is indices, so the plural of kleenex should be kleenices.

More random thoughts...The nighttime sounds of Smalltown, other than mice scuffling, are as follows: Dog barks and train whistles. Any questions?

More Evangelism Outside the Box

Today I went to Cropfest. That is Smalltown's annual festival, held the first weekend in November at the impressively large Smalltown fairgrounds. This was a great place to introduce myself to the locals. I passed out a slew of calling cards to folks all over Cropfest. I greeted folks selling concessions in the exhibition hall; children who came in Halloween costumes; and teenagers hanging out by the rides. One boy spotted me riding the Paratrooper and later asked me whether it was a good ride. I gave him my best recommendation. "It's fun but not outrageously fast or scary, " I told him truthfully. "Thanks ma'am," he answered, and hurried off with his friends to check it out. I handed him a card as he left.

When I first got to the carnival there wasn't much going on. One of the attendants at the "throw a dart, hit a balloon, win a prize" booth told me that if I paid for a dart, he'd guarantee me a prize. I took him up on it, bought one dart, and was lucky enough to burst a yellow balloon. I got a small stuffed gray donkey with giant teeth. Soon after that I ducked into the exhibition hall to get out of the hot sun. As I was checking out the hand-painted T-shirts, I spotted a boy who was taking care of his two small male cousins. I was impressed with the attentive child care the older cousin was providing the little ones. When they could not reach the drinking fountain, he lifted each one up in turn and held them until they had finished drinking. I gifted him with the stuffed donkey and a calling card. "Come see me sometime," I invited. As I was departing, I saw a couple of young parents with their toddler son in a stroller. The boy's name was Miguel, they said. We chatted for a minute about the fun awaiting Miguel at the festival. I realized I had four ride tickets left and that they would be worthless once I left Cropfest. There had been a sign at the ticket booth saying "No Refunds, No Exceptions" so I presented Miguel's parents with the tickets which would buy one kiddie ride. I also gave them a calling card.

I also watched the Cropfest parade march by on Main Street. Almost every float had people throwing candy to the kids. As throngs of wee ones picked up candy, they almost always left some lying on the ground because they were too excited to see it. So I would pick it up, wait for things to settle down, then go over to a group of kids and their parents and say, "I found some extra candy for you." After passing it around, I handed the parents a calling card.

Reminiscences on the Beach

Standing on the beach watching the tide roll in often makes me think of my family. Both the dead and the living. To me they are all very much alive. I have said it before and will repeat it...my parents did great things, but often in a cockeyed way. My father, for instance, loved his outdoor barbecue. Even in Ohio in midwinter, we still had grilled chicken, burgers, and steaks. Not everyone was so lucky to get chargrilled meats year round. I can still see Dad in the backyard during a monumental snow squall, running the electric snowblower to forge a path from the glass patio doors to the grill. Then he would stand at the grill as the wind howled and the blizzard raged. He had an umbrella in one hand held high to shield him from the elements. He had a spatula in the other hand, turning the chicken.

My mother liked to cook too. Inside. In the dark. She was saving electricity. But sometimes I would grope my way into the kitchen and stumble over my mother in the pitch blackness as she muttered, "That chicken cacciatore is nearly done."

Desert Water Studies

Today while walking on the beach I let my mind wander. I wondered what it would be like if the Mafia in Las Vegas, wanting to do community relations and look respectable, founded a college in the desert near the city. Noticing a lack of such facilities nearby, they would decide to call it the Institute of Marine Science. They would reason that a great deal of instruction is done via computer anyway, so they could hook up all their students to the Internet and show them pictures of fish.

Probably the media would sneer and jeer at anyone being so stupid. But maybe young people would not see it that way. All those Nevada high school graduates who had always dreamed of studying marine science, but thought their location disqualified them, suddenly would be able to follow their bliss. Plus they would be able to IM their friends, "I'm studying marine science in the middle of the Nevada desert. How cool is that?"

Midway through their sophomore year, the students would get a little testy about the lack of real-life experience. But the Mafia, being awash in cash from all the casino revenues, would quickly buy a Lear jet to transport the kids to the California coast for a total immersion experience with marine life. They would institute Junior Year Aboard instead of Junior Year Abroad, giving a year of college credit for courses taken on a swanky cruise ship with premier dolphin, whale, and shark observation stations.

To make student life in the desert more exciting, the Mafia would field a college football team. Their green and blue uniforms would be relaxing enough to slow down the opposing team's reflexes, and the fightin' Marine Science Manatees would win almost all their games. This would cause perks to rain down on them, with grateful donors ponying up for scholarship money and various other bonuses banned by the NCAA.

Thoughts like this keep me from fulfilling my maximum potential.

Way Too Many Rules

A South African friend of mine once said that one of the irksome things about this country is all its posted rules, and the fact that almost all of them are enforced. Go to Italy and you'll see what she means. We are told, "Don't step over the yellow line!" "Don't eat the produce before you buy it!" "Sign on this dotted line and not that one!" "Don't fish on the jetty!" And so on, ad infinitum and ad nauseam. I drove to Coastal City, near Sea City, for my day off today. I ran into this rule-making phenomenon there. Immediately in the attractive park by the sea I saw signs saying "No Littering" "No Curb Jumping" and "No Angle Parking." I wondered about that last sign as no matter where I parked, I would be at an angle to something.

I immediately wanted to leap out of my car and put up a few more signs saying, "No Grass Chewing" "No Hiccuping" and "No Reverse-Direction Skydiving." Anyone caught parachuting upward into the wild blue yonder will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. I wonder if part of the crime problem in this country is just young people fed up with all the rules. I would never have thought about jumping the curb until I saw the sign. Then I wanted to jump the curb in a spectacular way. It really woke up the closet anarchist in me. Whoever is posting all those signs: Just relax, willya?

Something Bothers Me

Something has me puzzled. It has to do with coffee. I drink it. I like it. But coffee does strange things to me between its entrance and its exit. To be brief: One cup in, three cups out. This violates some fundamental law of economics.

Thoughts like this keep me awake at night.

Flippin' Freeloaders

After church today I had lunch at Crankey's Catfish, one of the hottest lunch joints in the area. It is just outside Smalltown. John and Sue Barge were there along with Bob and Sandra Morrison, Ronald Jimenez, and Stan and Esther Essofigus. Over fried catfish, the conversation turned to that small minority of people who like to mooch off other people. Everyone had a story about that.

Sandra Morrison spoke of the time she got a wedding invitation in a large envelope. When she opened it, out fell an insert labeled "Great Places to Get Gifts." Six or seven expensive department stores were suggested. John and Sue Barge said that a couple they knew in the community invited them to their mother's 80th birthday party. "Come on down," they offered. "It's at the VFW. There is a seven dollar cover charge."

Esther and Stan told of a preacher who had once lived and worked in Smalltown. He was not married, and made a point of going to every funeral in the area whether he knew the deceased or not. He liked all that free food. He even took plates home with him. I offered my own story of my Uncle Griffey and Aunt Bert. They were heavily involved with "carriage racing," a type of horse racing popular in Southern Indiana. After the races were over and the horses were back in their trailers, Griffey and Bert and all of their friends would gather for a giant potluck picnic. Everyone brought a dish, and often friends of friends would come eat. After one of these potlucks, Griffey and Bert discovered that a couple had been there who did not know anyone. They just came, ate, and left. Afterwards Griffey and Bert and everyone else were saying, "But I thought they were your friends!"

My sister Lisa went through a freeloading stage as a child. Lisa, aged six, had a serious sweet tooth and loved the English teas we had while living there. So any time someone stopped by to visit with my mother in the morning, Lisa would pipe up, "Come 'round for a cup of tea this afternoon." Whoever it was, they usually said, "I'd love to!" leaving my mother no option but to prepare and serve an English tea of scones, cookies and cake to whoever had come over. Sometimes it was someone my mother couldn't stand. She was looking forward to the lady being gone and lo and behold, suddenly she was coming back that same day for tea. She was all the more likely to return if she was unpopular for a reason and rarely got asked anywhere. So Lisa got to eat cookies and cake, all the while being complimented for extending such a kind invitation.

Poor Dear Aunt Harriet

Every family seems to have an "Aunt Harriet" in it somewhere. Aunt Harriet is the maiden aunt, or perhaps she is the widowed aunt whose husband, Uncle Horace, died 20 years ago. Aunt Harriet lives alone and her family feels sorry for her. "Poor dear Aunt Harriet," they muse. "How hard it must be for her to live alone." Or "Alone without dear Uncle Horace with her any more."

Meanwhile, let us pull open the curtains on poor dear Aunt Harriet's life and see what she is really up to. She may have, or have had, any number of occupations but let us say that this Aunt Harriet was a schoolteacher for years before she retired. Having been single for a long time, she has acquired the virtue of financial prudence. She may grow a garden. She knows plenty about how to stretch a food dollar at the grocery store. While others around her panic over their looming foreclosures, Aunt Harriet knew long ago not to buy more house than she could afford. So poor dear Aunt Harriet's house is paid off. So is her car.

Everyone thinks Aunt Harriet is lonely. Evidently they are unaware that over the last three weekends, she has been playing cards with nearby friends, attending meetings at her church and civic club, and taking in a local town festival. During other weeks she has traveled to cities to see friends who live further away. She has checked out a special museum exhibit, viewed a theatrical performance, and attended a symphony orchestra concert.

Aunt Harriet stays in touch with a horde of friends as well as family. She knows what is going on in their lives, both positive and negative. She has a pile of books that she will get around to reading when she has time. She is well versed on local, national, and international events because she follows them with interest. She has several favorite charities that are grateful for her support.

If Aunt Harriet was married at one time, then she misses Uncle Horace. They had a good life together. She looks at his picture often. But she does not miss the TV being tuned to football, basketball, baseball, or NASCAR eight hours a day. If Uncle Horace had a long illness before she died, she does not miss all the caregiving she had to do for him. If he was diabetic, she does not miss worrying whether he was taking his shots or whether his blood sugar would get so out of whack he would fall into a coma.

Her nieces and nephews enjoy her company. Years of teaching taught Aunt Harriet to understand kids. When one of those young people has a crisis, Aunt Harriet is a friend in need and a friend indeed. She helps where she can. Aunt Harriet often gives wise counsel during family crises because she is a step removed from the situation. But she is grateful not to be the parent who has to to deal with the child's relationship issues, drug or alcohol addiction, or court date for that recent shoplifting episode. When Aunt Harriet herself is ill or in need of help, swarms of grateful people are there to assist her.

In all my years in churches, I have not heard one sermon celebrating what is good about Aunt Harriet's life. Nobody seems to talk about singleness as a viable option for a Christian. Given that the North American divorce rate hovers at around 50 percent, I am intrigued as to why that might be. I have a theory about it, but that is another story for another time.

Aunt Harriet does not get mentioned much in church, nor does she garner newspaper headlines or interviews on TV. She does not mind in the least. She is too busy to notice. While everyone else is getting out of the stock market, Aunt Harriet is quietly buying more stocks. She has been around long enough to know that what goes down will come up again and vice versa. She thinks long term.

Poor dear Aunt Harriet.

Excitable Election Elements

The next one week and five days are going to be a political thunderstorm. I cannot recall an election season as intense as this one. In Smalltown, some folks are up in arms because campaign signs for Abel Herrero are vanishing, courtesy of a thief in the night. A gang in Sea City is disappearing McCain/Palin signs. Yes, "disappearing" is now a verb courtesy of this election. Political fanatics are watching every dip, swerve, and roll of the polls. Outside the Smalltown County Municipal City Center where we vote (we're small so it's all rolled into one) people stand with poster boards held high with the names of their favorite candidates. At church meetings Smalltown members urge me to vote for certain folks and warn me that other folks will, should they win, run us into the ground and decimate the Smalltown school system.

I'm going to vote early today as voting is my patriotic duty. But I'm going to have lunch first. That ballot is extremely long. After the election some publisher is going to bind it into volumes one through ten.

I have to break the intensity with a story that makes me smile. Did you hear about the man who was looking for a way to make his marriage better? He went into a secondhand bookstore and bought a book called How to Hug. After he got it home he realized he had purchased Volume Eight of an encyclopedia.

Favorite Indoor Sport: Bash the Media

Liberal media. Conservative media. Corporate media. I hear the media labeled all the time and it is never good. But maybe that is what the media are there for. They make a handy target when I am in a foul mood and need something to bash. I can physically hit the punching bag and mentally hit the media.

At the Smalltown Kiwanis Club meeting this morning, we had a financial advisor from Edward Jones speak to us about how the stock market works. I learned that the Dow Jones Industrial Average (DJIA) is a composite index of 30 of the nation's top public companies. Each company is weighted based on its market capitalization. The combined value of all 30 equals the DJIA. The companies are chosen to give a broad reflection of publicly traded firms in the U.S. While the DJIA is an accurate measure of how the economy is faring, it represents only 30 stocks out of hundreds.

The media have done much hand-wringing over the DJIA recently. The Kiwanis speaker noted that the financial talking heads like to say either that the DJIA "plunged" or it "soared." He recommended a more moderate approach. The DJIA always goes up and down, and it goes in cycles. This time is no different. He expressed doubt that we were going to have another Great Depression like we had in the 1930s. He reported that the majority of level-headed economists say we are in a recession, and that it may or may not last through the first two quarters of 2009.

He added, "However, if you took 100 economists and laid them end to end, they would all point in different directions."

He ended by noting the media hysteria again. "If the media bought elevators from Otis, they would not have Up or Down buttons. They would have Soar and Plunge buttons." That echoes the old Jewish proverb, "If you die in an elevator, be sure to press the Up button." I hope that when I die I soar and do not plunge. Fortunately the grace of Jesus Christ and His work on the Cross assure me that I'm destined to soar.

Gettin To Know Ya, Lola

Shown in photo: Lola Flushpoole dressed as a witch for a church Halloween event, with Billy-John next to her who refused to wear a costume. He thought his own face and outfit were enough.

I had a meal with Lola Flushpoole after our church's Annual Meeting today. I told her that after the stress of that meeting, I was in the mood to get drunk. But since I'm in a church that frowns on alcohol, I would get drunk on iced tea. We went to Garza's Mexican Cafe which has Smalltown's best south-of-the-border cuisine and iced tea, on which I did indeed get drunk. Caffeine intoxication is almost as good as the real thing. What's more, it is safe to drive home afterwards.

Lola has a massively high IQ and writes music on her computer using a special software program. These piano pieces will be published soon. She also plays music with as much skill as she composes it. She just celebrated 60 years as a church musician. As a bonus, she also sews beautifully.

Lola sent me the following email recently which I reprint here pretty much verbatim. After reading it I concluded that God broke the mold after making Lola.

"Dear Irreverent Reverend,

I've decided I worry too much. I finally got the answer in the middle of the night to a question I missed on a test in high school. It was an I.Q.test, and the answer was multiple choice.
The answers were : "Jane Eyre", "Lorna Doone", and "Les Miserables". The question was:

"Jean Valjean was the hero in what novel?"

I not only did not know the answer, I was incensed that they would expect a girl from a small South Texas town to know it. When I finished the test, I went to the library and looked up all the answers to all the questions I knew I had missed. Of course, that involved reading Lorna Doone, Jane Eyre, and Les Miserables, which probably didn't hurt me; and, when the test scores came back, my I.Q. was perfectly fine (according to the experts) so I never pursued the inequity of the test.

Flash forward to college. Same darned test, word for word. This time I knew the answers. Flash forward again: Called to the Dean's office. Scared. The Dean wanted to know (as did the president and the Board of Regents) why, since I had the highest I.Q. ever recorded in that college, it was so well hidden. I confessed. They had meetings. They decided to let me keep my I.Q., since looking up the answers indicated a high degree of something or other, if not exactly intelligence. Flash forward to last night. Suddenly I knew! I should have known about Jean Valjean because of the word "hero". Jean is a man's name only (or particularly, anyway) in France; hence the connection with Les Miserables. Darn!

Has my life been a meaningless shambles? Should I confess my failings to the Dean? (Nope. Dead) the Board of Regents? (Nope. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead). You? (Probably not, since you come perilously close to being as, um, unusual as I am, and would begin your own set of ruminations.) Who, then? I know. I'll tell Jacques. He speaks French.

Editor's note: Jacques is her two-year-old grandson.

The Craig Ferguson quote I wanted to share with you was: "Before they close Shea Stadium down, they wanted to have one last Billy Joel concert. That thing's old and disgusting. It reeks
of stale beer. The stadium is even worse". Right below that, there was an ad for a new type of Hallmark Card. There was a picture of George Bush, saying "Celebrificate a Person's Bornfulness". I thought that was funny, too --- not in a political sense, since I am hopelessly apolitical; but because it reminds me of eduspeak, which I never quite learned, even after lots of years of teaching.

L.F."

Only Lola could have created this. It needs no further comment from me.

Invention of a New Animal

Have you ever heard of a jackdonkey? Invoking this animal is a way of insulting someone in polite company. Example: "That school counselor over in Sea City is a jackdonkey." I will remember that. In this election season, I am sure I will have opportunity to use it on some local politician who riles me up.

Like the one in Sea City who, if not already a jackdonkey, is fast growing his ears and tail. He actually said something about "too many from the trailer parks coming out to vote." He probably watches too much TV. In real life, there are many good, decent people who live in mobile homes and double wides. I know some of them. But on TV if you see any kind of trailer, it means there are drugs involved or else somebody's dead in there.

How to Grieve

Even in this usually lighthearted blog, the blogger has her somber moments. It was my sister's birthday last week, if she had lived. I would like to have given her a party. But she died 15 years ago. Sister Lisa and I did not always get along, but blood is thicker than water as they say and there is something about a sibling that isn't replaceable. I've been thinking about her and about my father who died last year and my aunt who died a couple of months ago. The hardest thing about getting older may be all the losses.

But I have a way to deal with this. A little way past Sea City is my favorite stretch of beach where, if I go in the late afternoon, very few people are there. If I walk a half mile or so it's just me, the foaming waves, and the seagulls. With the crashing water to drown me out, I stand on the sandy shore and have discussions with Dad, Aunt Jean, and Lisa. I ask them how they're doing up there and if they're playing cards like we used to down here. I urge them to think of us now and then and stress that I haven't stopped thinking about them. I tell them I'll see them before long. And the waves keep rolling in. There's something eternal about it all.

So Many Stories I Can't Keep Up

Smalltown church members say what they think. It is refreshing and at times startling. At the recent "Dazzling Disciples" banquet, our church's equivalent of the Academy Awards, Billy-John MacDonald was nominated for an award and received it for his outstanding performance in church groundskeeping. I'm being facetious, but seriously he does a great job at this. After receiving the award and getting his photo taken with the bishop, Billy-John with the rest of us had to sit through about 100 other people getting awards. We did not know any of them. That was when I got caught stuffing my face with cookies, described in a previous blog entry. Billy-John sat as long as he could, but finally had to make a pitstop. On his way out of the banquet hall in First Cathedral Church in Sea City, he stooped down to address Tom Harvey, another church member who received an award that night. "Hey Tom," he whispered in a booming voice. "I'm gonna go relieve myself. You want to join me?" Tom's eyebrows shot up into his forehead and the whites of his eyes were visible across the room as he freaked out. Women do make restroom trips into social occasions. But I've never seen a man do it. Except for Billy-John!

There was more bathroom humor today at the church's monthly "Eat Healthy Live Interminably" luncheon. Each month, around ten Smalltown church members gather in the church fellowship hall under the expert guidance of our staff nurse. We each bring a healthy dish and its recipe to share, and receive a short lesson from the nurse on healthy eating, weight loss, heart disease prevention, or the health-related issue du jour. We got into a discussion of the necessity of eating fruits and vegetables. Flora, Myra MacDonald's sister, was present. (She was the one who, when she had acres of rain in her yard, told us she would start raising ducks.) Today Flora listened to Sandra Morrison extolling the benefits of citrus fruit such as oranges and grapefruit. Flora commented in her deep Texas voice, "Can't do it. They make mah butt raw if ya know what Ah mean." A few others acknowledged that Flora had provided enough information that they knew exactly what she meant. The discussion went on. Later Lola Flushpoole offered us oranges hand-picked from her own garden and promised, "They won't do what Flora says they'll do." Flora responded, "Ah hope not. Those oranges from the grocery store, they're good, but they almost turn me inside out."

Angela Lansbury: Wannabe!

When I grow old, I want to morph into Angela Lansbury. She is my hero and my role model. I first made her acquaintance when she played the witch Eglentine Price in Walt Disney's Bedknobs and Broomsticks in 1971. I was 11 years old at the time. While my peers were hoping to be pretty and popular like Marcia on the Brady Bunch and Laurie in the Partridge Family, I marveled at the fact that this old lady could be so cool. When Lansbury resurfaced as Jessica Fletcher in Murder, She Wrote, I was old enough to appreciate that this eccentric mystery writer/detective had the respect of everyone around her and was smarter than the sheriff, the doctor, and the various other characters combined. It was farfetched, but I loved it. This was female savvy at its best. It caused me at age 25 to aspire to think outside the box, reject conventionality, and work on becoming eccentric. I am still perfecting that trait. It is coming along nicely.

Lansbury is a humanitarian as well as a multiple Golden Globe award winner. She supports the fight against muscular dystrophy. She has been named a Commander of the Order of the British Empire. She was named a Disney Legend in 1995. She had one of the longest-running marriages in showbiz before her husband died a few years back. She is squeaky-clean and family-friendly. She gives every impression of being just as cool in person as she is on the screen.

Unlike her contemporaries who were beauties in their day and then faded, Lansbury keeps going in a way that does the Energizer Bunny credit. She is still acting at the age of 82 after having knee replacement surgery a couple of years ago. She is a character actor who usually plays offbeat older women, so her career does not depend on her looks. At this point I admire people and things that last long and wear well. There is nothing short-term about Lansbury. I never get tired of her.

There is nothing short term about Jesus, and I never get tired of him either. I'm not saying that Jesus and Lansbury are equivalent by any means. Jesus has no equal anywhere on earth.

But I do think Lansbury has some of his good points.

Further Adventures of Magnolia Ertle

Visiting with Emma Ertle and hearing her talk about her mother, whom she so resembles, made me laugh. When Magnolia Ertle finished secretarial school in Houston, she went to visit relatives up north and ended up staying with her grandparents for a while in Gary, Indiana. She became a secretary to a steel company executive. Emma said that was a tough job for Magnolia, working with those Yam Dankee hard-nosed managers. One day a manager was arranging steel mill tours for all the employees in Magnolia's division. The rationale seems to have been that the workers would do a better job if they had actually seen the steelmaking process. Magnolia had to create and monitor the sign-up sheet which everyone was required to autograph once they had completed the tour. It was not easy to make sure everyone had done the tour and then signed the sheet. One Friday, Magnolia sent the sheet around for the umpteenth time to track down the last few signatures. As the last signature came in, she realized that although she had had the tour through the mill, witnessing the orange flares and the smell of sulphur (which she described as a whirlwind trip through Hell) she was the only one who had not signed her own sheet. She looked at the heading at the top of the sheet. It asked, "HAVE YOU BEEN THROUGH THE MILL?" A frazzled Magnolia signed her name and wrote beside it, "D*mn right I have!"

Cats Carousing without Ceasing

Next door to the Smalltown church we have a cat breeding factory. It is self-sustaining, self-perpetuating, and self-multiplying. Most of the church members have counted cats at one time or another and the record so far is 21 felines. Rumor has it the house of cats is also a house of drugs. That theory is supported by the appearance of the house with all of its boarded-up windows. The residents boarded them up before Hurricane Ike and never removed them. A woman emerges once or twice a day to scatter an acre of cat food on the concrete slab in their back yard that borders the church parking lot.

I have an idea for what to do with the cats. Have some folks pull up in a vehicle while the cats are dining on their Kat Kibbles. The people sit a minute so the cats, if they are hiding, come out again. Then we throw an enormous net over all the cats and trap them. We then proceed to spray-paint them black. On Halloween, when we do "Trunk or Treat" and hand out candy from our cars in the parking lot, every child gets a free black cat to take home.

John Barge is skeptical. He says the idea is too far out and won't work and have you ever tried herding cats? Still, nobody has come up with a better plan and so far Animal Control has been hopeless.

Emma Ertle's Mother

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. That saying is true regarding Emma Ertle and her mother Magnolia. Magnolia was just as eccentric in her youth as her daughter is now. Magnolia, like Emma, had bright red curly hair and big blue eyes. As a young woman, Magnolia spent time in the big city of Houston going to secretarial school and flirting with many interested males. She lived in a cheap apartment at the time. One night she apparently saw something amiss in a lighted window in an apartment across the street. She called the Houston police. "Please come quickly!" she pleaded. "There's a man being indecent across the street." When a policeman showed up, he asked Magnolia to show him where the man was. Magnolia pointed across the street to a lighted window above hers. "I don't see anything," the cop said. "Oh, you can't see him from there," Magnolia explained. "You have to stand on this chair."

Lola Flushpoole rides again

Lola Flushpoole, church piano accompanist, always has a new idea coming down the pike. I saw her yesterday, of course, during Sunday worship. Yesterday was apparently Pastor Appreciation Day. I did not know that until Lola told me. Lola's husband, Marvin, is a retired pastor. Lola asked me, "Do I have to appreciate Marvin today?" She then concluded that she would at least tolerate him gracefully.

Lola shares my love of mystery books. She told me she had hoped to give me all her old Agatha Christie mysteries until she learned I already had a full library of them. She has saved hers to read in her old age, but she said, "Now I have reached my old age and I still remember the solutions. So sad. I had hoped for a little more fog by this time."

Car Mechanics for the Naive

Given the tricks he used to play on his girlfriends, it is a wonder John Barge ever got married. I called him after I left the hospital after Elise's surgery. "Glad it went well," he told me. He also told me that one of his sons, a strapping dark-haired man in his late teens, recently played the same trick on his girlfriend that he had once played on a girlfriend long ago. "It's scary how much my sons imitate me," he sighed. "But I can see why, I guess. It was pretty interesting when I was trying to get rid of a girlfriend who just wouldn't go away. That's why I did it. It wasn't nice, but I was desperate. We were driving together and I don't know what came over me. It was late fall and I said to this girl Bridget, "Hey, winter's coming. Have you changed the air in your tires?" Bridget was a little gullible and very clueless about cars. She said, "No, should I?" I told her she should. "Once winter's here, you don't want that summer air in your tires.

"Later she called me. She was furious about having gone to a mechanic and requested that he change her air. It caused quite a stir at National Tire and Battery. All I could think of at the ripe old age of nineteen was that I should also have told her that her muffler bearings needed tightening."