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.