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.