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Funambulism

Funambulism

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I have written before about my “word of the day” that comes in my email every day.  One day last week the word was Funambulism.

Okay so I admit I had no idea what this word meant, but it looked like a really fun word.

Right?

Fun…ambulism.

So, I knew what “fun” was…I mean I do, I can be fun sometimes.

And then I looked up “ambulism,” and learned that meant “a disorder involving walking.”

Ah okay, I thought, having trouble walking after having too much fun, that makes sense to me.

Fun-ambulism.

Even I may have funambulated once or twice before in my life.

 

But then, to my disappointment, I got deeper into my email and learned the word wasn’t funambulism at all, it was funambulism pronounced fyoo-NAM-byə-lizm.

And this funambulism meant “the art of walking on a tightrope.”

 

Back in November, I was repairing a picnic table the kids used on the playground at the church by replacing the top and benches with pressure-treated wood after the original plastic parts had broken.

During the process of attaching one of the boards, I hit my left thumb with my hammer just below the thumbnail.

Even though I was at church, I reacted pretty much as you might expect anyone who has hit their left thumb with a hammer to react.

Only I asked for forgiveness after.

Anyway, I finished the table and after the pain went away, I forgot about the incident with my thumb and the hammer.

Until one day, as my thumbnail began to grow, the blood blistery kind of thing that shows up under your nail after you hit it with a hammer began to take shape.

Sitting at the bar of the Hard Rock Café at Baltimore’s Inner Harbor on New Year’s Day as we ate dinner while preparing to go watch the Steelers versus the Ravens game at M & T Bank Stadium, I realized I had something very unusual looking on my thumb.

“Kim,” I said,  “look at my thumb…who does that look like to you?

“Oh my gosh,” she said, “Donald Trump!  You have Donald Trump on your thumb!”

I did.

I had a caricature of Donald Trump, blood blistered tattooed on my thumbnail!

Not that there is anything wrong with that.

But I realized that to share this remarkable occurrence, was kind of like funambulism!

Because let’s face it, there are a lot of people out there I am sure, and some might even be reading this, that would probably like to tell me where to stick that thumb with the Donald Trump image on it!

But I would have to decline because that’s not nice and I need that thumb, and in fact, that might cause some of that ambulism I was discussing earlier since it would be hard to walk like that.

And the sad thing is, trying to write something that mentions Donald Trump, or anything political, or anything that might mention the differences we might have with one another really is kind of like funambulism.

It is like the art of walking a tightrope.

And that’s too bad.

 

 

Here is the table
Happy New Year

Happy New Year

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Though the holidays were officially over, with the weekend coming and a couple more loved ones still to visit, she dipped into a Harris Teeter to pick up a few things.  She took her place in line at the self-checkout behind an older woman who was already scanning her groceries.  With the help of a young clerk the old woman carefully took her items out of her handbasket and slid them over the scanner and into her bag.

She watched as the old lady, barely skin and bones and looking disheveled in a tassel cap, an old sweater, and baggy sweatpants continued slowly processing her groceries.

Three tomatoes, not even in a bag and all on one stem, half a loaf of bread, lunch meat, and a half gallon of ice cream.  When the total approached twenty-five dollars, the old woman told the young clerk “tell me when I get to thirty dollars.”

Soon after, the clerk put the lunch meat aside because it was going to put her over her thirty-dollar limit.

The woman in line observing all this thought back to a time when she was younger and a struggling single mom of a couple of young kids.  She would take her calculator with her when she would go grocery shopping to stay within her budget.

“Ma’am, can I just pay for your groceries?” she asked the old woman.

Hearing the offer and turning towards the voice, a bit surprised she replied “Would you? I am 90 years old, and things are getting harder.”

“Ma’am I am blessed, and I would like to help you,” and with all the old women’s groceries now scanned and in the bags, she swiped her card and paid the bill.

After checking out her own items and leaving the store, she looked for the old woman, but she was gone.

 

Yesterday was January 10th.

I have come to realize January 10th is the real New Year’s Day in my house.

It’s not always obvious, you can’t always feel it, and sometimes for short periods maybe even you forget it exists.  It seems to surface when you least expect it and sadly and sometimes inexcusably, it might even go unnoticed.

And it’s particularly ugly and insidious starting sometime before Thanksgiving and ending in early January where it lives deep in your expectations of joy and happiness, and the inner peace we search for in the story of the birth of a child, then in the anticipation of the new beginnings and opportunities of a new year.

And as hard as you try to deny its effects, no amount of wine or eggnog, happy or sentimental seasonal movie binging, or decorations and holiday celebrations are going to keep that thing under wraps.

It’s called grief.

And it doesn’t matter how many awesome sons-in-law, grandchildren, or kids you are blessed with, there is still always going to be one missing.

And sometimes even a bonehead husband and father like me who should know better doesn’t always read the signs at the right times or know when it’s time to take a step back; because sometimes it takes me until January 10th to realize that was the reason that the joy schedules didn’t always match up, that the attempt at the special moment fell flat, and mentioning that Santa Claus had come didn’t quite have the impact expected.

 

On Monday, January 9, on what would have been Donny’s 36th birthday, Kim put up a nice post on her Facebook page remembering Donny.  She received many nice comments, many of those coming from others who had also lost children.

I have read them all, several times really.

Comments like “Thinking of you Kim.  Donny was one of a kind.  Much love to you and your family.”

Donny was one of a kind.

And like the good person who helped the old lady in the Harris Teeter that day by paying for her groceries, Donny was a good person too.

And though situations like this always bring to mind the old adage “why do bad things happen to good people,” the truth is, bad things can happen to anyone.

But there really are good people we know or have known, in our lives.

And that brings to mind another old adage and just goes to show you, sometimes…

The apple doesn’t always fall far from the tree.

 

 

Postscript:

I have referenced this before and Kim mentioned it in her Facebook post, these words were sent to us twenty years ago and remain displayed in our kitchen:

“no matter how tough life gets, if you can see the shore of heaven, and draw strength from Christ, you’ll make it”.

On January 10th we made a nice dinner, poured some champagne in our year 2000 anniversary flutes, and toasted Happy New Year.

Let the new year now begin.

Happy New Year!

What’s At Stake Is the Democracy Stupid!

What’s At Stake Is the Democracy Stupid!

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For the time will come when people will not put up with sound doctrine. Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear.  They will turn their ears away from the truth and turn aside to myths.  But you, keep your head in all situations, endure hardship, do the work …

 

2 Timothy 4:3-5

 

Mary (not her real name) tells the story of her 70-year-old mom, a retired schoolteacher, who just went back to work out of necessity.

Joe (also not his real name), is an African American man who understands Mary’s story. He and his wife were retired but are also now back working because they need to.

The conversations of average Americans in a waiting room of a doctor’s office.

Conversations, in this case, telling the stories of Americans who have worked hard all their lives to earn the ability to take a pause in their later years and relax, now finding it necessary to return to work.

 

I heard a good sermon recently.

It was about the importance of sound doctrine.

Teachings that agree with the Bible.

Something that is not so popular anymore.

The preacher went on to say that sound doctrine is important because it promotes health and holiness and in fact could be considered a matter of life and death.

That good works are the mark of sound doctrine and that actions we believe are good make the world a better place.

Sound doctrine gives us the ability to determine truth from falsehood.

 

The preacher spoke about the devaluation of prayer.

When people stop praying, we suffer.  The world suffers.

Because to some degree, humans have relied on prayer to maintain their mental status.

A world without prayer is bleak, and leads to stress, and possibly destructive behaviors.

When we are experiencing stress, prayer gives us that all-important ability to pause, and allow God’s perspective to determine what we do from there.

Because human thriving is declining.

And we need to pray about it.

 

I don’t like to write about politics, frankly, I am not qualified.  But that never stops other people from talking or writing about it.

But never the less, in my case I think I will write about prayer instead, which I also may not be qualified to write about, but I will anyway.

 

There is an election coming up fairly soon.

An election where nothing short of our democracy itself is at stake.

I listened to the President’s speech the other evening.

Though I thought it was a bit bizarre, it certainly would have played well in any time slot on MSNBC.

I have been listening to MSNBC lately.

It was kind of a tired topic, given all the other piles of doo-doo we are up to our necks in right now; more about Trump, more about January 6th, and more about how election integrity will threaten our democracy.

And how the rest of us dumbasses aren’t getting it.

Democracy is what is at stake stupid!

 

Democracy.

 

A government by the people…

 

The rule of the majority…

 

A government in which the supreme power is vested in the people and exercised by them directly or indirectly through a system of representation usually involving periodically held free elections…

A political unit that has a democratic government…

The common people especially when constituting the source of political authority…

The absence of hereditary or arbitrary class distinctions or privileges…

The word democracy most often refers to a form of government in which people choose leaders by voting…

 

A democratic system of government is a form of government in which supreme power is vested in the people and exercised by them directly or indirectly through a system of representation usually involving periodic free elections…

 

I don’t know about where you folks live, but I am pretty sure I live in a democracy, and in a few days that will be proven because a democracy is  “a form of government in which people choose leaders by voting.”

 

And unless you are going to allow yourself to be led by the nose into believing something otherwise, our democracy is not at stake.

In fact, I think that those who would tell us that our democracy is at stake might be the ones putting our democracy at stake.  It sounds to me like they might be encouraging a one-party system of rule, they might be the ones attempting to seize control, trying to restrict our rights, arrest anyone who disagrees, and control the narrative.

 

I may be a dumbass, but I am not stupid.

And neither are you.

And we may have a generation or two without the life experiences or the knowledge of history to the extent to be able to discern what is right or wrong, good or evil, and not beyond the limits of our rights as Americans.

We have had civil unrest before in this country.  January 6th was a mob that included some right-wing nut cases and bad actors doing what Abbie Hoffman would explain as seizing an opportunity.  But I would bet the majority of those people were simply regular folks armed with nothing more than their cell phones, with their worst intentions grabbing a selfie to post on social media later that evening.

“The attempted coup that almost threatened our democracy” was neither an attempted coup nor a threat to our democracy.  Yet there are a lot of people in very influential roles that would try to have us believe that, or worse, have us believe that they believe that.

President Biden mentioned the brutal attack on Paul Pelosi and made the parallel between that unfortunate incident and the events of January 6 as a further example of a threat to our democracy.

 

I don’t know, I don’t really think that guy represented the sentiments of the average American.  In fact, he is not even an American, he is a Canadian.  A guy who once lived in a storage unit and was “consumed by darkness.”  Mental illness at least in this man’s case, does not threaten our democracy.

Our country has experienced Presidential assassinations like John Kennedy; Presidential candidates assassinated like Robert Kennedy; attempted assassinations like Ronald Reagan; and prominent  Civil Rights activists like Martin Luther King assassinated.  None of these events threatened our democracy, they may have in fact strengthened our resolve.

But you might be expected to think otherwise.

And then there was guy on MSNBC the other day who questioned the “fact whether we will be a democracy in the future, whether our children will be arrested and conceivably killed.” This was proposed by MSNBC commentator Michael Beschloss.

Scary stuff.

All made up to scare us into lining up the right way.

 

But I am supposed to be writing about prayer.

About taking a pause.

About doing good works that make the world a better place to live.

About remembering the words of 2 Timothy:

And you, keep your head in all situations, endure hardship, do the work …

About the wisdom of the message that if your ears itch, don’t just surround yourself with those that will tell you what you want to hear.

Take some chances, do the work.  If you don’t find your sound doctrine in the Bible, maybe you will find it somewhere else, from someone you know and respect, your parents maybe.

And if you do find your sound doctrine in MSNBC, maybe try listening to Foxnews.

Or if it’s Foxnews, maybe try listening to MSNBC.

And before you vote, take a pause.

Pray about it, or meditate on it, or do whatever it takes to make you thrive and be less stressed.

Then vote for whatever you think is the common sense thing to do for you, your family, and your country.

Because we are a government by the people.

We are a democracy, and in a democracy, we the people, shouldn’t feel threatened.

 

 

Postscript:

This afternoon, feeling empowered and patriotic, I did my due diligence, I paused, I prayed, and I voted.  No one offered me a bottle of water or a glass of wine, and though I was disappointed, I understood, that could be interpreted as coercion.  They verified I was who I was, and where I lived by me showing my driver’s license and handed me a ballot.

The photo above was taken from a post in April 2020 around the fourth week of our covid shutdown. A reminder of different times indeed.

Another Beautiful October Day

Another Beautiful October Day

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Bittersweet.

That is how I view it.

Though it was a beautiful morning, the fog lay eerily on the calm river surface.  A sign that the now cold night air is clashing with the still warmer waters of this tiny finger of the Chesapeake Bay. But in the developing bright sunshine of this late October day, it doesn’t take long for the mist to clear.

Activity on the water this time of the year is slow to materialize.  The crabbers are gone, the trotlines and crab pots, now replaced by a lone work boat dropping eel pots instead.

The purple martins, one of the early messengers of the approaching spring, are also gone, having already made their migration south to winter in Brazil. The three purple martin houses now sitting atop their high poles vacant in the wind.

Optimistically I baited the crab pots and threw them in for one last attempt to hold on to the summer and enjoy its flavors.  But only two crabs were interested in my chicken necks on this day.

Hardly the crab feast I had hoped for.

I let them go.

Stealing some words from Bowie, I realized I couldn’t trace time, but I could be sure that time would change me.

There is no fighting that.

Giving in,  I lowered the martin houses to protect them from the cold winds to come.

I brought in the crab pots.

Removing the traces and putting an end to another season.

 

 

Winter will soon be upon us.

The sunset, which at the peak of the summer would be straight up the river, now has shifted to the left as it begins its descent earlier than I would like.

The shorter days invite the darkness in sooner than I am ready and I pack up my fishing gear after catching one small perch to put the finishing touches on my day and probably my fishing year.

It was another beautiful October day.

In contrast to the gloom looming in my winter fears, the flowers I planted sometime around Mother’s Day, still stand tall and exhibit their bright colors, awaiting the frost soon to come.

Who knows what the next six months will bring?

Until then I will keep warm and wait for the day when the first martin returns.

And I will pray that in that six months, time doesn’t change me too much.

And I will be allowed to write about another beautiful day, in another season, in another year, in time.

 

The morning fog
Reminders of the spring remain
The Wall of Sound

The Wall of Sound

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I whistle a lot.

And sometimes I sing or hum instead of whistling, but mostly I whistle.

My wife tells me she can always locate me in a store or antique shop by hearing me whistle.

At my work, the joke is similar.  If you want to know where Curt is just listen,  you will hear him.

But the truth is you are only hearing the whistle.

What is actually going on in my head is completely different.

There is a large production occurring in my head.

Like Phil Spector’s “Wall of Sound.”

There might be a horn section jumping in, an awesome guitar riff busting through, or the drums banging it out.

It’s hard to whistle the drum accompaniment.

And the vocals are amazing if I must say so myself.

All in my head.

Only I know what is really going on.

Only I can say what is really going on in my head.

You can only hear the whistle.

 

I read somewhere that Monday, October 10 is World Mental Health Day.  A day “to raise awareness of mental health issues around the world and to mobilize efforts in support of mental health,” according to the World Health Association.

I guess mental health has a stigma that ironically further feeds the issue of mental health.

And if you think about it, you don’t have to think too hard to find the insidious ways it creeps into all of our lives to some degree.  But you may not always characterize it as a mental health problem.

But it is.

And it is all around us

It is called life.

And I am not suggesting to minimize the seriousness of those who would be clinically diagnosed with mental health issues, I just think we have a more prevalent problem than we might care to admit.

 

It might be a teenager you know struggling with family issues, or bullying, or self-esteem.

Or someone you know wrestling with an addiction or a substance abuse problem.

Maybe it’s a relationship going bad or a marriage that is breaking apart.

It could be someone you know experiencing physical abuse in a relationship, and too scared to get out.

Maybe it’s a person suffering from the grief of losing a child or a grandchild.

Or a sibling.

Or a parent.

It could be someone suffering from the anxiety associated with PTSD caused by witnessing a horrible experience that no one else could ever really understand.

It might be watching someone go through the effects of aging or experiencing that yourself, or an illness maybe.

Maybe it’s a person experiencing job stress or instability.

Or financial burdens.

Maybe you just lived through a hurricane.

Or it might even be a person who whistles, even on days when he doesn’t really feel like whistling.

 

The World Health Organization says that “about one in eight people in the world live with a mental disorder.”

I would venture to say that maybe seven of those eight people are dealing with something that is causing stress, anxiety, depression, or sadness.

We don’t know for sure.

We don’t know what is really going on inside their heads.

Because we can only hear the whistle.

 

But it’s not anyone’s fault really.

Like my “wall of sound,” you couldn’t have known about that until just now.

You wouldn’t have learned about the grand production going on in my head if I hadn’t just written it down.

And shared it.

 

Sharing is sometimes hard.

So maybe fostering an environment that is more conducive to sharing is a good idea.

Listening deeper, if that is possible.

Encouraging writing instead of talking, because sometimes it is easier to express the hard things in written words.

Embracing your faith.

I couldn’t imagine going through some of my life’s events without my faith.

Knowing we are loved.

And loved unconditionally.

 

And sometimes, it even helps to whistle.

 

My brother Carl, with three of his grandsons.
A Laurel View

A Laurel View

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Johnstown is a small city in western Pennsylvania about 56 miles east of Pittsburgh.  It sits nestled in the Laurel Mountains in the steep valley where the Conemaugh River meets the Stonycreek River. Once known for its coal, iron, and steel production, the evidence of those heydays now lie as empty relics over sprawling blocks of the once thriving city.  A victim of at least three major floods, one in 1889, one in 1936, and the last in 1977, it is now in a struggle to stage its comeback.

Old Orchard Way is at the top of the hill as you climb steeply up Sell Street.  On the corner, at 102 Old Orchard Way is the house as we have been told, that Arlene Ober’s grandfather built.  At the bottom of the hill on Sell Street near the intersection of Franklin stands the Roxbury Church of the Brethren, a beautiful old building of stone, large windows, and heavy wooden doors.  A young Arlene Ober would walk down that hill every Sunday, even in the cold and the snow and ice of the western Pennsylvania winters, hurrying so as not to be late for Sunday school.

Just inside those large, heavy wooden entrance doors that take you into the vestibule and then to the sanctuary, is a small sign on the left that marks the Heritage Room.  On the walls are old photos, newspaper articles, and even a vintage quilt that is proof that this was once a large and vibrant congregation.  In the corner is a mannequin of an early Brethren woman in what was the traditional dress of the time.   Another photo we saw on the piano in the sanctuary was of a large group that included young people and children, dated 1938, that no doubt included a young Arlene Ober, though it was beyond our ability to discern.

 

Kim and I were back in western PA for the weekend.  Kim’s mom Faye lives at Laurel View Village, a retirement community and assisted living in Davidsville, Pennsylvania just west of Johnstown. Named appropriately for its location along the Laurel Highlands and the scenic view of the Laurel Mountains, it’s a wonderful place. Saturday morning was the Que Classic (pronounced “kwee”) a 5 and 10 K walk and run held at the Quemahoning Dam, where the proceeds were to benefit Laurel View Village. So, wanting to support the cause, we signed up for the 5K, and though our running days are behind us, we managed to mix it up a bit and cross the finish line running.

Kim’s mom lives in an area designated as “personal care” meaning those residents are independent but require a little more assistance with activities of daily living. The more often we go up, the closer we get to the residents, Faye’s friends, and neighbors.  Sadly many, we have learned, have little contact with their families so they love to share their stories when the opportunity presents itself.  Once striking up a conversation, you can expect that out of the pockets of the attachments on their walkers, will come photos and other items that help to provide perspective to the details of their families and their lives before Laurel View Village.

Like our friend Arlene, many have Brethren roots, in fact, Kim’s family was raised or are still members of the Church of the Brethren.   I remember during the early years of our relationship and marriage I got pretty comfortable with my father-in-law preaching and sharing his beliefs with me, as a good dad should have, while he vetted me out on my position on the Big Guy.  The Brethren only have communion twice a year, it is called the Love Feast, and it involves the washing of one another’s feet, just as Jesus did at the Last Supper.  I was blessed to have shared that experience with my father-in-law once before he passed away.

 

Kim and Arlene (her married name Pfost), now relocated to Northern Virginia and practicing Methodists, would occasionally attend the local Dranesville Church of the Brethren for the Love Feast.  And even though there was a great difference in age since Arlene was born in 1935, they had plenty of similar experiences to share, like Camp Harmony in Kim’s Somerset County PA, a summer camp for Brethren youth that is still active and both Kim and Arlene attended as kids.

Before Arlene passed away last May, knowing we were beginning to make frequent visits to the Davidsville and the Johnstown area, she asked Kim if she would return the commemorative Roxbury Church of the Brethren plate that she had, back to the church of her childhood.  She said to go in the front door and there was a small room to the left containing the history of her church, and that is where she wanted it to remain.

This past Sunday, Kim and I returned Arlene’s plate to Roxbury.

Though it was Sunday morning, there was only one car in the parking lot.  We found the front doors unlocked and entered the vestibule and viewed the large and beautiful old sanctuary.  We saw the door on the left to the area that Arlene had described and eventually, I wandered around and found the church office.  In the office was an elderly woman and a more middle-aged man named Jim Mosholder.  I began to explain about Arlene and the reason for our surprise visit, and now with Kim present,  plate in hand, she told the story of Arlene’s request.  Kim presented the plate to Mr. Mosholder along with a bit of written history of Arlene’s life.

We spent some time in the Heritage Room viewing and reading and imagining the church as Arlene would have as a child.  On the wall was that very large quilt with hundreds of names of members sewn onto it.  Somewhere on that quilt of familiar western Pennsylvania names like Mishler, Ream, and Mosholder were the names of Sara Ober and Blodwen Ober.  Blodwen Ober was Arlene’s mother.  Sara, the best I could determine was Arlene’s sister who died in infancy.

The sign in the vestibule next to the entrance doors with the changeable numbers indicated the current number on the Sunday school roll as twenty-one, and the attendance the last two Sundays was five and seven.

But Roxbury Church of the Brethren is still surviving.

 

Arlene and our friends at Laurel View are of the generation of my mother and father and Kim’s mother and father.  We are blessed to have learned and be able to retell the stories our parents have shared and in some cases are still sharing.

We continue to have the honor and the joy of being able to share in the lives of Faye’s new friends and hear their stories.

For Kim and me, Arlene was a blessing.  It was a privilege to have known Arlene as a friend and a member of our church family and to have been able to be a part of her life and share that experience to a small degree.   This past Sunday I think we felt like we brought some closure to Arlene’s Johnstown memories and our commitment to our friend. Kim, who was unable to attend Arlene’s funeral due to an out-of-town business meeting,  felt at peace, walking the same walk up those steps and through the doors of the church that Arlene had described to her, coming down that hill to attend Sunday school.

 

Sunday afternoon I was reading a silly story on social media that was meant to be humorous, but it was the last line that made me think about Arlene:

“Life isn’t about how to survive the storm, but how to dance in the rain.”

Our friend Arlene, danced.

 

Roxbury Church of the Brethren

 

102 Old Orchard Way

 

Kim with “Roxie” an example of a Brethren woman of the past

 

The sanctuary

 

Kim with Jim Mosholder

 

The quilt in the Heritage Room

 

The quilt has the names of Blodwen Ober and Sara Ober.

 

The weekly attendance

 

Arlene on the left, with our friend Karen at my Kentucky Derby party in 2019. Arlene loved to watch the horse races.

 

The feature photo above is a selfie taken at the end of the Que Classic.

This was Kim and I crossing the finish line, and yes it looks like I am about to plant my face in the pavement, thankfully that did not happen.
Where The Choo Choo Go

Where The Choo Choo Go

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I have been home these past five days.

Quarantined, under house arrest, battling and recovering from my first bout of Covid-19.

In fact, I should probably apologize for my last post which I should have never posted because I was going down like the Titanic with a temperature of 103 as I was trying to write.  But not wanting to waste the time already invested I hit the publish button.

Sorry.

Though being sick is no fun, there is something oddly relaxing about being in this situation.  I can’t see anyone, no one wants to see me; I am forbidden until I meet certain criteria to return to work; so other than seeing my wife who has been sleeping in another room I am just home chilling.

Needless to say, with nothing better to do, I watched TV, listened to podcasts, watched some races, and slept a lot.

Well, mostly I slept a lot.

I could argue that Mike Lindell commercials, Balance of Nature commercials, and especially The Gutfeld Show, are all three good reasons to turn off Fox News and watch CNN.

So, I did, I watched some CNN.

And, I began listening to the Barak Obama and Bruce Springsteen podcast Renegades: Born in the USA.

Somehow this news overload got me thinking first about our Vice Presidents and how they really got to be Vice Presidents. You can’t really argue it was their qualifications to govern as our current example proves, more than their ability to gain votes for the Presidential candidate.

I imagined Obama sitting around with his team trying to find the most racist old white guy Democrat to balance out his ticket and maybe gain some votes from other racist old white guys of all parties.

And Trump probably chose Mike Pence to help grab the evangelical vote and help balance out his negatives.

Of course, the most obvious example of this would be Kamala Harris, this time balancing out the old racist white guy with potentially the first female Vice President of color. That was a ringer in my opinion.  The slam dunk. And it seems to have worked out well. At least in terms of the election result.

 

Looking back though, there was no way, in my opinion, Joe Biden was going to be allowed to lose that election regardless of whether you thought he was the best candidate or the worst candidate.

So then I began to wonder, now that we are in this mess with really no solution in sight to resolve it, does anyone who worked so hard to get us here have any regrets?

I thought about the Renegades, Barak Obama and Bruce Springsteen, having listened to some of their podcasts.  And couldn’t help but imagine what they might be thinking off the microphone.

But not only that.

Barak and Bruce…somehow the idea of the two of them working together conjured up more of a familiar visual for me.  I thought about the parallels to another population who needed saving, though fictitious, and imagined a conversation like this:

“Hey Boss, I think we are in some deep do-do.”

“Yeah Mr. Boss, it doesn’t look we are having a house party tonight anymore does it?”

“So Boss, what should we do?  We helped to get ourselves into this mess, how do we get out of it.”

“Well Mr. Boss, maybe it’s time for a new sheriff in Washington to save the country. I got a plan.”

“Okay Boss, let’s hear it.”

“We’ll work up a Number 6 on ’em.”

“A Number 6”? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that one, Boss.”

Well, Mr. Boss, that’s where we go a-ridin’ into Washington, a-whompin’ and a-whumpin’ on my motorcycle, and then we…”

 

Kind of like Blazing Saddles and saving the poor people of Rock Ridge right?

Blazing Saddles, the 1974 movie by Mel Brooks that satirized racism and bigotry.  Brooks used humor to exemplify the extremely stupid behaviors of those who practiced it both in the historical context of white people settling in the west and their mistreatment of immigrant groups such as the Chinese and the Irish; the African Americans; and also the attitudes and treatment towards Native Americans; but also to show the idiocy of the bigotry of modern times.

It is fairly well accepted that Blazing Saddles would not have been able to be made today.

But I imagined a modern-day politically correct version, focused only on saving the country, not having anything to do with racism. This dynamic duo the “Renegades,” Barak and Bruce ‘a-ridin’ into Washington, D.C on Bruce’s motorcycle wearing cowboy and motorcycle boots on a mission to rescue the U.S.A.  from sure collapse.

With Barak Obama acting as the Sheriff Bart character.

And Bruce Springsteen would be like Jim, the “The Waco Kid” his trusty partner, but in this case maybe we would have to call him “The Jersey Kid” or the “The Asbury Kid.”

And Joe Biden to be the perfect Gabby Johnson.

And though it may be a stretch but maybe only to some degree, Kamala Harris playing a Governor William J. Le Petomane like part.

Then how about Nancy Pelosi as a Californian Lili Von Shtupp (“a wed wose, how womantic”).

Of course, the villain, the Hedley Lamarr role would have to be Donald Trump as evil as he is alleged to be.

 

Yeah, wouldn’t it be great if we could write a script with someone…anyone, riding into Washington, setting the government straight and our national policies, and once their work is complete, ride humbly off on their motorcycle into the Jersey Turnpike skyline?

I have said before I don’t want to nor am I capable of writing about politics, at least not seriously.

I even proposed to support Mickey Mouse for President in the 2016 election.

And as silly as the idea of a Sheriff Barak and “The Asbury Kid” saving our country sounds, I am praying for a miracle, any miracle, even one this crazy.

Because the reality is, just like Mongo, when asked why it was important where the Choo Choo go:

“Don’t know. Mongo only a pawn in the game of life.”

 

That’s me too, I don’t know either for I, am only a pawn in the game of life too.

 

It may be time to break out the paddle boards.

 

 

“He conquered fear and he conquered hate.

He turned our night into day.

He made his blazing saddle

A torch to light the way.”

(from the theme song “Blazing Saddles,” sounds like something worth praying for? I rooting for this guy)

Feet Faddish Three

Feet Faddish Three

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It was hot today.

I got a reminder that three years ago on another July 13th I posted a photo of my feet, next to the pool I had just opened and the palm tree I had recently planted. Feet Faddish I called it. Then in September of 2021 I returned to my lawn chair with Feet Faddish Two.

Once again it’s the 13th of July and since it was hot and I was tired from working outside, I thought I would stop for the day, and revisit my feet, my pool, and my palm tree once more.

So I inflated my pool, and positioned my lawn chair so that my feet would rest “under” one of my palm trees.  My palm trees are growing but I had a scare in April when we had an unexpected cold snap.  My palm trees are still young so I wrap them in bubble wrap to protect them from the cold in the winter.  I made the mistake of unwrapping them a little early this year and I thought I had lost a number of trees.  Though most have come back, one didn’t make it and a couple more are struggling.

If you look close you can see on the other side of my pool is my Par One golf course green so the pool can double as a water hazard.

My sister-in-law Teesha has recently made the decision to retire to the somewhat mythically sounding place called Margaritaville, in South Carolina.  I am happy for her.  With my brother Carl now gone it has to be hard to remain in that house.

 

The Fourth of July week was pretty cool. Kim and I got to hang out with all the local family on the fourth.  Later in the week we took Cameron out to the Eastern Shore to see my dad who he hadn’t seen in a while and spend some time fishing and crabbing.  My California brother Gary was on the east coast with my sister in law Marie so we got to hang out a little.

 

Sunday morning I got a call from my old friend Donny R.   We grew up together, spending time in school, the Boy Scouts, and Oceanport Hook and Ladder.  Donny was a police officer in Oceanport and is now retired in upstate New York.  His birthday is close to mine in June so I wished him a late happy birthday.  Before I left New Jersey, we would often throw ourselves a combined birthday party in his backyard.

 

It was nice to hear from him.  He told me he lives about 20 miles from Saratoga Racecourse and I told him that visiting Saratoga was on my bucket list so he said we were welcome anytime.

Though it was very nice to hear from him, when you are my age, phone calls from old friends from home often come with some bad news too.  In the case of Donny’s phone call, it came with lots of bad news, the passing of three friends I knew from Oceanport.

 

Karen S.  was the daughter of two of my mom and dad’s best friends so we saw a lot of each other growing up though she was a bit younger.  And she ultimately married another friend of mine from Oceanport.

Larry Y.  was another Oceanport guy and member of the Oceanport Hook and Ladder.

Kevin A. was an Oceanport guy who was also a member of Oceanport Hook and Ladder.  Like Donny, Kevin was also a police officer in Oceanport.  My favorite Kevin story is the night he found me and my buddy Joe (who I have written about a number of times before) after a couple of beers attempting to get Joe on the back of my motorcycle so I could take him home.  Instead, Kevin nicely suggested we put Joe in the Police car and he followed me on my motorcycle first to Joe’s address to drop him off and then to my house where I waved him thanks and went safely to bed.

That was the mid 70’s.  It probably wouldn’t happen that way now, and probably shouldn’t.

 

In less than a week we will acknowledge another year of our Donny being gone, this year will make twenty years believe it or not.  His accident occurred July 19, 2002.

 

I have heard two messages discussing fear in the last week both originating from a similar part of our world on the Eastern Shore. One from our buddy Bill Ortt in Easton, and one in the Harriet Tubman story.  Harriet’s birthplace was just a few miles from my parent’s house in Dorchester County.

I must admit Harriet has become my new Sheroe in recent days and I have been trying to learn as much as I can about her.  Maybe that is another story for another day.

 

Trusting the information Kim received from the policeman she spoke with on the phone, Donny experienced no pain. But I have always been troubled by the concern of whether he experienced fear.

We know Savannah experienced fear that day and is still working to sort that out.

 

Bill Ortt’s message included quotes from Zig Ziglar, an author and motivational speaker who died in 2012.

Rev. Ortt explained that Zig would propose you could look at fear two ways:

One is FEAR meaning “Fear Everything and Run.”

The other is FEAR meaning “Face Everything and Rise.”

 

 

In Harriet’s story from the movie anyway, she is helped by a “conductor” on the Underground Railroad, Reverend Green who before she left on her first journey to freedom would advise her that “fear is our enemy. Trust in God. The North Star will guide you, follow the North Star…”

 

It’s a tough challenge but facing our fears does allow us to learn and grow.

And, trusting in God.

It worked for Harriet.

I know our Donny trusted in God, and that helps to mitigate the sorrow.

 

I don’t fear the day God calls me.  And like my wise friend Donny R. said, every day we wake up and get out of bed is another birthday and should be celebrated.

 

It’s not that I don’t get scared.  Like those times Kim is almost home from visiting her mother and the house is a wreck. But that is a different kind of fear.

Listen to Rev. Green and Father Bill.

Fear is your enemy.  Trust in God.  Let the stars guide you. And if you can’t see the stars follow the river.

Face your fears and rise up.

 

And as I remember the events of July 13, 2019:

“Cameron told me this morning that when I am not alive anymore, he wants my truck.

That caught me off guard a little but hey you never know.

You never know what God’s plan is.

 

So today, I think I will just sit by the pool, next to my little palm tree, and look at my feet.

The garage will be there tomorrow.

Me, and days like this, may not.”

 

Today was a day for me to take a little break.

And though I am really happy for my sister-in-law and her move to the mythical place called Margaritaville, I am sure that comes with some fears.

For now, me, with my little pool, my little palm trees, my banana trees, my one-hole golf course, I have all the amenities I need to rest my feet in my mythical place I can call “Box Wine Ville” if I want.

Fear will be there tomorrow, me, and days like this may not.

Trust in God, He will guide you.

 

Postscript:

Our thoughts and prayers go out to the families of Karen, Larry, and Kevin.

I’ll Stand

I’ll Stand

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I was startled to find the pastor standing over me.

This “Pastor” was not like any pastor I have ever seen before.  Dressed all in black with a demonic look, more Satan-like, he was standing on my pew near where my head laid.  He was preaching about me and drawing the attention of the congregation sitting in the pews around me.  He was mocking me and humiliating me for stretching out in the pew and falling asleep during his sermon, so I became the sermon. And pointed out to all in the room I was even using Bibles as a pillow.

 

It was about 2 a.m. and after not being able to fall asleep in my office chair, I wandered down the hallway to the sanctuary and in the dark, I picked a pew a few rows from the front and laid down.  Better, I thought, though nothing like my bed, at least I could stretch out. Without a pillow, I reached out and grabbed a couple of books, hymnals or Bibles, not sure, and put them under my head.

This is kind of creepy, I thought.  I am trying to sleep in the same place where I got married and baptized; a place where I have attended the funerals of my friends, and Donny’s funeral.

Exhausted though, I drifted off to sleep

Maybe an hour later I was awoken In the middle of my dream with the demonic, Satan-like pastor. I checked the books beneath my head to see if they were Bibles. Finding only hymnals, I felt some relief.

For the first time since before the pandemic, my church held its annual yard sale.   I have written about it before.  It is quite a large, work-intensive event and typically it requires a few of us to work all night long in preparation. On this early pre-sale morning, however, we were fairly organized and it allowed me the opportunity to try to grab a little rest.

Not sure the church pew idea was my best choice though.

 

On June 16 I got a nice early Father’s Day gift.  Hayley was asked to be the keynote speaker at the Broad Run High School Graduation.  And it was broadcast online so Kim and I could watch it from our living room.  That was probably a good thing too because I didn’t even make it through the introduction by the Principal before the tears started rolling down my face.   Hayley did an awesome job, of course using the example of her “She-roe,” Ruth Bader Ginsburg to base her message.

Life Lessons (abridged version):

  1. Empower yourself, be independent.
  2. Find a true life partner, one that loves you unconditionally.
  3. Learn to welcome debate and difference. There is nothing wrong with having difficult conversations.
  4. We should all do our part to positively change the world. Work to repair the world.

It was awesome, she did a great job, and I was very proud, but little more dehydrated by the end.

Father’s Day weekend I was home alone again.    Kim had to go up to see her mom and I had work to do here. Though we find ourselves needing to do this a lot, I don’t think you ever really get used to it.  And I will admit I was a little depressed.  I listened to Bill Ortt’s 5:00 sermon on Saturday afternoon.  Then I listened to it again.  Then I listened again.

Interestingly his message contained elements similar to Hayley’s:

“What can I do” (to make the world better).

“We do have a stewardship responsibility for the way we communicate with one another.”

“Let each of you speak the truth with your neighbor, for we are members of one another”

 

Wise messages from some wise folks.  I hope I can live up.

 

On Father’s Day of course I heard from all the kids, but it was hearing my dad wish me a “happy father’s day” on my mother’s cell phone that was the highlight of my day.  I didn’t think I was going to be able to work out talking to him but it was a nice surprise and he did pretty good.

As I mentioned at the beginning, this past weekend was my church’s yard sale which was a lot of work but a lot of fun too with some awesome people.

And today is my birthday.

I just listened to the voice mail from Kim’s 97-year-old Aunt Laferne.  Every year she calls to sing “Happy Birthday” to you.  We don’t answer on purpose because we want to save it.

And like Father’s Day, I got to talk to my dad on my mom’s cell phone again and he wished me a “Happy Birthday” and he talked about having too many boats.  I told him you can never have too many boats.

 

Tomorrow we will celebrate Cameron’s birthday, on Wednesday Kim’s birthday, on Thursday we will remember the anniversary of my brother Carl going Home, and on Friday celebrate our 22nd wedding anniversary.

A busy time.

 

Sorry for rambling a bit.

But I suppose there are some morals in the story.

Like, find a true life partner, one that loves you unconditionally.  I will celebrate that later in the week.

Welcome debate and difference but we do have a stewardship responsibility for the way we communicate with each other.

We should all do what we can to make the world better.

Never fall asleep in church.

And finally, you can never have too many boats.

 

Postscript:

The birthday crown I am wearing in the photo above was made for me by Miss Laurie, co-teacher of my BFF’s, aka the “Dreamers.”

I haven’t had a chance to read my FB but will later, thanks for the birthday wishes.

I woke up this morning with the song “In Christ Alone” in my head. The version that Alison Krauss sings with the Getty’s.  I think if ever I would imagine an angel singing it would have the voice of Alison Krauss. She sings the first verse in this version.

“Till He returns, or calls me home,

Here in the power of Christ I’ll stand”

Dreamers

Dreamers

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You are a great champion.

When you ran the ground shook, the sky opened and mere mortals parted.

Parted the way to victory, where you’ll meet me in the winner circle,

where I’ll put a blanket of flowers on your back.

(From the movie “Dreamer”)

 

It’s Memorial Day weekend, nearly the end of May and I haven’t written in a month.  May is typically a month when I can’t shut up.  But not so much this May.

Since I am a fan of horse racing, May and the months leading up to May are always exciting as the horses compete to ultimately run in the Kentucky Derby.

I usually think about Sid (Sir Sidney) this time of year. I checked up on him in mid-April and got the following response:

Hey there!! He’s doing amazing! I sure love that rotten boy. I injured my knee so while I recovered I sent him off to a trainer to get a tune up so he wouldn’t get that whole time off. He’s been absolutely wonderful and now my knee is better, I’ll be picking him up in a few days! Here’s a few pics. He’s definitely a drama queen, has the biggest ‘tude, and gets offended by everything, but I adore him. I think he knows he’s better than everyone else because of his track earnings…. Can you blame him?? 

Hope you are doing well, Jonas sends his love,

Marilyne 

 

Marilyne has renamed Sid, Jonas, she is a big fan of the Jonas Brothers.  But I won’t hold that against her, she is taking good care of him.  To me, however, he will always be Sir Sidney.

Another great champion in my winner’s circle.

And also this time of the year I am always a sucker for sentimental uplifting horse racing movies.

Like Secretariat.

And Seabiscuit.

But this season I discovered one that slipped by me all the way back in 2005.

Dreamer.

 

Mariah’s Storm was born in April of 1991 in Lexington Kentucky. In 1993 Mariah’s Storm was working to qualify in that year’s Breeder’s Cup races when she fractured her front left cannon bone in the Alcibiades Stakes at Keeneland Race Course.

Normally that injury would have ended a horse’s racing career or maybe worse.

In 1994 after her injury was healed and fully recovered and Mariah’s Storm went on to win the Arlington Oaks and in 1995 the Arlington Matron Stakes.

At the age of four years old in September of 1995, she did the impossible by winning the Turfway Breeders’ Cup Stakes defeating Serena’s Song, a future Hall of Fame filly. She made it to the Breeder’s Cup that year running in the Breeder’s Cup Distaff, and though she didn’t finish well, she finished.

Another great champion and a great story.

Good enough to make another great sentimental uplifting horse racing movie.

The movie Dreamer was based on the story of Mariah’s Storm and her recovery and return to run on Breeder’s Cup Day.  However, in the movie, Soñador, which means Dreamer, would recover and go on to win the Breeder’s Cup Classic at odds of 80 to 1 against the best of the best, with an overweight jockey who had only raced three times, and in a race that a filly had never won up to that time in the real world.

Give me a break.

Hand me a tissue.

 

In 2008, in the real world, a filly named Zenyatta would make history by reliving the movie race of Soñador and coming from last to first down the stretch to win the 2008 Breeder’s Cup Classic.

Goosebumps.

 

This Kentucky Derby Day,  like last year, I spent with my dad, or at least part of it.  And this year just like in the movie Dreamer, just like Soñador, the Derby had an 80 to 1 winner in Rich Strike who also came from way off the pace to make that big stretch run and become the unlikely winner of the Kentucky Derby.

 

Another great story.

More goosebumps.

 

And then finally on this last week of May when I have two and three-year-old horses on my mind, it was another group of two and three-year-olds that caused me a little winkage.

Another great group of champions

My new best friends.

I have learned in the last few months that best friends don’t have to be contemporaries.

They can be wee little.

 

And they can be shy and they can be quiet some days.

And they can be loud and outgoing other days.

And that’s all good.

Because they are always precious.

And they are learning to be champions.

 

And in the case of these little champions, I pray that they will meet God in the winner’s circle and He will put a great blanket of blessings on their back.

I hope they dream big.

As they deserve.

I am thankful for my new best friends, an unexpected blessing for me.

And I will see you in September.

 

Hand me the tissues again.

 

Postscript:

My dad worked at the Wolf Hill School in Oceanport, New Jersey for 25 years.  He retired at the age of 62, he is now 93.  He still gets cards and photos and messages on social media from kids who went through Kindergarten to fourth or fifth grade while he was there.  Those “kids” now have kids of their own and maybe even grandchildren.

I guess I got a chance to experience a little of what my dad was blessed with for so many years.

The photo above is courtesy of Kids Under Construction Preschool at the Sterling United Methodist Church.

 

My dad and I celebrating this year’s Derby Day
Marilyne and Sid
Sir Sidney (aka Jonas)