Opposing Views

The little redhead in Dallas has issued a type of moratorium.

Now, in my day – meaning when I was younger – three-year olds had limited opinions and generally those were dealt with by “why not?” and “but Katy has one!” The Little One in Dallas is more defiant and has obviously watched the smileless Mitch enough to understand the power of the ultimatum.

Her “dander” has been piqued by the big round guy in the red suit. You know, the jolly one! The purveyor of “Ho, Ho, Ho!”

She has announced that Santa Claus cannot bring her gifts on Christmas Eve.

She has further insisted that he never be allowed into her house. Before you think that she is “looking a gift horse in the mouth,” we need a clarification. She wants gifts – every three-year old does – but they may only be delivered by Mrs. Claus. No strange man in the company of reindeer is welcome! She is not interested in discussing any compromise.

When she accompanied her mom to the grocery store, she insisted on a promise that the chocolate milk in the cart would not be for the bearded guy with the twinkle in his eye. Yes, it is alright for Mrs. Claus to have any amount she wants.

It sounds a bit like Washington, D. C., don’t you think?

Today’s news indicates that the Senate – despite Mr. Kyl – is close to ratifying the START treaty with Russia. I am amazed that it may happen. I am really amazed that DADT was approved. I am also amazed that Mitch has tear ducts, but that is another story for another day.

So, is there a new spirit around the district? Or is it the calm before the storm that is looming when the newly elected team arrives to bring “sanity” to our “liberal bent?”

I was stopped at an intersection on a major street in Skokie, a suburb north of Chicago, yesterday afternoon. I noticed there was a gentleman moving from car to car with what I thought to be a container to receive donations for some worthy cause. However, when he turned towards me, I realized that emblazoned across his front was a large, “IMPEACH OBAMA!”

Needless to say, I was taken aback.

So I began to watch the dynamic. He went up to several cars that had their windows lowered. I assumed they were friendly to his protest and that I had found myself in very unfriendly territory. But, to my relief, not one person accepted the printed material that the man offered. One driver shook his finger with obvious vehemence. (It was like sign language since I could not hear the exchange.)

I was waiting for the man to come my way. I wanted to engage in some form of reasoning. However, the turn light flashed a green arrow and I was forced to move along.

It got me to thinking about all the disgruntled people who have issues with an obviously well-educated, articulate, and compassionate leader. I got to thinking about the number of times the Grizzly Mama has derided him for being a “Community Organizer.” This coming from someone who didn’t even complete a commitment she made to her electorate once she discovered “Paree!” And there are the “Birthers” who cannot get beyond the legitimacy of his origins. There are Glenn and Rush who believe him to be the most ultra-liberal soul to ever walk the planet.

That line of thought, of course, leads to the extreme lack of cooperation between the political factions – old and new - of our country. Is there a way to find reason in such opposites?

I really think someone should organize a Flash Mob for the next big Tea Party rally. Maybe stage a dance routine using the “Rabbit Song” from “Alice in Wonderland.” You know:

“I’m late, I’m late for a very important date. No time to say, “hello; goodbye” I lose the time, I say. I run and then I hop, hop, hop! I wish that I could fly. There’s danger if I dare to stop and here’s the reason why: you see, I’m overdue, I’m in a rabbit stew…………

Now you must imagine 3,000 flash mobbers doing a slick routine – or maybe the Macarena, which isn’t. It would throw those angry “partiers” into riotous confusion. The flashmob of “Do, Re, Mi” in the Antwerp train station certainly got smiles out of the sedate onlookers.

Or maybe all the Democrats in Congress should stage a flashmob and just disappear for 24 hours. The conservatives would believe it was the “second coming” and they were left behind and not those “godless, socialist, blue-state liberals” they had expected would be.

Can you imagine the chaos and confusion at the Prayer House on C-Street?

While the Democrats are missing, we should get someone with a booming voice like a James Earl Jones and hide them somewhere on the mall with a bullhorn turned to max output.

“I AM NOT HAPPY!”

The fear of God has been known to wreak major changes! This would certainly be more environmentally friendly than a locust plague. Less messy than a flood.

A compassionate caring legislative branch would be such a great concept. Imagine a group of people who are not interested in being re-elected, but instead desire to make a positive change in the well-being of the citizens they have been honored to serve.

Yes, the old coot is a dreamer.

So here we are, headed into our most beautiful holiday of the year. There are twinkling lights everywhere and you hear a lot of warm wishes being expressed between people who rarely speak. Some of this warmth is, of course, aided by the fuzziness from a bottle of vermouth or brandy. Some is genuinely heartfelt.

But the former is ok. There is nothing wrong with civility for even a couple of hours. There is always the hope that when the buzz wears away, the civility can stay and become the genuine variety.

Since we are on the subject of Christmas “spirits,” the two little ones in Dallas have been in a rather heated exchange about holiday drinks.

The oldest insists that Santa Claus does not drink eggnog but drinks chocolate milk. The redhead – the younger one – insists he does not drink chocolate milk, even when relegated outside her home. He drinks eggnog!

Santa may wind up with water. Afterall, it is zero calories and non-allergenic.

An Elusive Spirit

Scenes from "A Christmas Memory" starring Geraldine Page and Donnie Melvin.
Based upon the short story by Truman Capote

I am beginning to feel the spirit.

I finished a presentation of “Messiah” of Handel last week and now I am enjoying the smell of scented candles and debating the pros and cons of “real vs. fake” holiday trees. The Senate has even given the country some good legislation with the help of some Republicans who have the spirit. John Boehner keeps crying and now it seems that Mitch is joining in as well. Is this a new tradition?

We don’t need Tevye to convince us of the value of tradition.

In my “elder” state, I find myself more and more passionate about making certain that traditions are remembered, maintained, and in some instances reborn. Especially those family customs around the warm and fuzzy celebrations like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

So, I am doing a lot of remembering.

My father was a shaker. No, not of the religious sect. I think he loved his Browning “Sweet 16” with the gold trigger too much for that. No, he was a package shaker. Each day, from the first appearance of brightly-wrapped, ribboned gifts under our Christmas tree, he would investigate each package. He would pick them up, examine the name tag, pausing at each and then shake them – his ear close to the side of the parcel to see if he could elicit information from the resulting sounds. It didn’t matter that he had done this same act the day before and no new parcels had been added. He was hopeful that perhaps a better clue would emerge if he shook it again. Sometimes he imagined he heard something informative, because you would see a wry smile appear.

Around December 20^th, a new tactic surfaced.

As our family sat around the breakfast table – by this time, school was on Christmas break, so there was no early morning rush to hamper the gathering of us all – he would get a gleam in his eye and say, “Don’t you think it would be ok if we opened just one present today?”

Mom would resist.

“Just one, maybe a small one?”

Of course, my sister and I would agree with him. We were also shakers.

After serious cajoling, Mom would reluctantly agree with the provision that she would select which package it was to be. Her choices would usually produce socks and underwear. The exciting stuff!

I don’t have any memories of particular treasures from these pre-emptive strikes. I do remember that by Christmas Eve, when we traditionally opened the gifts, there were sparse offerings since there had been a five-day assault on the booty.

Once this seemed to be an ongoing problem, gifts would appear under the tree without any name tags. This was a disaster since people forgot which belonged to whom and Dad wound up with a new cap pistol and I got a pipe. In later years, presents seemed to appear later and later in the season. It was the “out of sight, out of mind” defense.

I remember the tradition of my mother’s baking holiday treats.

There was always hot chocolate each morning during Christmas vacation. We had it in January and February too, but I remember it most at Christmas. It may have to do with the fact that there was a ritual of leaving a cup of hot chocolate and a specially selected Christmas cookie for Santa Claus. My sister would also leave a note for Santa which, in the years after I was a “non-believer” I had the job of answering.

She would dictate the note to one of the parents, later on she would write it herself. Those she produced alone contained endless questions which a large man in a red suit had scant time to deal with. “How do you keep from tracking soot in our living room?” “Where do you use the bathroom?”

On Christmas Day, she seemed more interested in his answers than in what he brought. So answers had to be provided.

It seemed that my penmanship was closer akin to a tired old man who had struggled down the chimney. Seeking authenticity, I even would rub lead from the pencil on my hands so that my fingertips appeared to leave soot on the hastily composed reply. I think that I told her that I always used the bathroom before I left the North Pole. The bonus for all this intrigue was I also got the cup of chocolate milk and the cookie.

Now, a word of warning.

If you have a tradition of opening your gifts on Christmas Eve – which we did, and Santa no longer calls on the household because there are no “believers” left to anticipate rooftop reindeer in the middle of the night – which happened around the time my sister was eleven, then Christmas Day can be a real let down.

My three-year old in Texas - the redhead - has let it be known that Santa Claus is not welcome inside her house. Mrs. Claus, yes, but the old guy - a very explicit, emphatic "NO!" She offers no reason behind her banishment. But, keep in mind, she rarely offers reasons for most things she decides - including her preference for "raw" oatmeal rather than cooked. Her current disfavor of Mr. Claus means there will be no photo sitting on his lap.

I wonder if this means I may have to shave my beard?

My favorite aunt, the wife of my father's oldest brother, had the tradition of always sending cards belatedly. She did this on purpose and the card always attested to the fact that it was late. We grew to expect it. She never forgot a birthday or Christmas, but she always came in after the fact.

My paternal grandfather was also a "traditionalist."

This was a man who was fairly well-off. He owned major farmland, had a logging business, owned vast amounts of cattle, and produced large quantities of cotton each year. Yet, each Christmas I received the same gift. He would send $2.00 to be distributed between my father, my mother, my sister and me. I will say that when I married, he upped the ante to $3.00 to be shared by the happy couple. It amounted to a 300% escalation.

My sister, the “note writer,” would always send our grandfather a thank you letter. The last line of which usually said, “I put my money into my savings, Joe spent his.”

Sometimes, you just can’t win.

Alabama was a difficult state for those who enjoyed the tradition of finding their joy in a bottle of Christmas cheer. Remember, there are a lot of Baptists in Alabama. In order to have beer, wine, or the stronger stuff, it had to be purchased at the “State Store” in Birmingham. Now, my father was not a connoisseur of fine wine. On the contrary, he preferred his on the kosher side. So each Christmas, a bottle of Manischewitz or Mogan David would appear in the back of the pantry. Along with that purchase, my mom would order a bottle of stronger spirits to be used to “season” her annual batch of fruitcakes. Sometimes there was more “seasoning” than others which mean a second trip to the State Store.

There is a wonderful little folk-song, I think called “The Song of The Salvation Army.” I know of only two verses:

We never eat cookies because they have yeast
And one little bite turns a man to a beast.
Oh, can you imagine a sadder disgrace,
Than a man in the gutter with crumbs on his face?

We never eat fruitcake because it has rum,
And one little bite turns a man to a bum!
Oh, can you imagine a sorrier sight
Than a man eating fruitcake until he gets tight?

The Missionary Circle at the Baptist Church had to lay down some strict
bylaws around the holidays because Mabel Walker’s famous “Lane Cake”
seemed to have a bit too much “lane.”  Seasoned with brandy, Mabel was
generous to a fault with her portions.  It was becoming difficult to
concentrate on the children in China!

Christmas cakes always remind me of the wonderful film based upon “A
Christmas Memory” by Truman Capote.  

Narrated by Capote, himself, it was made by Frank Perry and starred
Geraldine Page.  The story is autobiographical and looks at a time in
Capote’s childhood when he lived with relatives in Monroeville, Alabama.  
This, of course, is also the same timeline found in Harper Lee's "To Kill A
Mockingbird." Geraldine Page plays his cousin, his best friend and the
buffer between him and stern aunts.  

One crisp Alabama morning, the cousin awakens “Buddy” to announce
excitedly, “It’s fruitcake weather.”  It is time to prepare their annual
batch of cakes to be mailed to people they know or have merely heard
of.  President Roosevelt will be sent one. Pennies that they have saved
must be counted so that ingredients may be purchased. This means
they must gather pecans in a neighboring grove and face the fearsome
“Mr. Ha Ha Jones” to purchase the whiskey to cure the cakes.  Beyond
the kitchen door, the others are unsympathetic to their excitement.  

The film is a beautiful look at friendship and care.  There is a newer
version which stars Patty Duke.  Sorry, she cannot hold a candle to
Geraldine Page who cornered the market on askew southern women.

I saw Page in a Broadway revival of Noel Coward’s Blithe Spirit just
weeks before her death. She played the physic medium Madame Arcati.
Richard Chamberlain, Blythe Danner, and Judith Ivey rounded out the
cast. 

For me, a tradition is to watch “A Christmas Memory” at some point
during the holidays.  For others, there is the Frank Capra route.

When I married, I encountered a new set of traditions.  These had to be
considered and carefully merged into those of my past.  Now, my children,
both married with kids – “The Little People” – are beginning their own.

I have given Advent Calendars to both families – those in Texas and
those in Florida.  It is a wish on my part to make the road to Christmas
about the important values rather than those touted by Neiman’s and
Nordstrom. The calendar has 24 numbered books of about 4 pages. 
Starting the first day of December, a book is read each day until the
Eve when the Christchild arrives.  

The calendar seems to be a hit.  My grandson has been telling me about
the “Land of Judy.”  (Judea?)  However, he insists that the angels are
“tooth fairies.”

I journey down to Alabama and onto Florida next week.  I will spend
some time at my home and then go on to visit with my son and his family
in Florida. I am taking with me a DVD of Capote’s “A Christmas Memory”
in the hope that I can pass along a tradition.

Maybe I should order a Claxton.

Letting The Cat Out Of The Bag

Chicago is cold. Rip-roaring cold and it is very early in the season of frigid air, so this doesn’t bode well at all for January or February. Even Alabama and Florida, where I associate adjectives like mild and sultry to the temperature, is experiencing a strong northern draft.

I find myself thinking of Erika’s aria, “Must the winter come so soon?” from the Barber-Menotti opera, “Vanessa.” I am just not ready for this cold, this early.

Driving down Lake Shore Drive into the city, I looked out onto Lake Michigan and there was a cold mist rising from the waters. I remembered this drive only days ago, it seems, when I was in shirt-sleeves and shorts headed down to the harbor to take the sailboat out for a day of warm, even hot, relaxation.

“Must the winter come so soon?”

Years ago, in the days before air-conditioned environments – commercial and residential – fans, both electrical and human-powered, were important fixtures everywhere in the hot summers of Alabama where I grew up. Funeral “homes” even capitalized on the heat by giving away cardboard squares with a wooden handle attached to provide some movement of air when sitting in the stuffy confines of the Baptist church in late July. Generally these “fans” had an image of “Christ knocking at the door” on one side and a description of the services offered by the local mortician on the other.

I don’t recall ceiling fans outside commercial situations. Now, of course, every room you enter in a residence has a “decorator” fan whirling away. Most seem to have been designed by Miss Ruby, the madam at a “Nevada Social Club.” (Yes, you should read between the lines since I am not going any further down that road.)

Before we had a fan that was permanently fixed in a window to pull the cooler summer evening air into our home along with the thickly sweet, wonderful smell of gardenias planted around the yard, we had a small, table-top, oscillating fan – maybe an Emerson if my memory serves me correctly.

At some point, the fan had been loaned to a neighbor who had an ill family member and thus needed the limited comfort of the Emerson while they convalesced. The individual survived their malady and soon appeared in public. They even turned up at the Ice Cream Social sponsored by the Missionary Women at the church.

But the fan did not reappear to stir the air at our home.

It was a particularly hot summer and my parents commented about this more than once – the errant Emerson as well as the incessant heat. The two subjects were bonded with perspiration.

One day, out of the blue, the fan was returned.

I was the one who answered the door and received the valued prize.

“My parents were wondering if you were ever going to bring this back.” Of course, I spoke the truth. They had said that many times during the lingering summer heat. The cat was out of the bag!

Being new to diplomacy – I was only seven – I didn’t know the difference between private and public information. It was probably around the same time when I answered the door by saying, “Mom said to tell you she wasn’t at home.”

I was forbidden to answer the door after that. They said something about safety and strangers, but I think that it was for a different reason.

Sixty years later, my purple-haired mother had an adverse reaction to the anesthesia administered for a knee replacement surgery and became very unwieldy during her hospitalization. Her “rantings” were totally candid and lacked any editorial consideration of the persons subjected to hearing them.

On one afternoon when she was particularly talkative, it happened that a relative was paying a visit to her bedside. My sister was there as well.

Much to my sister’s horror, mother launched into a long discussion about the visitor sitting opposite. For the entire visit, the relative was forced to listen to an ongoing account of why she was unappreciated, unwanted, and disliked by my mother. It was obvious that mom had no idea to whom she was speaking. It was if she had been injected with a truth serum. She was on a roll.

It is important that you know something about my mom. She was the sole of discretion.

Late one night, suffering from a bout with a serious chest cold, she phoned my daughter hundreds of miles away. "Honey, you must promise me something and you can never let anyone know this. If I die, you must promise me to get here as quickly as possible and remove the empty bottle of scotch in the bottom of my trash bin in the kitchen. I have been sipping liquor to help my cold and I don't want that to be discovered by anyone." A very private woman with a strict sense of what is proper. And a concern for image!

But back to the incident at the hospital.

I had visited mom a couple of weeks earlier and she spoke of me, thankfully in gracious terms, without ever being aware that she was speaking to me.

But now she was smoking with diatribes.

Fortunately, our relative had the good grace to take the medication into consideration. She could have been totally incensed, but she was forgiving. Mother’s tactless railings were never mentioned. Diplomacy reigned.

But diplomacy is a very difficult thing to manage. It must be carefully pursued. It is an art which requires delft strokes. Nuance!

Richard Holbrooke was a master. He traveled those avenues with ease.

He was also the epitome of one dedicated to a cause far beyond himself. He set a benchmark for public service. He died this week and we are worse for it.

I have not read all the accounts of the Wikileaks release of private correspondence of our State Department. I feel certain the some probably bore the thoughts of Holbrooke – especially his assessments of Hamid Karzai.

He might even have mused, as I have, about whether the sleeves of the coat that Karzai always drapes on his shoulder might be sewn closed. Did someone forget to snip the basting by the tailor? Such strange posturing by Hamid.

Curiously, it is reported that one of the most explosive encounters between the Holbrooke and Karzai occurred following the recent elections in Afghanistan.

It brought to mind another election in this country. Think Florida and hanging chads.

It was probably the Supreme Court that kept Holbrooke from the big desk in the corner office and the chosen seat in the Cabinet Room. For had the votes in Florida been recounted, President Gore would have most certainly named him as Secretary of State.

This, of course, was not to happen. Holbrooke has been gracious with his “under-Secretary” role and performed tirelessly up to the end. It is reported that his final words spoken to a physician of Pakistani decent had to do with ending the elusive situation in Afghanistan.

Recently, the Little People were with their mother on a shopping trip. The older of the two – my grandson – spied a man in the shop who wore an eye patch.

Failing in his understanding of private and public thoughts – of diplomacy, he shouted and pointed, “Look, there’s a pirate!”

I wonder if Holbrooke ever pointed and shouted that at Karzai.

Bursting Into Song

My middle grandchild – the almost three-year-old redhead in Texas – has really taken to singing. She now has music classes at her pre-school and her times with Miss April are among her favorites. While some of her notes are uncertain, there can be no fault found with the level of enthusiasm. At the moment, her favorite tune is, “Shabat Shalom.”

No, we are not Jewish – not that that would be a problem. We love singing in any form.

Actually, I plan on teaching her the “Dreidel Song” when I am in Dallas for Thanksgiving. So, with her penchant for wearing crowns, hats, and other stuff on her head, she may soon appear in a yarmulke. We may also try, “This old man, he played one…..” but I am a bit sensitive about the “old man” part.

Both she and her older brother – the four-year old – have inquisitive spirits and think nothing of asking very probing questions, regardless of being within earshot of those being “probed.” “Are you an old man, Granddaddy?” “What is ‘paddy-wack’?”

My daughter and her brood were recently in the produce section at Whole Foods when my grandson spied a young Orthodox lad with curled peyos – the uncut sideburns. He had raised his finger to point and was in the midst of opening his mouth to voice a detailed question about the haircut so very different from his when his mother whisked him away from the kumquats and dashed two aisles over to the distraction of cereals.

The sudden shift in locale didn’t quell his curiosity about the young lad’s hair, but at least the devout adherent to the teachings of Leviticus was not privy to the discussion.

Intellectual inquisitiveness must never be quelled.

Nor should the desire to sing!

The Free Church of Scotland has decided to do so – to sing!

In a plenary session of the church, the first such gathering since 1843, a vote to allow both singing and instruments in worship narrowly passed. So, while they are embracing the raising of the voice in song and the sounding of the timbrel and organ, and maybe a stray guitar or two, there is not a ground swell of enthusiasm among the church hierarchy. To be accurate, the church was not totally void of music – the Psalms were sung. But despite being “Free,” there was no freedom to break out into “Gimme That Ol’ Time Religion.” We are talking John Knox here. I recall seeing him always clad in black. A very severe guy.

There are those in the Free Church who worry that this new move toward melody might cause a split. "Disharmony, if you will." Actually, the Free Church was formed from a split away from The Church of Scotland in 1843 over the right of a congregation to turn down the choice of a minister by the “patron” of the church – usually the local laird. I suppose if the split happens over the singing, the result will be the “Really Free Church of Scotland.”

It is amazing what will divide a congregation of “believers.”

I remember one country church in Alabama that became wrangled about the placement of the piano. Some felt it should be on the right side of the cramped worship space and others felt it should be on the left. At this time they were in total agreement over the notion that Maylene Hightower should not direct the choir since she was divorced. While it was Mr. Hightower that was caught “in flagrante dilecto” with his secretary, Maylene’s presence in front of the choir was an ever present reminder of the town’s worst scandal in years, and that just was too much.

The position of the piano had nothing to do with the architectural purity of the sanctuary – it was a very plain space. It was more about the compromised hearing of two elder worshipers. One heard better on the left side, and the other on the right. And they sat on opposite sides of the center aisle.

There was a large Baptist church down south that had major disagreements over the building of a new house of worship. The minister, feeling very full of righteous zeal, pushed for an “auditorium” that would seat 2,000 souls. The Deacons felt that was too ambitious. Eventually, the preacher won – he got his large space, but lost half his congregation. Three-hundred folks can seem such a trifle in a space that seats two-thousand. He was so obsessed with maintaining the pristine beauty of his new temple that he insisted all doors into the space have locks. You must always keep out the wrong types.

This same church organized a petition to keep a homeless shelter from being built nearby. It was not good for property values and poor people would be wandering about. "Oh, how I love Jesus."

Once, a guest evangelist, one of those “Miami-preacher types” with the pastel colored suits that reminded you of “Saturday Night Fever,” entered the pulpit area after having made his way through the soprano section of the choir – stepping on hymnbooks and toes. The door onto the preaching rostrum was locked. His was not a look of contentment.

When he stood to speak, still smarting from his ordeal, he said, “Praise Jesus! He is coming again someday. Christ is coming in all his glory. But I wonder if he has a key to this place?”

There was a very subdued altar call that night. Jesus seemed to be calling softer and more tenderly than usual.

So whether the Free Church of Scotland can handle “How Great Thou Art” remains to be seen.

Meanwhile, the redhead in Texas has added “Jesus Loves Me” to her repertoire.

An Interesting Anniversary

November 14 marked the one-year anniversary of FOMS blogging by this elder ranter. I was amazed to realize that there were 50 entries in the span of the year, 51 total to date. Almost one entry per week.

This is number 52.

Why?

What has it all meant?

The blog began as a test for another project. Many of my friends are aware of my interests in social outreach in Eastern Europe - specifically, work with the Roma children in Romania. In discussing with those of like mind on how to get people excited with the programs in place, I was advised to write a blog about the work.

What is a blog? (While I had heard the term, I had no idea of its meaning.)

You know, a lot has changed in the language since Miss Eula’s typing class back in the dark ages. At that point, we had just moved beyond the stone tablet and chisel and adopted Smith-Corona into our language. This is years before Al Gore invented the internet.

The blog was explained and FOMS soon became a “test run” for the website that dealt with the work in Romania.

A year later and this blog has become a regular part of my life. I continue to test the concept. It is something I enjoy on most days. I say this because there has been some guilt when the muse is elusive. Especially so when one of your followers sends a message to “get off your duff and write!”

Guilt comes easy to me. It is a Baptist and a Mom thing!

There are many unfinished entries languishing on my hard drive. Some faltered because of waning interest. Others due to finding the right language to properly treat the theme. And yes, there was some indolence at play from time to time.

So what provides the fodder? What prompts the outpouring of verbiage?

Some days it is just waking up to life. Remember, I am old, ugly, and live alone!

Sometimes a look in the mirror can send you rushing to Microsoft Word.

Often it is the morning news.

There is the ongoing disappointment and frustration with our nation’s political life. As recently as yesterday when Senator Kyl announced his wish to delay consideration of the nuclear arms treaty with Russia is an apt example. Senator, are you just really dumb? Does your wish to see President Obama fail outweigh any sensibility?

Obviously so! (To both!)

The whole mid-term election process put me in a sorry state. But I did get laughs regularly from Sarah P - an accident waiting to happen. The girl just can’t help it! She really believes she is “presidential.” I imagine she sees Bristol teaching ballroom dancing in the East Room becoming a cottage industry, “gosh darn it.” And if Washington is hit by another major snowstorm, First Dude can just do the “Iditarod Thing” and fetch milk. An “unreal” show at 1600 PA.

There is always the chance that Oprah will donate something with her name attached in all caps. My prayers for her to discover anonymous altruism are ongoing.

And there is always my family to reflect upon.

Ah family! We’ve all got them!

Memories of my parents have been important to blogging. Anytime someone’s response to “where did I come from” is, “we found you in a hollow log,” you have lots of unaddressed angst upon which to ponder. And yes, I am still working through it.

There is the whole “being born in Mississippi thing” as well. You couple that with the discovery that your best childhood playmate, George, was paid by the hour to be there. Miss Scarlett, let’s just think about that tomorrow, ok?

Stuff in Alabama is always good for a musing. There is much to consider about life among the kudzu. You don’t grow up among circling buzzards without some foreboding.

Blogging as therapy? The jury is still out.

Chicago, especially the traffic, is always tugging to be talked about. So look out, it will happen again. Along with that will be city manners. On some days in the Windy City they are contradictory terms.

Sailing stories will invariably creep in. There is a lot of wisdom to be gained on a sailboat. Some from good company, a lot from dealing with nature. Mariners refer to a “safe harbor” for a reason.

But what has been the most satisfying about blogging?

The joy of writing about the Little Ones – my grandchildren.

I find myself living vicariously through them and yes; I am having the time of my life. My only worry is about living long enough to snatch the three from their parents and take them on a journey to foreign lands. Ten or so more years should do it. Back to rehab on Friday!

It is amazing how many axioms for living spill from such tiny people.

On Halloween, the oldest – the four-year old in Dallas – dressed as Superman for “trick or treating.” The costume was lined with “foam muscles” to give the look of the Man of Steel. When my grandson would try to relax in a chair, the foam would bunch up around his neck causing great discomfort – almost choking him.

“Granddaddy, you can’t sit down when you are Superman!”

Out of the mouths of babes!

Happy Anniversary to us all! Anyone up for “podcasting?”

Kicking The Tires

My son-in-law in Dallas may have a case of shingles. We are holding our breath. If so, my deepest regrets and heart-felt consolation. Bad days lie ahead.

To begin with, I don’t know what cavalier individual gave this ailment its name. “Shingles” denotes something mild, almost benign. Certainly nothing worthy of considering self-immolation. Those who have been the recipient of the news, “you have shingles” can attest that the word of enlightenment arrived while they were in the greatest pain and discomfort they had ever experienced. A level of bodily rebellion that the word “shingles” did not begin to comprehend or in any manner cover as a designation.

This ailment deserves at least four syllables and perhaps a couple of umlauts.

Omnicusonerviosis comes to mind.

While it is made up, “shingles” sounds even moreso. Think about it, you know that “whooping cough” is a pretty violent bodily reaction by the name. Even the dictionary uses "convulsive spasmodic" to identify the severity of the infection. Shingles? I think not! (Anything rhyming with “jingles” can’t be bad.)

When the name was first used in Medieval Europe, you would think that with all that they had at their disposal, what with the plagues and all the pillaging a more apt, descriptive word for the infection could have evolved. But, it was the “Dark Ages” and perhaps the scribe was running low on paraffin.

Shingles horribilis would have been a step closer.

This leads me to thinking about the number of mislabels that hound our lives.

The first that comes to mind, of course, is the Tea Party, the name given to that rabid conservative political group. I feel certain that the woman who had the foot of a burly male crushed against her head as she was pushed down to the pavement had never been to a party or afternoon tea where that was acceptable behavior. Not even the Mad Hatter behaved so poorly.

Of course, I am aware that the group is attempting to draw a significance from the events in the Boston Harbor many years ago, but I find the mission of the former far more profound than the antics of the latter.

While Sarah P is in herself, a mislabel, she called on the Muslim community to “refudiate” the mosque planned for New York.

This leads me to “negativity.” I should probably get over it, but it “drives me crazy.”

Speaking of driving, why does an airplane “taxi?”

My father had a habit of combining “flustered” with “frustrated” in a type of Archie Bunkerism that came out, “flusterated.” (We “humored” him.)

There is no more laid-back dish than one of black-eyed peas and rice, but it is called, “Hoppin’ John.”

I am skeptical of a bakery that advertises “homemade” cakes and pies.

“Garage Sale” is another misnomer. The garage is definitely not included in the offering. Nor is the lawn in a “yard sale.”

“Don’t walk” has no meaning to teenagers and people about to miss the bus. A "red light" in Chicago has no meaning to the first three cars behind the white line when it occurs.

Doesn’t editing a reality show negate the concept?

My son, at a very young age, always used “outsecure” when he meant “insecure.” I think his take on the situation was much more perceptive.

On the other side of the coin are the words that just fit the bill.

A perfect word is caravanserai or caravansary. It speaks of the situation and sounds exotic.

Of course, depending on your budget, you might use Motel 6.

“Divinity” that sweet concoction of egg whites, sugar, and pecans that appeared magically each Christmas in my childhood is aptly named.

I suppose that type of “hitting the nail on the head” was what my father had in mind when he called sexual intimacy, “shaky pudding.”

But I digress.

On the same day that my son-in-law was troubled with symptoms of shingles, he also lost the cap on a tooth. My daughter remarked, “Maybe I should have kicked the tires before I bought the car.”

There was an old guy back in Alabama who always, when shopping for a new automobile, would kick the tires and remark, “Good tires, and ‘durn’ good rubber.”

Reduntantly appropriate?

A Battle Of Adjectives

PHOTO: Associated Press

The little people in Dallas – my two older grandchildren – generally begin their seven-minute trip to pre-school with a comment on the day.

The younger – the redhead – will usually remark, “Mommy, it is a beautiful day!”

“Yes sweetheart, it is indeed a beautiful day!”

Her brother – only 15 months older – rejoins, “Mom, it is a handsome day!”

“Yes sir! It is a handsome day!”

“It is a beautiful day!”

“No, it is a handsome day!”

“A beautiful day!”

“A handsome day!”

This battle of adjectives continues without resolution until they arrive to the distraction of another day at pre-school.

There is today. It is a sad day with the news of the death of Joan Sutherland, the renowned soprano.

When it comes to descriptive terms and Dame Joan, the only adjectives that could be argued would be those associated with any which disparage her ability, her achievements, and her good natured decency in a world famous for histrionics. As Brian Kellow would state in the article on her death in OPERA NEWS, “Sutherland ……was a model of consistency.”

There is just nothing bad to say about Dame Joan.

I first encountered the remarkable voice at a spaghetti feast in the home of my vocal coach sometime in 1962. A recording had just become available. We listened in absolute awe. The resulting comments of that evening centered around the general theme, “I cannot not believe this amazing instrument.”

It was unbelievable. After her debut at La Scala, the normally overly critical Italian press dubbed her, “La Stupenda!”

I last saw her on stage in a production of Donizetti’s Anna Bolena at Lyric Opera in Chicago in the mid-eighties. It was still unbelievable.

In contrast to the antics of Maria Callas, who had reintroduced the “bel canto” (beautiful song) to the opera world, Sutherland was sane and sensible. She never failed to live up to her audience’s vocal expectations. This “presbyterian” approach paid off in a long and celebrated career.

The career was void of controversy. There were no firings, no process servers meeting airplanes, no trysts on yachts off Greece, and no t-shirts sported by any casts which read, “I SURVIVED THE BATTLE.” Did you get that, Kathleen?

However, for this gifted singer, it was not a direct path to glory.

Sutherland, owing to her physical stature and on the advice of early voice teachers, felt that she would have a career in the ponderous melodies of Wagner. She admitted to seeing herself as a Kirsten Flagstad. I cannot imagine Dame Joan’s expansive chin strapped into a horned helmet. The glare from the breastplate would have been problematic, as well.

But thanks to the perceptiveness of Richard Bonynge, her vocal coach and accompanist at the Royal Academy in London, she was guided toward the upper register and toward the elaborate melodies of the bel canto composers. Bonynge, who would become her husband and favored conductor, taught her the intricate ornamentation required of this genre. Her trills were legendary. If you can listen to only one example of Joan Sutherland, I would recommend the 1964 recording of Bellini’s Norma. The “Casta Diva” is beyond belief.

The story goes that before the transformation to a coloratura had been completed, Sutherland stopped by the Metropolitan Opera in NYC in 1957 on her way from Vancouver to London. She auditioned and was accepted as a “stable soprano.” In any opera, there are many roles filled out by the “resident” singers of the company. The stars – big names – are the ticket sellers; the stable singers provide the backbone. She was offered $1,500 a week at that point. She declined the offer and when she returned triumphantly in 1961 as Lucia, she was paid almost 10 times that each time she walked on stage. Thank you Mr. Bonynge!

Sutherland’s voice had one peculiarity – well, actually two. Her diction, even when singing in English, was problematic. She did nothing to hamper the purity of her tone, so often you could not understand her words. She also used a “high tongue” position which did not impact her, but did do havoc for any number of singers who thought they could get away with it. Only Joan!!

Since Bonynge was often her vocal coach and critic, the two of them worked out a system where the voice was a "third" entity in the marriage. The voice could be discussed without it being personal. "Didn't you feel the voice was a bit under pitch today?" That can really ruin most marriages.

Sutherland was very conscious of her weight and stature on stage. As a result, she insisted on bringing her own costumes for opera productions in which she was appearing. While there were some concessions to the wishes of the production, the design and line of each of her outfits was styled to play down her width. Often, there was a lighter color material down the middle of the dress, with darker panels to the side. “Hey, look at me, I’m slim!”

But nobody cared. That voice did it for the world.

It was said that during rehearsal breaks she could be found backstage knitting for her grandchildren. She was unassuming, a regular person with the greatest voice of the century.

She was beautiful!

She was handsome!

She was both, and more!

In December, I will pull out “The Joy Of Christmas” and fill the house with the sounds of Joan. I will not understand many of the words, but that will not bother me in the least. It is about the voice!

Thank you Joan Sutherland.

It Is What It Is

Olivia is going to Venice. Italy is nice in October.

I have been to Venice. I have not met Olivia, but I understand that she is a pig. That is not a derogatory statement; she is literally porcine. My grandchildren know her well through the various books that chronicle her life. The youngest one in Florida attended a party this past weekend to launch the latest book in which Olivia travels to the city of canals.

As she was getting dressed the little one kept mentioning they were heading to a pet store. Her dad corrected her, “We are going to a book store!”

“We are going to a pet store,” she insisted.

“We are going to a book store.”

This continued all the way into the Olivia event at the local Border’s.

The little one is headstrong.

Perhaps she gets it from her grandfather. I am headstrong, but I prefer to cloak it in terms of passion. One of the many things about which I feel great passion is my church – one of the quirkiest places you will ever encounter, but also one of the most remarkable.

While the building itself is a fair example of the “arts and crafts” design of the 1930s, it is not an architectural treasure. I think of it as much like Warren Buffet’s house out in Omaha: What you see on the surface does not give you any idea about who dwells inside.

In my “physical” church there is dust on the windowsills. There is no air-conditioning in the hot summers of Chicago. The quality of the stained glass windows is uneven. The Sunday bulletin may even have typos that inadvertently have us “Praise God for our heavenly hots.” (That shocked the more menopausal of the congregation.)

The “fellowship hall” is encumbered with tables that prevent true fellowship because there is no custodian to put them away before Sunday and then put them back in place for a “welcome meal” that feeds those in need each Wednesday night. The same tables hold the notes of the mission group that wrestles with plans for the projects they are impacting the futures of those in need a half-a-world away.

The storage closets may be full of useless debris, but the people that often leave them ajar so that visitors peer in and make incorrect assumptions have a heart for social justice that runs deep and strong.

It truly is a very special place. A place with a heart of love.

However, my church is again in the throes of searching for a new minister.

We recently lost our pastor who, after a two-year stint, failed to connect with the congregation. He came to us from 23 years in the northern reaches of the USA – a small town of only 300 or so inhabitants. At the time of his arrival, our congregation, on Easter, would represent 2/3 of that village and in further contrast we are located in an area of seven million people.

It would have been culture shock for anyone – a difficult transition.

It proved to be overwhelming true for him since he perceived our congregation as merely a social group. He indicated he didn’t enjoy “smoozing.” Since he was unable to relate to his flock, there was never a connection between them and their “shepherd.” Worship services were void of the passion that his congregants needed to be prepared for life in such a world as ours.

Life at church became a routine of weekly occurrences; events seemingly unrelated to reality. Sparsely populated bland encounters for the most part.

One Sunday, as I left church, I overheard a member say – applying the great quote that Dorothy Parker said of Katharine Hepburn in the play, The Lake – “that worship service ran the gamut of emotion from A to B.”

His disconnect set in action a malaise within the congregation that finally resulted in agreeing to disagree. So now we look again for a leader.

WANTED: Intelligent, articulate minister with a vision. Requirements: a passion for faith, hope, and charity and an infectious zeal to share this freely with others. A people person!

Is anyone there?

When I think of great possibilities for us, I am drawn to the teachings of one of the great “revivalists” of our age, the English preacher Leonard Ravenhill. He is, of course, long gone. While Mr. Ravenhill was a profound teacher on the subject of prayer, he was also one who chastised our laidback approach to our faith. In attempting to illustrate our lack of enthusiasm for our beliefs, he once remarked, “you should never argue with a man who has had an experience.” If you were certain that you talked with an extra-terrestrial on your way to the office today, it would be foolish of me to try to change your mind.

Think about that. What you experience, you believe!

The oldest of the little ones, the four-year old in Texas, is now having weekly forays into the Christian faith. In chapel at his pre-school, the minister does a series “The ABC’s of Church.” For the letter “A,” he chose to talk about angels. For his visual, he showed the children a painting depicting a traditional angel with wings.

“That is not an angel, that is the tooth fairy,” my grandson interjected.

Never argue with one who has had an experience!

Recently I discovered David Platt, a young minister in a large Baptist church in Alabama. The discovery was thanks to David Brook’s column, “The Gospel Of Wealth,” which appeared in the New York Times, September 10, 2010.

While I am miles apart from Platt’s fundamentalist theology, I am impressed with his zeal – his passion – for his beliefs. His book, “Radical: Taking Back Your Faith From The American Dream,” (Multnomah Books; 1 edition May 4, 2010) attempts to show that Jesus’ teachings radically differ from our prosperity mindset. I have not read the book yet; it is on order.

I have watched several videos of Mr. Platt and am taken with his thesis. I am drawn to his degree of passion. He is no “all smiles with the perfect teeth and hair” of most of the mega-church pastors on the scene. He is not preaching the prosperity gospel. Instead, he challenges his listener to give everything to the poor. This young man is all business and his business is about living a life that is totally in tune with the teachings of Christ. Radical?

David Platt has had an experience.

This past Sunday, my great choir sang an anthem based upon Ralph Vaughan William’s tune, KINGS WESTON, and the words of Caroline Noel’s great hymn “At The Name Of Jesus.” To my thinking, it is the perfect hymn to embody what I believe – to embody my experience.

It is my faith captured in seven verses of 6565D meter.

But the tune which I associate with the text is also profound. Vaughan Williams builds the melody sequentially and finally reaches a peak from which the final phrase falls back to the beginning note. I can easily imagine Ralph sitting and pondering this great text back in 1925 before placing pen to manuscript.

It is a tremendous combination of music and word.

In our rehearsals, I chided my choir to imagine a heroic moment – a Scarlett O’Hara, fist clenched, dirty faced with streaming tears, all backlit moment – all in an effort to try to impart the passion of this great hymn. Sing it like you believe it; like you have experienced it!

As liberals, we are afraid of too much enthusiasm; too much emotion. We have to keep our cool.

Last Saturday, as the youngest little one emerged from her session on Olivia, she walked into the main area of Border’s.

She looked around for a moment.

Her father heard her remark quietly, “A pet store…………..with books!”

It is what it is.

A Dying Past

LeTourneau Organ, Hodge Chapel, Beeson School of Divinity, Samford University

I keep getting surprised by death.

No, not the concept but the fact that someone has died whom I had already presumed to be departed.

Some months ago it was Mitch Miller. (See August 3, 2010 blog.) More recently it was Eddie Fisher. I think that since Elizabeth has had so many very publicly traumatic health encounters, I had assumed that he had slipped quietly away some time ago. Aside from his marital histrionics, I didn’t know too much about him. I am aware of the “spacey” daughter. (You can read into that anything you wish.)

I was also surprised by death this week to learn the loss of an old mentor from college days. H. Edward Tibbs, a brilliant organist, designer of over 50 area organs, and excellent teacher, died in Birmingham. He was a great influence in my musical training.

However, I did not represent one of his great achievements.

I arrived as a transfer student to study church music at Howard College – now known as Samford University – with all the skepticism that a relatively large secular state university could imprint on a small-town boy. Couple that with the “worldliness” of having been under the spell of Paris-trained architects since leaving home too young and you have a cynical pseudo-sophisticate naïve teenager who was full of himself and the “international style.”

The state university campus had evolved with no apparent long-range plan. Remember that state universities expand on the lowest-bidder formula – edging a building spot wherever possible. Howard, however, was a model of planning – a collection of updated 18th Century design plopped down in the heart of Birmingham’s wealthiest area. Seas of limestone-clad towers, beveled glass, brass, and hand-rubbed paneling preening on a manicured landscape. Think William Graves Perry and Colonial Williamsburg without the sheep.

I arrived in this scenario of order and discipline with something of an attitude, I fear.

In order to be admitted to the music department, I had to play an audition. This was the second hurdle in this change of life plan. The first was telling my mother and father that not only was I not going to be an architect, I was also going to leave the relative inexpensive world of the state university to transfer to a private college in another town.

The plan unfolded, publicly, over Thanksgiving in my third year of design. It had been forming since I had begun to direct the choir at the Baptist church in the community where I lived. I was bitten by the music bug and it was gnawing away at my architecture

Being absorbed into the world of building design, I had not studied with a teacher in several years at this point. I contacted my old piano instructor from my youth to assist me with polishing my performance. I learned, later, that it was a “black day” for her. She was at once faced with the memories of a “less than dedicated” student who opted to drop out of lessons every other year. “Why is he tormenting me now?”

I had managed to prepare two Bach inventions and a Mozart Rondo. I actually surprised her and we had fun “polishing” the product. Only later did I learn about the “black day.”

Because I had a vision that I would spend my years as a church musician, on the order of J.S., himself, I decided I would be an organ major. Not good! Not good!

While I loved the organ, I was not “in love” with it. Even today, my playing is barely acceptable and my technique deplorable. Up to that point, my association with the instrument had been via an electronic device made popular by Ethel Smith and her famous Tico Tico. Hardly anything promising for someone expected to master the "St. Anne." Even Albert Schweitzer carved a better association with the instrument in the remote jungle. His tempos were a bit slow. It was probably the heat.

Page McPherson, on the other hand, was its most devoted follower. Her devotion could probably be characterized as obsession. She was our supreme “organista.”

You have all met a “Page” at some point in your life.

She was frighteningly dedicated. Physically, she was not a winsome wonder – rather plain. My friend, Steven Sparks, would have referred to her as a “woman of rare beauty.” But Page was in love with the organ.

She even had a special language which was associated with her grand passion: “HE” was Harold Gleason, the author of the “Bible” of organ-methodology. “SHE” was Catherine Crozier – married to Harold – who was one of the great organists of the day. “IT” was the large Aeolian-Skinner instrument in the chapel on the Howard campus. “HIM” was, of course, Tibbs, her teacher and mine.

Like the postman in the famous weather adage, Page walked the distance from the music department over to the chapel many times each day with her “Orgelbuchlien” clutched against her chest. She was not a shapely girl so I chose not to use bosum. And because of her limited lexicon, she was not particularly popular. It is hard to fake interest in a discussion with that many pronouns. You get confused easily.

My lessons were always traumatic. I practiced, but refused to own those special male tap-dancing shoes that were required for excellent pedal technique. My “chukka” boots just didn’t hack it. I would forget to lift the inner fingers on the repeated notes. Dealing with me was a challenge for Tibbs. I should have shared the contact information for my piano teacher of childhood so they could commiserate together. They could have compared "black days."

Eventually Tibbs and I had a meeting of the minds. I became a voice major. You don’t need special shoes for that.

Page continued her devotion.

One fine spring day after I had come to my senses and dropped my organ career, everyone was in a “forget practicing and let’s goof off” mood. The windows of the music building were open and you could hear competing melodies. Coming from up in the garret was the sound of Page slaving away on the “Little G-minor" on the Holtkamp.

It was April and 50 years almost to the day of that riotous premiere in Paris. You know the one. A light went on in my rambunctious mind.

I coerced a couple of buddies to assist me. We dashed upstairs as the strains of “Le Sacre du Printemps” was being blasted out an open window and grabbed Page from her perch on the organ bench. We opened the garret window – three stories up – and bodily dangled Page headfirst as our virginal sacrifice to spring as Stravinsky’s pulsating ostinatos hit their peak.

Yes it was cruel, But it was Spring! April is, after all, "the cruellest month."

While she screamed protests, she smiled the rest of the month of April and even into May for all the attention she received. She, he, and him would have been proud of her!.

While I was a disaster as an organ major, Tibbs taught me a ton about sacred music. I learned about the practice of music in varied faiths. I developed quite a love of contemporary organ literature – especially Dupré, Langlais, and Messiaen. He taught me the fundamentals of organ design. I even became a better composer because I understood “the king of instruments.” Who knows what might have happened if I had those tap shoes.

So a great "thank you" to HIM!

Tony Curtis died today.

While we were not particularly close, the past keeps leaving me.

Our Amazing Degree Of Anger

Chicago, Chicago!!

For the second day in a row, I find myself sad because of encounters that happened on the streets of Chicago. Yesterday, traffic on a major two-lane street was backed up for three blocks in one direction and two in another because a young man had chosen to stop his van – adjacent, by the way, to three empty parking places – in the middle of the westbound lane to unload a series of passengers and various bags of goods that they had purchased. It was not a quick series of actions. When a driver of a another vehicle asked politely that they park in the available space and thus allow traffic to move, the response from the driver was a very filthy series of expletives and the familiar middle-finger gesture. (The same gesture that hurt Bernice Clifton’s feelings.)

Eventually, I was able to get past so I have no idea of how long the congestion lasted. It made me sad to think that someone could be so selfish as to not care about the danger and inconvenience to others. And then could be so angry and abusive when questioned about his actions. (This, of course, feeds into my belief that you can only hear so much angry rap before it infiltrates your whole being. I don't think Beethoven does that. Tchaikowsky maybe, but certainly not Bach.)

Today, as I walked into my building, I saw a young woman park her vehicle in the middle of two parking spaces. Now, let me hasten to tell you that parking in my neighborhood after 5 p.m. on any day is like finding the golden egg. On Sundays, it is like hitting the Lotto. So, I said, “Miss, would you be so kind as to move either forward or back a few feet so that another car could get into the space as well?” I was greeted with the response, “Get Lost, Old Man!” (Well, at least there was no expletive as the other driver had received yesterday.)

Have we become so selfish that we only care for our own needs and nothing for the needs of others? I didn’t need the parking space – I was already safely ensconced in a precious space – but I have arrived home and been forced to spend an hour driving about hoping that someone would need to run to the grocery store for a late night of Rocky Road.

I even have the guilt that I have questioned my visiting child’s degree of upset stomach because it meant giving up a parking space to run to Walgreen’s. (I did go, by the way-so I am only partially callous.)

I have even considered a “handbill” campaign where I would get some flyers photocopied urging everyone to park responsibly and give more people a chance to find a spot. However, I worry that the flyers will wind up littering the street. I saw another driver park and dump two bags of McDonald’s debris onto the curb as she exited her vehicle. I bit my tongue.

We are an angry city. We are an angry nation! We are also a very selfish population!

I always remind my children that drivers in Chicago do not automatically stop for a red traffic signal – especially if they had planned to turn left. The light can change when they are mid-block, but the fact they intended to do a directional shift means “here I come, look out, I am in a turning frame of mind!”

I plan to quiz the Lincolnwood police. The area of Devon Avenue between McCormick and Lincoln Avenue is like the Indy 500. You couple the speed with the strange parking habits at the Devon Avenue USPS (Immigration Central) and you have a disaster waiting to be.

I was once at the post office when a large black Lincoln town car parked in a “no parking” zone in the front of the facility. The driver – a Catholic priest – emerged and wound up in front of me in the long line to mail a package. (My local USPS – the same one mentioned above – has 8 windows for customer service, but there is obviously some rule somewhere that only 2 can be opened during the high rush periods.)

“Father, why did you choose to park in a ‘no-parking’ zone in front of the post office?”

“I am Priest!!” He responded adamantly.

“Are you doing ‘priestly duties’ here in line for stamps? Is the Bishop out of Priority Mail Stickers?”

“I am Priest!!” again he spoke with great emphasis.

“Yes, I recognized your outfit. However, you are parked illegally. Will you do confession when you return to the Rectory? Who hears your confession? What about all the young children who saw you park illegally, who will explain to them why you chose to do that?”

“NEXT!” One of the two windows open had come available.

He rushed away.

The little Polish lady behind me held her parcel close to her chest as she said something that eluded my understanding, but I don’t think she approved of my bantering with the Man in Black. Since she was clutching her package so tightly, there was not a free hand for any angry gestures. I think that particular gesture is universal. However, I have not seen it anywhere else but in Italy. But, hey, you know the Italians!

How did this happen? How did we become so self-centered and uncaring for others? How did we assume rights that are clearly wrongs?

Morose Mitch is so worried that his wealthy Republicans will be taxed that he threatens that his party will not allow those who need tax relief to benefit unless all the tax cuts are extended. And yes, he said so without any hint of a smile. In a column in the NY Times, Paul Krugmann, the Nobel Laureate in Economics, cites rage among the rich. Krugmann states, “self-pity among the privileged has become acceptable, even fashionable.” (NYTimes, September 19, 2010)

The Tea Party is riding a series of election successes fueled upon anger. The Koch brothers are spending millions to defeat a clean-energy bill in California because it will impact their pocket book. Glenn Beck hosted a “Restoring Honor” gathering on the Mall in Washington, D.C. It was all about restoring the faith upon which our country was founded. Taking back America has serious overtones to me. I am not certain “my America” is anything at all like Glenn’s or Mama Grizzly’s.

All the conservativism reminded me of a discussion that I had with my father over “school prayer.”

Dad could not fathom that I was against school prayer in my son’s public school each day.

I reminded my father that when I was in school, my Principal was a deacon in our church. His wife, my seventh grade teacher, was also my Sunday School teacher. So if we prayed, it would be a prayer consistent with my family's beliefs. However, at the time of the school prayer issue, my son was in about the 5th grade. So I asked my father which prayer should he use?

His kindergarten teacher was Roman Catholic. His first-grade teacher was Indian, so probably Hindu. His second-grade teacher was a free-spirit and I doubted ever went to church. His third-grade teacher was a Presbyterian, so decidedly Calvinist. His fourth-grade teacher again was Roman Catholic. His current teacher was Jewish.

So, which prayer should my son pray when at school?

I explained to my Dad that I felt perfectly fine with my son's religious training taking place at home and church and his secular training at home and at public school. He could survive without a prayer while there. If he felt "outsecure" as he would put it, he could pray privately.

My father seemed to understand that we no longer lived in a “Mayberry” setting where everyone had the same background and practiced their beliefs in the same manner.

So Mr. Beck, which America do we restore? Ms. Palin, whose values do we go for? Tea Partiers, who will pay for the education of your children when your schools fold because you needed tax breaks?

In his book, The American Experience, Henry Bamford Parkes, remarks that our country survived because it existed as a “state of the mind” rather than an actual reality, in the thoughts of the early settlers. They had a dream of what this country could be and rather be crushed by the reality of what they encountered day by day, they held on fast to the dream. America for them was a state of mind, not a state of being.

What happened to “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses?”

The “state of the mind” of the early settlers and the sentiments found on the base of the Statue Of Liberty will do far more for this country than the crazy reality mentality of “me, mine, and ours” currently running rampant.