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?