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?

The Seventy-two Hour Rule

My mother and father lie buried alongside each other in a family plot in the town where I grew up in Alabama. When I go back to my home there, I generally will make a pass through the cemetery. Sometimes I get out of the car and walk around to pull a wayward weed or to adjust a bad floral tribute that has weathered poorly since my last visit.

Often, I just look from the car.

To be completely honest, the cemetery visit isn’t an important ritual to me because, in my mind, they are not there. They are not beneath the brass plaque that gives credence to their birth and to their death.

They are, for me, precisely and squarely in my mind. They are with me in every thought I have because they helped formed my attitudes and challenged my beliefs. Memories of them cause me to laugh riotously or to sometimes brush a tear. But it is all good, even the sadness that they are no longer at the other end of a phone line ready to help me feel a little more secure in times of doubt.

They are not only “in my mind,” they are often “on my mind” as well. Each day of my life I remember them and I smile. I can well understand Madame Rosepettle’s love for her husband that is so great that upon his death, she has him stuffed so that he may stay around with the family and be enjoyed.

She eventually moves on and one day her son finds "Dad" hanging in the closet.

I am not so certain that I would like either parent sitting about like a taxidermist specimen as Mr.Rosepettle was in the Kopit play. However, I would love to hear my father tell, yet again, the story of stealing the chocolates from the general store on a hot July day in Mississippi and stashing the ill-gotten treats in the bloomers being worn by his sister, Frances. Remember, it was Mississippi in July. You do the math.

Or to hear my purple-haired mom mocking Aunt Inie muttering, “my God, child you may hurry” as she attempted to get me moving. Or recalling the events which plagued the family when trying to get to Clanton for Aunt Becky Ann’s funeral.

These family stories are classics and the images they evoke are priceless to me. They are very present always.

So, I am having a bit of difficulty with all the rancor over building a mosque at 45 Park Place in New York City or one in Tennessee or Georgia or California.

Maybe I wear my grief differently.

Each of us recalls where we were when we heard the news or saw the images of planes flying into the World Trade Center. Living in Chicago, I immediately left the downtown area since I didn’t know if what was then called The Sears Tower would also be a target. So yes, there is a horror associated with the events of that September day. It was tragic in every respect.

But the souls lost on that fateful day are not at ground-zero. They are in the minds and hearts of their families – or they should be. They should be in living rooms and on patios. They should be in graduations and weddings. They are at first communions.

Bulldozers and other heavy equipment have been transforming the earth that once held those towers aright. The site is almost unrecognizable. Things have been plowed over and under.

They are not there.

A congregation seeks to build a center for worship and community over two city blocks away. It is not visible from ground-zero. It is a physical impossiblity to see from there. The buildings to be built at ground-zero will dwarf anything around for blocks, so this Islamic center cannot possibly cast any type of shadow save the shadow that exists when we throw up barriers which are products of hatred and ignorance.

That, to my thinking, is the real insult to the memory of those lost on that day in 2001.

I have given my children a guideline that I insist they follow. It is called the Seventy-two Hour Rule. It goes like this:

If I fall off my sailboat, they may look for 72 hours.

If I am lost in a collapse of a coal mine, they may look for 72 hours.

If I have fallen down an abandoned well, they may look for 72 hours.

If I fly my plane off looking for a balloon landing site and go missing, they may look for 72 hours.

The bottom line is, “don’t hold everyone hostage just because my mortal shell is missing.” Move on. Life is too short. Read my words. Listen to my music. Get involved with my projects. You will find that I am right there and we will all smile, maybe even laugh.

Many years before my parents died, I was in Alabama for a visit. My maternal grandmother had died a few months before, so mother requested we go to the old family plot to inspect the grave marker that had been recently placed but not checked by anyone to see that it was done correctly.

While we were there, I said to my parents, “I don’t know what your plans are for when you die. I need to know.” My mother said, "come with me."

My parents drove to the newer cemetery across town and took me to the family plot they had purchased. It sat very close to the quiet, wandering drive. Despite the fact that there was no one buried there, there was an impressive brass tablet embedded in the ground with both parent’s names and dates of birth. The dates of death were yet to be added.

It was obviously the first time that my father had viewed it and I could tell that it was, for him, a sobering moment. He walked away, not wishing to be confronted with his future.

I hastened to lighten the situation.

“Look, everyone passing down the highway is talking about your ‘no-good, Yankee-fied son who doesn’t even put any flowers on his daddy’s grave.’ They think you are already here and that I just don’t care.”

He smiled, even chuckled a bit at the thought that I was taking the fall and we went on our way.

Well, there are bad artificial flowers there now. Not for mother and daddy so much as for the gossips who need to discuss things like that in a small town.

Much like the Sarah Palin’s and Newt Gingrich’s need to weigh in on mosques.

Your 72 hours are up, move on. You have no monopoly on compassion or grief.

My father would laugh to the point he would gasp for air when telling about Frances and the dripping chocolate. When I knew her in later years, Aunt Frances had always seemed so proper. More like the Shott’s side of the family. Of course, she was married eight or so times for fun and profit.

Well, it is for certain she wasn’t Baptist.

Dad, keep it up, I am laughing now.

Quality Leadership

Each one of us occupies a “sphere of leadership.” It may be only one person outside ourself. It may be as vast as a nation or even worldwide. We all influence someone with our decisions, our attitudes, and our actions.

So what guidelines undergird our role as leader? What dictates our conscience?

There is a very sad, but telling, article in today’s New York Times about the Attorney General of Connecticut running for the Senate seat occupied by Christopher Dodd, who has chosen to retire. It seems Mr. Blumenthal has repeatedly voiced an enhanced military record, which includes active duty in Vietnam. It is something he states when addressing veteran’s groups around the state or gatherings with a patriotic theme. Yet the evidence points at such assertions as blatantly false.

This is not an individual with a dubious resume. So why did Mr. Blumenthal reinvent his past? (He says he is guilty of “misplaced words.”) Why does anyone choose to do so?

There was a very seedy lawyer in a small town in Alabama. (Yes, I realize there are many seedy lawyers in many small towns, and also large towns, in Alabama and elsewhere.) We will call him Charlie. His principal source of wealth came from marriage into a prosperous family. His work as a lawyer merely got him out of the house and from underfoot. He was a laughably ordinary attorney. However, he did utter one profound thing once, when the heavens opened and a glimmer of respectability pierced his thoughts: “If you think you can please everybody, you might as well resign from the human race.” It was probably not even original, but it was for him, profound. Contradictory (you had to know his “modus operandi”), but profound.

The “need to please” dominates our actions, our words. However, our decision concerning the “whom we wish to please and why” becomes the trap. A child’s first manipulations of the truth surround the need to please a parent. This need to please merely escalates with time. And with this passage of time the results of this need impacts a greater sphere.

Mr. Blumenthal wanted to please his audience in Norwalk in 2008, so he “served time in Vietnam.”

The most damning “need to please” of course surrounds ourself. Our jails are overrun with those who failed at curbing their personal appetites for some form of gratification. They are the ones whose need became so egregious as to force an arrest and trial.

But consider the area between the innocence of childhood and the gallows.

It has many names depending upon the path we choose. For the purpose of discussion, let’s call this area teaching, career politics, public service, ministry, or some other noble calling. Any one of which impacts the lives of countless others.

And while we are setting the stage, let’s populate the sidelines with lobbyists, populous groups with an agenda, soul-mates, finances, low self-esteem, news polls, the NRA, comfort zones, and with Charlie’s “modus operandi” – which translates “the way I like to handle things.”

Now, throw into the mix a gross abuse of Joseph Fletcher’s “situation ethics” and we have a mess called Working for the Good 2010.

To begin with, I believe most people enter public service or ministry or some noble calling with the highest of intentions. With Sarah Palin I think it has more to do with the need to be adored. Seriously!

Back to Joseph Fletcher.

Fletcher, an Episcopal theologian, gave us the term, “situation ethics” in his book of the same name back in the mid-sixties. It sought to explain decisions made based upon a given situation rather than a moral absolute. Paul Tillich codified the concept as “love is the absolute law.” But you knew that.

Enter a bright young soul who discovers an avenue to serve others in local government. The path of service was rough, but with determination and a real desire to make a difference, our candidate made progress toward their goal. As they increased their sphere of influence, campaigns became more and more dependent upon media coverage – that proved expensive. Donations also proved to be a challenge. Along comes a “special interest group.” You know the scenario, it has been played out in dozens of books and movies.

Situational compromise becomes more tolerable because the dream still has some validity. Eventually, however, even the dream becomes clouded and it is now a matter of sustaining a public lifestyle that an oversized ego demands.

One day our bright young soul, now older but far less wiser, finds they are without any ideals proposing a law that allows people to carry firearms into the airport. And to think I once admired Charlton Heston. They even got to Moses.

Think of the number of fallen leaders - parents, priests, teachers, ministers, elected officials, and yes, members of our Congress. Think of the lurking conflicts on the sidelines of their intended goals that proved to be too great to resist. For some, even the prayer meetings on C-Street were not enough to thwart their personal needs. More importantly, think of the number of people who were in their “sphere of influence.” This is the greater tragedy.

I propose each leader, no matter their sphere, resolve:

“I promise to keep a clean heart and a right spirit and to constantly question the reasons behind each decision I make. I promise that my work will always be about the people I serve and never about me and my needs.”

Keeping Up Appearances

Patricia Routledge as Hyacinth Bucket in the BBC series, "Keeping Up Appearances."

Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Boo-kay) knows the importance of appearing socially correct and a “cut above” the neighbors. Her candlelight dinners are legendary – perhaps only in her own mind. She even “borrowed” a Rolls-Royce in an effort to outdo Lydia Hawksworth who had a new Jaguar. The fact that she and her faithful husband, Richard, were arrested for doing so didn't seem to phase her in the least.

I am, of course, speaking of the hilariously funny character superbly portrayed by Patricia Routledge in the BBC comedy, “Keeping Up Appearances.” Hyacinth is constantly bedeviled by her “less than proper” relatives. Her attempts at being someone other than who she actually “is” faces being unveiled by two sisters with spousal problems, one sister who is morally “loose,” and a father who is reliving World War One – often without his clothes. All these issues come to haunt her about the time she is staging one of her social encounters with people she hopes to impress.

She sounds very Southern to me.

We had a very dear friend – a type of Rosalind Russell with a “drawl.” She always appeared in costumes rather than in routine feminine apparel. When she arrived – fashionably late – she garnered attention. Her, “Hello Dahling” would make Tallulah envious.

Once, when I was driving home, in a city across the state from where this friend lived, I spied out of the corner of my eye, a woman dressed in a kilt and with a swath of tartan flung across her shoulder. I thought, “wow, there is another Helen Barker in the world.” Intrigued, I made the block to get another look. To my surprise, it was Mrs. Barker, herself, hundreds of miles from her home on a shopping spree for antiques. I invited her home for dinner and we listened to her regale us with stories of the Edinburgh "tatoo" and her learning the "highland fling." Helen Barker wrote the book on appearances.

When, not long after her marriage to Mr. Barker, it came time for the couple to have a home and a proper address, it was not the best time with respect to Mr. Barker’s construction business. That would flourish later. However, their diminished resources would not stop “keeping up appearances.” On a hilltop on one of the best streets in their town, the Barkers built a copy of Tara from “Gone With The Wind.” From the roadway it was magnificent. However, if you were able to view it from the side – which you were not – you would discover it was only about 15 feet wide. It was a two-story façade. In order to open the double front doorway on the columned porch, you had to back up the stairway in the entry hall. It was “grand” only at a distance. No one questioned that the Barker’s always entertained at the yacht club across the street.

Southerners know the value of “keeping up appearances.”

The Monroe sisters of Quitman, Mississippi were the most respected ladies in the county. Their father had left them quite well heeled at his death, so wealth had a great deal to do with this. However, along with the wealth came impeccable manners, good taste, and a sense of fashion. Neither of them ever married, despite a retinue of gentlemen callers in their younger days. By the time that I knew them, the bloom had gone off the rose.

They lived together in the family home at one of the best addresses in town. They attended the First Methodist Church with great regularity and were known for their altruism.

Yet, come to find out, that was all a well-articulated ruse.

In truth, Gladys and Gertrude Monroe fought like banshees behind the shuttered windows of their big house.

One morning they were in a particularly heated exchange – something to do with an “old beau” that one felt the other had caused to beat a retreat; crushing any hopes of romance. As their angered discussion escalated, the “Westminster Quarters” signaled someone at the front door.

Gladys remembered she had told the Methodist preacher to stop by to pick up a check for the new typewriter she had promised to donate for the church office.

As she walked out of the kitchen toward the front of the house to greet the preacher, she looked over her shoulder at Gertrude and said, “Sister, you best zip it up, we have company. And besides, you know I am right about this as usual.”

She then continued to the parlor where the maid had seated the guest.

Well, it seems that Gertrude was not ready to “zip it up.” As Gladys spoke in her postured tone to the preacher, Gertrude, still smoldering over their confrontation about the wayward suitor, hurled a cast iron skilled at the kitchen doorway, making a noise that could be heard all the way to the front gate.

Needless to say, the Reverend Carter was startled; looking toward the direction of the noise.

Without batting an eye, Gladys hastened to clarify, “Goodness me, Sister must have dropped the set out of her ring.” In the south, it is always all about façade.

It seems that the current governor of Texas, another of the “cash strapped states” in the US with an 11 million dollar shortfall, has been “keeping up appearances” to the tune of $600,000.00 for two years temporary housing while the state manse is under repair. Mr. Perry, a Republican, even billed the state for $1,000.00 for emergency repair for his ’filtered ice” machine. He must have been expecting the Bishop.

Sarah Palin, strangely quiet since the oil spill in the Gulf, kept up yet another appearance over the weekend to discuss "immigration" issues. Same old delivery - different verbage.

She is one appearance that should not be kept.

The Lowest Common Denominator

For decades we have encountered delusional talent on one type of talent show or the other. My earliest recollection was the Ted Mack Amateur Hour, which I have learned was a successor to Major Bowes. Arthur Godfrey had a run with “scouting” for talent. We had Chuck Baris on the “Gong Show.” There was “Star Search” and now Simon and Ellen on “American Idol.” As these shows often play out, sad folks who, either through encouragement, incorrect self-assessment, or a combination of both, arrive in front of an audience.

Back at the Bowling Alley in Centralia, they were thought to be better than the rest. They move up the rungs toward a dream. Then, they are given a spotlight in the big time. Some make it there because of talent. Others, because these venues need a “curiosity” to keep the ratings alive and well. Ratings depend upon angst. Frankly, there is so much angst on “Lost” that I have become immune – bored with it all.

But back to the amateur talent shows.

Eunice Harper Higgins of “Feelings” fame was convinced she was destined to greatness. She even warned Ed and Mama not to expect her back in Raytown. Yet, before she was able to get to her spoken monologue, she was “gonged” into oblivion. We all got a big laugh over it. Her delusion and eventual demise had no real impact on anything.

So why have Ann Coulter, Rush Limbaugh, and Sarah Palin escaped the “gong?”

Coulter and Limbaugh eschew mean-spirited, often ill-informed opinions. Yet, they have an impressive following. And Palin is more popular than ever even though her message is essentially the same tired stuff from the failed campaign with John McCain. I had really thought that Ms. Palin’s gong happened the night of John McCain’s concession speech when she was told that her own concession was not to be heard.

She is still "going rogue."

Palin cannot get beyond the bit about the President being a community organizer while she was sitting on her porch becoming an expert on foreign affairs as she peered over into Russia. Wasn’t Jane Addams a type of “community organizer? How about Nelson Mandela? Didn’t Pope John II do similar stuff in Poland as a young cleric? It seems like really good company to me.

Sarah’s mantra for a better world: “don’t retreat, reload.” Along with Ann and Rush, there is nothing but negative ranting. What is their “better solution?” Do their followers and those who are billing themselves as the Tea Party have a plan or is merely enough to rail at those who do?

Has hatred become a common denominator for this country of hope?