I have just returned from the hinterland.I am back in Chicago after a visit to Alabama and then on to Dallas. At both locations I was treated to great times with family – most especially “the little people,” my three grandchildren.The smallest one, the two-year old from Florida, came up to the Alabama house with her parents. She taught me a very provocative hip sway to the Sunday School tune, “If you’re happy and you know it.” It makes you wonder what is going on during the Bible story time. She also is quite taken with the “blessing” before mealtime. She insisted we have nine or so at dinner. Since she is the “deliverer,” she would interrupt you mid-bite to pronounce yet another. Thankfully, it involved only a bowed head and folded hands and not the adornment of a shawl and kneeling upon a prayer rug. We would have never made it past the salad.Aside from Baby Jesus riding around in a Humvee (see December 8,2009), the Texas Two have not yet embraced organized religion. It’s not that their parents are infidels, they have just not reached the exit ramp on the highway toward discovery or re-alignment following some bumpy patches within their faith. It will happen.I grew up in a family on the “road to discovery.” Before it occurred, I was often snatched from my parents by a rabidly fundamentalist aunt and taken to services with the Pentecostals. I have “marched in the infantry” in the “Lord’s army,” with many righteous and some "not so" souls. My most vivid memory is a tent meeting in the country where the music was accompanied by Willie Mae McDonald’s string band – a group with a Saturday-night reputation. Willie Mae punctuated the music, on those painfully hot Sundays, with her chewing tobacco that she could aim accurately at 20 paces.The Pentecostals always seemed to do a lot of “rebuking.” Of course everyone was “Sister” or “Brother.” That was somewhat confusing to a 6-year old. We only saw them at church, not when we had a family gathering. The most alarming expression was “Press the Lord.” It was actually “Praise” but in their charismatic fervor and their attempt to emulate the likes of Amiee Semple McPherson, it came out “press.” I thought they were taking a hot iron to Jesus.
Some pathways are confusing.My parents discovered the local church near where we lived, so I eventually settled with the Southern Baptists until I could no longer stomach the music as they discovered the “contemporary Christian songs.” (Shades of Willie Mae.) Gone were the great hymns of the faith which were replaced with tunes that seemed like an excuse to sing Saturday-night bar tunes on Sunday. Just say Jesus instead of Robert or Sally.
I tried the Methodists and the Presbyterians before discovering the UCC. It is actually the United Church of Christ, but there are those who see it as “Utterly Confused Christians.” (Or the other scenario: Unitarians Considering Christ.)Along the way I have heard the best and the worst – both in sermon and in music. I have been “high” and I have been “low.” Neither having anything to do with drugs but in approach to liturgy and worship.Some of my worst experiences with “church” have had to do with ministers who perceived their role as shepherd as that of browbeater: “My way is the best.” That must derive from a concept that their sheep are not very smart. In those situations, the roadway can get really rough.
Maybe that is why I enjoy flying so much. A great silver-bird lifts you effortlessly above all the potholes of life for a few minutes. Aside from the fact they lose your “things” and subject you to body patdowns when you have a pacemaker, it is generally quiet and smooth. Yes, I know that you will always use the back of your hand when you go below the waist.In contrast to the streets of Chicago, I have yet to have anyone gesture with their middle finger in the airport. Like Bernice Clifton on Designing Women, “you can only have that happen so many times until it begins to hurt your feelings.”I seem to be “in and out” of a lot of airports.My Texas Two have begun to believe that I live at the airport since each time they drive with their mother to DFW, Granddaddy appears or disappears.The oldest asked his mother, “Does Granddaddy live at Departures?”
It is the afternoon of the first day of a new decade. I am supposed to be in Alabama preparing to head back to Chicago on a 5:20 United flight. Instead, I am sidelined in Chicago with a new pacemaker. I missed the great Brunswick Stew at the Downtown Grill and, of course, puttering around in the golf cart with my granddaughter Gracie. However, at 3:40 on January 1, I am happy that I am snug in my condo and not facing airport security in the post-Christmas Day fiasco.“Sir, look at the ID card, it is a pacemaker!!! I am not a threat!”David Brooks, the NYTimes columnist, had a brilliant essay today about the failure of our technology and of our vast governmental systems to keep us safe in a world full of people out to do harm. In the post-9/11 world, even the “hyped” governmental agencies have proven to be an empty shell when it comes to actually functioning. I must admit that I always felt The Department of Homeland Security sounded like a name contrived from a Dick Tracy comic strip. Think Tom Ridge in a yellow fedora and trench coat.My son figures that we will soon all arrive at the airport in a skimpy hospital gown and get dressed after going through security. Having been so attired earlier in this week for the surgery, I can attest that it can get drafty. We are all going to get to know each other far more than I had ever wished. Too much information!!!This put me to thinking about the past.My mother’s maiden aunt, Birdie, who lived next door to us, was a very religious woman. She steadfastly refused to cut her hair because it wasn’t Biblical. She washed the long tresses each Saturday and when dry, placed them into a bun. It was a weekly ritual in which she would sit on her back lawn in a large white Adirondack chair and let it dry in the sun. This was before the days of the hand-held hair dryer and to go to a commercial establishment would risk some of the “crowning glory” being caught off-guard by Maylene's unwieldy scissors. So she sat in the sun, read her Sunday School lesson, and sang great hymns of the faith.This time also coincided with an era where the giving of a baby chick at Easter – usually dyed a nice blue or pink - was not at all empathetic with the needs of the fowl in question. Think pre-PETA. So each Easter I received one. It usually didn’t make it but a few weeks. However, one such baby chick survived and became a large white rooster, which we named Charlie. Charlie had keen ear and a mean streak.Now Birdie was lame from birth – her left side was malformed such to cause a severe limp and limited use of that hand. Her agitated walk seemed to attract the attention of Charlie when the two – the rooster and the Aunt – encountered each other. Charlie would peck at her heels as she tried to get away from this unwanted attention.Each Saturday, before heading out with wet hair to her favorite chair in the sun, she would phone my mom and request that I place Charlie in the pen. While my mother would dutifully tell me to do so, I often failed. Eventually, on the failed days, Charlie would hear the strains of “Will There Be Any Stars In My Crown” and wander through the opening of the hedgerow that separated our lawns. He would immediately startle Miss Birdie. Her combs would fly in one direction and King James in another as she tried to make a dash to the safety of her back screen porch. Rarely was she the winner. If I tell you that I enjoyed the spectacle, then it would alter our relationship irreparably.One particularly hot summer day, she was expecting the Preacher to drop by her home around one in the afternoon to pick up a check to purchase new collection plates for the church. Birdie was generous to a fault and this particular clergyman seemed to see her as a source to be tapped often. She told the housekeeper that she was expecting the preacher, but wanted to freshen up before he came. She was wilted from the heat. She retired to her bathroom for a long cooling soak.Repairs were being made to the rear porch on her home and the workman had not yet reinstalled the doorway to the screened porch.Enjoying the cool waters of her tub, she began to sing one of her favorites, “The Unclouded Day.” About the time she wafted into the chorus, “Oh the land of cloudless day……,” Charlie wandered into her yard and found his way up upon the porch through the opening where the door should have been. He followed the sounds and soon was eye to eye with Birdie in her bath. Upon seeing the rabid rooster, Birdie jumped, totally naked, from her cool waters to beat a hasty retreat. Charlie was on her heels. Meanwhile, the preacher had arrived a bit earlier than expected in order the mention that the church piano was in bad need of tuning and had been shown to a seat in the living room. It was reported later that each time she passed the Preacher on any of the several circles through her house trying to elude the white demon, she never failed to say, “How do you do, Reverend?” It was a testament to her good upbringing and impeccable manners, even when nude before a man of God.So now it seems, like Birdie, we will dash through the airport with as little on as possible so as to not cause a problem with a TSA guy named Charlie.But keep your cool. As my mother would say, “Without good manners, you might as well go naked into the world.”Happy New Year.
