Pundemonium: Birds of a Feather

Old-buddy Spartacus checked in with a comment on yesterday's post – and let's assume it was out of insomnia; if I even hint at insanity, he may sic his wife-with-a-black-belt on me. This is double-plus ungood; I only have a twelve-pound, floppy Maine coon cat to hide behind.   

Anyway, Spark's comment was:  

Man, I'm glad I don't work with you guys--LOL!   

My commute is thirty-some miles longer than his… so I guess this makes us even.  

(I was about to send him a note back when I realized I could get a cheap, easy new posting out of it… and mock him with the whole world watching – although they haven't noticed either one of us yet. I believe I’m up to a readership of five or six, so if I estrange the fellow, there goes 20% of my traffic... not counting the judo practice his wife and kid will get out of me; pass. And it's probable that three of those readers just pulled in to my exit to look around on the way past.)   

Anyway, yeah, Spartacus; and what's worse is that this goes on a lot of the time, too. This afternoon Ben – who sits to my right – was holding forth in Bettie's cubicle (on my left), along with Priscilla and HeyJude, Chester's sister. He was mentioning how, in his youth, he'd been fired halfway through his interview with KFC. I forget now exactly what he'd said to torpedo himself; I believe it was a strong declaration that he'd work for them if they paid him, not because he'd love the work. The women responded with hisses and groans at his brilliance.  

Later I popped in on his cubicle to lay on him the same line that had gotten Priscilla to kick me out of Bettie's cubicle. "I figured out the trouble with KFC," I told him. He lifted his chin to say Go On.   

"You don't push chicken. Pull-it."  

Regards,

AgingChild

 

Pundemonium: Le' Go Me Legume!

Ah, Ben – you have to give the man credit for never giving up… although that’s par for the course for punsters. 

Today he happily told me of an earlier exchange with Priscilla. She'd arrived a bit late and complained that someone had given her a particularly hard time on the way in. So at Ben's suggestion, she was referring to the person as "Mr. Peanut". 

"Do you know why that is?" Ben asked me bravely/foolishly. 

I looked back at him. "Because she was a-salted?" 

Ben started back to his cubicle wordlessly, but I continued, "Did he at least say some nice things about her?" 

The way he stopped in his tracks and pulled his head back defensively showed that Ben knew this would be a stinker, but not atrocious; he shrugged. 

I was thinking of an old walks-into-the-bar joke, seen also as a goofy cartoon. I explained, "Well, then he'd be a complimentary peanut."

 

And the Blind Shall See

Again yesterday I changed the skin here. And I switched the header picture back from the Carl Bloch painting of the angel comforting Jesus in Gethsemane, to his painting of Jesus breaking bread (essentially sharing Communion) with a pair of disciples in the town of Emmaus, late on Easter Sunday. The Gospel of Luke takes up the story in most of Chapter 24; following is my recounting of that story, based on that Gospel and my own visualization.

On Easter Sunday, a fellow named Cleopas was walking to Emmaus, a village seven miles from Jerusalem, with a friend; they were both among Jesus’ hundreds of disciples. They were talking about all the things that had been occurring in Jerusalem. For it was into that very city that Jesus had ridden in seeming triumph, not very long before, with crowds of strangers crying out his name and laying palm branches and fronds on the dusty road before him in a gesture of great honor.

And yet, just days afterward, Jesus had also been betrayed by one of his trusted inner circle, arrested, then was tried and executed just outside the city, suffering a slow and cruel, painful death over long and agonizing hours, while many of the people who recently had cheered him mocked now him and threw curses at him. As was the custom, he’d been entombed close by after the Roman procurator had dismissively allowed some of his followers to pull his body down, once it was certain he was, indeed dead.

Yet now strange word was beginning to circulate that Jesus had risen back up from death – in fact, these two had just been meeting with other followers of Jesus, and a couple women had run in breathless to say they had seen him only minutes earlier. Some followers had gotten up to go and see for themselves – and indeed the tomb had been lying open, but there was no sign of Jesus’ body, or of the guards who had been set to watch the tomb against such an occurrence.

While the two disciples were discussing and debating this whole series of events, incredibly Jesus himself walked up to them from behind, and then matched their pace so he could join them. Yet they didn’t recognize him… perhaps because their last sight of him had been of a beaten, bruised, and bloodied corpse, bearing the scars of his jailors’ and executioners’ tortures, before being laid to rest wrapped in a fine linen cloth donated by a wealthy follower, his body cold and stiffening, and had bid him farewell with bitter tears of utter defeat. Now he was quite strong and healthy, unmarked (except possibly in his wrists, which were covered by his robe’s sleeves), vigorous in stride, and friendly in face and voice.

He asked them, “So what’s this you two are talking about, walking down this road?”

The two he’d greeted stopped in their tracks in astonishment. Cleopas recognized by his accent that this stranger was not from the city they had just left. He was able to speak first, his voice rising in incredulity: “Are you the only visitor to Jerusalem who doesn’t know about what’s been going on there lately?”

Jesus answered them innocently, “What sort of things?”

Cleopas’ friend stammered, “Why, the things that happened to Jesus of Nazareth – the prophet, the man who’d performed mighty deeds before these very eyes” – he gestured at his own, and Cleopas’ – “and who’d said some powerful, holy things to all the people there, as though he were God’s own anointed…which we sincerely believe he was.”

The three men resumed walking. Cleopas said to their new acquaintance, “Our chief priests,” – he spat derisively – “and ‘rulers’, conspired together and handed him over to the Romans, who sentenced him to death and crucified him – like a common criminal!”

His friend explained further, “We were hoping that he would be the one to redeem Israel, freeing us from this bondage to all our sins and to the Romans. And now…” he waved his arm futilely.

Cleopas added, “And now it’s the third day since he was killed. And some women from our group of followers have told us some astonishing news! They had gone to the tomb before dawn just this morning – “

His friend interrupted him. “They wanted to dress and clean the body, since we couldn’t take care of that before the Sabbath fell. This was right after we put him in the tomb that one of the group turned over to us.”

Cleopas resumed: “They came back in great excitement, crying and telling us that they’d had a vision of angels who told them that Jesus was alive! One of them says Jesus himself spoke to her! So some of us – including my young friend here” (he indicated his companion, who nodded eagerly) “went to the tomb to see for themselves. It was just as the women had described – the tomb was empty, but the burial cloths were still there.”

Again his friend interrupted. “It was Simon, son of John – they call him Cephas; he’s the head of the Master’s closest followers – “

Cleopas: “Yes, and the youngest of that group too, John, Zebedee the fisherman’s son, ran up ahead of him to see. But none of them saw Jesus, or the angels.” His and his friend’s eyes had grown wide and their voices has risen as they recounted their tale for this fellow traveler.

The traveler – again, Jesus himself, still unrecognized by them – actually chuckled mirthfully at their tale, shaking his head. He smiled disarmingly, so they did not take offense. And he said, “How foolish you are, all of you! Wasn’t it necessary for the longed-for Messiah to suffer all those things you described, before he could enter into his full glory?”

Still smiling, he gave his head one more shake, and began patiently to lay out for these two all the prophecies of the Messiah, starting with Moses and plowing through the prophets, the psalms, and so on. All these things had declared in advance – centuries in advance – either in word, or in symbol, how the Messiah (which means “anointed”; the Greek word was “christos”) would be born, what his mission was to be, and what his message to the people of God, the Jews, would be as well… and indeed, to all the Gentile world, beyond the Jews themselves.

There were somewhere close to two hundred of these instances in Jewish scripture; so by the time their seemingly rabbinic companion had gone through each of these prophecies and foreshadowings, and explained their meaning and shown these two men their fulfillments… they were already in the outskirts of Emmaus. They turned left onto one of the side streets, but their new friend continued onward, straight ahead, with a gentle smile and a light wave.

“Wait a minute, Rabbi!” Cleopas called out. The stranger stopped.

Cleopas continued, “Sir, stay with us – it’s nearly evening already, and the day’s almost over. It’s getting late.” And their friend turned and smiled, and with a friendly nod followed along behind them into the home of Cleopas’ companion. The two men introduced the wise rabbi to the man’s wife; his little children peeked around the corner from another room, but otherwise stayed out of sight as their mother gestured to a servant to bring out bread and wine and some vegetables to the tired men.

The two turned to the rabbi to bless them and their food before eating. He raised the bread, looked up, and said, “Baruch atah Adonai Elohanu melach ha'olam ha'motzi lehem min Ha'aretz,” or something to that effect in Aramaic; in English it would be: “Blessed are You, Lord God, King of all creation, who bring forth this bread from the earth.” Then he broke the loaf into several pieces, and handed it to them.

At that instant their hearts thudded to a stop; they recognized him. They turned to each other, both with mouths gaping wide open, and then looked back at Jesus – but in that instant, miraculously, he’d vanished. The bread, still broken, though, was on the table before them.

They leapt up with a shout; Cleopas ran outside to see if Jesus had simply left in great haste, but there was no sign of him in either direction. His friend told his wife – who hadn’t witnessed Jesus’ disappearance – that they had to get right back to Jerusalem and tell the other disciples. “That man, that rabbi – that was Jesus! It was!”

Where they had been exhausted by the long day and its events, now they felt recharged, refreshed, full of energy. Laughing and shouting and taking bites of the bread their Messiah had just blessed right in front of them, they practically ran the whole seven miles back to Jerusalem.

The instant of their recognition of Jesus is the subject of that painting; I’m assuming it’s Cleopas on the left.

I don’t know about you, but I think I would have died on the spot… or sprouted wings and flown directly to Jerusalem, bursting right through the roof of the house.

(More reflections on this over the remainder of Lent, and at Easter) Shalom aleikhem.

[The comment below – unrelated – soon appeared; I got in touch with her, and we soon had a good bilingual conversation going. And, years afterward, I don't remember anything about a "comment on Christian Analysis"; I'd like to see what that was about.]

heaintthroughwithmeyet Mar 13, 2007

Hi, sorry I am not here to aomment on your post, BUT… How come you into a german language website/radio? Are you german?

I saw your comment on Christian Analysis just a moment ago and ended up here. I would appreciate a reply

Thanks and Blessings

Andrea

The No-Bull Twofold Path: Got Excitement?

A number of things get me very excited nowadays – though not necessarily the same things as in earlier decades, and even recent years. When I was very young, it might be something simple as a new teddy bear… and I still have one that I got back when I was eight (don't give me a hard time about that). 

Nowadays it might be a packet of stamps for my collection (that rattling noise you hear is my psychology-trained daughter's eyes rolling back in her head). Or it can be the prospect of a great road (or air!) trip, a new book or CD by a favorite artist. 

It can also be the fun of making a new friend, or rediscovering an old one. And sometimes it's been the delightful, heady, positive tension of a growing, mutual attraction with a fine member of the fairer gender… although I've not been actively or seriously pursuing this for some time. (Well, almost not.) 

Given my failure in my last three relationships over the past fifteen years, in fact, I'd come to conclude years ago that it's no longer in my future to share my heart and life with a partner (ultimately wife, of course). Some folks may respond to this conclusion with depression, or bleak despair. For me it's been liberating, a relief, a peace in knowing that I'm free now of that distraction (and vulnerability). Fortunately, though (heh-heh), women are no less attractive than before. 

On my last full-week monastic retreat, back in 2001, this awareness was somewhere lost in the very back of my mind and soul as I focused myself fully on the Spirit. And… through some casual interactions and conversation, I found myself powerfully attracted to a woman who worked there. This was extremely distracting, and in fact at one point it took the whole of my willpower not to put my arms around her once when I stepped past her while we were alone in one of the monastery's guest rooms. And I certainly felt a very strong current from her that this attraction was very mutual 

She was also married. 

Well, this certainly gave me something more intense to pray about… oh, yes. And what I came to draw out of this experience, by the time the week was over (among other experiences having nothing to do with that), was not that this woman had been put there to tempt me (and I passed the test!), but that I needed very much to be told that at my feet were still two paths: that I could still choose between a professed/avowed religious life… or another marriage. The Lord is kind and merciful. 

Two years later I was dating again… but my stupidity caused that one to fly apart in just a few months. Nonetheless, I remain deeply appreciative of the Lord for the lesson he'd given me a couple years before that – yet I think I'd rather not bring pain to another woman's heart. Thus, since then, I've been making my steps almost exclusively along that monastic/clergy path. Here there is peace; only in God is my soul truly at rest. Sometimes I even remember this, too. 

Yet… I do find myself looking back; at this point, also, it is not a bad thing. Every so often I even skim the big city paper's personal ads, or take a look at Craig's List (but some of those ads… whoo; too much!!). So I know this part of my heart hasn't atrophied, and interest remains. But I think that until something more spectacular happens to me, such as a brave and determined woman's giant shepherd's crook yanks me onto the relationship-stage, I'll continue narrowing down my worldly life, simplifying, and clearing the path to become one of those “Boys in the Hood”. We'll see, I suppose… and I concede that God has an incredible sense of humor. 

This doesn't mean I can't be, or won't be, swept off my feet. But I'm seeking it less and less. Over time all of womanhood will thank me, I'm sure, and heave their own collective sigh of relief. 

This evening on EWTN, Father Groeschel and a pair of guest-priests were discussing vocations to the priesthood. And I found myself getting excited at this, especially when the priests briefly touched on the idea of late-in-life religious vocations. As part of this television program, Father takes phone calls. So I called in, and got as far as the phone-screener (I assume one of the monks), though it turned out I was not put on the air. That's okay; I wasn't looking to be beamed around the world. Rather, I wanted to ask more about how the church, and individual seminaries and monasteries, work with men who are discerning one of these late vocations. 

The phone-screener pointed me to the website www.ReligiousLife.com, which helps people asking the same questions I am. So I swung by the site… and my excite-o-meter went up even higher as I skimmed around briefly. 

More on that site later as I explore it… and on other things that may come up over time. For now I know I can straddle, if not quite stride, both paths – marriage and a religious vocation – but they quickly and reasonably diverge quite sharply early on (since I'm not of the Eastern Churches); and trying to walk both those paths has the walker doing a very painful, and quickly impossible, split… and I'm not as limber as I once was, apart from still bending over backwards for my daughters. 

More later. Perhaps it comes across, even, that I'm still torn. And perhaps I am. At least this life isn't boring!

 

Let's Race: Black and Right

I've been catching up on (or burying myself more deeply in) emails, the past couple days, and it's getting late this evening, with the prospect of an hour lost overnight due to Daylight-Saving Time.

In line at the bulk-goods store this afternoon, I saw near the register a Caucasian man with an affectionate, African-American wife (both in their forties-plus) on his arm, and found myself smiling widely at the sight. I am delighted to see dating and marrying across nonsensical boundaries (and wonder at times why white man + black woman is so much rarer a sight than black man + white woman… and then wonder further why this should matter).

I've not been honored to date a woman of color, and expect now not to have the opportunity. The most I can claim in that specific regard is having been stood up for a date some twenty years ago by a short, dark, svelte friend (still a sweet friend afterward, too) who looked like a slightly-reduced-size young Whitney Houston on one of her early albums. Picture her with straighter hair, bigger smile, and a – howl! – snug black leather skirt. Whew !! I still have a couple photos of her, but don't have her permission to post them here. Sorry, guys (and gals).

I have had the delight, though, at least to date two different German women (one of whom, I admit, still owns a piece of my heart), and find I can still be drawn by an accent on a woman, especially Slavic or German. Thus I understand the allure between "us" and "them" – whomever you put under those headers.

So when that man in the store looked back at me, grinning, he found me already smiling back. I hope I wasn't the only one. And I pray for the day when no one notices anymore.

More on race relations in other posts – e.g., I had an African American friend who knew I hate racism, so he'd visit me in my store (way back in my retail days) and tell me "black" jokes, and walk back out, laughing at my discomfiture. (Do you know any good white jokes?) Aargh!!

 

Steal My Stuff: A Boy and His Cornelius

Incredible, that it was just about twenty years ago.

Back at the beginning of 1988, a touch more naïve than I am now, I read a brief article in a bookstore's newsletter, where in an interview a published author advised aspiring writers to write at least a page a day, no matter what.

I knew I was up to that challenge. And come to think of it, with my opening up this-here blog, I'm doing just that now – missed almost no days, although the quality of my output remains questionable. I mentioned in an email/comment to one of my recent commenters that one of several objectives to this blog is simply to continue practicing the craft. It can't hurt; my income doesn't depend on it; and not enough people read it to wreck any later good reputation I may actually scrape together… before diving head-first into the monastery/seminary, that is.

Anyway, back in January of '88 I decided to take that writer's challenge, and for a month or so, just about every evening after work I kicked out a page or two of widely varying copy – some of it not so bad. Following is one of those pieces; it's so far the only bit of fiction I've set in the Roman empire, even though I really like that era of history.

I suppose you can steal this stuff if you'd like. I found myself quickly growing fond of that adolescent's goat Cornelius (there's a Latin pun in his name), but if you can do more with him than I started out with (and never finished or even touched again since), have at it – Steal My Stuff!

I grabbed him by one of his horns as the soldiers thundered past. I watched them go; there was some strange mixture of fear and awe holding me very still. I had felt this before only in climbing a mountain, once: walking through the trees, I found the ground ended a short distance away, and in its place… open air, a great chasm I had stumbled upon and almost into. Clutching a thick branch, I looked over the broad expanse until my heart slowed own. A beautiful view… and so dangerous to the unanticipating foot. Never climb a mountain alone.

The soldiers were able horsemen, a skill I would always envy. While I could barely hang on while hoping the beast not jump into a lake, here these men rode in full battle-gear: armored vests on their muscled bodies, leather breeches protecting their legs from riding-chafe, swords unseen but surely sheathed at the other side, shield and spears slung within easy reach – All this made for clatter that was amplified to a nearly thunderous din by the horses' galloping hooves; no wonder Cornelius here was skittish. [marginal note: forgot helmets!]

At last the company had passed over the Martus' hill. I had counted sixty, riding two abreast. Wherever they were headed, there must be something serious; Roman cavalry almost never practiced maneuvers and formations in this farm-country.

I cuffed Cornelius and raced him back to the barn, where I tied him before rushing into the house. "Mother! Soldiers! They – " I paused to catch my breath. "Sixty or more of them, headed toward Stolecia – "

Mother brushed her hands off onto her apron, then hurried out the door. The dust-cloud had already settled, though the thud of hoofs echoed still in my head." Going east, you said?" Mother asked. "That must be part of the new Phollitto garrison."

"The what? How long has the army had a camp in Phollitto?"

"It's not in Phollitto," she corrected, as we turned back into the kitchen. "They're stationed just outside town; it looks as though they'll be camped there a good while yet too. Alicia Botani says they're very experienced men; no cadets among them. She tells me they're quite friendly, too, not like some of your veterans."

I didn't know what to make of this, since it was all news to me. But I was feeling thrilled by the thought of an entire castrum within a day's walk of home.

I loaded the oven before I spoke further. Once the fire was going well, I ventured, "I wonder if they'll be taking any recruits."

"Get on now! Those aren't recruiters, or horsemen-trainers! They're a fighting garrison; heaven knows this place hasn't had its share of protection – you heard about the German bands that have been hitting the towns up in the hills! My guess is that somebody with a lot of gold to distribute was getting nervous at all the rumors going 'round, about raiders. Or invaders."

"Mother, if they're going to stay a while, they will be looking for recruits! Or at least some older boys to help the soldiers in camp – "

"Then they'll hardly be in need of your help! Gods preserve us, boy; you don't do your chores here… why should you be able to sweep up horsesh!t for soldiers?"

She smiled to lighten her words, and clasped my arm. "You're a good son, and a mother could hardly ask for better. But you're more suited to farm work than shield-polishing; I don't see any of your uncle Antonios in you, thank the stars. No, man's made to till the earth, not go a-warring in barbarian countries…"

She rambled on like that, in and out of my hearing, while I brought in more wood and water. While she fixed dinner for all of us, I fed the animals and finished cleaning out their stalls, which would have been done long since, had I not been chasing that goat over half this province.

My mind was boiling! If those horsemen had been sent to protect some nobles as Mother suspected, then someone high up in the military ranks must have reason to suspect an attack on the town, or its farmlands. No, most likely it was a nervous landowner, afraid of exaggerated stories.

Suddenly I thought of Heracles. I had to go see him sometime soon! Why, if anything was up, he might be in on it – whether bribery of a general or senator, or even outfitting the garrison himself. I could picture his wicked grin while he sat pinching the soldiers' women, or pounding a wine-mug at an officers' table. That lovable scoundrel might possibly sleep a couple officers over in his own home! What a time to drop in unannounced –

Cornelius giggled at me as I entered his stall, and butted at me playfully. I rubbed him between his horns. "You troublemaker – I spend more time tracking you down or fixing your stall than doing anything I’m supposed to do! Now, if you can just stay out of mischief a couple days while I drop in on Heracles Divinus, I might just get to introduce myself to a few officers. By the teeth of Mars, do I want to get out and see the rest of the Empire! Even just to Rome, to the shops and temples and market!"

The crazy goat decided to help me out with another turd; I shoveled it out of the stall and looked at him. "When are you going to learn how to just sh!t in a hole like everybody else? Hell, you already sh!t for five; the rest of us could take off a week and nobody'd notice."

[ (The fragment ends here.) Followup, almost ten years (!) since I originally posted the above: Sorry, folks – I withdraw the offer to "Steal My Stuff!" on this piece. Daughter Two nudged me into rewriting a piece I'd submitted for credit in college [mumble] years ago… and it's been shaping up into a nice, hefty novel – and I'm going to fold this fragment into it. Not to sweat, though, loyal reader or two – I have lots more lousy output you're welcome to…]

Peep! The Fine Art of Marshmallow-Flinging

Wandering a grocery store over the weekend, looking for candy for my sweet-toothed coworkers, I spotted the pre-Easter sick goodie: the almighty peep. This is a thick, fluffy, just-about-all-sugar, chick-shaped marshmallow treat; lately they come in a whole array of pastel colors, and not just the original pale yellow.

Seeing these teeth-rotters, I grinned in memory of a few springs and summers ago, with Daughter Two.

In my childhood, back in elementary school, our class (and/or pack of cub scouts) went camping up in mountainous central Pennsylvania more than once. There I quickly got the hang of marshmallow-roasting, where if you patiently turn your stick (with impaled marshmallow(s) on the end) just the right way, at just the right distance from the flames, you get something beautifully light caramel-brown on the outside, and hot and gooey on the inside. However, too far from the fire, and you could wait most of the night to roast your 'mallow; too close, and the thing would catch fire and incinerate.

But a couple of us impatient boys found another method: let the thing catch fire and burn all the way around, then blow it out once the entire outside was a thick, black, scorched skin. Then, stepping back, and with just the right flick of shoulder and wrist, you could cast off that skin into the woods, and be left with nothing but ooey-gooey, tasty melted white marshmallow on the end of your stick. Eat and enjoy!

Over the years since, the image of hot, hard-flung marshmallow-skins flying off into the forest to strike a distant trunk with a loud splat… has kept me giggling. Some of our flings would catch an unwary scout or classmate (or teacher) doing nature-study outside the campfire-ring; sometimes this wasn't always accidental, I think. Or the entire marshmallow would depart the stick and be lost in the woods, leaving little or no remnant on the bare stick.

So one summer afternoon several years ago, having feasted on hot dogs and chicken and cobbed corn and burgers roasted up carcinogenically on our tiny grill, I showed this neat trick to my younger daughter. In no time, we were having a great time flinging black-crisped skins out into the back yard and over the fence, though some landed on our fence (and the neighbors'), draped over the wood like an embarrassingly sick BM left by a large, ill bird.

Sometimes she wanted to do this when the grill wasn't fired up, and I'd have to turn her down (to both our disappointment). But then I considered… how would this work in the microwave? So we took a dinner plate and laid a large marshmallow in the middle, and set the microwave at high power for maybe thirty seconds.

The thing swelled up as large as an apple.

It was very hot and soft outside, maybe a little crisp on the outside, with a nice, thick, crunchy layer on the bottom. And tasty! So many days afterward when she was visiting, she would line a large dinner plate with several concentric rings of large (and occasionally small) marshmallows, and fire 'em up, and munch away while we watched a movie, or she commandeered my computer.

It was inevitable that she'd try this out on a peep one Spring day, and she did. So the bird would swell up, too, to four or five times its original size – maybe topple if stood up straight, but still wonderful (to her) to eat. And so beautifully bizarre that I think it may be one of the last of my memories to evaporate, in a few more years... long after I can verbalize why I'm grinning and giggling.