Strawberries and honeysuckle

I woke up to find a wonderful addition to my breakfast waiting for me on the kitchen counter. Larry, who's out filling bird feeders, walking Scooter (they take a morning constitutional, out to the marsh and back, then yard rounds), and tending the gardens long before I'm even conscious, had harvested our first strawberries for me.

It's a tiny berry patch. That's the whole patch right there. It won't yield enough for a pie, won't accumulate for cereal topping. The number edible at any one time would even get lost in a yogurt cup.

So there was nothing to do but .... eat them. Bite into a berry, no ups, no extras, and get a delicious bit of flavor that I would have missed if I'd mixed them into something.

This made me think about my honeysuckle experiment. I was about 8 or 9. All us south'n kids knew how to pick a honeysuckle blossom off its stem, pull the stamen out which raked out a tiny drop of nectar, and catch that extreme sweetness on our tongues.

I'm a kid. I'm thinking, Wow! I bet a whole spoonful of this would be even better than my standard for gourmet flavor - a Nehi Grape soda.

I got a spoon and proceeded to spend, God knows, maybe 20-30 minutes accumulating the tiny drops of nectar in it. By the time I was fed up with this slow process, the bowl of the spoon was only about half full, but close enough. I'd get a sizeable sample of nectar. I gulped it. Horrors. The cloyingly sweet, slightly musty flavor nearly gagged me. It wasn't quite as bad as Creomulsion For Children, but it was bad enough.

Gorging just doesn't work at all for some things - they need to be tasted in tiny exquisite amounts. Others, like fresh-picked berries, would be fine by the bowlful, but can be little marvels one unembellished berry at a time.

Arithmancy 101

When I started this blog I didn't intend a real focus, just whatever I felt like yammering about. But I did figure a theme that would pop up now and again is how I juggle being a Christian and a liberal. Not a problem, till you get to St. Paul. Paul has been evoked to keep women out of the priesthood, to say slavery isn't so bad, to call gay relationships an abomination. He's not the only, or the original, source of any of this but mention his name and lots of people understandably look daggers at you.

And that meant at some point explaining why I think St. Paul is neither God-appointed, nor Satan spawned. A half-done version has been sitting here in my word processor, inspired by a neat history book I found and wanted to share. Then the subject came up elsewhere, so maybe its time to dust this off.

I wondered for a long time why exactly we're supposed to treat Paul's words as The Word of God. There are plenty of sources on the formation of the New Testament canon, but I ran into some clues by accident, in this nifty little book that I read for a whole different reason, i.e., that I like book stuff.



BOOKS AND READERS IN THE EARLY CHURCH: A HISTORY OF EARLY CHRISTIAN TEXTS. HARRY Y GAMBLE. YALE U. Pr. 1995. (All quotes are from it, unless otherwise indicated.)

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Nascent Christianity was a scattered and, in the Roman empire, an outlaw movement.  So.  How do you keep a group not only going, but on the straight-and-narrow? Pressure and influence are comin' at it from all sides. Authorities who want to wipe it out. Local gods. The general tendency for any belief system to evolve and fashion new interpretations and rituals. You have to train it like a vine.

Today you'd keep your movement in-touch and on-message by internet and cell phones. In the 1st-to- 3rd centuries it was done with writing.

These numerous and far-flung Christian congregations, large and small, nevertheless retained a sharp awareness of their collective identity as the ecclesia katholike and affirmed their mutual relations through frequent communication.

Till the second century CE, the book as we know it barely existed. A "book" was a scroll. Cumbersome, single-sided, you needed both hands to hold it, you had to rewind afterwards (!) and forget leafing back to a previous passage if you needed it. It's not real hard to see why the codex --the bound pile of leaves between covers, essentially the book as we know it -- took over.

And early Christianity had a lot to do with that. Codices had been used for books before, but hadn't caught on much, and were primarily a way to make early blank books for people to take their own notes in. Then the Christian movement came along.

The short version is that their literature needed to be easily portable, easy to reference, and easily hidden. You could get more text in the same space using a codex than using a scroll. If nothing else, you used both sides. You could also more easily flip to whatever passage dealt with a specific question.

Enter Paul. Advantage number one: he was one of the very earliest to write to far-flung congregations and guide them.

Advantage two: He struck exactly the right note:

One of the most urgent tasks of the Christian movement in its infancy was to support its convictions by showing their consistency with Jewish scriptures. ... Proper interpretation of scripture was...vital to their identity and agency as "the true Israel."... Paul frequently resorts to Jewish scripture in writing to Gentile Christian congregations.

Advantage three: He was considered just as "apostolic" as the Twelve. Eusebius says as much (Church History 3:24, written before 325 CE).

By Paul's self-proclamation, he equated his experience on the road to Damascus as delegation by God of the same level of authority that the Twelve had been given. His --to church authorities-- unimpeachable personal conduct and theology supported this. But another little factor plays in here.

Advantage four: The Mystical Number Seven

There is an old theory, mentioned in a number of ancient Christian sources, that the apostle had written to seven churches and that therefore, because the number seven symbolized totality or universality, Paul had addressed the church at large.

(This would have been an early ten-letter collection [1], some of which were attributed to Paul at the time but were later disproved.)

If the edition had consisted of a group of codices or scrolls, even so small a group as two, it could not have signified Paul's catholic relevance, for nothing would prevent the individual codices or scrolls from being taken separately and the sevenfold disposition of the letters thus being obscured or lost. ... The very nature of this edition therefore required its presentation as a physical unit, a single book.

This reverence for the number seven was pretty powerful stuff to the ancient world mentality. Heck, we're not over it yet. That Paul had been moved to address all of Christiankind only enhanced his reputation as one chosen, set apart.

Paul's Greatest Hits collection was too big for one scroll. Its total length would have been at least double a useable size, and triple the size of an average scroll.

It was almost certainly passed around instead as a codex, a non-traditional format at the time, but one that allowed the collection to maintain that mystical seven-based integrity by existing in one volume. There's evidence -- though no surviving full copies -- that a single-volume "seven churches" edition of his letters was a familiar book by the early 2nd century when the pseudonymous writer of II Peter proclaimed Paul's apostolic status in 3:15-16.

Glimpsing what's behind the canonization of Paul's work actually helps me like the guy better than most liberals probably do.  The road to hell may be paved with good intentions, but we pretty much all do the best we can, and Paul felt pressured.  He believed the second coming was imminent, and -- now we're into my opinion here -- that changing societal or gender roles was pointless.   Get the message out, people, we do not have time to quibble about who teaches and who does the cooking when society is about to end anyway.   While he tells one community not to allow women any authority, he acknowledges woman deacons in others (Romans 16, and possibly 1Timothy 3).

What does it add up to? To me it makes sense as an instruction to not waste time sweeping a house that's about to burn down.  However things are, leave them be, and put the effort into the real job.

His condemnation of same-sex relationships stems, I think, from the idea that God creates things to operate exactly One Correct Way, and that any small population that statistically diverges is "unnatural" and has to be the work of Satan. On this I have no trouble dismissing Paul without despising him for it.

Sometimes letting daylight fall on and dissolve the magic is a very good thing. Till we do, the choices falsely appear to be: take his words as those of God Himself ... or dismiss him as a power-mad fraud. Neither is necessary.


[1] Corinthians (1 & 2); Romans; Ephesians; Thessalonians (1 & 2); Galatians; Phillipians; Colossians & Philemon (grouped together).

High drama, 1928

A hazard of selling books is that you want to keep so many of them. I can't sell this! It was one of those delightful junk-shop finds: a 1928 book of sample letters to help you write your way through absolutely any personal or professional crisis.

Sure, it tells you all the proper forms. And some situations are awkward, so guidance in what to say is nice to have. For example, how do you offer condolences to a friend who's suffered catastrophic monetary loss?

Although the blow has been a severe one, there is the great consolation in knowing that your conduct has gained the ungrudging praise of everyone.

But it goes much further. The book must have been a boon to people who just have no clue how to express themselves: what to say in a love letter to your fiancée overseas enclosing a Christmas present; what to say in a casual chatty letter to your daughter who's away at boarding school:

My dearest Mabel,
....I was so glad to get your letter yesterday and to hear that you are quite well. Aunt Jane was here yesterday and asked after you very kindly. She says they are all going to Montreal for August. How is Elsie Fielding? Her mother says she is thinking of going to Vassar when she leaves. I suppose she is very clever. Do you find your clothes lasting well?

You get full-text examples, with various possible replies from yes to no to maybe, and they add up to series of wonderful little soap operae: I find myself getting involved with these people. I'm very happy for Robert J. Smith, who passed his exam with flying colors. His friend Edward Green congratulates him, Robert writes Ed back to say thanks and mention how nervous he was, and Robert's mother is very proud.

There's something for everybody on every side of a transaction: How to solicit for a charity:

Dear Mrs. Mandell,
....As you are no doubt aware, the distress in this neighborhood is becoming very intense, and I have determined to make a special appeal to my parishioners in order to raise a fund to buy blankets and coal and food for the poorest of the poor. I should feel most thankful for any contribution, either of money or of the articles themselves. You can have no idea of the terrible state of poverty that I find on all hands. Many men are out of work and all this falls bitterly hard on the wives and children.

How to say yes:

Dear Mr. Fairchild,
....I enclose herewith a check for $5.00 which I earnestly hope may be of some help. It is indeed a distressing state of affairs. I hear on all hands the great need of the laboring people due to the lack of work and I am glad to do my bit.

How to beg off - man, this is a bit chilly:

Dear Mr. Fairchild,
....I have read your letter with great pain. It is indeed a terrible state of affairs, but it is my firm conviction that indiscriminate giving is the worst possible thing for the poor. The only real cure is to make certain of the continuity of employment. I would gladly subscribe to any scheme to bring that about. In the present condition of the labor market I feel sure that it would be useless to do anything that will merely temporarily alleviate and not definitely eradicate poverty.
...............Yours very truly
.....................Marion Mandell

Now here's a situation where proper wording is vital: "Letter of proposal from a gentleman to a young lady he has met on only a few occasions."
(I worry about Paul and Mabel. Really, I do):

Dear Miss Lucey,
....I fear this letter will surprise you very much but I trust that the genuineness of my feelings will excuse me in your eyes. I first met you at Viola's dance in April and since then I have seen and talked to you on three separate occasions only. But the impression you first created in my mind was so powerful that I have thought of nothing else since then. Each time I have seen you since I have been more and more assured that you, and you alone, are able to give me that happiness which is every man's goal. I will not beat around the bush any more but will ask you straight out--will you marry me?
.....I implore you to think it over well. I cannot explain in writing how passionately I love you and with what joy I would dedicate my whole life to you.
....Although not rich I am comfortable situated and quite in a position to support a wife. I want to come in person and urge my suit and await therefore with profoundest anxiety an answer to this letter.
................Yours devotedly,
.....................Paul Carlson

This sample answer is purportedly a "yes":

Dear Mr. Carlson,
....I hardly know how to answer your letter. It is quite true that we have met very seldom but I already feel as if I had known you for years. I will not say any more now but come around at eight o'clock tonight and you shall have your answer.
...............In haste,
.................Mabel Lucey

Here's how to nix the idea but leave some hope:

Dear Mr. Carlson,
....I need hardly mention that your letter came as a complete surprise to me. Al though I realize the genuineness of your sentiments and feel flattered that they should be directed toward me, I must tell you at once, both for your sake and mine, that all such ideas are quite out of the question. I do not believe in love at first sight and certainly would not trust my happiness to one whom I know so slightly. Forgive me if I appear to speak too plainly but I am convinced that it is the right thing to do. Such an acquaintance as I have with you has been a pleasure to me and I hope we may see more of one another. As for love it is really idle to talk about it.
....Please let us remain friends.
...........Yours always sincerely,
................Mabel Lucey

Then again, despite telling him how to propose, the author of Supreme Letter Writer is also fine with telling the lady how to write an "Angry reply":

Sir:
....I have read your letter with the utmost astonishment. I consider it a gross impertinence. Please do not address me again either in public or by correspondence. You have greatly misjudged me if you consider I will tolerate such liberties. I would have handed your letter to my father to answer if it had not been for the trouble and annoyance it would have caused but if you address me in any way again I shall not hesitate to lay the matter before my parents.
.......Yours truly,
..........M. Lucey

And don't forget that you guys out there must make a lifetime commitment to a woman before you seek permission from her father to "pay her attentions" at all:

Dear Mr. Shaw,
....I am writing about a delicate matter because I feel it is the honorable course to pursue. It is this: I want your permission to pay attentions to your daughter Peggy. I have known your family now for over six months and from the very first I felt sure that Miss Shaw was the only girl I could ever love.

Favorable reply from dad:

Dear Mr. Bently,
....I am in receipt of your letter of the twenty-first, for which I thank you. I consider that you have behaved in an honourable and straightforward manner. Could you come round to my office in Ross Street at five o'clock tomorrow and talk this matter over. If, as I have no doubt will be the case, you can supply me with satisfactory information about your position and prospects, my wife and I shall have no objections to your paying suit to our daughter.

(Just wait everybody! 1929 is coming!)

And if you don't know how you feel about a man's proposal - have Mom tell you!

Dearest Mother,
.......I told him that I could not give him any definite answer then and that I must think it over. I have known him only a short time, and yet I seem to know him so intimately. You will ask me, what are my feelings toward him. Well, that is just what I find it so hard to know. I think I care for him very much but he is so different from anyone else I have ever seen that I sometimes mistrust myself and imagine it may be only the effect of his delightful manner. Dearest mother, what answer should I give him? I resolved I would lay it all before you.
........With fond love
...........from your affectionate daughter
...............Sally

Mom actually seems to be OK with this, though she diplomatically throws in a caution:

My darling Sally,
....Take a few days to think it over but if you are certain that it will be for your happiness do not hesitate to accept him. Remember, dear little daughter, that marriage is either the greatest blessing or the greatest curse on earth.
.......Ever your devoted mother
............Mabel Hill

Then again, if the kid has to ask, she shouldn't do it:

.....I am convinced that you will be doing the wisest thing if you refuse him. If he is still resolved to win you, this will not definitely retard him and with a further knowledge of one another you will understand your own hearts better.
............With deepest love
................Your devoted mother

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Middle-aged people, of course, are not troubled by such passions. Or they aren't supposed to let on, even when proposing:

Dear Mrs. Ryder,
....I venture to address myself to you in the following manner because I know you will not misunderstand what I am going to say.
....You and I have both known the joys and sorrows of matrimony. We have both known many years of happiness and we have both lost the partners of our lives. And now in our middle age we are both living lonely lives, with nothing to look forward to but lonely old age. Is it not possible that this may be remedied?
.........Believe me, dear Mrs. Ryder,
.............Your sincere friend
....................Martin Chenney

Hey, if you can't get her interested by other means - depress her!

And in this sample acceptance, is there the subtle subtext of "OK, I'll darn your socks but you're not gonna get any"?

Dear Mr. Chenney,
....I will answer your letter quite frankly. I believe that it would be for our mutual happiness to marry. It would be absurd to pretend that we can look upon it with the same rapture as young people do but I sincerely think that we could be a help and comfort to one another.
........Yours very cordially,
..............Olive Ryder

Last but not least, the kind of letter I'm so very glad my boss can't send me, because I'm self-employed:

Dear Mr. Mason:
....Although I have spoken to you several times about your lax attention to your duties, I have been unable to notice any improvement in your conduct. I have therefore come to the conclusion that I must ask you to leave my service.

Well then, I guess I should get back to work...

Gotcha!

A mimosa tree stands right outside my office window. I get the totally cool experience of having hummingbirds hover 2-3 times a day, a few inches from my foot, with 3 layers of window -- glass, screen, shutter -- between us.

Considering the frequency of these visits, you would think a picture would be easy to get. But mimosa doesn't turn them on enough for them to linger and allow me to turn on the camera,

persuade a cat to get his head outta the blasted way (a much better hummer shot got blocked here by dear Downy),

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and snap. So getting that top shot at all was a joy!

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A problem

Awhile ago my friend Dann posted a blog entry, which in turn referred us to this blog by Michael Yon. It's a long entry and has some interesting stuff and some great photos. But what Dann was understandably disturbed by -- as was I -- was this quote:

The official reported that on a couple of occasions in Baqubah, al Qaeda invited to lunch families they wanted to convert to their way of thinking. In each instance, the family had a boy, he said, who was about 11 years old. As LT David Wallach interpreted the man’s words, I saw Wallach go blank and silent. He stopped interpreting for a moment. I asked Wallach, “What did he say?” Wallach said that at these luncheons, the families were sat down to eat. And then their boy was brought in with his mouth stuffed. The boy had been baked. Al Qaeda served the boy to his family.

This kind of thing is enough to send a cold chill down anyone's back. And from what we all know of al Qaeda, they're twisted enough in their thinking to use any means to achieve an end.
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But it didn't quite make sense to me. Everything I read about any militant Islamist organization shows them using much more logical tools to gain the trust and participation of the people. They hand out money. They move in where there's war or disaster and turn people against the West with acts of charity that make them beloved and protected as they spread their tentacles through the populus. Do they intimidate or do they recruit? Probably both.

You can't prove a negative. Did it happen? Does it happen? I asked my Israeli friend.

This is a woman who is very politically active. She's a political writer, steeped in news and blog sources, reads all sides. And she deeply loves her country. Like all Israeli citizens, she served in the INF, and her son does now. During last summer's war with Lebanon, she was near the border helping the citrus harvest in the kibbutz in which she was raised. Her husband was reactivated to INF duty and she spent the war in a bomb shelter wondering if he and their son would come home. Neither she, nor any Israeli, will have any liking for militant anti-Israel Islam. She says this and I offer it to you:

Yes, this is a very common regional rumour, and appears from time to time. I personally heard it first about the Syrians back in 1968. Here is an account of it from a right wing [emphasis mine] newspaper:

http://wnd.com/news/article.asp?ARTICLE_ID=56643 It's obviously apocryphal, there is no substantiation of it and it is a very common rumour, as I said. It has appeared from time to time in many situations, from the Inquisition onwards and probably before that. There is a sociological issue, or button, that is pushed whenever cannabalism is mentioned and it is very common to accuse one's enemies of it to demonise them. It's done by most cultures who want to de-humanise their opposition. It has a parallel in the "Jews use the blood of Christian Children to make matzoh" slander common in Poland and other eastern european nations in the 16-20th centuries, also.

It is not true - the story your friend and World Net Daily quoted - and you will notice there is no sourcing, no direct witnesses, etc., so it has all the earmarks of an urban legend. You will not find this story sourced in any legitimate press (and if there was a shred of evidence of it's veracity, believe me, there are a million Fox reporters who would be slavering to report it, as well as Murdoch rags).

One of the tough writing days

I started writing stories as a little kid. Poems too. People asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. "A writer!" I'd pipe, like a true naif who had no idea what she was getting into.

I should be struggling with Chapter Three right now, but after a few hours of the misery (Some days suck), I'm going to knock off for the day and instead write about a mentor.

I owe a lot of people who've inspired my writing efforts. But this is going to be about my babysitter and my friend. Barbara.

That's her, the 18-year-old babe taking care of me and my brother, circa 1962. I'm the 8-year-old Charm School valedictorian there in the foreground.

My dad was an orthopedic surgeon, and performed knee surgery on Barbara when she was 16. My folks wanted a Mother's Helper to keep us watched and un-drowned at the beach, and Barbara came into our lives. Often through the years she babysat us.

God how I wanted to be Barbara! She was pretty and funny and smart. She had a boyfriend, and smoked, and wore Tabu talcum powder. And she could talk me through any pre-teen, or teenage, bout of angst. Social crap. Anxiety about what a new school would demand from me. When my parents sensed something bothering me, they'd invite Barbara over for the evening. Some dinner ingredient was always missing. She'd volunteer to make a grocery store run, ask me along and, as we drove to the A&P, casually bring up whatever my parents had surmised that I was worried about.
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She married the longtime boyfriend when I was in ninth grade and their first child was born a year later. Then she and her husband moved, and we saw them infrequently. It was some time before we had another long talk. In fact, it was 2005.

Meantime she fought, and beat, breast cancer in around 1994. Her husband left. She returned to school and became a psychologist. In summer 2004 we got word that she had advanced ovarian cancer and had five months to live.

So I was amazed when the phone rang about a year later and Barbara was on the other end of the line, a voice I recognized instantly, even after 15 years. No, she didn't make it. M.D. Anderson cancer center in Houston, which she praised to the skies, gave her an extra year, and a quality one, a year of nature hikes and gardening. And one last talk with me.

We stayed on the phone for over an hour. She asked me if I still wrote.

"Bleah, yeah, I started a novel years ago. I got about half of it written, but I dropped it."

"Why?"

I had to laugh at myself: "Because I wrote all the fun easy parts and now the only thing left is dreary work!"

"You can't look at it that way. You come to it with this negative feeling about it, of course you'll never do it. Instead just sit down and start writing. Don't think of it as the dull hard work, just see what flows."

I know it was because she was so sick that I wanted to do it, more for her than for myself. I gave it a couple more fits of attention.

In winter, it became my own again. A new idea occurred to me and it engaged me as much as the old plot points I'd put in place years before. I planted myself in the chair and made it a daily task.

Barbara got to meet and spend time with her first grandchild. She talked to my parents on the phone too, told them a funny anecdote about hiking in a wild area around Houston and a nice dog following her home. She could laugh and get joy out of any day God gave her. The time came though, when she made the decision to quit chemo. She entered a hospice after Christmas 2005, and died in January 2006.

I'm still not past it. It was stupid and wrong. By the time I talked with her she was past the anger over her original doctor's negligence. I'm not. But there it is.

I finished my first draft in April 2007. It bites in a lot of ways, and my rewrite journey makes me grind my teeth, but completing a draft was a milestone. Eventually it will be what I want it to be. OK, probably never, but eventually I'll feel ready to send it out there to sink or swim. Don't hold your breath.

But there will be 3 dedicatees, and Barbara will be one.

Graymatter Chronicle now up

Man, that turned out a lot longer than I meant for it to -- but Graymatter is not a cat who can be described briefly!

It's the best of times...it's the worst of times. It's life with Graymatter.

Charles Lane has died at ...102!

So Larry and I have just finished dinner, a dvd and a discussion of the rare moments in TV that blew our minds, and I log on and see that Charles Lane has died.

Who?

Here he is in It's a Wonderful Life.

He played Homer Bedloe as a semi-regular on Petticoat Junction. He had regular roles in 5 TV series between 1954 and 1975, including the 1962-3 mutation of The Lucy Show. On Bewitched he guested 5 times as 5 different characters within about a 2-year period. Don't be impressed, I didn't recall all this. I checked imdb and Brooks & Martin's Complete Directory to Prime Time Network and Cable TV Shows. Librarians don't really store a lot of information, they just know where to find it.
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This is the resume of a good reliable portrayer of stock characters. But he was also talented as all get-out, and sometimes got to show what he could really do. I'm not the only one who noticed. Here's somebody else's homage to another of his performances, a small role that made a big impression.
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It was in an episode of St. Elsewhere, in 1987, that he gave a performance that took my breath away..

It's in the imdb. It's called "Weigh In, Way Out." What imdb doesn't tell you was that this was one of the show's unconventional artsy episodes, and one of the best.

In three subplots. the episode takes on three stages of life. There's a maternity ward story, a mid-life story and an old man's death. But the episode didn't use normal short scenes, constantly shifting among them. It gave each subplot long long stretches on camera. And, particularly effective in Lane's segment, it gave actors lengthy real-time scenes, all in one take.

Lane, age 82 at the time, played a man having a "good death" full of years and scrolling in his mind through his life. Lane had to memorize and speak a long passage, increasingly incoherent, moving out of this life and slipping into the next. Such a stream-of-consciousness is extremely hard to memorize, to me anyway, much less to perform with heartaching plausibility. I still remember sitting there as the credits rolled, feeling an excitement that came from having a not-so-common glimpse of true excellence. Lane wasn't all that was good about it. The writing, the direction, it all came together to say something beautiful about the human experience. Maybe I was unduly impressed with Lane's performance merely because of his age-- but no, it was that good.
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One of the commenters in a TV site (I think it was Jump the Shark) said she checked after she watched it, to see if Lane had really died.

Not even close! 8~)

That performance has stayed with me for 20 years, and goes into my "unforgettable" file. Great fictional TV doesn't change the world, but it gave me a glimpse of what's good about humanity. I need that sometimes.
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Bon voyage Mr. Lane.

Meanwhile - a beautiful song

During a YouTube binge I ran across this tribute to Barbara Stanwyck, set to a Cowboy Junkies song I never heard before. It amazed me. This describes exquisitely the kind of mountain sanctuary Larry and I dream to have someday.

Conquering technology

Another in my list of things other people have probably known for years, but that I just figured out is: some players won't play a translucent CD. Specifically, this computer's disc drive can't see the thing.

NO DISC IN DRIVE

STOP CLICKING RETRY, YOU IDIOT

NO DISC IN DRIVE, AM I TALKING TO MYSELF HERE?

Presumably the light beam goes through instead of being properly blocked.
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And another demonstration that I'm not very observant has taken place because I've owned this disc for at least a decade and never noticed. You gotta hold it up to the light, like this, and by Jove, the problem becomes, uh, clear:

So I grabbed the first piece of scrap paper at hand, cut a circle in it, Scotch[TM] taped it to the top of the disc:

... and the drive finally recognized it and let me pull off two tracks for a homemade compilation.
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I can color in the lines too. Mostly.

Between houseguests (one batch leaves tomorrow. The next, for whom this disc is intended, arrives Wednesday) I'm assembling a nice photo essay on Graymatter. It'll go on the cat blog. Stay tuned.

History gets heavier

What better day to pay homage to the histories of both the U.S. and this blog, than July 4th?

In August 2006, a brief discussion in r.a.c.s. about the increasing textbook weight that kids haul inspired me to raid my slightly weird collection of old schoolbooks and weigh the books to see if they really were getting heavier. I mean, why let a relatively boring topic fade away when it was such a great opportunity for a book collector to be pedantic?
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As I said in that usenet post, US history may not the be the best choice for proving the point. A high percentage of a 400-year-old settlement/200-year-old nation's history will really not have existed in the books of 100 years ago.
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We're a young country. Long may we live to learn from our mistakes and make it a better and better place.
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Anyway, I picked US history for my book weigh-in for the dumbest reason of all: I had the books. I have an eclectic bunch of old textbooks, but only on this topic could I assemble a relatively well-spaced-out timeline of books all geared to a single school level. There are a couple of substantial time gaps, but it provided one of the staples of internet discussion -- anecdotal evidence! And it stacked up:
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1872 - 1 lb, 1 oz. .......7.5 x 5 inches
1941 - 2 lbs, 7 oz. ... 8.25 x 6.25 inches
1960 - 3 lbs, 3 oz. .... 9.5 x 8.5 inches
1991 - 5 lbs, 11 oz. ... 10.25 x 8.25 inches
1998 - 6 lbs, 6 oz. .... 11 x 8.75 inches.
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Why I was also moved to take a picture of them at the same time, I couldn't tell you but there it is. I dimly recall thinking somebody might scoff that I had made up my figures. I mean, what normal person would clog up their home with this stuff and have it on hand? But this at least proved that the books existed. Then I thought, as I had a few times before: "I should start a website or a blog or something, where I could both post pictures and rant."

And a couple weeks later, I took a deep breath and plunged into the weblog world.

Happy Fourth, everybody. It's 9PM, the pyrotechnics have begun, and Downyflake, The Fireworks-Challenged Cat, has just jumped up to inform me that a Comforting Session will be expected.

Don't cross the Goddess

You'll

be very

sorry.

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.

.

.

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GRAYMATTER

2005

Cats I've Known and Not - new to the blogroll

In going through his slide collection, Larry has found a lot of pictures from his 30+ year associations with more cats than I can imagine -- he lived with 18 of them, at one time.

So what the heck, he figured, why not start a blog about them? Cats I've Known and Not is now up and running. I've guest-blogged already, sharing some very old pix of several cats who owned friends or neighbors, but deigned to associate with me.

Clapping for Tinkerbell

Down at the Caveat Christian Emptorium, you can get all kinds of weird stuff -- every home should have one -- including bumper stickers that announce: "Prayer Changes Things!"

This is not unique to Christians. Most of my New Age friends believe in an intervening God or universal god-mind, and the power of prayer. We ask for, and offer to others, prayers for surgeries and troubled kids and safe travel.

Unbelievers think we're delusional. That's OK. I'm not sure we aren't. After all, the other condescending sticker at the Jesus Junk-tique says: "God always answers but sometimes the answer is no."

Maybe so, but Cute Little Sayings are usually bullshit, and especially when they try to explain God. A deeply worried friend asked for prayers when her father was admitted into the hospital. We all prayed like crazy. Nothing stopped the relentless parade of medical malpractice that misdiagnosed a simple malady, mistreated him and caused both his death and maybe some suffering, too, though maybe God's one gift was that the man was unconscious for most of it.

It's a reasonable question. Is it delusional to pray to a God who acts like Lucy?

I was raised by two people who had each experienced some degree of childhood trauma, from being sent away during the life-threatening illness of a parent, to ugly abuse. They both believed firmly in a loving God anyway and maybe their understanding of life's full spectrum of joy and shittiness gave that belief plausibility for me. They may not have reconciled the concepts of a loving God and the things he allows, but they are willing to not understand. They were also OK with anger toward God, and this may be one of the greatest gifts one can give a child.

Mary Martin's Peter Pan aired every year. My first viewing was memorable. There we all sat, the folks on the couch and 6-ish year old me on my favorite cushion pile on the floor, in my nightgown and robe and clutching my chocolate milk, about to see this great event in kiddie television.

Something in it disturbed me at gut level. There's Tinkerbell about to croak because not enough of us believe in fairies. Um...God will let her die because we don't believe?! Clap, kids. Save her life.

I clapped and scowled. Okay, I was always a testy little kid. I certainly didn't think out all this stuff, but disquiet began blooming in my mind: Does God punish somebody over somebody else's disbelief?! God will favor the clapped-for?

When Peter Pan aired the next year I tested the waters. Here we went again, Tinkerbell flickering out, while my parents said, "Aren't you going to clap?" No, by damn. Already, at age 7, I was gonna divest myself of this responsibility and put it right back on God where it belonged. And as Tinkerbell's light began to blaze more brightly I realized two things:

ONE: God may not save us in response to each other's prayers, but he won't smite us over lack of them, either.

TWO was that it was a film. OK, video. Either way, burned unchangeably onto celluloid forever. Even if every kid in the US took a bathroom break right then.

It took Alcoholics Anonymous to tell me the real reason for prayer.

I quit drinking so that I would never have to go to AA, but ended up there anyway and learned a lot about how to stay grounded in a high wind.

I run into two common misconceptions about AA, and they are, interestingly, polar opposites. One is that it teaches us how to have power over the addiction.

Well, kinda. Well, no, not really. In the first of the twelve steps, "we admit that we are powerless over alcohol and that our lives have become unmanageable."

That leads some people to the other misconception: that we're dumping responsibility for our actions, calling it a "disease" and ourselves "victims" of it, excusing our behavior. Wrong again. A huge responsibility is demanded of us, that of self-honesty. It starts with the next step, that of "turning to a Power greater than ourselves."

AA does not presume to define that Power for us. Do you believe in any power greater than yourself? they ask us. Anything? I know a few atheists who did fine in AA.

I found that, however bad a job God did with the world, he could make better decisions than I could. This was not saying a lot.

I learned about letting go, about not using God to control outcomes. To slowly learn the balance -- a lifelong process that I earn about a C- in -- of seeing when I can make a difference, but never driving myself to drink over things I could not control or change. AA teaches neither passivity, nor the illusion of control. It teaches Reinhold Niebuhr's prayer: "God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things that should be changed, and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other."

AA simplifies the wording:

God, grant me the serenity

to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

I keep praying because it reminds me to turn things over. To accept the burden of doing what it's in my power to do and to free myself from the burden of things I can't change. If I let go of the outcome, then, at best, I've added my drizzle of healing energy to the great river of light. And at worst, God seems to say, stay in touch with me but live your own life. Do what you can, then make a milkshake, do the laundry, cut your nails. You can't cure someone's cancer, but you can make a donation, help a kid stay in school, recycle, vote. Be fully in your life.

Pray for Callie, if you're inclined to do that sort of thing.

So you think YOU had a rough day?

Are vultures gathering on your roof? Huh? Are they?

Merely a day of computer frustration.

These are turkey vultures on our roof -- not taken today, actually, but the picture illustrates the mood nicely. These guys are a common sight year 'round in the area, though finding them congregating on the roof was a little unusual.

ihatewindowsvistaihatewindowsvistaihatewindowsvista

Cat story

Hey, the world has discovered a great website: Cats That Look Like Hitler! I only rediscovered it myself a little while ago, and meant to tie it in to a piece about my own dear Hitler cat. This means it's time to get off my duff -- or actually back on it -- and write about Alpo.

ALPO 1986(?) - 2001

By July 1995, I was ready for a cat and headed to the Wilmington, NC, shelter. Oh, they were adorable. I wanted them all. I nearly succumbed to the kittens crawling all over me, but since this was not a no-kill shelter, and adult cats were supposedly more likely to time-out their stay, I asked to see the adults. A sweet, pure white cat came right to me. We liked each other. I went to the desk to fill out the papers. And an shelter volunteer smiled: "Oh you're taking her? I was about to, if no one else did."

I rethought my plans. This dear pretty cat would not go homeless. I had met another cat who was sitting grumpily in a cage ignoring everybody, and likely would.

"What's his story?" I asked.

"That's Alpo. His owner committed suicide and neighbors found homes for 3 other cats but couldn't place him so they brought him here." They opened the cage and extracted Alpo, who did not want to leave it, and climbed out of the attendant's hands and across my shoulders to try and get back in.

He went home with me.

And stayed under the guest room bed for 7 weeks. Each morning there would be deposits in the litter box and withdrawals from the food bowl, but no Alpo. I tried to lure him out with catnip -- he was immune to the stuff -- and even a MacDonald's fish sandwich. No interest. I received a passing glance indicating that I did not exist.

Then I went to visit my friend-becoming-a-boyfriend in NJ for a week. When I got back I was reading in bed the first evening and was stunned to have Alpo jump up and settle...not exactly next to me. Down on the corner. Until I shifted my knee, sending him off like a shot. This became our new pattern. He would settle a couple feet away on the bed and I would try not to move till I had to. Slightest motion from me and the spell would break.

When Larry came to visit me, Alpo came out and sniffed him for a few seconds. On their first meeting! Alpo was pretty good at assessing hooman character.

Larry became Cat-Treat Man and Alpo decided I had Acquired Larry for the express purpose of improving Alpo's lifestyle. As Alpo thawed out toward people, he became a real companion, of the sit-with-you sort, rump mashed against my shoulder as he stretched out on the couch arm while I read or watched TV. He wouldn't play. No manufactured toy could engage his interest. Dangled strings evoked a "Yeah? What am I supposed to do about it?" look. "You're boring," I'd say. He'd yawn.

Alpo spent nearly 6 years with me/us. His age was unknown but his last vet said he was most likely about 10 when he came to live with me. The life he led with his suicidal owner may have been very weird. Alpo bonded with me and with Larry, and had moments of normality, but never ceased to be skittish and off in a world of his own -- not a terribly pleasant world, it seemed, judging by occasional panics and howls out of nowhere. I've wondered if his former owner gave him alcohol or drugs and skewed his brain chemistry.

But he loved us, and our wonderful Victorian house with its multiple levels and nooks and crannies. We came south again in 2000, and his new vet immediately convinced me that he needed teeth-cleaning under anesthesia. Like a fool -- no, like a cat-servant who thinks the expert knows best, I agreed.

Coincidence? Maybe, but his blood pressure shot up afterward, detached his retinas and he went blind. Blood pressure meds helped, and the retinas partially reattached but by now he had failing kidneys. He lived as nice a life as we could make for him for some months more, but we took him in (to our new and better vet) for that awful last visit in July 2001.

He had 5 great years of life with us (and one last not-so-great one). When I moan my "if onlys," which i still occasionally do, Larry reminds me that he had 5 years of happiness that he would never have had without us. But NO vet will EVER put a cat of mine under anesthesia for a damn tooth-cleaning, ever again.

May I Scream Now?!

Background: messages between eBay members go through eBay's own message system. If someone asks me, the seller, a question, i use "Respond to this question" but other, unsolicited contact is made through "Contact member" which is a different function.

ROUND ONE:

Dear eBay seller support:

I'm a US seller. Potential international buyers often ask about shipping charges. WHY do you ONLY allow me to use ''respond'' ONE TIME, to answer their question? With the recent USPS changes, i now must DELAY MY ANSWER until i can get the information.

And so, because my answer will be delayed, i respond first by telling the question-er that i will reply again with an answer tomorrow. I don't want to delay writing them back. Now that you have the enhanced feedback function, ''communication'' is something they can dock us points for -- but you make it harder to communicate!
--

Dear seller:

Thank you for writing in to eBay Community Support regarding the limit as to how many messages you can send to other eBay members. To protect our members from unwanted email, we have placed a limit on the number of messages members can send in a day that don't involve a specific transaction. These include "Contact an eBay Member" messages.

Depending on various factors associated with an account, we may also require additional verification from members attempting to send these messages. The best way to communicate with the seller of an active listing is to use the "Ask seller a question" link on the item page. The link is located directly below the seller's User ID. To contact your trading partner when the listing has ended, click "Contact the buyer" or "Contact seller" on the item page.

The maximum number of "Contact an eBay Member" messages that can be sent in a day is 10. Some accounts may have further restrictions placed on the number of messages they can send, based on the account history and various other factors.

I understand you are not happy with this limit.

--
ROUND TWO:

Dear eBay seller support:

I complained that you do not allow me to respond to a member's question using the "respond" function, if i have already used it to tell them that my answer will be delayed. You sent the [above] COMPLETELY UNRELATED answer.

I do not wish to use "contact member" AT ALL, much less use it 10 times in a day. I WISH TO ANSWER A QUESTION that A MEMBER ASKED ME. And it takes research time, for me to find their answer, so I WISH TO "RESPOND" IMMEDIATELY as a courtesy...and then AGAIN when i have the answer.

I would like to understand this restriction. I am talking about "My eBay" "Messages", "Respond to this question." I am NOT talking about "Contact member." And i wish to contact a questioner TWICE, not TEN TIMES.

--
Dear seller:

Thanks for writing back to eBay. Please note that you can only respond to a member's question once. If you would like to contact the member again, you need to use the Contact Member feature. However, if you're not involved in a transaction with this member, the system may block your message from going through.

--
ROUND THREE:

Dear eBay seller support:

Again, you do NOT answer my question.

Of COURSE I "note that i can only respond to a member's question once." What i asked was: WHY?

If i will be delayed in getting the information they request, why can't i tell them that?

And if i use "contact member" to answer them, "the system may block my message"????? What does eBay gain by these ridiculous policies??

--

(Okay, see, if they had answered "Your complaint has been noted," I'd have quit two rounds ago).

Attack of the Glurge

It seems I have hurt some feelings among the female emailing circle of my family. I have failed to participate in glurge-forwarding. This was loaded with meaning, and with rejection of them, and I had no idea.

I mean, I knew they loved the stuff. It fills my inbox on a regular basis. But I thought glurge was offhand, casual. I thought it was something that even its fans sent with little serious thought, and with even less concern about getting a response.

We were amazed to find how dependent our kids are on text-messaging. They spend every spare moment on their cell-phones texting and sending each other pictures, and it isn't because they simply allow it get out of hand and then get a shocker of a phone bill. Nope, they know what it costs, but they'll work long hours to pay for it. The cost of dropping out is isolation. If you leave the loop, then the "world" --your circle-- drops you, not out of cruelty but simply because you aren't "there." You aren't "talking" to them.

And I've realized that glurge is the non-youth (This email circle is aged about 35-83) version of texting. It's the way you stay plugged in, prove you care. It's the way you show you've given this person some thought today. You have to participate. "You've been Angel-Kissed! Kiss 10 people within 5 minutes, including me - or it means you don't love me!"

But...but....<sputter>! these are smart, educated, professional women. Surely they don't take the stuff seriously! Surely they don't think that my failure to send back the little praying Precious Moments child with the animated head nod and blinking eyes really does mean I don't care about the sender!

There was a big clue, though, and I missed it. The clue was that these ladies also believe every fake sick-or-missing-child plea that makes the email rounds. I made an earlier gaff in sending them the snopes.com info that the Little Missing Girl thing was phony. In my naiveté, I thought they'd feel relieved that there is no poor little Penny, much less an imperiled Penny. Unfortunately, it seems they may be feeling rebuffed by my pointing that out, too.

Now this, I understand. When someone shows you how gullible you've been, you want to smack them upside the head. Heck, I'm an idiot on a regular basis, and my immediate thought is "I hate this person for knowing I'm an idiot." That's my old brain talking, and the new more logical brain takes over and helps me realize that it isn't the other party's fault that I'm an idiot, but I understand the feeling.

I didn't think of that when I sent back the "It's a hoax" response. Okay, I can be kind of dense. A small good thing came out of it: no matter how much you hate having your dumbness pointed out, you tend to look out and not fall into that particular dumbness again. Or not often. No more heart-rending pleas for fictitious abducted or hospitalized kids have arrived.

But the glurge is what really matters to them, and it keeps coming. It matters to these women. Teachers, accountants, entrepreneurial women, people with advanced frikkin degrees. Who knew?!

And I have to face it. I was kind of an insensitive clod. If I'd loaded their inboxes with lots of loving delightful stuff all along, then this one "Yall fell for a hoax" response wouldn't have seemed quite so cold. But while I've occasionally emailed the group with news or jokes, it's been infrequent.

So I need to give my cousins/in-laws/nieces/etc more email attention, and I need to find ways to do it that do not involve pretending that I agree with "Things would be fine if we had prayer in the schools!" and "Mail this flapping flag cartoon everywhere to support the Iraq War!" and "Jesus wants you to be sad and think about death!" There's lots of amusing stuff I can mine the internet for. I run into cool stuff all the time, thanks to several newsgroups and bloggers, and I've been less attentive in sharing it via email than I could have been.

I'll still need to spin a spoof once in awhile, but I'll keep 'em quiet.

--
Jesus wants me,
this I know,
to be sad depressed and low!
Wipe that smile off, chill that cheer!
Sick tots, lost dogs, death and tears!
Yes, He is maudlin!
Yes! He is maudlin.
Yes, He is maudlin -
for my email tells me so.

Storm Day

A BEAUTIFUL SIGHT.
You know it's been killer-dry for too long, when two ordinary rainy days seem like heaven. We didn't have the wildfires that have plagued Georgia and Florida, just endless dry that approached drought status. Yesterday, thanks to Tropical Storm Barry, it broke. Day One was a soaking blustery Saturday, with a wonderful sleeping-night of gusting wind pelting the walls with rain. Today the center had moved a little north of us, and the tatters it dragged behind swept over, one after another, alternating with bright blue sky and sun.

But, like typical self-centered hoomans, we failed to appreciate What Really Matters - it has inconvenienced Scooter.

Here, he reluctantly takes a walk with me during a break between rain spatters, but he's not happy about it. While he is very Tough and Manly, he does not care for wind, nor does he wish to endure the discomfort of Becoming Dampened.

He lived indoors for a year, but could not be integrated with The Colony. We're reluctantly facing the fact that Little Graymatter, the Queen of Everything, hates cats. All of them.
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Which is fine with Scooter, who'd rather be out roaming the woods around us. He's never far away though. He's verging on elderly, and likes to bed comfortably down on blankets in the garage at night, safe from raccoons and other gangster-types, and provided with fresh water and kibble. It works for everybody.
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The garage is our work area for the business so he sees a lot of us, but in nice weather it's more of a check-in. "Scratch me. Thanks, gotta go chase squirrels." But during inclement weather he is in all day and we are expected to entertain him accordingly. My failure to revolve around him today was noted. In his opinion, the least I could do was to walk around continuously and let him trip me.




Oh forget it, you're much too boring.

I've bid the storm a reluctant farewell, but tomorrow will be made-to-order for Scooter and that, after all, is what really matters.

The ultimate sin

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Google "despair is a sin" and you get some interesting stuff. Supposedly it's not just any sin, it's a huge one. I don't get this idea. I understand that lack of faith in God's design is supposed to be a horrible thing, but my persistent belief in a loving God makes him one who feels our despair along with us and considers it a soul sickness. No, sin is separation from God and is not defined by being fun, but despair carries its own hell in its own right hand.

But to cause despair - to take away anyone's hope, to leave them bereft of any belief in any possibility of justice, any end to their state of helpless limbo, is, to me, the essence of evil. Nothing is a greater horror to the God I believe in, than to see one of us spread despair.

So when anybody says that the current administration has a Christian bone in its collective bod, I boil. From where I sit, no member of the B.AD. has a concept of, or an interest in, the meaning of God or His love.

Well, a smart guy of my acquaintance said it very well, here.
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It wasn't us!

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Bringing you vital Mammoth News -- scientists have uncovered new evidence that maybe early human hunters did NOT, after all, hunt North American mammoths to extinction! It might have been a comet.
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College Life circa 1905. A Letter From Mary.

The Woman's College of Baltimore (which became Goucher College in 1910)

Basketball Team, 1906.

My Great-Aunt Mary Whalen is the second girl from the left.

--

Sunday.
5 o'clock

Dear Mamma;-

I took Cousin Jamie to the concert Friday night & we both enjoyed it very much. The songs were many of them "local songs" written by Bess De Boer (T.K.Pi [Marion's frat.]) They delt with the standing college jokes and were very funny. This is part of the one called "Forbidden" which was sung with great solemnity by the glee club --

"Forbidden, forbidden to look at a man
except Friday night when you won't if you can.
And then on a Sunday you're left in the lurch
unless your dear sweetheart sits next you in church."

(The girls may have callers on Friday night alone--never on Sunday)

"Forbidden, forbidden, forbidden are we
to do this thing and that thing and the other thing, ah me!
Of every sweet privilege we are bereft
'Till singing in chapel is all that we're left."

They sang a song called "girls will be girls" of which the chorus of the last verse (in which the fighting, rolling, thumping, of a basketball game was told) was

"Girls will be boys, girls will be boys
The world may change and things seem strange
but girls will still be boys."

The songs "took" remarkably well. Oh i did enjoy the concert so!

Thoughts on my Tenth Anniversary

REHEARSAL DINNER, 1997

--

It takes some of us a long time to get it right.

We met in 1989 and I don't remember it. Larry does. He thought I was cute. I ... look, I issued a lot of library cards to a lot of people during my 14 years at that job. 8~) So, he met me in 1989, but I didn't meet him till 1990 when we found ourselves in the same circle of friends. We all went out in a big group on Friday nights and he became one of my best friends.

But that's all he was. I was busy for the next 4 years with a series of relationships. The third of these involved another in the group, and got serious in 1993. In fact we asked our Very Good Friend Larry, who was a mail order minister, to officiate at our barefoot, sunset wedding ceremony.

Our friendship with Larry continued. When job issues and a need to be near his children took him back up north, I felt a loss I could not explain.

The story of my first marriage would take a book, but I'll say I was committed to it and gave it everything but my life. After 13 months I ended it. It was time to pick a place I wanted to live, make it my own and start over. The first time I drove over the bridge into Wilmington, NC, the little coastal city nestled against the Cape Fear river won me over. I rented an apartment and returned to my interim place to collect my stuff.

Larry had kept up with a common friend. Her daughter lived in my building, and as I was loading my car, a voice called to me from the balcony: "Somebody is wondering where you've gone!" Larry and I began writing letters.


Meanwhile, down in NC I went color-mad. I'd always coordinated things before. Now I bought bright colored towels and blankets: purple, magenta, emerald green. I loved my quilts and the Tidal Creek health food store down the road, and my funny old shelter cat, and my Spencer Gifts bubble lamp -- I thought this thing would entrance the cat, but he ignored it -- and most of all I loved my door key, that no one else had a copy of. I biked, and I shopped too much, although I had moved out of The Marital Home quickly and left some basics behind. I attended womens' support groups. Church singles. An office job stapling things and running a copy machine. All women.

Columbus Day weekend of 1995, my dear friend Larry came to visit. Since then we always celebrate Columbus Day.

On April 25, 1997, I married the minister who had married me to my first husband. I've kept one picture of my first wedding because someone very important to me is in it. Besides, we haul it out when we tell people our story and they respond with: "You're kidding." I've joked that we should go on afternoon talk shows, but, nah. We'll just tell the story and watch people smile.

As i began to write this entry I tuned up the "Loud!" playlist in my music files and came across this song:

We'll raise our glasses, to
puzzle pieces,
and the way they fit together
we never saw till now.
Here's to questions that
meet their answers
in the bright light of hindsight.
It will all come clear somehow.

........"Here's to Hindsight" - Tara Leigh Cobble

Give us this day our proper label

It's always fun to pour my Mystery-Flavor Super-Strength tea-of-the-day (brewed for me each morning by my DH), prop my feet up on the wall, check email and find a Zogby survey waiting. How I got on their list I dunno, but being a Zogby Survey-ee makes me feel terribly important.

But when I finish the fun part and get to the standard questions designed to box me into my Proper Demographic, one question bugs me. Having checked off that I am a Protestant of non-denominational or "other" persuasion, I get asked this:

"Do you consider yourself a born-again, evangelical, or fundamentalist Christian?
- Yes
- No
- Not sure
- Refused"

So. What if I'm one out of three?

On one occasion I got irritated and marked "Refused." For awhile I ticked "Not sure." I did this in spite of the word "or." The Zogbyists might want me to check "yes" even if I fit only one of the three terms, but in results I will still get lumped in with fundamentalists. But OK, I'll check "yes." Let me skew the official position of the fundamentalist demographic. This isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Months ago I decided to annoy them with some "Questions and comments on this survey" wherein I explained that the three terms - fundamentalist, evangelical, born again -- are not a package deal. While they tend to occur together, not one of them is dependent on another, either as cause or as effect.

I am born again. It's an experience. I had it.

I am not a fundamentalist. I am not an evangelist. I am also not, technically, a "liberal Christian" since my theology is not anti-supernatural, not anti-miracle. The Nicene Creed is pretty much okay by me.

If I fit into a box --and that's a big If -- it's the Christian Left. You know, those radical pinko preverts who believe Christ was a fan of peace, caring for the needy, everybody being entitled his own spiritual path. Stuff like that. Subscribers to liberal theology can be Christian Leftists too, but if we want to believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ, nobody is kicking us out of The Left over how backward we are.

Zogby ignored me. The question remains worded as it always was.

My guess would be that for a Born Again to be a political liberal is so statistically uncommon -- or they think it is -- that they have no motivation to break the "non-denominational Protestant" category down any further than their question allows. It still bugs me. There are, I think, a lot more of us than the popular image of the "Christian" would indicate. Whatever our percentage, we're not marginal. If surveys glom the three categories together under one fundamentalist umbrella, it's hard to sort us out and I think we need to be identified.

By request

[EVENING - FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 1973 - A COLLEGE TOWN, MISSOURI]
--

The good phase of the alcohol was wearing off. Now she was getting short-tempered. "Pillow Talk" still thumped in her head while she shivered and fought the soreness in her thigh and butt muscles from a week of mincing steps on the slick walks.

It was a relief to stand still and wait for the traffic light at Klecka and Main. They crossed and turned onto campus.

"Wow. Look." Meredith pointed at the sky over the buildings on west campus.

Garish red lights flashed against the low hanging clouds. Something was happening in the parking lot behind the Complex and library buildings. "Is that the cops?" wondered Gwen. A few passers-by were wandering toward the lights. "What's going on?" Gwen asked one of them, but the girl just shrugged.

"Those are ambulance lights," said someone else.

They rounded the library corner in time to see an EMT crew wheeling someone down the sidewalk on a stretcher.

The attendants angled the stretcher to lift the patient into the ambulance. Meredith saw the girl's face at the same time Audrey did. "That's Laurie."

***

Denny was awake when Audrey tiptoed in. A notebook lay on the blanket at her feet, in the small pool of light from her desk lamp, but Denny lay curled, her face red and tear-streaked.

"Hey," Audrey said softly. "You any better?"

"It's on the downhill side now." She unwrapped her arms from the heating pad and resettled it, the cord snaking in a line under the blanket.

Audrey sat on the edge of her own bed and locked her hands between her knees to avoid a lecturer pose. "Denny, what the fuck is going on? There's no way that this is what you've gone through every month for five damn years."

Denny's tears welled up again. "It's not. I mean, it is but..." She gulped. "I don't know! Yeah, this is how bad it hurts if I don't take anything, but that's why I have the prescription. It's never not worked before."

"But doesn't codeine lose its power after awhile? Like, you build a resistance to it?"

Denny shook her head. "Not if you take it for 3 days and then not again for a month!"

"You never...?" Audrey stopped herself, but it was too late.

"What the fuck are you, the Romper Room attendant?" Denny smeared angrily at her running nose and sat up.

Double God damn. Why can't I shut up? What a crappy night.

"Denny, I'm sorry, I just...."

"Skip it." Denny punched her pillow upward and yanked a handful of tissues from the box on her dresser top before she sank back onto it. "No, I do not misuse it. I've been on this stuff for three years and I know God damn well that if I use it for a God damn recreational drug, then I will get resistance and be in total fucking hell when the cramps start so, no, once and for God damn all, I do not use it more than three days a month."

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Okay?" Audrey was ready to cry now. She shifted sideways, hugged her knees and sank her head down on her arms. Damn the coolers. I wish my head would clear. Maybe I should make tea. Double bag it, get a good caffeine jolt.

Finally Denny spoke. "Look, I am not able to handle things when I feel like this. I overreacted."

After a beat, Audrey dropped her hands and leaned back. "It was insulting. What I said. I'm sorry." She looked over at Denny with a tired smile.

Denny's smile was equally weak. "It wasn't all that crazy to ask. I've done drugs. I've used hash and mushrooms and I do speed sometimes to get my work done."

Audrey blinked. "Shit. You do?"

"I got behind." Denny sat quietly for a minute and wiped her eyes. "Maybe my body is just rejecting this place. The food, the water, the boring stupid work. I should drop out."

Audrey looked away and said as mildly as she could, "It's no secret you aren't getting into anything here." Denny didn't reply. "I swear, Denny, don't go thinking I'm all that happy either. I feel like one of those old movies. You know? Where somebody wakes up in the wrong life?"

"You? You're—"

But Audrey interrupted. "I forgot to tell you! Laurie's in the hospital."

"What? She is?"

Audrey rubbed her forehead. "I wouldn't even know, but we happened to see them load her into the ambulance when we were walking back from that bar. Just a few minutes ago."

"How could I not hear‑‑?"

"The library. Whatever it was, she got sick in the library."

"Laurie was in the library on a Friday night?"

"She had a midnight date with that Ernie guy tonight. Gwen's gonna go out and tell him when he gets here. She sent us on and went in to get Laurie's books and bring them back for her."

"How sweet." Denny mulled this over. "You saw them put her in the ambulance?" Audrey nodded. "So, was she crying in pain or anything?"

"Uh-uh. She didn't move. She looked passed out."

Denny didn't seem to know what to make of this. "They weren't rushing?"

"Nah. They just rolled her over to it and lifted her in. They didn't use the siren when they pulled away."

"Okay. That sounds like some pain thing. Like, a migraine or appendicitis. Or cramps." Denny gave a wry smile. "Or something like that, where they gave her a pain shot and it put her out. Her vital signs must have been okay, or they'd have been, I dunno, pumping things and yelling 'Stat!' and that kind of Medical Center shit."

Audrey hadn't been able to think it through like that. "Yeah, I guess."

Another few minutes of quiet. Denny rose again to get her cigarettes and ashtray, and lit up. She resettled against the pillow.

"I'm really glad you're better today. You scared me yesterday."

"Thanks," said Denny. "Really, it kinda scared me too. But the cramps are cycling like normal, so that means... I don't know. Nothing's wrong inside me. Or nothing's any wrong‑er than usual."

"Wrong-er? Is that anything like worse‑er?"

A smiling Denny gave her the finger. Audrey got up, stripped, pulled on her flannel pajamas and snapped off Denny's desk lamp. She got under the covers. When she was settled Denny asked, "So how was the bar?"

"Loud," yawned Audrey. "Boring. Lotta Avon Lady majors," she finished sleepily and rolled over.
***

Audrey started awake to a sharp rap.

Damn, what...?

Denny sat up in bed, then doubled over. "What the fuck is that?" she gasped. The sudden jerk-awake must have cramped her up. Gray morning light filtered into the room. It was just after seven AM, Audrey noted.

Something's happened. Laurie?

The door opened without their invitation. Jean Schug stood there in her usual skirt, blouse and sturdy shoes. Wow. She was fully decked out this early on a Saturday. A woman police officer stood just behind her, thin lips and a short page-boy.

Mrs. Schug spoke: "Denny, Audrey, I need for you both to get dressed and come to my apartment. Now."

They were frozen. "Now, girls," repeated Mrs. Schug.

Today's Contribution to Western Civilization

It's undoubtedly been discovered previously by about 30 thousand other people. But for any who are still grappling with the serious question of how to carry snacks around in a purse, tote bag, or briefcase, even long term, without their getting smushed or crushed -- I offer my solution: the hard, spring-hinged eyeglass case.

A hard case accomodates candy and snack bars or even those preservative-laden, yet fragile, cracker packs, and will preserve them from all hard-to-eat or unappetizing mutilations, even if kept in the purse or bag long term.

That's about as high as my mental biorhythm will let me soar today. Carry on, Grasshoppers.

I am NOT sweet!

A friend who knows me only online just called me "sweet." I did a very small thing - I remembered somebody's name.

But, see, I am NOT sweet. I'm a shrill, grouchy shrew. No, really, I am, and the more I say it, the more people think I'm joking.

Which is something about the internet that greatly interests me. On the internet you can become someone else.

In real life, I use language that could blister the paint on a fire engine. I'm known for taking out my computer frustrations on the keyboard. Once I slammed it with my fist so hard that the "escape" key shot up and hit the wall. This has become one of those Family Stories that one can never live down. "It sure wanted to escape! Ha ha!" And so forth.

I thought I was being very insightful once, when I admitted: "I'm a Type A personality."

"You're an A+, dear!" answered Dear Husband, with a warm smile.

"Aw, thanks, hon-- Hey, wait a minute..."

Yet online, I have a reputation (at least, in groups with more ordinary IQ levels - I live dangerously and hang around in one with a collective IQ that leaves me in the dust, so they might not be fooled) as being Calm, Wise, Mature, and even Kind!

They've never seen me when someone steals my shopping cart.

See, now, this is a big button I have, just waiting to be pushed by some Yeg out there in the real world. It makes me seethe. It causes me to reveal the nastiest side of my personality. The side that read Brave New World, ignored its message of dehumanization, and instead immediately began to delight in classifying people: "Eh, he thinks he's an Alpha Double Plus, but he's just a Beta." "This store is full of Gammas! I can't stand it!"

The only reason I've never made a scene in a store when my cart was stolen is that I can never identify the person who did it. I've stepped away to slap melons (This, by the way, is better than thumping them, for determining ripeness), and return to find my cart gone. On one occasion, a fair-sized stack of items I had placed in it was now lying on the floor. The miscreant who's violated me in this way is now aisles away and blending perfectly with the rest of the shoppers.

My nostrils flare. Lightning bolts shoot from my eyes.

DH finds me simply baffling. His philosophy of fighting battles is annoyingly sane: "How important is it?" he asks, decides that most trivial offenses like this aren't worth getting upset over, and gets another cart.

Trivial?! I snarl.

I have a mental picture of the cart thief. Only women do this. Obese women with the slack-jawed vacant stare that comes from the extreme mental exertion they must expend to decide who to vote off, on reality TV shows. Such a person is too stupid to realize she will want a cart and obtain one from the corral as she enters the store. Too lazy to go back out and get one. Too completely locked into the material world of expediency to consider that there's anyone else on the planet who counts. She has a Need. Something that will fill it is there in her field of vision. She takes it. The world exists for her to strip mine.

See? See how vicious I am? I'm an awful person.

But the internet lets me edit myself. I can write up a long rant dripping with acidic sarcasm, then say, "Ah! That felt good! Now...delete, delete..." I've done this enough times, and lived to be glad I had. I tore a self-righteous woman to shreds once, then deleted it, and later that day she returned with apologies, a mention of the stresses in her life, etc etc.

I learned long ago, the steam-release function of writing. Just writing. To no one. I once typed a lengthy letter to my college roomate on my electric typewriter -- with the machine turned off. I simply hit dead keys and vented everything. Then I got up from the chair and went to dinner, feeling about 1000% better.

But a lot of people don't seem to do this. They write, don't even reread it, and hit "send."

I don't get it. The internet is a golden opportunity for them to make themselves look nice. Kind and wise. They could be exactly who they've always wanted to b--

Wait. I think i just answered my own question.

Never mind.