dual personalities

This and that

by chuckofish

How was your weekend? After an eventful and busy week at work, I was hoping for a quiet weekend, and due in large part to Mother Nature, I was successful.

On Saturday I went to a couple of estate sales and was able to pick up a few things which I will give as presents to daughters # 1 and 2 this year. I picked up a few Captain Alatriste books for myself.

After estate saling I got my hair cut and my hairdresser gave me spiritual advice about looking for another church after I confessed to her that I was unhappy with my church and, dare I say, my denomination. “Stay and pray,” she said, which I thought was very good advice and I will try to follow it.

All week we were warned by our various flyover weather pundits about a snow storm that was bound to hit on Sunday.

For once, they were spot on and I spent the day puttering around my house. As you know, there is nothing I like better. I also love to sit and watch it snow, so I did a lot of that.

I finished The Age of Doubt, a good mystery by Andrea Camilleri about my favorite Italian detective, Inspector Montalbano. I also received the April issue of Garden & Gun on Friday so I caught up on all things southern-hipster.

I also watched Time Bandits (1981), Terry Gilliam’s charming fantasy about a clever but “untidy” boy (Kevin) who joins a group of dwarves who have stolen a map from the Supreme Being. They jump from time period to time period looking for treasure to steal.

That’s God on the left.

This movie is a wonderful discourse about good and evil wherein we are reminded that “God does not care about technology” and that the existence of evil “has something to do with free will.” And Ralph Richardson in a three piece suit is and always shall be my perfect image of the Supreme Being.

…and more snow!

We ended up with 12.4″–our biggest snow since the huge snow of 1982! No school today.

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March 23, 2013

Time for a cup of tea and some oatcakes

by chuckofish

While we’re drinking our tea, let’s fortify our souls with some beautiful pictures of Scotland, which son #2 recently visited

and where I would transport myself instantly if such a thing were possible.

Looking at these pictures brings to mind family history (of course) and also of one of my favorite books, Alistair MacLeod’s No Great Mischief, in which he reminds us that his story, like all our own,

is the story of lives which turned out differently than was intended.

And while that truth frequently involves pain and serious trials, it also is worth contemplating from a positive angle. If things always turned out as we imagined, think of what we all would have missed!

I’ll take the surprises — good and bad — thank you very much. How about you?

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March 21, 2013

Read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest

by chuckofish

On this day in 1556 Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, was burned at the stake at Oxford. At the very end, he repudiated his final letter of submission, and announced that he died a Protestant. He said, “I have sinned, in that I signed with my hand what I did not believe with my heart. When the flames are lit, this hand shall be the first to burn.” And when the fire was lit around his feet, he leaned forward and held his right hand in the fire until it was charred to a stump. Aside from this, he did not speak or move, except that once he raised his left hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Cranmer is commemorated in the Anglican Communion as a Reformation Martyr on 21 March.

Merciful God, through the work of Thomas Cranmer you renewed the worship of your Church by restoring the language of the people, and through his death you revealed your power in human weakness: Grant that by your grace we may always worship you in spirit and in truth; through Jesus Christ, our only Mediator and Advocate, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

“Cranmer said to him, when they were talking late one night, St. Augustine says we need not ask where our home is, because in the end we all come home to God.”
–Hilary Mantel, Wolf Hall

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March 20, 2013

At least we amuse ourselves

by chuckofish

Feb. 3, 1859 “The writer must to some extent inspire himself. Most of his sentences may at first lie dead in his essay, but when all are arranged, some life and color will be reflected on them from the mature and successful lines; they will appear to pulsate with fresh life, and he will be enabled to eke out their slumbering sense, and make them worthy of the neighborhood.”

Feb. 20, 1859 “How much the writer lives and endures in coming before the public so often! A few years or books are with him equal to a long life of experience, suffering, etc. It is well if he does not become hardened. He learns how to bear contempt and to despise himself. He makes, as it were, post-mortem examination of himself before he is dead. Such is art.”

–H.D. Thoreau, A Writer’s Journal

I wonder what old Thoreau would have thought of blogging? I think it would have suited him, don’t you? A laptop in a little cabin in the woods.

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March 19, 2013

Here’s to the hearts an’ the hands of the men, that come with the dust and are gone with the wind*

by chuckofish

Today in 1962 Bob Dylan’s self-titled debut album was released by Columbia Records.

That was 51 years ago.

US sales totaled about 2500 copies. Bob Dylan remains Dylan’s only release not to chart at all in the US, though it eventually reached #13 in the UK charts in 1965. Despite the album’s poor performance, financially it was not disastrous because the album was very cheap to record.

Since then he has released something like 35 albums. He has won many awards throughout his career including 11 Grammy Awards, one Academy Award and one Golden Globe Award. He has been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame, and Songwriters Hall of Fame. Last year he received the Presidential Medal of Freedom. And still he is the same old Bob Dylan driving reporters crazy, refusing to tow the line and give them the answers they want to hear.

Your fans know you and love you, Bob. We know that the Holy Spirit did not tap you on the shoulder. He kicked you in the ass. And you have been praising the Lord ever since.

* Song to Woody

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March 18, 2013

Happiness is…

by chuckofish

Remember this book from 1962? It reminds us that it’s the simple things that make us happy. Things like warm puppies and walking in the grass in your bare feet and knowing how to tie your own shoes and my favorite: “some black, orange, yellow, white and pink jelly beans, but no green ones.” (I am okay with the green ones.)

Charles M. Schulz certainly understood what makes a happy life. To this I would add a few things, such as a full tank of gas

and a stack of new magazines in the mail.

I had a happy weekend–did you?

I batted “0” at the only estate sale I went to on Saturday, but that’s okay. I had a text exchange with daughter #2 who was at an estate sale in Bethesda, Maryland, which warmed the cockles of my heart. (I taught her something!)

The boy came over to carry a chair upstairs for me. He was wearing one of his “coach” shirts.

Now I can sit by this sunny window and read or work on my blog.

We went to lunch at Qdoba Mexican Grill. I had a naked burrito–yummo.

Although snow was in the forecast this weekend, there were plenty signs of spring in our yard.

And the Christmas Cactus surprised me yet again!

I spent a good part of my weekend reading a book by Hilary Mantel published in 2000, Every Day is Mother’s Day. The book cover announces that it is “an accomplished novel of striking originality” and describes it as having certain elements of a “suspense thriller.” Really. Never in a million years would I confuse this book, although it is riveting, with a suspense thriller. Clearly prior to Wolf Hall no one knew what to make of Hilary Mantel. She defies pigeon-holing. She reminds me a lot of Shirley Jackson.

The characters in this book have no claim on happiness. One even admits: “Happiness seems a bit ambitious. I’m not sure I can see my way to that.”

England, we are reminded, is a depressing and dreadful place. One of the main characters describes his life thusly:

“I am a history teacher, a teacher of the benighted past to the benighted present, ill-recompensed for what I suffer and despairing of promotion. My feet are size eight and a half, and I belong to the generation of Angry Young Men, though I was never angry until it was too late, oh, very late, and even now I am only mildly irritated. I am not a vegetarian and contribute to no charities, on principle; I loathe beetroot, and the sexual revolution has passed me by. My taste in clothes is conservative but I get holes in my pockets and my small change falls through; I do not speak to my wife about this because she is an excellent mother and I am intimidated by her, also appalled by the paltry nature of this complaint or what might be construed by her as a complaint. The sort of writing I want to do is the sort that will force me to become a tax-exile.”

Terrible things happen. Funny things happen. As always I am in awe of Hilary and her amazing powers, but I really think I need to revisit the high, green hills of Mitford now, where the air is pure, the village is charming and the people are generally lovable.

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March 16, 2013

From the Big Sleazy with Love and Turtle Soup

by chuckofish

Here I am in New Orleans for my yearly spa vacation, a.k.a the SMH Annual Conference. I’m having a wonderful and intellectually stimulating time (no kidding) and what’s more getting here actually went smoothly despite starting out at 6am in the snow and dark. By the time I got to the Champlain ferry it was merely a pretty, but cold and gray morning.

After shockingly pleasant interludes at airports (including JFK!) and on planes, I arrived in New Orleans, where the temperature is in the mid to upper 60s (perfect!) and if one sticks to the main drags (e.g. the three blocks of Canal street by the hotel and a couple of blocks of Bourbon) it seems reasonably charming. My hotel room is comfortably standard in every respect except this window, which looks deceptively normal with the shutters closed

but has a disconcertingly vertiginous view when the shutters are open.

Don’t Look Down!

Did I mention that my room is on the 45 floor?

Yesterday, with my 8am talk out of the way (it went well), I was free to enjoy myself at other sessions and with friends. For lunch I was adventurous and had turtle soup, which was delicately spicy and quite delicious,

at a lovely restaurant

in good company

After a gin and tonic fueled “meet and give advice to aspiring graduate students” reception last night, I had an early morning — 7am — meeting today so I’m tired and plan on attending conference sessions and napping (but not at the same time) until the banquet tonight. Then it’s up at the crack of dawn to start the long, grueling trip home. Keep your fingers crossed that all goes well!

P.S Mid-morning update: I ventured out in search of a diet coke that doesn’t cost $4. and I have to admit I’m horrified at how alcoholic this city is. You can buy booze anywhere and people drink all the time. I’m no teetotaler but it seems that people only come here for excess. It was only 10am and the number of people I saw in outrageous St. Patrick’s day garb heading into or out of bars was, quite frankly, disgusting. I think I’ll stick to the hotel!

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March 15, 2013

Rock of ages

by chuckofish

Yesterday I went to a “Service of Thanksgiving” for the life of the father of a friend of mine who died the day after his 95th birthday. The funeral was at the church we went to together when I was growing up. They stayed; we left. I have been a member of two churches since, but I am seriously considering going back. I like the plain windows that let the sunshine in and the total lack of iconography.

Anyway, this man had an amazing life. According to his obit in the paper, he was president of his senior class and “the lead in several high school musicals”. He graduated from college in 1939 (!) and then spent 5 years in the U.S. Army during WWII. He finished the war as a Major, having taken part in D-Day and the Battle of the Bulge. He had a very successful career and served as the president of his country club and on the vestry of his church (where he was a member for over 60 years), as well as on multiple boards.

I knew him as a cheerful, kind man, who always knew my name. He was an authority figure who knew his duty. He took care of his family, was present, but not overly involved. His children were all devoted to him.

Best friends in third grade–1965–I was giggling in this picture as I usually was when in her company.

His wife, of course, did not work. She kept the home fires burning. Their house was impeccable and so was she. She still is!

Times have changed. It’s a different world. Maybe it’s better, maybe not. I can’t help wondering who is going to take the place of men like this. I knew lots of men like him back in the day. I miss them.

P.S. The funeral was your basic Episcopal memorial service (sans communion). Included were excellent scripture choices (KJV) and good hymns, although the organist charged through them like he was in a hurry. But oh well.

I sing a song of the saints of God,
Patient and brave and true,
Who toiled and fought and lived and died
For the Lord they loved and knew.
And one was a doctor, and one was a queen,
And one was a shepherdess on the green;
They were all of them saints of God, and I mean,
God helping, to be one too.

They loved their Lord so dear, so dear,
And his love made them strong;
And they followed the right for Jesus’ sake
The whole of their good lives long.
And one was a soldier, and one was a priest,
And one was slain by a fierce wild beast;
And there’s not any reason, no, not the least,
Why I shouldn’t be one too.

They lived not only in ages past,
There are hundreds of thousands still.
The world is bright with the joyous saints
Who love to do Jesus’ will.
You can meet them in school, or in lanes, or at sea,
In church, or in trains, or in shops, or at tea;
For the saints of God are just folk like me,
And I mean to be one too.

5 Comments

March 14, 2013

Tout va bien

by chuckofish

“Maybe it’s all utterly meaningless. Maybe it’s all unutterably meaningful. If you want to know which, pay attention to what it means to be truly human in a world that half the time we’re in love with and half the time scares the hell out of us. Any fiction that helps us pay attention to that is religious fiction. The unexpected sound of your name on somebody’s lips. The good dream. The strange coincidence. The moment that brings tears to your eyes. The person who brings life to your life. Even the smallest events hold the greatest clues.”
–Frederick Buechner

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March 13, 2013

Lost Highway

by chuckofish

The original rolling stone, you know, was not Bob Dylan or Mick Jagger. It was Hank Williams.

I’m a rolling stone, all alone and lost
For a life of sin, I have paid the cost
When I pass by, all the people say
“Just another guy on the lost highway”

Most people think old Hank Sr. wrote that song, since he wrote so many famous songs during his sad, short life, but he did not. Written by Leon Payne, “Lost Highway” was recorded by Hank Williams in 1949 at age 26 and he came to personify that “just another guy on the lost highway”.

I was listening to an old burned mix the other day and I heard Beck’s version of Williams’ poignant “Your Cheatin’ Heart” and that got me thinking about one of America’s greatest singer-songwriters.

What a great song! (I like Beck’s version.)

Widely considered country music’s first superstar, Hiram “Hank” Williams was born September 17, 1923, in Mount Olive, Alabama. Never much of a singer (in my opinion) he wrote many American classics, such as “Cold, Cold Heart,” “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” “Hey, Good Lookin'” and “Move It on Over,” as well as Christian classics like “I Saw the Light.” He died of a heart attack at the age of 29 in 1953 in the backseat of his Cadillac on the way to a show. It was really no surprise, since he had been abusing his poor, frail body for years with drugs and alcohol, trying to dull his constant back pain due to spinal bifida.

He packed a lot in to his short life span though, didn’t he? His mysterious talent has always interested me. How can the same man who wrote “Honky Tonkin'” and “You’re Gonna Change (Or I’m Gonna Leave)” –jarring, jangling chart-toppers–also have written the contemplative “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” and “Lost on the River”? Human beings are amazing.

Hear the lonesome whiperwill
He sounds too blue to fly
The midnight train is whining low
I’m so lonesome I could cry

I’ve never seen a night so long
When time goes crawling by
The moon just went behind a cloud
To hide its face and cry

Did you ever see a robin weep
When leaves begin to die
That means he’s lost the will to live
I’m so lonesome I could cry

The silence of a falling star
Lights up a purple sky
And as I wonder where you are
I’m so lonesome I could cry

Beautiful. I think John Keats would agree. He died at 25. Hopefully they are talking shop in heaven. I like to think so.

P.S. Hollywood made a movie of Williams’ made-to-order drama-filled life in 1964. It starred George Hamilton and was called Your Cheatin’ Heart. It was pretty homogenized and I think they could do a whole lot better. I’m surprised they haven’t tried again. James Franco? Ryan Gosling? It could be Academy Awardsville for you.

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