It's been a while and I apologize for not posting more frequently. Sometimes life has a way of tying your hands, and there you are.
I'm singing with the Mark Twain Chorale this year (Sorry Quincy Symphony Chorus...not enough of me to go around :). With the Christmas concerts coming up (12/11 in Palmyra, 12/16 in Hannibal) I needed to arrange to rent a tux, so I popped in to see Jeff Schueking. He takes one look at me and says "I'll have to measure." He does the job and I'm delighted to discover that I've reduced my waist to 60 inches, pushing 59! I know that's still huge, but it's a full 7 inches less than my biggest. Now just to keep the pressure on and keep taking down the weight and the waist size.
We had some "fun" at the apartment last week--and still are. If you want to call it fun. The boiler in the building where I live basically melted down a week ago Monday. No fire, thank goodness, and no explosion, but though the safety valve properly vented the steam, the safety valve failed to shut off the boiler so it just kept getting hotter until the water was gone, and then melted. PVC piping withing a few feet if the thing was melted too. So, there's no heat in the building. I'm essentially living in my bedroom and bathroom with electric heaters until they get a forced air furnace installed in my apartment. On the plus side, the radiators are going bye-bye which will free up more floor space--an important consideration since I'm getting married and she's bringing her stuff to help fill up the apartment more. :)
I've been following the downtown discussion in the Whig, and among people I know in the business district. I don't think things are as bad as a handful of people are trying to paint the picture, but I also agree there are things that can be done to improve the area and make it more attractive. I suppose my biggest complaint is the apparent attempt to make Karol Ehmen into the fall guy, when she is a driving force keeping the downtown moving, albeit more slowly than some would like. Give her some help, and maybe those who believe there are "ihssee-yooooos" will see improvement. She's only one person, after all.
More music: with my wedding coming in July, I'm finally putting pen to paper once again to finish a set of marriage songs I started writing many years ago. Working with my brother, who creates incredible accompaniments for my stuff, I hope to sing the entire seven-song set for my parents on their 50th anniversary in June. The texts are from the Song of Solomon, Khalil Gibran, and the wedding prayers of the Orthodox Church.
Thanks: for the kind comments from folks who read the two stories I posted earlier. I'm glad you liked them.
Finally: movies. Watched (for the 3rd time) "Andrei Rublev", a film from the late 60s by Russian filmmaker A. Tarkovsky. This is not your Soviet propaganda (I'm surprised they let him make it), nor is it Hollywood. But it is a deep, moving, spiritual work that speaks strongly about life, committment, talent, integrity, and overcoming despair. Check it out, but take a couple of days to watch--it's long and moves slowly.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Friday, November 16, 2007
About what follows...
Consider this an introductory posting.
It's introducing a fairly long story--probably longer than the one I posted at Halloween.
It needs introduction because I'm not posting it so much for the story itself (which I've been told is quite good), but because of what it says about me, and my relationship with my dad. I'm not going to say anymore about that at this point. I promise I'll talk about it after you read the story.
And please, do read the story, even if stories on blogs aren't your thing.
I will tell you a couple of things. My dad is a retired Episcopal priest. As you know I am Eastern Orthodox My dad has always supported my decision, unlike the father in this story. My dad celebrated 49 years in the priesthood on All Saints Day (November 1st)--and I missed it. I posted a silly "scary" story and didn't recognize my father's long committment to people, to the church, and to His Lord and Savior.
I'm sorry Dad.
I know you've read this but I hope between it and the essay to follow, you understand just how precious you are to me, how much I value the way you raised me, how much I regret every disappointment I caused you...
And how very much I hold your calling in the higest esteem, and how much (thanks be to God for giving me the opportunity) I love you.
Enjoy the story.
It's introducing a fairly long story--probably longer than the one I posted at Halloween.
It needs introduction because I'm not posting it so much for the story itself (which I've been told is quite good), but because of what it says about me, and my relationship with my dad. I'm not going to say anymore about that at this point. I promise I'll talk about it after you read the story.
And please, do read the story, even if stories on blogs aren't your thing.
I will tell you a couple of things. My dad is a retired Episcopal priest. As you know I am Eastern Orthodox My dad has always supported my decision, unlike the father in this story. My dad celebrated 49 years in the priesthood on All Saints Day (November 1st)--and I missed it. I posted a silly "scary" story and didn't recognize my father's long committment to people, to the church, and to His Lord and Savior.
I'm sorry Dad.
I know you've read this but I hope between it and the essay to follow, you understand just how precious you are to me, how much I value the way you raised me, how much I regret every disappointment I caused you...
And how very much I hold your calling in the higest esteem, and how much (thanks be to God for giving me the opportunity) I love you.
Enjoy the story.
The Caboose
"I'm sorry, Father, but I can’t sell you an old caboose.” Edwin Hillyer was a sixtyish, heavy-set man with salt-and-pepper hair and the weathered face of someone who had spent years working outdoors. He spoke with the authority of an official decision-maker. “It is the policy of this railroad not to sell old rolling stock. Frankly, we get a better price from the scrappers."
The man to whom Hillyer spoke was remarkable not only for his height and full red beard, but also for his full-length black robe. He wore dark, horn-rimmed glasses that seemed to magnify his gray eyes. Father Christopher Lewis frowned, one hand stroking his beard thoughtfully.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Hillyer,” the Russian Orthodox priest said. “I am not a rich man, but I would very much like to purchase a caboose.”
The railroad’s division superintendent looked back at the priest with a mix of consternation and humor. "What the dickens would a minister do with a caboose?"
Fr. Christopher sighed. "It’s rather hard to explain. Number 99135 is important to me."
Hillyer’s eyebrows rose and he came halfway out of his chair. “THAT one? Do you know what happened in that caboose?"
"I’m familiar with the story," Fr. Christopher replied with a taut smile. "Please, I’m willing to pay for it and to have it removed from your property. I’d hoped you might be able to make an exception. I know that the company has let old cars go in the past."
“I can’t deny it. We’ve donated--,” he emphasized the word, “--items of rolling stock to charity concerns in the past. But you’re not planning to use it as a Sunday School, are you Father?"
"No sir. I simply want to own the car. Call it a favor to myself."
"I wish I could help, Father, but rules are rules. Perhaps you should try the Santa Fe, or the Burlington." Hillyer’s tone was friendly, but left no room for debate. “I’m sure you don’t really want that caboose. It wouldn’t do for a minister to be seen as morbid, would it?” He rose, offering his hand to the priest.
Fr. Christopher hesitated, then shook hands. “I wish I could tell you all my reasons, Mr. Hillyer, but I can’t. I do thank you for your time.”
Ten days later, Fr. Christopher sat in his car, staring across the yards at a line of old cabooses and steam locomotives. A few blocks away, the clock on the county courthouse chimed two. The narrow slice of the quarter-moon gave just enough cold, blue light to make the tops of the steel rails glint over the pitch-black shadows they cast on the cinders and ties.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered. He tucked a black bag under his arm and got out. Glancing left and right, he crossed the street and stood looking over a low fence. “God forgive me. The bishop won’t, if he finds out.”
In the distance he could see and hear the night-shift diesel shuffling cars. The usual city sounds had become muted with the lateness of the hour. As far as he could see there was no one near, and not likely to be anytime soon.
“Dad would be proud that at least I didn’t wear my ryassa,” the priest thought. An Orthodox clergyman almost always wore his robe, a custom that made him distinctive in town. His parents had believed that the clerical shirts worn by Catholic priests were mark enough of a devoted pastor, but in 1962 very few Orthodox would depart from the traditions of earlier times. “There’s something to be said for work pants and shirt, especially if you’re planning trespass and forced entry.”
It was a moment’s work to get over the fence, then he was picking his way across the web of tracks. As his father had taught him years before, Fr. Christopher did not step on the rails themselves. It would be too easy to slip on the silvery steel, worn to smoothness by countless wheels.
“Safety first,” he muttered, and chuckled ruefully. If he really wanted to be safe, he would be home in bed thinking about Sunday’s Divine Liturgy instead of sneaking around a railroad yard in the dark.
A wall of wood towered before him. Dark shadows hid the underframe and wheels as he moved alongside, looking for the number that would identify the car. There was not enough moonlight to see the faded numerals. He would have to cross over and check the other side to use his flashlight without being seen.
It was pitch black between the cars and Fr. Christopher had to wait until his eyes adjusted. The metal of the coupling was cold when he laid a hand on it, and he remembered stories about his grandfather, killed on the railroad when he was caught between two massive metal knuckles like these.
“That’s a pleasant thought,” he grimaced, “but at least these are already coupled.” The priest cautiously hoisted himself over the drawbar and jumped down on the far side.
As he did so, he caught a flicker of movement in the narrow confines between the cars on the next track and the row he had just crossed. The distraction caused him to catch his foot on the rail instead of stepping firmly beyond it.
Fr. Christopher fell to his hands and knees in the cold cinders and mud, banging his knee painfully against steel. He stifled a curse. “I can’t believe I did that,” he groaned. “You’d think I’d know better after living with a railroadman.”
Ted Lewis would have been right at home here, a familiarity bred of 30 years service. The railroad had been his father’s element, as the church was his own. “You wouldn’t find Dad poking around the sanctuary in the middle of the night, and he sure wouldn’t have fallen over anything if he did,” Fr. Christopher thought, getting to his feet and wincing. “If I was sensible, I’d go home.”
His need to know about caboose number 99135 outweighed his desire to do the sensible thing. He drew the flashlight from his bag and aimed it at the side of the caboose.
99006. This wasn’t it.
Now the question was which way to go? The cars were surely not in numerical order, and if he went the wrong direction he would have to work his way back down the narrow space between the tracks. The idea of spending more time than necessary in the dark confines was disagreeable, especially with the throbbing in his knee. Fr. Christopher sighed and headed to the right, limping slightly.
99244. 99399. 99002... It was a five-minute trip to the end of the string of retired cabooses. He had to proceed slowly, clicking the flashlight on and off, hoping no one would notice.
As he stood at the final car and contemplated walking back to check numbers at the far end, the priest sighed. “Kyrie Jesu Christe, eleison imas. Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.” He pointed the flashlight at the car’s number.
99135.
“Of course. Had I started at the end, I’d be on my way home.” Fr. Christopher pocketed the flashlight before slipping his hands around the grab irons. A quick heave had him standing on the warped steel grating of the car’s platform. A featureless wooden door separated him from what he hoped would be answers to his questions.
The caboose had been standing unattended and deteriorating for at least a year and he readied his crowbar as he reached out to push on the hard wood of the door. It was not padlocked and opened freely, to his surprise.
The black opening yawned like the maw of a great beast. With the windows boarded there wasn’t a hint of light within. Even moonlight did not penetrate the gloom.
Fr. Christopher gazed into the darkness, pulling at his beard. “So we reach the moment of truth,” he whispered. “Gospodi pomiloye. Lord have mercy.” He stepped inside and pushed the door almost shut—but not all the way. One doesn’t close oneself into an unknown place.
The darkness was warm, and much deeper than it had been between the cars. It was comforting, almost like standing in the altar when he celebrated Liturgy. He stood for a few moments before pulling out his flashlight and switching it on.
The beam of light revealed walls stripped of nearly all accoutrements of railroad life. Strips of paper where calendars and notices had been pasted hung down, stirring slightly when he walked by. The empty racks which once held fusees and torpedoes and signal flags hung away from the walls on a few nails. The hooks where lanterns hung were empty.
The only furnishings remaining were built-in benches at either end of the car, the leather cushions cracked and scarred from years of use. A look inside revealed a handful of spikes and a chain--all that remained of long years working on the railroad, now discarded and useless.
On second thought, it wasn’t much like standing in the altar after all.
Fr. Christopher stood below the cupola, looking up to the seats where conductors and brakemen would watch their train as it moved along the tracks. It happened up there. The priest felt a cold shiver run up his spine. “Dad, you killed yourself here. Is there anything that will tell me why?”
“I could.”
Fr. Christopher spun around and looked back at the door, expecting to see one of the yardmen standing there, or perhaps a railroad detective. There was no one; it remained closed. He turned his light into every corner of the caboose, but he was alone.
“Wonderful,” he said, shaking his head. “Now I’m hearing things.” After a few moments, the priest pointed his flashlight upward again and climbed the half-ladder that led into the elevated seats of the cupola.
There were no cushions on the seats here. They had been cut away and removed, probably because they had been stained with his father’s blood. The underlying wood had dark stains, but the scent of oil and creosote still lingered and he could not decide if the marks were anything other than railroad-related.
Sitting carefully on the splintered bench, Fr. Christopher ran his hands over the frames of the boarded-up windows. A few initials had been carved here over the years, but not T.L.
After a moment, he clicked off the flashlight and sat in the darkness, tugging at his beard.
His father had worked on this caboose for 30 years. Some railroads had adopted the practice of pooling cars, sending out train crews on whichever one was available. Until a year earlier, this road used the old practice of assigning a specific caboose to a particular conductor. His father had been using 99135 since just before Pearl Harbor.
Memories of his father played in his mind. Running the Lionel trains in the basement, learning railroading at his father’s hands. Christmas with a huge turkey dinner provided by his dad, who was a good caboose cook. Walking to the yard beside his father, seeing him waving from the caboose as it rolled past a street crossing.
There were less pleasant images as well. Dad coming home drunk, Mom in despair, eventually dying from the worry. The not-so-subtle disapproval when he converted to the Orthodox faith, increased when he became a priest. Worst of all, the harsh realization that his father had become an old man, before the end.
What had led him to climb into the cupola of this caboose and place the barrel of a gun in his mouth? “Maybe he didn’t know himself,” the priest murmured. “May his memory be eternal.”
“It was my fault.”
Fr. Christopher almost fell out of the cupola seat. He banged his already wrenched knee against the unyielding wood as he rose, and slammed his head against the low ceiling. “Who’s there!” he cried, trying vainly to see whomever had spoken in the darkness.
“Just me,” the voice answered. “Nobody important.” It was tired, the voice of someone who had worked very long and very hard. It held something of the creak of aged wood, well worn and mellow, but with a spine of hardness. It reminded him of his father.
The priest turned on the flashlight and lowered himself to the floor. Pointing it first right, then left, he could see no one. Crossing to the half-closed door, he placed a hand on the knob.
“Well come in here then, if you’ve caught me,” he said testily. The door remained motionless.
“It’s not a matter of ‘coming in’,” the voice replied. “I’m in, because I’m here.”
Fr. Christopher crossed himself, in the left-to-right Orthodox manner, and put on his most authoritative manner.
“What are you then, a ghost?” He tried to sound as if he was scoffing at the idea, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded.
“Oh no, I’m not a ghost.” The voice was silent a moment, and when it spoke again, it sounded amused. “At least I don’t think I am. I’m just…me.”
“Well that answers exactly nothing,” the priest said. He peered around in the gloom. Still not seeing anyone, he pulled the door open slightly and glanced out.
Moonlight still gilded the rails, and far down the track he could see the diesel switcher moving through the yard as it pushed a cut of cars onto a siding. A car horn sounded momentarily on the street. Other than that there was no other movement or sound. Fr. Christopher pushed the door shut again and leaned against it.
“I miss him,” the voice said. “I wish he hadn’t…done what he did.”
The non sequitur of a disembodied voice that missed his father caused the priest to laugh out loud.
“You miss him? I miss him. He was my father. But who the hell are you? Where are you, for that matter?”
“I told you, I’m me, and I’m here. This is where I am, and who I am.” The voice was patient, but weary.
“You’re not a ghost though.” It seemed to him there were only a couple of alternatives. “You’re not someone playing a prank. You’re not a demon spirit trying to tempt me, are you?” Being Orthodox, he conceded the existence of such spirits. Being a “modern American” created a certain amount of skepticism, however.
“No.”
Whenever you have eliminated the improbable, the priest thought. “What are you then? The caboose?”
“Yes.”
Fr. Christopher sat down on one of the benches with a thud. “You’ll pardon me,” he said very slowly, “if I find that hard to believe.” He could almost hear the shrug when the voice replied.
“As you will, but it’s the truth. Your father said the same thing, the first time we spoke.”
The priest looked around in the dark. “You spoke to my father?”
“Yes. He was a good man, he took care of me, always made sure I was in good repair. I miss him.”
Raising a hand, Fr. Christopher made a sign of blessing and whispered a short prayer of exorcism. He had seen his bishop do that when investigating a “weeping icon” of the Virgin Mary a few years back. It wouldn’t hurt to try, in case this was a case of demonic temptation.
“Are you satisfied?” the voice asked a few moments afterward. “If what your father told me was true, I would not be able to stand up to the name of Christ and the prayer you just said. So that means I’m not a demon, or a ghost either, right?”
The priest didn’t know what to say. The whole situation was too strange for words. A talking caboose--no one would believe him. If he even breathed a word of it, the bishop would likely have him suspended and sent for a psychological examination.
He didn’t drink, other than some wine. He didn’t take any drugs. He was not given to wild flights of fancy. If those things were true, maybe he was crazy.
“You’re not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking,” the caboose said.
“There’s a healthy sign,” Fr. Christopher laughed darkly. “You’re not ‘the voice’ anymore, now you’re ‘the caboose’.”
“You came here trying to find out more about how your father died, is that not so?” The caboose sounded sympathetic, friendly, helpful. In fact, he sounded like a priest.
“Yes, but I certainly didn’t expect to have my questions addressed by an inanimate object. Or to have it tell me that it talked to my dad, let alone missed him.”
“Maybe it’s a miracle? Your father said you had a way with miracles. He was proud of you, you know.”
Fr. Christopher’s eyes grew wide. “He said that?” He was not sure which amazed him more: that his father thought his son a miracle-worker or that his father was proud of him. The latter is something of a miracle itself, the priest thought.
“Yes indeed,” the caboose replied warmly. “He complained about you joining the church, but over the years he spoke of you with much pride. He said you helped so many people. He was glad you had chosen another path than working for the railroad. The night he--did it, he said two generations dead on the railroad was enough.”
The silence that followed was long and painful for Fr. Christopher. To hear that his dad had come to view his priesthood with satisfaction rather than dismissal changed everything he had believed about the man. It was encouraging to know he had gained an acceptance for his son’s vocation.
“I suppose the Lewis family has a history of irritating parents with their career choices,” he murmured. He knew his grandfather had not been pleased when his father had joined the railroad.
“Oh, your grandfather was proud of your father, as your father was proud of you.”
“You knew my grandfather?” The priest leaned back against the wall of the caboose. His eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness of the interior and he could make out vague shapes in the gloom.
“Yes, I was his assigned caboose too, you know.”
“I didn’t. Did you--?” Fr. Christopher’s voice trailed off. It felt absurdly personal to ask. He tugged at his beard.
“Did I speak to him also? No, I never said a word to him, but there was something about your father that made me want to talk with him. I’m glad I did. After all those years of silence, it felt good to have someone to speak with.”
The priest contemplated the loneliness of being surrounded with active, talkative people, and being unable or unwilling to break silence. That something about his dad had inspired the caboose to speak shook his view of the man for the second time in as many minutes. Fishing for something useful to say, he offered, “I wasn’t aware the railroad used such old equipment.”
“I am that--old, I mean. I was built in 1900, rebuilt in 1922 and 1948, to make me more modern. Your grandfather was there for the first, your father for the second. There won’t be a third.”
“There would be if I could convince the railroad to sell you to me,” Fr. Christopher replied. It was quiet for a very long time after that. “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” the caboose said, its voice hushed and weary. “I cannot go anywhere, after all.”
“Did I say something wrong?” The priest was confused by the its lengthy silence, as if conversing with a talking caboose was not bewildering enough.
“No,” came the eventual, pained response. “But I wish to go to the scrapyard. I have caused enough pain to your family. You deserve not to be tormented by me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I told you before,” the caboose answered, the voice like rending wood, a painful sound. “Your father’s death was my fault.”
Fr. Christopher had been told many strange and dreadful tales in his years as a priest. Yet this bald admission felt more strange and dreadful than anything else he had heard. He worked to find words that would encompass both his acceptance of the statement and disavowal of the guilt with which the words ached.
“That’s--well, I’ve not…there have been people who confessed sins to me before, but nothing I have been less prepared to accept,” he managed to say. “I don’t believe anyone is responsible for a suicide other than the one who takes his own life.”
“Well then, call it a sin of temptation.”
“Temptation is not a sin,” the priest said. “Giving in to temptation is the sin.” The peculiarity of saying such a thing to a talking caboose suddenly struck home. “Listen to me, discussing the nature of sin with you!”
“I tempted your father with friendship. After your mother died, he needed steady friends, and who was steadier than me? He sure didn’t need to drink, and you helped him stop that.”
“I did?” The priest thought his father had boot-strapped himself onto the wagon out of guilt for the death of his wife.
“Yes, you did. By being firm and unyielding on the issue. It was hard, but he did it because you were one of the rocks he could cling to. I was the other. I helped him to stay out of trouble by being there to talk with. He expected I’d always be there. And I wanted friends so badly myself. There aren’t a lot of opportunities when you’re a caboose.”
Fr. Christopher thought about laughing. There was something pitiable yet understandable in the words, even if he struggled to accept the reality of their source. He struggled with himself as well, learning how much he had meant to his father.
“I doubt that by offering my father friendship you forced him to pull the trigger,” he said.
The caboose sighed, and it felt as if the structure of the car trembled slightly. “May I tell you what happened that night?”
The priest was not sure he wanted to pursue this conversation to its conclusion, but he felt compelled both by the pain in the voice and the possibility of knowing exactly what had happened the night his father climbed into the cupola and shot himself. “Go ahead,” he answered, his voice strained.
“He had just gotten official notice of his retirement, you know,” the caboose began.
Fr. Christopher did know that--he had seen the letter. It had glowingly thanked the old railroader for his years of service, and set the date. For a man who defined himself so completely by the work he did, pretty sentiments and a gold watch would not be enough to make up for the loss.
“I got most of this out of him before he--before the end, though I didn’t know it when he came in here half-drunk with a box of Pabst under one arm and a bottle of vodka in the other hand. He had been on the wagon for so long after your mother died, but I guess he felt there was nothing left to lose.”
That hurt, the priest realized. “He hadn’t lost me. Why didn’t he come talk to me?”
“He was drunk, he was ashamed. Wouldn’t you be?”
Mulling that, Fr. Christopher thought of another question. “I knew he was upset about retiring, but why get drunk at all? As you say, he was on the wagon and doing well.”
“Because he found out that when he retired, I was going to be scrapped. That probably wouldn’t have been enough to send him back to the bottle, except that he tried to buy me. They turned him down cold.”
“I know how that feels,” the priest grunted. “Though I didn’t know about your--unique qualities--when I asked.”
“I told him to go home and sleep it off when he stumbled in here, said he should forget about me and let me go. He finished off the beer and the vodka and sat here for a long time. Then he left. I thought he went home.”
“But he didn’t.”
Another sigh seemed to shake the caboose. “No, he came back a bit later with the gun. He said he knew he was a disappointment to you, and that he had disappointed his wife, and had disappointed his best friend. I assume he meant me.”
There was a long silence.
“And then,” the priest asked, dreading to hear the words.
The words were sepulchral, cold, like the squealing of steel wheels on steel rails. “Then he climbed up in the cupola and shot himself. I talked the whole time, tried to get him to stop. But he ignored me. He just did it. I felt his blood pouring over my cushions and down my walls because I tempted him to be my friend and then couldn’t help him when he needed me the most.”
Fr. Christopher’s hand pulled at his beard as he struggled to find something to say. Sitting in a dark railroad car, hearing what amounted to a confession and offering counseling to a guilt-ridden caboose was a bit outside his usual work. He prayed, and a stillness settled on his heart, allowing him to order his thoughts and speak.
“I do not believe my father’s death was your fault. Having a deep and abiding friendship such as yours, especially after mom died, must have been a real joy. The thought of losing that, and his life’s work, and his embarrassment at getting drunk again was probably more than he could handle. His decision was due to a lot of things, but ‘your fault’ isn’t one of them.”
“You truly believe that?” the caboose asked, sounding hopeful.
“Yes, I do, insofar as I can believe anything about a talking caboose,” the priest replied with a sardonic laugh.
“You forgive me?”
“God forgives,” Fr. Christopher answered. That was the response of a confessor to a penitent Orthodox Christian concerned about his soul. He was not even sure the word “soul” could be applied to a caboose, or if God gave forgiveness to one which had spent years feeling guilty. But for himself, he could. “Even if I thought you had done something wrong, I would forgive.”
“Thank you, Father.” The caboose sounded relieved.
Fr. Christopher became aware that faint light was beginning to shine around the edges of the boarded-up windows. Dawn was approaching and with it more workers and passers-by.
“I’ll have to go soon,” the priest said. “You don’t want me to try to buy you, to save you?”
“No, please. I have served a long time, and I’m done. That’s not suicide, is it?” The caboose sounded quite concerned.
Fr. Christopher shook his head. “I don’t know. You’re not a human being, so I don’t know what rules God would apply to you. You’ve completed a life of service, though, and the decision to be taken out of service isn’t really yours. For the rest, let’s leave it in His hands.”
“Yes. May I ask a favor?”
“Of course, if I am able.”
“Do you have a picture of your father? And an icon of the Christ? I’d like to have them here with me.”
It was such a strange request, the priest could only agree. He took out his wallet and extracted a photo of his dad. The old man was smiling, dressed in overalls and holding his lunch pail and a lantern.
From another fold, Fr. Christopher pulled a mass-produced icon card, of which he always carried a few. He wedged them into the frame of the cupola window.
“I’m curious,” he said as he climbed down. “I understand the picture, but why the icon?”
“He used to talk to me about you and your ministry. He put an icon you gave him in the car, and kept it even though the other guys ribbed him about it. It was a real nice picture of Jesus with a lamb over his shoulders. I always liked it. It reminds me of him.” The final words were like the soft whisper of a breeze. “And maybe I hope, too. Maybe I hope.”
Fr. Christopher pulled the door open and looked out. The eastern horizon was beginning to glow. “I’d better go.”
“Father, bless.”
The words surprised the priest, but he paused on the threshold and made the sign of the cross in the air. “Through the prayers of the holy fathers, Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on us and bless us.” After a moment, he added, “Lord now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy word,” and closed the door.
In the warm, golden light of a new day, he walked to his car and headed home.
Fr. Christopher had just settled down at the kitchen table with a bowl of cold cereal when the phone rang.
“Father, it’s Ed Hillyer. I just wanted to tell you I’ve spoken with the general manager and he says it would be fine to sell you number 99135. Once I figured out who you were and all--”
“Thank you, but I’ve changed my mind,” the priest replied. “I won’t be needing the caboose after all.”
“Well, I should tell you they’ll be hauling it away tomorrow. By Monday it will be a lost piece of railroad history. If you don’t mind my asking, why did you change your mind?”
Fr. Christopher looked up at a photograph on the wall. His father stood on the step of caboose 99135, one hand on the platform railing and the other almost protectively on the back wall of the car. He smiled.
“Call it a last favor to an old family friend,” he said, and hung up the phone.
The man to whom Hillyer spoke was remarkable not only for his height and full red beard, but also for his full-length black robe. He wore dark, horn-rimmed glasses that seemed to magnify his gray eyes. Father Christopher Lewis frowned, one hand stroking his beard thoughtfully.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Hillyer,” the Russian Orthodox priest said. “I am not a rich man, but I would very much like to purchase a caboose.”
The railroad’s division superintendent looked back at the priest with a mix of consternation and humor. "What the dickens would a minister do with a caboose?"
Fr. Christopher sighed. "It’s rather hard to explain. Number 99135 is important to me."
Hillyer’s eyebrows rose and he came halfway out of his chair. “THAT one? Do you know what happened in that caboose?"
"I’m familiar with the story," Fr. Christopher replied with a taut smile. "Please, I’m willing to pay for it and to have it removed from your property. I’d hoped you might be able to make an exception. I know that the company has let old cars go in the past."
“I can’t deny it. We’ve donated--,” he emphasized the word, “--items of rolling stock to charity concerns in the past. But you’re not planning to use it as a Sunday School, are you Father?"
"No sir. I simply want to own the car. Call it a favor to myself."
"I wish I could help, Father, but rules are rules. Perhaps you should try the Santa Fe, or the Burlington." Hillyer’s tone was friendly, but left no room for debate. “I’m sure you don’t really want that caboose. It wouldn’t do for a minister to be seen as morbid, would it?” He rose, offering his hand to the priest.
Fr. Christopher hesitated, then shook hands. “I wish I could tell you all my reasons, Mr. Hillyer, but I can’t. I do thank you for your time.”
Ten days later, Fr. Christopher sat in his car, staring across the yards at a line of old cabooses and steam locomotives. A few blocks away, the clock on the county courthouse chimed two. The narrow slice of the quarter-moon gave just enough cold, blue light to make the tops of the steel rails glint over the pitch-black shadows they cast on the cinders and ties.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered. He tucked a black bag under his arm and got out. Glancing left and right, he crossed the street and stood looking over a low fence. “God forgive me. The bishop won’t, if he finds out.”
In the distance he could see and hear the night-shift diesel shuffling cars. The usual city sounds had become muted with the lateness of the hour. As far as he could see there was no one near, and not likely to be anytime soon.
“Dad would be proud that at least I didn’t wear my ryassa,” the priest thought. An Orthodox clergyman almost always wore his robe, a custom that made him distinctive in town. His parents had believed that the clerical shirts worn by Catholic priests were mark enough of a devoted pastor, but in 1962 very few Orthodox would depart from the traditions of earlier times. “There’s something to be said for work pants and shirt, especially if you’re planning trespass and forced entry.”
It was a moment’s work to get over the fence, then he was picking his way across the web of tracks. As his father had taught him years before, Fr. Christopher did not step on the rails themselves. It would be too easy to slip on the silvery steel, worn to smoothness by countless wheels.
“Safety first,” he muttered, and chuckled ruefully. If he really wanted to be safe, he would be home in bed thinking about Sunday’s Divine Liturgy instead of sneaking around a railroad yard in the dark.
A wall of wood towered before him. Dark shadows hid the underframe and wheels as he moved alongside, looking for the number that would identify the car. There was not enough moonlight to see the faded numerals. He would have to cross over and check the other side to use his flashlight without being seen.
It was pitch black between the cars and Fr. Christopher had to wait until his eyes adjusted. The metal of the coupling was cold when he laid a hand on it, and he remembered stories about his grandfather, killed on the railroad when he was caught between two massive metal knuckles like these.
“That’s a pleasant thought,” he grimaced, “but at least these are already coupled.” The priest cautiously hoisted himself over the drawbar and jumped down on the far side.
As he did so, he caught a flicker of movement in the narrow confines between the cars on the next track and the row he had just crossed. The distraction caused him to catch his foot on the rail instead of stepping firmly beyond it.
Fr. Christopher fell to his hands and knees in the cold cinders and mud, banging his knee painfully against steel. He stifled a curse. “I can’t believe I did that,” he groaned. “You’d think I’d know better after living with a railroadman.”
Ted Lewis would have been right at home here, a familiarity bred of 30 years service. The railroad had been his father’s element, as the church was his own. “You wouldn’t find Dad poking around the sanctuary in the middle of the night, and he sure wouldn’t have fallen over anything if he did,” Fr. Christopher thought, getting to his feet and wincing. “If I was sensible, I’d go home.”
His need to know about caboose number 99135 outweighed his desire to do the sensible thing. He drew the flashlight from his bag and aimed it at the side of the caboose.
99006. This wasn’t it.
Now the question was which way to go? The cars were surely not in numerical order, and if he went the wrong direction he would have to work his way back down the narrow space between the tracks. The idea of spending more time than necessary in the dark confines was disagreeable, especially with the throbbing in his knee. Fr. Christopher sighed and headed to the right, limping slightly.
99244. 99399. 99002... It was a five-minute trip to the end of the string of retired cabooses. He had to proceed slowly, clicking the flashlight on and off, hoping no one would notice.
As he stood at the final car and contemplated walking back to check numbers at the far end, the priest sighed. “Kyrie Jesu Christe, eleison imas. Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.” He pointed the flashlight at the car’s number.
99135.
“Of course. Had I started at the end, I’d be on my way home.” Fr. Christopher pocketed the flashlight before slipping his hands around the grab irons. A quick heave had him standing on the warped steel grating of the car’s platform. A featureless wooden door separated him from what he hoped would be answers to his questions.
The caboose had been standing unattended and deteriorating for at least a year and he readied his crowbar as he reached out to push on the hard wood of the door. It was not padlocked and opened freely, to his surprise.
The black opening yawned like the maw of a great beast. With the windows boarded there wasn’t a hint of light within. Even moonlight did not penetrate the gloom.
Fr. Christopher gazed into the darkness, pulling at his beard. “So we reach the moment of truth,” he whispered. “Gospodi pomiloye. Lord have mercy.” He stepped inside and pushed the door almost shut—but not all the way. One doesn’t close oneself into an unknown place.
The darkness was warm, and much deeper than it had been between the cars. It was comforting, almost like standing in the altar when he celebrated Liturgy. He stood for a few moments before pulling out his flashlight and switching it on.
The beam of light revealed walls stripped of nearly all accoutrements of railroad life. Strips of paper where calendars and notices had been pasted hung down, stirring slightly when he walked by. The empty racks which once held fusees and torpedoes and signal flags hung away from the walls on a few nails. The hooks where lanterns hung were empty.
The only furnishings remaining were built-in benches at either end of the car, the leather cushions cracked and scarred from years of use. A look inside revealed a handful of spikes and a chain--all that remained of long years working on the railroad, now discarded and useless.
On second thought, it wasn’t much like standing in the altar after all.
Fr. Christopher stood below the cupola, looking up to the seats where conductors and brakemen would watch their train as it moved along the tracks. It happened up there. The priest felt a cold shiver run up his spine. “Dad, you killed yourself here. Is there anything that will tell me why?”
“I could.”
Fr. Christopher spun around and looked back at the door, expecting to see one of the yardmen standing there, or perhaps a railroad detective. There was no one; it remained closed. He turned his light into every corner of the caboose, but he was alone.
“Wonderful,” he said, shaking his head. “Now I’m hearing things.” After a few moments, the priest pointed his flashlight upward again and climbed the half-ladder that led into the elevated seats of the cupola.
There were no cushions on the seats here. They had been cut away and removed, probably because they had been stained with his father’s blood. The underlying wood had dark stains, but the scent of oil and creosote still lingered and he could not decide if the marks were anything other than railroad-related.
Sitting carefully on the splintered bench, Fr. Christopher ran his hands over the frames of the boarded-up windows. A few initials had been carved here over the years, but not T.L.
After a moment, he clicked off the flashlight and sat in the darkness, tugging at his beard.
His father had worked on this caboose for 30 years. Some railroads had adopted the practice of pooling cars, sending out train crews on whichever one was available. Until a year earlier, this road used the old practice of assigning a specific caboose to a particular conductor. His father had been using 99135 since just before Pearl Harbor.
Memories of his father played in his mind. Running the Lionel trains in the basement, learning railroading at his father’s hands. Christmas with a huge turkey dinner provided by his dad, who was a good caboose cook. Walking to the yard beside his father, seeing him waving from the caboose as it rolled past a street crossing.
There were less pleasant images as well. Dad coming home drunk, Mom in despair, eventually dying from the worry. The not-so-subtle disapproval when he converted to the Orthodox faith, increased when he became a priest. Worst of all, the harsh realization that his father had become an old man, before the end.
What had led him to climb into the cupola of this caboose and place the barrel of a gun in his mouth? “Maybe he didn’t know himself,” the priest murmured. “May his memory be eternal.”
“It was my fault.”
Fr. Christopher almost fell out of the cupola seat. He banged his already wrenched knee against the unyielding wood as he rose, and slammed his head against the low ceiling. “Who’s there!” he cried, trying vainly to see whomever had spoken in the darkness.
“Just me,” the voice answered. “Nobody important.” It was tired, the voice of someone who had worked very long and very hard. It held something of the creak of aged wood, well worn and mellow, but with a spine of hardness. It reminded him of his father.
The priest turned on the flashlight and lowered himself to the floor. Pointing it first right, then left, he could see no one. Crossing to the half-closed door, he placed a hand on the knob.
“Well come in here then, if you’ve caught me,” he said testily. The door remained motionless.
“It’s not a matter of ‘coming in’,” the voice replied. “I’m in, because I’m here.”
Fr. Christopher crossed himself, in the left-to-right Orthodox manner, and put on his most authoritative manner.
“What are you then, a ghost?” He tried to sound as if he was scoffing at the idea, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded.
“Oh no, I’m not a ghost.” The voice was silent a moment, and when it spoke again, it sounded amused. “At least I don’t think I am. I’m just…me.”
“Well that answers exactly nothing,” the priest said. He peered around in the gloom. Still not seeing anyone, he pulled the door open slightly and glanced out.
Moonlight still gilded the rails, and far down the track he could see the diesel switcher moving through the yard as it pushed a cut of cars onto a siding. A car horn sounded momentarily on the street. Other than that there was no other movement or sound. Fr. Christopher pushed the door shut again and leaned against it.
“I miss him,” the voice said. “I wish he hadn’t…done what he did.”
The non sequitur of a disembodied voice that missed his father caused the priest to laugh out loud.
“You miss him? I miss him. He was my father. But who the hell are you? Where are you, for that matter?”
“I told you, I’m me, and I’m here. This is where I am, and who I am.” The voice was patient, but weary.
“You’re not a ghost though.” It seemed to him there were only a couple of alternatives. “You’re not someone playing a prank. You’re not a demon spirit trying to tempt me, are you?” Being Orthodox, he conceded the existence of such spirits. Being a “modern American” created a certain amount of skepticism, however.
“No.”
Whenever you have eliminated the improbable, the priest thought. “What are you then? The caboose?”
“Yes.”
Fr. Christopher sat down on one of the benches with a thud. “You’ll pardon me,” he said very slowly, “if I find that hard to believe.” He could almost hear the shrug when the voice replied.
“As you will, but it’s the truth. Your father said the same thing, the first time we spoke.”
The priest looked around in the dark. “You spoke to my father?”
“Yes. He was a good man, he took care of me, always made sure I was in good repair. I miss him.”
Raising a hand, Fr. Christopher made a sign of blessing and whispered a short prayer of exorcism. He had seen his bishop do that when investigating a “weeping icon” of the Virgin Mary a few years back. It wouldn’t hurt to try, in case this was a case of demonic temptation.
“Are you satisfied?” the voice asked a few moments afterward. “If what your father told me was true, I would not be able to stand up to the name of Christ and the prayer you just said. So that means I’m not a demon, or a ghost either, right?”
The priest didn’t know what to say. The whole situation was too strange for words. A talking caboose--no one would believe him. If he even breathed a word of it, the bishop would likely have him suspended and sent for a psychological examination.
He didn’t drink, other than some wine. He didn’t take any drugs. He was not given to wild flights of fancy. If those things were true, maybe he was crazy.
“You’re not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking,” the caboose said.
“There’s a healthy sign,” Fr. Christopher laughed darkly. “You’re not ‘the voice’ anymore, now you’re ‘the caboose’.”
“You came here trying to find out more about how your father died, is that not so?” The caboose sounded sympathetic, friendly, helpful. In fact, he sounded like a priest.
“Yes, but I certainly didn’t expect to have my questions addressed by an inanimate object. Or to have it tell me that it talked to my dad, let alone missed him.”
“Maybe it’s a miracle? Your father said you had a way with miracles. He was proud of you, you know.”
Fr. Christopher’s eyes grew wide. “He said that?” He was not sure which amazed him more: that his father thought his son a miracle-worker or that his father was proud of him. The latter is something of a miracle itself, the priest thought.
“Yes indeed,” the caboose replied warmly. “He complained about you joining the church, but over the years he spoke of you with much pride. He said you helped so many people. He was glad you had chosen another path than working for the railroad. The night he--did it, he said two generations dead on the railroad was enough.”
The silence that followed was long and painful for Fr. Christopher. To hear that his dad had come to view his priesthood with satisfaction rather than dismissal changed everything he had believed about the man. It was encouraging to know he had gained an acceptance for his son’s vocation.
“I suppose the Lewis family has a history of irritating parents with their career choices,” he murmured. He knew his grandfather had not been pleased when his father had joined the railroad.
“Oh, your grandfather was proud of your father, as your father was proud of you.”
“You knew my grandfather?” The priest leaned back against the wall of the caboose. His eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness of the interior and he could make out vague shapes in the gloom.
“Yes, I was his assigned caboose too, you know.”
“I didn’t. Did you--?” Fr. Christopher’s voice trailed off. It felt absurdly personal to ask. He tugged at his beard.
“Did I speak to him also? No, I never said a word to him, but there was something about your father that made me want to talk with him. I’m glad I did. After all those years of silence, it felt good to have someone to speak with.”
The priest contemplated the loneliness of being surrounded with active, talkative people, and being unable or unwilling to break silence. That something about his dad had inspired the caboose to speak shook his view of the man for the second time in as many minutes. Fishing for something useful to say, he offered, “I wasn’t aware the railroad used such old equipment.”
“I am that--old, I mean. I was built in 1900, rebuilt in 1922 and 1948, to make me more modern. Your grandfather was there for the first, your father for the second. There won’t be a third.”
“There would be if I could convince the railroad to sell you to me,” Fr. Christopher replied. It was quiet for a very long time after that. “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” the caboose said, its voice hushed and weary. “I cannot go anywhere, after all.”
“Did I say something wrong?” The priest was confused by the its lengthy silence, as if conversing with a talking caboose was not bewildering enough.
“No,” came the eventual, pained response. “But I wish to go to the scrapyard. I have caused enough pain to your family. You deserve not to be tormented by me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I told you before,” the caboose answered, the voice like rending wood, a painful sound. “Your father’s death was my fault.”
Fr. Christopher had been told many strange and dreadful tales in his years as a priest. Yet this bald admission felt more strange and dreadful than anything else he had heard. He worked to find words that would encompass both his acceptance of the statement and disavowal of the guilt with which the words ached.
“That’s--well, I’ve not…there have been people who confessed sins to me before, but nothing I have been less prepared to accept,” he managed to say. “I don’t believe anyone is responsible for a suicide other than the one who takes his own life.”
“Well then, call it a sin of temptation.”
“Temptation is not a sin,” the priest said. “Giving in to temptation is the sin.” The peculiarity of saying such a thing to a talking caboose suddenly struck home. “Listen to me, discussing the nature of sin with you!”
“I tempted your father with friendship. After your mother died, he needed steady friends, and who was steadier than me? He sure didn’t need to drink, and you helped him stop that.”
“I did?” The priest thought his father had boot-strapped himself onto the wagon out of guilt for the death of his wife.
“Yes, you did. By being firm and unyielding on the issue. It was hard, but he did it because you were one of the rocks he could cling to. I was the other. I helped him to stay out of trouble by being there to talk with. He expected I’d always be there. And I wanted friends so badly myself. There aren’t a lot of opportunities when you’re a caboose.”
Fr. Christopher thought about laughing. There was something pitiable yet understandable in the words, even if he struggled to accept the reality of their source. He struggled with himself as well, learning how much he had meant to his father.
“I doubt that by offering my father friendship you forced him to pull the trigger,” he said.
The caboose sighed, and it felt as if the structure of the car trembled slightly. “May I tell you what happened that night?”
The priest was not sure he wanted to pursue this conversation to its conclusion, but he felt compelled both by the pain in the voice and the possibility of knowing exactly what had happened the night his father climbed into the cupola and shot himself. “Go ahead,” he answered, his voice strained.
“He had just gotten official notice of his retirement, you know,” the caboose began.
Fr. Christopher did know that--he had seen the letter. It had glowingly thanked the old railroader for his years of service, and set the date. For a man who defined himself so completely by the work he did, pretty sentiments and a gold watch would not be enough to make up for the loss.
“I got most of this out of him before he--before the end, though I didn’t know it when he came in here half-drunk with a box of Pabst under one arm and a bottle of vodka in the other hand. He had been on the wagon for so long after your mother died, but I guess he felt there was nothing left to lose.”
That hurt, the priest realized. “He hadn’t lost me. Why didn’t he come talk to me?”
“He was drunk, he was ashamed. Wouldn’t you be?”
Mulling that, Fr. Christopher thought of another question. “I knew he was upset about retiring, but why get drunk at all? As you say, he was on the wagon and doing well.”
“Because he found out that when he retired, I was going to be scrapped. That probably wouldn’t have been enough to send him back to the bottle, except that he tried to buy me. They turned him down cold.”
“I know how that feels,” the priest grunted. “Though I didn’t know about your--unique qualities--when I asked.”
“I told him to go home and sleep it off when he stumbled in here, said he should forget about me and let me go. He finished off the beer and the vodka and sat here for a long time. Then he left. I thought he went home.”
“But he didn’t.”
Another sigh seemed to shake the caboose. “No, he came back a bit later with the gun. He said he knew he was a disappointment to you, and that he had disappointed his wife, and had disappointed his best friend. I assume he meant me.”
There was a long silence.
“And then,” the priest asked, dreading to hear the words.
The words were sepulchral, cold, like the squealing of steel wheels on steel rails. “Then he climbed up in the cupola and shot himself. I talked the whole time, tried to get him to stop. But he ignored me. He just did it. I felt his blood pouring over my cushions and down my walls because I tempted him to be my friend and then couldn’t help him when he needed me the most.”
Fr. Christopher’s hand pulled at his beard as he struggled to find something to say. Sitting in a dark railroad car, hearing what amounted to a confession and offering counseling to a guilt-ridden caboose was a bit outside his usual work. He prayed, and a stillness settled on his heart, allowing him to order his thoughts and speak.
“I do not believe my father’s death was your fault. Having a deep and abiding friendship such as yours, especially after mom died, must have been a real joy. The thought of losing that, and his life’s work, and his embarrassment at getting drunk again was probably more than he could handle. His decision was due to a lot of things, but ‘your fault’ isn’t one of them.”
“You truly believe that?” the caboose asked, sounding hopeful.
“Yes, I do, insofar as I can believe anything about a talking caboose,” the priest replied with a sardonic laugh.
“You forgive me?”
“God forgives,” Fr. Christopher answered. That was the response of a confessor to a penitent Orthodox Christian concerned about his soul. He was not even sure the word “soul” could be applied to a caboose, or if God gave forgiveness to one which had spent years feeling guilty. But for himself, he could. “Even if I thought you had done something wrong, I would forgive.”
“Thank you, Father.” The caboose sounded relieved.
Fr. Christopher became aware that faint light was beginning to shine around the edges of the boarded-up windows. Dawn was approaching and with it more workers and passers-by.
“I’ll have to go soon,” the priest said. “You don’t want me to try to buy you, to save you?”
“No, please. I have served a long time, and I’m done. That’s not suicide, is it?” The caboose sounded quite concerned.
Fr. Christopher shook his head. “I don’t know. You’re not a human being, so I don’t know what rules God would apply to you. You’ve completed a life of service, though, and the decision to be taken out of service isn’t really yours. For the rest, let’s leave it in His hands.”
“Yes. May I ask a favor?”
“Of course, if I am able.”
“Do you have a picture of your father? And an icon of the Christ? I’d like to have them here with me.”
It was such a strange request, the priest could only agree. He took out his wallet and extracted a photo of his dad. The old man was smiling, dressed in overalls and holding his lunch pail and a lantern.
From another fold, Fr. Christopher pulled a mass-produced icon card, of which he always carried a few. He wedged them into the frame of the cupola window.
“I’m curious,” he said as he climbed down. “I understand the picture, but why the icon?”
“He used to talk to me about you and your ministry. He put an icon you gave him in the car, and kept it even though the other guys ribbed him about it. It was a real nice picture of Jesus with a lamb over his shoulders. I always liked it. It reminds me of him.” The final words were like the soft whisper of a breeze. “And maybe I hope, too. Maybe I hope.”
Fr. Christopher pulled the door open and looked out. The eastern horizon was beginning to glow. “I’d better go.”
“Father, bless.”
The words surprised the priest, but he paused on the threshold and made the sign of the cross in the air. “Through the prayers of the holy fathers, Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on us and bless us.” After a moment, he added, “Lord now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy word,” and closed the door.
In the warm, golden light of a new day, he walked to his car and headed home.
Fr. Christopher had just settled down at the kitchen table with a bowl of cold cereal when the phone rang.
“Father, it’s Ed Hillyer. I just wanted to tell you I’ve spoken with the general manager and he says it would be fine to sell you number 99135. Once I figured out who you were and all--”
“Thank you, but I’ve changed my mind,” the priest replied. “I won’t be needing the caboose after all.”
“Well, I should tell you they’ll be hauling it away tomorrow. By Monday it will be a lost piece of railroad history. If you don’t mind my asking, why did you change your mind?”
Fr. Christopher looked up at a photograph on the wall. His father stood on the step of caboose 99135, one hand on the platform railing and the other almost protectively on the back wall of the car. He smiled.
“Call it a last favor to an old family friend,” he said, and hung up the phone.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
For Halloween: The Water Bottles
Here's a little something I wrote for a contest titled "Ordinary Horrors". It's apropos for Halloween, I suspect. And a tip of the hat to the memory of the master of weird scray tales, H.P. Lovecraft.
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Old Missus Shrewsbury asked me and my friends to clean out her basement lots of times, but we always had an excuse. Soccer practice, prayer service at church, homework, you name it and we used it.
It's not that we couldn't use the money she offered us, it's just that her house was nasty. It was probably a really nice place when it was built a hundred years ago, but my mom says Missus S. and her husband had let it go to seed. I'm not sure what that means, but I guess it means what I said. It was nasty and dark, and it even looked like her. The roof was all hunched over and the windows looked like google-eyes and it was even kind of a sick green around the edges. It smelled bad too, like maybe the toilet was backed up all the time or something.
Anyway, we're hanging around Three Corner Park when Joey's cell phone started ringing. It sucks that Joey had a cell phone and the other guys didn't, but not because we wanted one ourselves. It sucked because everybody knew to call Joey if they wanted to get hold of us.
"Bobby, I want you to go over to Mrs. Shrewsbury's house and help her clean out her basement."
Great. The old biddy had finally got smart and asked my mom.
"Aw mom, we're busy," I hedged, trying to put it off.
"I know what you're busy doing, probably looking at dirty magazines with your friends. You get on your bike right this instant, young man, or you'll find yourself in hot water when you get home. And you'd better tell Joey and Kenny their moms said they're to go and help you."
Parents don't have a clue, you know what I mean?
Joey and Kenny were really mad, but since we didn't have any other choice, we rode our bikes on over to the Shrewsbury place. The old lady herself was standing out front waiting for us. She looked like an old toad, the way her eyes were all bulged out, and that big wide mouth with the thick lips.
"I'm so grateful you boys could help," she said as we went inside. Man, that house smelled funky, you know what I mean? Not just that old person smell, but something really gross too.
"Now there's some cookies there on the kitchen table, and you help yourself to all you want." Well that was okay. They were pretty good cookies, though they looked weird. They were shaped sort of like water drops, and had weird little nuts and stuff in them, but they were good. We ate a bunch of 'em, and then told Missus S. we were ready to get to work.
She handed us a bucket and a couple of mops and a broom and some old towels and a box of some stinky cleaner. "Just stack all the boxes in neat piles and clean the floors and dust around," Missus S. told us, "but don't you go in the back room. That's where I keep my dear Robert's things and I don't want anyone messing with them."
Like we would do anything with a bunch of old junk in the basement of the crappiest house in town. Right.
"Now I have to run downtown and do some shopping boys, so you just stay downstairs and do your cleaning until I get back. I don't want you coming upstairs when I'm not here. I have a lot of valuable antiques and don't want them damaged."
You'd have thought we were a bunch of gang-bangers the way she lectured us about leaving stuff alone. I had to kick Joey in the shins, he was rolling his eyes so bad I thought for sure Missus S. would notice and give us hell.
Finally the speeches were all over and she opened the basement door for us. It was pretty dark and smelled disgusting. I wished I had one of those plug-in air things I always thought were so dumb, but in there they would have been great.
"Oh wait," Mrs. S said before we could start down the stairs. "You must be thirsty after those cookies." She went over and opened a cabinet and pulled out three big old-fashioned glass bottles which she filled at the sink. "You take these down with you in case you need something to drink while I'm gone."
That was that. We each took one of the bottles, Missus Shrewsbury flipped the light on at the top of the stairs and down we went, like prisoners being marched out to be shot.
I set my bottle on one of the higher steps as I got to the bottom, and the other guys did too. As they turned to look around the room, I heard the door close and then a click like a key turning in the lock.
"Aw crap," I said, turning to the guys. "She fricking locked us in!"
If looks could kill, I'd have been dead right then.
"I can't believe you got us into this, Bobby," Joey grumbled. He was looking around at the shelves that lined the old stone walls of the little room at the base of the stairs. "Can you believe all the old junk down here?"
Kenny walked over to a bunch of old boxes that had apparently been tossed in a corner and started pulling some of them into a more or less neat pile.
"The sooner we get started the sooner we get done," he said. He paused a second and looked up. "Hey look at that, the whole underside of the floor is covered in metal!" He was right. You couldn't see the joists or supports or anything because it was almost like it had been covered with metal tile.
"Maybe she's afraid of alien brainwashing rays," I snorted. "But who cares? I'm telling you she locked us in! We could get done in five minutes but we'd have to stay here until she gets back from the store."
Joey and Kenny ignored me. They were still pissed off, I guess. I started sweeping all the junk on the floor to one side while Joey took one of the old towels and started running them over the shelves, being real careful not to bother anything actually sitting there. Kenny kept piling boxes.
"Hey, look at these boxes," Kenny said finally as he put the last of them against the wall. "They're all from Tournear Butcher Shop."
Joey dropped his towel in the bucket and went over while I swept around the back of the stairs.
"Yuck, man, they stink BAD!" Joey said, backing away. "And look at 'em, all brown and crap. Is that dried blood?"
Kenny shrugged. "They don't smell no worse than the rest of the house. And at least Miz Shrewsbury will be grateful they're all piled up nice and neat. Maybe 20 bucks grateful?"
"Hey maybe she and the old man chop people up in the back room and ship them out in the boxes," I said, jerking my thumb over my shoulder to the small wood door under the stairs that I had just pushed my broom past.
"Man are you stupid," Joey said, picking up his bottle of water and taking a swig. "The dumb boxes wouldn't be messed up with blood NOW, before they were loaded up, you dummy."
Kenny came over too and got a drink, nodding his head. "Yeah, doofus. Where'd you get your brains?"
"Well ok then, maybe they bring in fresh meat for the dog or something." I stepped around the stairs and reached for my bottle of water, and Joey slapped my hand away.
"They ain't GOT a dog, dipstick. You're so fricking dumb I think Kenny and me should show you just how dumb you are!"
"Aw come on guys," I whined, "It's hot down here, and I just want a drink of my water."
"We wouldn't BE down here if it weren't for your mom," Kenny said viciously.
They jumped at me, or tried to, but I still had the broom and I got 'em both a couple of good cracks upside the head before they could get me down on the floor and start pounding me.
Now I was mad, because it wasn't my fault Missus Shrewbury had asked my mom to get us to help her. Just because we lived next door didn't mean I was to blame for getting us tapped to do the nasty work.
I've always been a better fighter than either Joey or Kenny, so I got a good grip on one and gave the other a kick in the butt. They both went head over heels against the little wooden door under the stairs.
It slammed open with a crack like a shotgun going off, and Joey and Kenny went sprawling inside.
"Oh crap," I thought, "we're in for it now!" But Joey and Kenny just lay there on the floor looking up with their mouths wide open.
"Whoooooooa," Joey said, looking at something I couldn't see.
"What the frick is that?" Kenny added as I scrambled up off the floor outside and stuck my head inside the back room.
It was about 10 foot square, and should have been dark since it didn't have any windows, but it was almost as light as the outdoors. That was because of the fancy old shelves that ran along the back wall from floor to ceiling. Well, not the shelves, but the rows and rows of old glass bottles lined up on them.
They were a lot like the bottles the old biddy had given us, except these all had stuff written on them, or carved on them, or something. Sort of like those really old Coke bottles from the 1930s with the raised Coke emblem instead of the stamped on one.
Joey and Kenny were just staring at the bottles and sitting on the muddy floor, but I looked around.
The walls were like hand-hewn stone and they were all covered with green slimy moss stuff. The floor was muddy, like I said, except right around this big manhole sized metal cover right in front of the shelves.
I didn't like any of it. I got this prickly feeling on my neck and I backed up until I was right against the underside of the stairs.
"C'mon guys, let's get out of here and shut the door, Missus Shrewsbury doesn't need to know we were in here," I said, but they weren't listening to me.
Joey was the first one on his feet and he walked over to look at the bottles. Kenny wa right behind him, but scrunched down to look at the manhole.
"Where do ya suppose this goes?" he asked. "Maybe they use it to bring the bodies in and out before they chop 'em up."
I guess he'd forgot that I was dumb to suggest that.
"Look at the weird writing on these," Joey said, picking one up.
"Holy crap, Joey, put that thing down, remember what Missus Shrewsbury said," I hissed, motioning for both of them to get out of there. "You get your asses out of there RIGHT NOW!"
"Awwwwww, Bobby's afraaaaaaaaid!" they both laughed, and I blushed bright red.
"I am NOT, but you're not supposed to be IN there!"
"Look at this one," Joey said turning toward me, holding one of the bottles with the open end turned toward me. "It's like half full of water, and on one side is some words all scratched out so you can't read 'em."
Kenny was pulling at the manhole, trying to lift it up. "Hey Bobby, get your ass in here and help me lift this up."
At the same time, Joey had turned the bottle in his hand. "On this side it says 'This is the water of life asana coquelimok--'"
All hell broke loose.
Every single bottle on the shelves suddenly began spurting water like the hoses down at the car wash! The bottle in Joey's hands damn near exploded as it sprayed water directly at me, knocking me all the way across the outer room.
I'm not exactly sure what happened after that, because I landed against Kenny's stack of boxes and one fell down and slammed me in the head. I came to half sitting on one of the boxes with the water almost up to my shoulders!
I jumped up and started to run over to the little door under the stairs, but the water was pouring out of there like the Flood in the Bible. Just in the minute it took me to fight my way across and under the stairs the water got a foot deeper.
What the hell was all this? All this water was apparently pumping out of the bottles on the shelves, and there were so many they were totally flooding the basement faster than a fire hydrant pumps water to put out a fire.
"Joey! Kenny!" I yelled and tried to push into the back room.
The flow of water was way too strong, though I thought I could see one of those swirly whirlpool things like you see when you let the water out of the bathtub. Maybe Kenny had got the lid off that drain or whatever it was and it was sucking down some of the water.
Then I heard Joey screaming,"Go open the fricking door, Bobby! Let some of this water out!"
That seemed like a good idea so I half walked, half swam back around the stairs and crawled up them. The water was still getting deeper, and I could guess why the whole bottom of the floor above was covered with metal if this sort of thing happened very often.
I had to give the old door a really hard kick to get it open, and I know I busted the lock real good. Missus Shrewsbury was going to be pissed, but then maybe she'd have been more pissed to find three drowned boys in her basement.
I lay down on the floor and stuck my head down, looking through the open stairs into the swirling waters still pouring out of the back room.
"Okay, I got it you guys, come ON!"
I guess getting the basement door open eased some pressure or something, because the water didn't seem to get any deeper, and a minute later Joey and Kenny were swimming around the stairs. I didn't understand it--they looked all pale and scared out of their wits.
Then Kenny screamed and looked back, and Joey screamed too, and I dropped my head down again looking under the top stair into the back room again.
That's when I think I finally lost it.
I'm never gonna forget that sight, as Joey and Kenny were dragged back into the gushing, swirling waters that those big bottles were still pumping out to beat the band.
Nobody could swim against the sucking of the water down that big manhole drain, and that gross, disgusting thing with the huge frog-mouth that was gulping down everything as it sat in the opening.
Nobody could fight against the tentacle or tongue or whatever it was that was wrapped around Kenny's leg as it reeled him in like a fish on a string.
I ran home.
Joey and Kenny didn't come to school the next day, and somebody told me they hadn't come home the night before.
And when I walked by Missus Shrewsbury's house on the way home, she was sitting on the porch, and she had a big old glass bottle sitting on the little table beside her, carved with the letters "Water of Life".
She just looked at me and gave me a froggy kind of grin.
"Dear Robert forgives you for messing with his things," she said, and licked her lips.
-----------
Old Missus Shrewsbury asked me and my friends to clean out her basement lots of times, but we always had an excuse. Soccer practice, prayer service at church, homework, you name it and we used it.
It's not that we couldn't use the money she offered us, it's just that her house was nasty. It was probably a really nice place when it was built a hundred years ago, but my mom says Missus S. and her husband had let it go to seed. I'm not sure what that means, but I guess it means what I said. It was nasty and dark, and it even looked like her. The roof was all hunched over and the windows looked like google-eyes and it was even kind of a sick green around the edges. It smelled bad too, like maybe the toilet was backed up all the time or something.
Anyway, we're hanging around Three Corner Park when Joey's cell phone started ringing. It sucks that Joey had a cell phone and the other guys didn't, but not because we wanted one ourselves. It sucked because everybody knew to call Joey if they wanted to get hold of us.
"Bobby, I want you to go over to Mrs. Shrewsbury's house and help her clean out her basement."
Great. The old biddy had finally got smart and asked my mom.
"Aw mom, we're busy," I hedged, trying to put it off.
"I know what you're busy doing, probably looking at dirty magazines with your friends. You get on your bike right this instant, young man, or you'll find yourself in hot water when you get home. And you'd better tell Joey and Kenny their moms said they're to go and help you."
Parents don't have a clue, you know what I mean?
Joey and Kenny were really mad, but since we didn't have any other choice, we rode our bikes on over to the Shrewsbury place. The old lady herself was standing out front waiting for us. She looked like an old toad, the way her eyes were all bulged out, and that big wide mouth with the thick lips.
"I'm so grateful you boys could help," she said as we went inside. Man, that house smelled funky, you know what I mean? Not just that old person smell, but something really gross too.
"Now there's some cookies there on the kitchen table, and you help yourself to all you want." Well that was okay. They were pretty good cookies, though they looked weird. They were shaped sort of like water drops, and had weird little nuts and stuff in them, but they were good. We ate a bunch of 'em, and then told Missus S. we were ready to get to work.
She handed us a bucket and a couple of mops and a broom and some old towels and a box of some stinky cleaner. "Just stack all the boxes in neat piles and clean the floors and dust around," Missus S. told us, "but don't you go in the back room. That's where I keep my dear Robert's things and I don't want anyone messing with them."
Like we would do anything with a bunch of old junk in the basement of the crappiest house in town. Right.
"Now I have to run downtown and do some shopping boys, so you just stay downstairs and do your cleaning until I get back. I don't want you coming upstairs when I'm not here. I have a lot of valuable antiques and don't want them damaged."
You'd have thought we were a bunch of gang-bangers the way she lectured us about leaving stuff alone. I had to kick Joey in the shins, he was rolling his eyes so bad I thought for sure Missus S. would notice and give us hell.
Finally the speeches were all over and she opened the basement door for us. It was pretty dark and smelled disgusting. I wished I had one of those plug-in air things I always thought were so dumb, but in there they would have been great.
"Oh wait," Mrs. S said before we could start down the stairs. "You must be thirsty after those cookies." She went over and opened a cabinet and pulled out three big old-fashioned glass bottles which she filled at the sink. "You take these down with you in case you need something to drink while I'm gone."
That was that. We each took one of the bottles, Missus Shrewsbury flipped the light on at the top of the stairs and down we went, like prisoners being marched out to be shot.
I set my bottle on one of the higher steps as I got to the bottom, and the other guys did too. As they turned to look around the room, I heard the door close and then a click like a key turning in the lock.
"Aw crap," I said, turning to the guys. "She fricking locked us in!"
If looks could kill, I'd have been dead right then.
"I can't believe you got us into this, Bobby," Joey grumbled. He was looking around at the shelves that lined the old stone walls of the little room at the base of the stairs. "Can you believe all the old junk down here?"
Kenny walked over to a bunch of old boxes that had apparently been tossed in a corner and started pulling some of them into a more or less neat pile.
"The sooner we get started the sooner we get done," he said. He paused a second and looked up. "Hey look at that, the whole underside of the floor is covered in metal!" He was right. You couldn't see the joists or supports or anything because it was almost like it had been covered with metal tile.
"Maybe she's afraid of alien brainwashing rays," I snorted. "But who cares? I'm telling you she locked us in! We could get done in five minutes but we'd have to stay here until she gets back from the store."
Joey and Kenny ignored me. They were still pissed off, I guess. I started sweeping all the junk on the floor to one side while Joey took one of the old towels and started running them over the shelves, being real careful not to bother anything actually sitting there. Kenny kept piling boxes.
"Hey, look at these boxes," Kenny said finally as he put the last of them against the wall. "They're all from Tournear Butcher Shop."
Joey dropped his towel in the bucket and went over while I swept around the back of the stairs.
"Yuck, man, they stink BAD!" Joey said, backing away. "And look at 'em, all brown and crap. Is that dried blood?"
Kenny shrugged. "They don't smell no worse than the rest of the house. And at least Miz Shrewsbury will be grateful they're all piled up nice and neat. Maybe 20 bucks grateful?"
"Hey maybe she and the old man chop people up in the back room and ship them out in the boxes," I said, jerking my thumb over my shoulder to the small wood door under the stairs that I had just pushed my broom past.
"Man are you stupid," Joey said, picking up his bottle of water and taking a swig. "The dumb boxes wouldn't be messed up with blood NOW, before they were loaded up, you dummy."
Kenny came over too and got a drink, nodding his head. "Yeah, doofus. Where'd you get your brains?"
"Well ok then, maybe they bring in fresh meat for the dog or something." I stepped around the stairs and reached for my bottle of water, and Joey slapped my hand away.
"They ain't GOT a dog, dipstick. You're so fricking dumb I think Kenny and me should show you just how dumb you are!"
"Aw come on guys," I whined, "It's hot down here, and I just want a drink of my water."
"We wouldn't BE down here if it weren't for your mom," Kenny said viciously.
They jumped at me, or tried to, but I still had the broom and I got 'em both a couple of good cracks upside the head before they could get me down on the floor and start pounding me.
Now I was mad, because it wasn't my fault Missus Shrewbury had asked my mom to get us to help her. Just because we lived next door didn't mean I was to blame for getting us tapped to do the nasty work.
I've always been a better fighter than either Joey or Kenny, so I got a good grip on one and gave the other a kick in the butt. They both went head over heels against the little wooden door under the stairs.
It slammed open with a crack like a shotgun going off, and Joey and Kenny went sprawling inside.
"Oh crap," I thought, "we're in for it now!" But Joey and Kenny just lay there on the floor looking up with their mouths wide open.
"Whoooooooa," Joey said, looking at something I couldn't see.
"What the frick is that?" Kenny added as I scrambled up off the floor outside and stuck my head inside the back room.
It was about 10 foot square, and should have been dark since it didn't have any windows, but it was almost as light as the outdoors. That was because of the fancy old shelves that ran along the back wall from floor to ceiling. Well, not the shelves, but the rows and rows of old glass bottles lined up on them.
They were a lot like the bottles the old biddy had given us, except these all had stuff written on them, or carved on them, or something. Sort of like those really old Coke bottles from the 1930s with the raised Coke emblem instead of the stamped on one.
Joey and Kenny were just staring at the bottles and sitting on the muddy floor, but I looked around.
The walls were like hand-hewn stone and they were all covered with green slimy moss stuff. The floor was muddy, like I said, except right around this big manhole sized metal cover right in front of the shelves.
I didn't like any of it. I got this prickly feeling on my neck and I backed up until I was right against the underside of the stairs.
"C'mon guys, let's get out of here and shut the door, Missus Shrewsbury doesn't need to know we were in here," I said, but they weren't listening to me.
Joey was the first one on his feet and he walked over to look at the bottles. Kenny wa right behind him, but scrunched down to look at the manhole.
"Where do ya suppose this goes?" he asked. "Maybe they use it to bring the bodies in and out before they chop 'em up."
I guess he'd forgot that I was dumb to suggest that.
"Look at the weird writing on these," Joey said, picking one up.
"Holy crap, Joey, put that thing down, remember what Missus Shrewsbury said," I hissed, motioning for both of them to get out of there. "You get your asses out of there RIGHT NOW!"
"Awwwwww, Bobby's afraaaaaaaaid!" they both laughed, and I blushed bright red.
"I am NOT, but you're not supposed to be IN there!"
"Look at this one," Joey said turning toward me, holding one of the bottles with the open end turned toward me. "It's like half full of water, and on one side is some words all scratched out so you can't read 'em."
Kenny was pulling at the manhole, trying to lift it up. "Hey Bobby, get your ass in here and help me lift this up."
At the same time, Joey had turned the bottle in his hand. "On this side it says 'This is the water of life asana coquelimok--'"
All hell broke loose.
Every single bottle on the shelves suddenly began spurting water like the hoses down at the car wash! The bottle in Joey's hands damn near exploded as it sprayed water directly at me, knocking me all the way across the outer room.
I'm not exactly sure what happened after that, because I landed against Kenny's stack of boxes and one fell down and slammed me in the head. I came to half sitting on one of the boxes with the water almost up to my shoulders!
I jumped up and started to run over to the little door under the stairs, but the water was pouring out of there like the Flood in the Bible. Just in the minute it took me to fight my way across and under the stairs the water got a foot deeper.
What the hell was all this? All this water was apparently pumping out of the bottles on the shelves, and there were so many they were totally flooding the basement faster than a fire hydrant pumps water to put out a fire.
"Joey! Kenny!" I yelled and tried to push into the back room.
The flow of water was way too strong, though I thought I could see one of those swirly whirlpool things like you see when you let the water out of the bathtub. Maybe Kenny had got the lid off that drain or whatever it was and it was sucking down some of the water.
Then I heard Joey screaming,"Go open the fricking door, Bobby! Let some of this water out!"
That seemed like a good idea so I half walked, half swam back around the stairs and crawled up them. The water was still getting deeper, and I could guess why the whole bottom of the floor above was covered with metal if this sort of thing happened very often.
I had to give the old door a really hard kick to get it open, and I know I busted the lock real good. Missus Shrewsbury was going to be pissed, but then maybe she'd have been more pissed to find three drowned boys in her basement.
I lay down on the floor and stuck my head down, looking through the open stairs into the swirling waters still pouring out of the back room.
"Okay, I got it you guys, come ON!"
I guess getting the basement door open eased some pressure or something, because the water didn't seem to get any deeper, and a minute later Joey and Kenny were swimming around the stairs. I didn't understand it--they looked all pale and scared out of their wits.
Then Kenny screamed and looked back, and Joey screamed too, and I dropped my head down again looking under the top stair into the back room again.
That's when I think I finally lost it.
I'm never gonna forget that sight, as Joey and Kenny were dragged back into the gushing, swirling waters that those big bottles were still pumping out to beat the band.
Nobody could swim against the sucking of the water down that big manhole drain, and that gross, disgusting thing with the huge frog-mouth that was gulping down everything as it sat in the opening.
Nobody could fight against the tentacle or tongue or whatever it was that was wrapped around Kenny's leg as it reeled him in like a fish on a string.
I ran home.
Joey and Kenny didn't come to school the next day, and somebody told me they hadn't come home the night before.
And when I walked by Missus Shrewsbury's house on the way home, she was sitting on the porch, and she had a big old glass bottle sitting on the little table beside her, carved with the letters "Water of Life".
She just looked at me and gave me a froggy kind of grin.
"Dear Robert forgives you for messing with his things," she said, and licked her lips.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Mortality
I learned this weekend that two friends of mine have died.
The first actually occurred in June. I only found out about it while reading the newsletter of the Fine Arts Department at Illinois State, where I graduated back in '84.
Dr. John Ferrell was a guiding light in my love of choral music. He led the Madrigal Singers at ISU, in which I sang for the entirety of my time there.
He did not direct us by standing in front and waving his arms as conductors usually do. Since our raison d'etre was performing the annual Christmas Madrigal Dinners, we sang with only a minimal direction from one of the singers, starting and stopping. But Dr. F. would nurture our collective creativity and inspire quality performance by brief but pointed commentary, a quick outline of how a musical line should arch and fall, a soft-spoken word on forming the words around the music.
Dr. F. nurtured us in other ways too. He was always available for counsel. He was one of "The Wise", as far as I was concerned. I can imagine him in the classic educational setting: he at one end of a log and the student at the other, talking music. In addition, when there was a need (such as when we journeyed to the British Isles on our bi-annual singing tours) he would help us find the funding to pay for the trip--in my case, twice.
I will miss him.
The second death was brought to my attention Saturday morning when I printed the birth and funeral announcements for my airshift.
Chris Walton was 52. A resident of Quincy and formerly of Carthage, we shared a love for gaming. He died of an apparent heart attack on Friday.
Chris was always willing to play something. He didn't appear to care what, he simply wanted to enjoy the camaraderie and play of the game.
I last talked with him when my fiancee was in town. We were leaving Midwest Comics as he was arriving, and I introduced him to Paula. He offered to teach her the game she had just purchased for me for my birthday.
I did not realize that Chris held a degree in history and teacher certs. At some point he must have decided not to pursue the teaching, but I can see him in that role. He told good stories, he knew the history represented in many games like the proverbial back of his hand, and while he was a trifle odd perhaps, he was a good man.
I regret that I did not have the chance, in either the case of Chris or Dr. Ferrell, to tell these two men how much I valued their presence in my life.
In the Orthodox Church we pray for those who have passed on with simple words:
May their memory be eternal!
Now I'm off to tell a few people whose friendship and guidance I have enjoyed how much I love them.
The first actually occurred in June. I only found out about it while reading the newsletter of the Fine Arts Department at Illinois State, where I graduated back in '84.
Dr. John Ferrell was a guiding light in my love of choral music. He led the Madrigal Singers at ISU, in which I sang for the entirety of my time there.
He did not direct us by standing in front and waving his arms as conductors usually do. Since our raison d'etre was performing the annual Christmas Madrigal Dinners, we sang with only a minimal direction from one of the singers, starting and stopping. But Dr. F. would nurture our collective creativity and inspire quality performance by brief but pointed commentary, a quick outline of how a musical line should arch and fall, a soft-spoken word on forming the words around the music.
Dr. F. nurtured us in other ways too. He was always available for counsel. He was one of "The Wise", as far as I was concerned. I can imagine him in the classic educational setting: he at one end of a log and the student at the other, talking music. In addition, when there was a need (such as when we journeyed to the British Isles on our bi-annual singing tours) he would help us find the funding to pay for the trip--in my case, twice.
I will miss him.
The second death was brought to my attention Saturday morning when I printed the birth and funeral announcements for my airshift.
Chris Walton was 52. A resident of Quincy and formerly of Carthage, we shared a love for gaming. He died of an apparent heart attack on Friday.
Chris was always willing to play something. He didn't appear to care what, he simply wanted to enjoy the camaraderie and play of the game.
I last talked with him when my fiancee was in town. We were leaving Midwest Comics as he was arriving, and I introduced him to Paula. He offered to teach her the game she had just purchased for me for my birthday.
I did not realize that Chris held a degree in history and teacher certs. At some point he must have decided not to pursue the teaching, but I can see him in that role. He told good stories, he knew the history represented in many games like the proverbial back of his hand, and while he was a trifle odd perhaps, he was a good man.
I regret that I did not have the chance, in either the case of Chris or Dr. Ferrell, to tell these two men how much I valued their presence in my life.
In the Orthodox Church we pray for those who have passed on with simple words:
May their memory be eternal!
Now I'm off to tell a few people whose friendship and guidance I have enjoyed how much I love them.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Sometimes you just have to say "I can't."
I'm crabby today, so bear that in mind.
I'm listening to these stories about the Chicago marathon, and listening to the runners complaining about how the race officials screwed up.
Apparently the organizers stocked up on enough water for a normal October weekend in the Windy City, but it was very hot and humid instead. This there was not enough water--although from the footage I saw the runners were dumping the water over their heads instead of drinking it like they were intended to do.
Okay, forget that. I don't run so I don't know the mechanics.
But...
What about their OWN responsibility?
People, it was hot and humid, adding even more difficulty to an already tough event. Shouldn't the runners bear responsibility for knowing whether the added difficulty removed the marathon from their capabilities? Why is that the organizers' fault?
My soon to be daughter in law runs. I think she would have the common sense to realize when conditions would change a race from a challenge to a downright dangerous and potentially injurious and "out of my league" event.
Why didn't these runners simply step back and say "I can't do this today"? Is it just pride that they "made the cut" and they wanted to be able to say "I did it"? Some of them are in the hospital in payment of that attitude.
Hot--humid--long race--DANGEROUS. Some could handle it. Others could not. It wasn't the responsibility of the race organziers to penalize everyone by canceling the marathon. It was the responsibility of the runners to know what was beyond their capabilities.
Ah well, its not like I've never done something dumb like that--I have. One hopes that next time organizers will take such conditions into account and that participants will honestly face up to their own limitations.
My deepest sympathies to the family of the man who died. That is a tragedy that no one should have to go through.
I'm listening to these stories about the Chicago marathon, and listening to the runners complaining about how the race officials screwed up.
Apparently the organizers stocked up on enough water for a normal October weekend in the Windy City, but it was very hot and humid instead. This there was not enough water--although from the footage I saw the runners were dumping the water over their heads instead of drinking it like they were intended to do.
Okay, forget that. I don't run so I don't know the mechanics.
But...
What about their OWN responsibility?
People, it was hot and humid, adding even more difficulty to an already tough event. Shouldn't the runners bear responsibility for knowing whether the added difficulty removed the marathon from their capabilities? Why is that the organizers' fault?
My soon to be daughter in law runs. I think she would have the common sense to realize when conditions would change a race from a challenge to a downright dangerous and potentially injurious and "out of my league" event.
Why didn't these runners simply step back and say "I can't do this today"? Is it just pride that they "made the cut" and they wanted to be able to say "I did it"? Some of them are in the hospital in payment of that attitude.
Hot--humid--long race--DANGEROUS. Some could handle it. Others could not. It wasn't the responsibility of the race organziers to penalize everyone by canceling the marathon. It was the responsibility of the runners to know what was beyond their capabilities.
Ah well, its not like I've never done something dumb like that--I have. One hopes that next time organizers will take such conditions into account and that participants will honestly face up to their own limitations.
My deepest sympathies to the family of the man who died. That is a tragedy that no one should have to go through.
Sometimes the well is dry...
Like today.
Heck, like the whole weekend.
Here I am trying to do better on posting and I hit a dry patch. Gawd, that sucks.
On the more positive side of things, we had our annual meeting at church yesterday. Amazing to see what started with a handful of people barely able to support itself has grown to a budget that pretty much supports itself, with a substantial part of that being given to people in need and other charitable work. Glory to God glory to Him forever, as we Orthodox are wont to say.
Workwise, just want to remind you all that it's National Fire Prevention Week. Check the
smoke and carbon monoxide alarms, make sure you aren't overloading your outlets,
no wires running under rugs where there's lots of people walking by, and all that stuff.
Oh yes, make a plan for getting out of your home and practice it. And finally, go join area firefighters in Washington Park on Sunday for a good time to lighten up on the heavy message.
Hmmm, apparently I did have something to say after all. Good! :)
Heck, like the whole weekend.
Here I am trying to do better on posting and I hit a dry patch. Gawd, that sucks.
On the more positive side of things, we had our annual meeting at church yesterday. Amazing to see what started with a handful of people barely able to support itself has grown to a budget that pretty much supports itself, with a substantial part of that being given to people in need and other charitable work. Glory to God glory to Him forever, as we Orthodox are wont to say.
Workwise, just want to remind you all that it's National Fire Prevention Week. Check the
smoke and carbon monoxide alarms, make sure you aren't overloading your outlets,
no wires running under rugs where there's lots of people walking by, and all that stuff.
Oh yes, make a plan for getting out of your home and practice it. And finally, go join area firefighters in Washington Park on Sunday for a good time to lighten up on the heavy message.
Hmmm, apparently I did have something to say after all. Good! :)
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Love
The fragrance of love! When we burn incense, we think of the fragrant heavenly aroma of love. The Holy Spirit, like a heavenly fire, brings the warmth of love into the human heart, and like a fresh wind, chases away the stench of sin and spreads the aroma of Christ to the world. That savor all the saints have borne within themselves. People have sensed it in living saints and in their relics. The Apostle speaks of this: "We are unto God a sweet savour of Christ," the sweet perfume of recognition of the truth and the sweetness of love (cf. 2 Cor. 2:14-16).
--Lessons in Divine and Christian Love from The Lament of Eve by Johanna Manley
LOVE (III)
by George Herbert
Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything."
A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"
"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.
You see, to love of God is joined also love of neighbor: the person who loves God doesn't neglect his brother; nor esteem money ahead of a limb of his own but shows him great generosity, mindful of Him Who has said, 'Whoever did it to the least of My brothers did it to Me.' He is aware that the Lord of all considers as done to Himself the service given to his fellow servant, and so he will perform every service with great enthusiasm and give evidence of great generosity in almsgiving, considering not the lowliness of appearance but the greatness of the One Who has promised to accept as done to Himself what is given to the poor.
--St. John Chrysostom, Homilies on Genesis, Vol. 3
This one's for Paula.
--Lessons in Divine and Christian Love from The Lament of Eve by Johanna Manley
LOVE (III)
by George Herbert
Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything."
A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"
"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.
You see, to love of God is joined also love of neighbor: the person who loves God doesn't neglect his brother; nor esteem money ahead of a limb of his own but shows him great generosity, mindful of Him Who has said, 'Whoever did it to the least of My brothers did it to Me.' He is aware that the Lord of all considers as done to Himself the service given to his fellow servant, and so he will perform every service with great enthusiasm and give evidence of great generosity in almsgiving, considering not the lowliness of appearance but the greatness of the One Who has promised to accept as done to Himself what is given to the poor.
--St. John Chrysostom, Homilies on Genesis, Vol. 3
This one's for Paula.
The Chickens! The Chickens!
Gawd, I love Doug Savage's chickens! They always get me laughing my butt off (and given the size of my butt, that's a good thing :)
Check out his Savage Chickens site at http://www.savagechickens.com
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Good health...
...is hard to come by.
Yesterday I had to head up to the Blessing cardiac unit and take a dobutamine stress test. Had some chest pains a couple weeks ago and they wanted to check me out.
Those who know me know I am a sizable fellow so I couldn't do the treadmill--I had to do the one where they inject you with a drug that makes your body respond as if you were exercising heavily, thus raising your heart rate and giving the docs a chance to see if there is anything wrong with the old ticker.
I call it the "lethal injection stress test". I hate 'em. This was my third and it was as bad as all the others.
It helped that the techs and nurses were all very sweet. The ultrasound woman was quite attractive, and reminded me of a girl I pined for way back in high school. And Dr. Mannapaddi is a hoot and a half. But I digress.
Anyway they shave parts of my chest to attach the leads (ugh), insert the IV feed (double ugh), do the prelim baseline ultrasound (ouch), and then they shoot me up.
Did I mention that I hate this test?
It's ok for a while, almost like going up and down the stairs at the apartment four or five times. The heart starts to pound a bit is all.
They're tying to get your heart rate up to about 120, IIRC. That's fine, but at some point the whole experience goes from "oh this is like a nice brisk walk" to "Holy crap when did I sign up for the freaking marathon?!?!"
The heart is pounding like it's going to explode out of my chest (as seen in many hideously wonderful horror movies). My head is a bit light now. My stomach is dying for a chance to express itself but I wisely deprived it of anything to spew last night. My back is twitching since they lay you on your side. In fact, my right arm and shoulder are doing a bit of St. Vitus too. Great merciful Pumpkin this is too much!
Then to top it off, ultrasound starts digging holes in my chest and left side trying to get more pics of my heart before it goes kerblooey. Yeeeeowch! And the freaking gel they use is like 32 degrees (or colder)!
Longest 10 minutes of my life. Well, second longest. The last time they did this test on me they couldn't get my heart rate over 120. I think I was suspended at 100 or so for some interminable amount of time. But this one was bad enough.
Dr. M. informs me that my heart is damn near perfect. Nothing to see here, folks, move along. Of course he does point out that I need to effect some changes in lifestyle (eat less exercise more--but I'm not going to that place which the test simulates, sorry!) and drop about 150 pounds. That's nice to hear, actually, since a year ago it was 200 lbs I needed to drop.
Anyway, I'm apparently as healthy as a fat man can be expected to be. Better, in fact.
But they still don't know what caused the chest pains.
Well I'm tapped out now, and late for work to boot. So you'll have to finish this one up yourselves.
(insert witty closing bon mot here)
Yesterday I had to head up to the Blessing cardiac unit and take a dobutamine stress test. Had some chest pains a couple weeks ago and they wanted to check me out.
Those who know me know I am a sizable fellow so I couldn't do the treadmill--I had to do the one where they inject you with a drug that makes your body respond as if you were exercising heavily, thus raising your heart rate and giving the docs a chance to see if there is anything wrong with the old ticker.
I call it the "lethal injection stress test". I hate 'em. This was my third and it was as bad as all the others.
It helped that the techs and nurses were all very sweet. The ultrasound woman was quite attractive, and reminded me of a girl I pined for way back in high school. And Dr. Mannapaddi is a hoot and a half. But I digress.
Anyway they shave parts of my chest to attach the leads (ugh), insert the IV feed (double ugh), do the prelim baseline ultrasound (ouch), and then they shoot me up.
Did I mention that I hate this test?
It's ok for a while, almost like going up and down the stairs at the apartment four or five times. The heart starts to pound a bit is all.
They're tying to get your heart rate up to about 120, IIRC. That's fine, but at some point the whole experience goes from "oh this is like a nice brisk walk" to "Holy crap when did I sign up for the freaking marathon?!?!"
The heart is pounding like it's going to explode out of my chest (as seen in many hideously wonderful horror movies). My head is a bit light now. My stomach is dying for a chance to express itself but I wisely deprived it of anything to spew last night. My back is twitching since they lay you on your side. In fact, my right arm and shoulder are doing a bit of St. Vitus too. Great merciful Pumpkin this is too much!
Then to top it off, ultrasound starts digging holes in my chest and left side trying to get more pics of my heart before it goes kerblooey. Yeeeeowch! And the freaking gel they use is like 32 degrees (or colder)!
Longest 10 minutes of my life. Well, second longest. The last time they did this test on me they couldn't get my heart rate over 120. I think I was suspended at 100 or so for some interminable amount of time. But this one was bad enough.
Dr. M. informs me that my heart is damn near perfect. Nothing to see here, folks, move along. Of course he does point out that I need to effect some changes in lifestyle (eat less exercise more--but I'm not going to that place which the test simulates, sorry!) and drop about 150 pounds. That's nice to hear, actually, since a year ago it was 200 lbs I needed to drop.
Anyway, I'm apparently as healthy as a fat man can be expected to be. Better, in fact.
But they still don't know what caused the chest pains.
Well I'm tapped out now, and late for work to boot. So you'll have to finish this one up yourselves.
(insert witty closing bon mot here)
Monday, October 01, 2007
A bit of poetry to while the hours...
This was written when I was active in the Society for Creative Anachronism and was serving as one of three "Kingdom Bards" for the King and Queen of the Middle Kingdom (IL, IN, WI, MN, OH, MI). It isn't quite authentic in the style of a medieval plaint, but one adapts as one must to modern sensibilities. :)
To Her Grace, the Doe of the Middle Kingdom, the Gentle Queen
Oh fairest Queen, Oh lady bright,
Above me as far as sky to earth
This simple song I sing tonight,
My prayer is it may cause thee mirth
But soft, not laughter of derision,
Rather thy gentle smiles bestow
And trust my tune like wise magician,
From thy emerald eyes bring flow
Of joyous tears and heartstrings tune,
And to thy puissant lord should bring
Thee closer in thy love and soon,
I pray this comes from what I sing.
The Plaint
Oh morning star
Above the heights I pray thee rise
So in thy light
The glory of my Queen I'll spy;
The fairest lady of the land is she, the Queen
Saving but one, my own true love
(in truth 'tis as should been)
But gentle Queen still I do honor thee.
Oh noonday Sun
Thou shouldst hide thy glory, shade thy name;
The lady Queen
Doth sing with me, puts thee to shame;
Sweet melody like nightingale sings she, the Queen
Saving but one, my own true love
(in truth 'tis as should been)
But noble Queen still I do honor thee.
Oh twilight sky
In deepsome luster glorious beauty thrives.
Like as my Queen
Whose emerald eyes with thy beams of glory strive,
The victor of the contest fair is she, the Queen
Saving but one, my own true love
(in truth tis as should been)
But beauteous Queen still I do honor thee.
O moon of night
Can I compare thee to my Queen?
My lady fair,
Beloved too, outshineth thee.
They stand so lovely in my dreams, the moon, the Queen
Saving but one, my own true love
(in truth 'tis as should been)
Above all others I do honor these.
Finis le plaint
My lady Queen, these are but words,
And lack the music that I write
At Crown I pledge to sing for thee
If wilt allow that busy night
And now God grant thee rest and grace
And peaceful joy all in thy place,
Goodnight fair Queen, sweet resting too,
Goodnight, dear one, at last, adieu!
To Her Grace, the Doe of the Middle Kingdom, the Gentle Queen
Oh fairest Queen, Oh lady bright,
Above me as far as sky to earth
This simple song I sing tonight,
My prayer is it may cause thee mirth
But soft, not laughter of derision,
Rather thy gentle smiles bestow
And trust my tune like wise magician,
From thy emerald eyes bring flow
Of joyous tears and heartstrings tune,
And to thy puissant lord should bring
Thee closer in thy love and soon,
I pray this comes from what I sing.
The Plaint
Oh morning star
Above the heights I pray thee rise
So in thy light
The glory of my Queen I'll spy;
The fairest lady of the land is she, the Queen
Saving but one, my own true love
(in truth 'tis as should been)
But gentle Queen still I do honor thee.
Oh noonday Sun
Thou shouldst hide thy glory, shade thy name;
The lady Queen
Doth sing with me, puts thee to shame;
Sweet melody like nightingale sings she, the Queen
Saving but one, my own true love
(in truth 'tis as should been)
But noble Queen still I do honor thee.
Oh twilight sky
In deepsome luster glorious beauty thrives.
Like as my Queen
Whose emerald eyes with thy beams of glory strive,
The victor of the contest fair is she, the Queen
Saving but one, my own true love
(in truth tis as should been)
But beauteous Queen still I do honor thee.
O moon of night
Can I compare thee to my Queen?
My lady fair,
Beloved too, outshineth thee.
They stand so lovely in my dreams, the moon, the Queen
Saving but one, my own true love
(in truth 'tis as should been)
Above all others I do honor these.
Finis le plaint
My lady Queen, these are but words,
And lack the music that I write
At Crown I pledge to sing for thee
If wilt allow that busy night
And now God grant thee rest and grace
And peaceful joy all in thy place,
Goodnight fair Queen, sweet resting too,
Goodnight, dear one, at last, adieu!
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Speaking of games
It's the last Saturday of the month and that means it's Game Day at Midwest Comics & Collectibles at 18th and Broadway.
So during the course of the day I will be spending a few hours huddled over a game board of some kind playing something with friends. We'll probably order out for pizza too.
Want to see what it's all about? Stop by and tell them Kevin sent you. There are plenty of folks who will gladly teach you one of the easier games that we like to play. Mention Settlers of Catan, or BattleLore, or even Axis & Allies naval miniatures...or just ask if there are any fun Euros you can try out.
And if you're really brave and you see me, you can ask for a turn or two of Byzantium Reborn, a game on the fight between the Greeks and the Turks post World War 1. Brave not because I'm any good at playing, but because it's somewhat more complex than the Euro-games that we usually play.
Midwest opens at 11. They start gaming at 12. I'll likely be there mid-afternoon.
And for those who think I'm nuts for playing these games, I'll post an After Action Report later tonight. :)
PS. If you don't want to play games, go to the rock show at John Wood, or any of the other activities taking place today. Really, honest, just get out of the house and enjoy the day!
So during the course of the day I will be spending a few hours huddled over a game board of some kind playing something with friends. We'll probably order out for pizza too.
Want to see what it's all about? Stop by and tell them Kevin sent you. There are plenty of folks who will gladly teach you one of the easier games that we like to play. Mention Settlers of Catan, or BattleLore, or even Axis & Allies naval miniatures...or just ask if there are any fun Euros you can try out.
And if you're really brave and you see me, you can ask for a turn or two of Byzantium Reborn, a game on the fight between the Greeks and the Turks post World War 1. Brave not because I'm any good at playing, but because it's somewhat more complex than the Euro-games that we usually play.
Midwest opens at 11. They start gaming at 12. I'll likely be there mid-afternoon.
And for those who think I'm nuts for playing these games, I'll post an After Action Report later tonight. :)
PS. If you don't want to play games, go to the rock show at John Wood, or any of the other activities taking place today. Really, honest, just get out of the house and enjoy the day!
Friday, September 28, 2007
It's the time of year....
...when there's too much football going on.
Of course, I would say that because I'm not a big sports geek. Sorry, that's just how it is. That is strange though, seeing that the game is all about using resources tactically and strategically to achieve your goals, and I'm a big strategic and tactical gamer. Why just last night I rolled over the French at Agincourt...but that's another posting.
I like baseball, high school basketball (come on, I grew up in Indiana and now I live in Quincy, you KNOW I have to like h.s. hoops :), even have seen some impressive soccer. But football leaves me cold.
My friend "J" doesn't understand this. He's a football nut--a freak--a fanatic. He looks at my pictures in my (now ancient) yearbooks and wants to know how I didn't get roped into football when I was young.
The fact is, I did play backyard football all through grade school. I have wonderful memories of a "big game" between my buds and myself against some kids from another classroom at Holman School in Peru, Indiana. We were in Steve Beiter's backyard, the ball was passed to me and I went across the goal line with five of the "enemy" trying to drag me down. I was too big and too strong for those little punks to stop. Thank god it wasn't flag ball.
But then in 6th grade they started a "real" football program for the kids. And they badgered me and badgered me to sign up. I wasn't interested in organized play but I finally gave in, figuring if nothing else it would be fun to re-enact some of our better plays from the backyard.
I played for less than 30 seconds in one game of the 8 game "season". The coach never explained, never offered instruction, never did much of anything, and I ended up being the one guy who never got on the field. And therein lies the foundation of my complete non-interest in football. No thanks, not even in a boardgame simulation or on the computer.
I turned my attentions to marching band, where I got to be involved in every event (albeit I was a pretty bad trombonist). That also wore thin, since I ended up having to learn a new show for every home football game, and that fouled up Friday nights for three years of high school. So there's some resentment of football, too, for messing up my free time. I quit band after my junior year in h.s. too!
So that's why I'm not into football and you won't see much beyond this post on my blog, "J".
But I COULD be coaxed into some backyard gridiron action sometime this fall, if the price is right. :)
Of course, I would say that because I'm not a big sports geek. Sorry, that's just how it is. That is strange though, seeing that the game is all about using resources tactically and strategically to achieve your goals, and I'm a big strategic and tactical gamer. Why just last night I rolled over the French at Agincourt...but that's another posting.
I like baseball, high school basketball (come on, I grew up in Indiana and now I live in Quincy, you KNOW I have to like h.s. hoops :), even have seen some impressive soccer. But football leaves me cold.
My friend "J" doesn't understand this. He's a football nut--a freak--a fanatic. He looks at my pictures in my (now ancient) yearbooks and wants to know how I didn't get roped into football when I was young.
The fact is, I did play backyard football all through grade school. I have wonderful memories of a "big game" between my buds and myself against some kids from another classroom at Holman School in Peru, Indiana. We were in Steve Beiter's backyard, the ball was passed to me and I went across the goal line with five of the "enemy" trying to drag me down. I was too big and too strong for those little punks to stop. Thank god it wasn't flag ball.
But then in 6th grade they started a "real" football program for the kids. And they badgered me and badgered me to sign up. I wasn't interested in organized play but I finally gave in, figuring if nothing else it would be fun to re-enact some of our better plays from the backyard.
I played for less than 30 seconds in one game of the 8 game "season". The coach never explained, never offered instruction, never did much of anything, and I ended up being the one guy who never got on the field. And therein lies the foundation of my complete non-interest in football. No thanks, not even in a boardgame simulation or on the computer.
I turned my attentions to marching band, where I got to be involved in every event (albeit I was a pretty bad trombonist). That also wore thin, since I ended up having to learn a new show for every home football game, and that fouled up Friday nights for three years of high school. So there's some resentment of football, too, for messing up my free time. I quit band after my junior year in h.s. too!
So that's why I'm not into football and you won't see much beyond this post on my blog, "J".
But I COULD be coaxed into some backyard gridiron action sometime this fall, if the price is right. :)
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Autumn arriving
For the most part, autumn has to be my favorite time of the year.
As the trees begin to turn, and the temperatures fall into a zone that I find very comfortable (60 to 70 degrees) and the sun loses its summer ferocity, I begin to feel the urge to take walks again, to breath fresh air, to ramble a bit (physically, not verbally).
Quincy is a great place to ramble about. There's one heck of a lot of cool stuff to see, from the riverfront to the airport, from the lock and dam to Moorman Park. Nature, manmade wonders, people, all kinds of stuff. Lots to see, lots to do. Or not do--I spent an hour yesterday just sitting in Washington Park and enjoying the day now that the heat finally seems to have gone bye-bye for another year.
Don't get me wrong: while I hate the incredible heat of summer, and the extreme cold of winter, those seasons have a beauty of their own in Quincy (and maybe other places, but I'm not talking about them today). I like them, especially that one night we seem to get every year when snow has fallen all day and now the sky is low and the snow undistrubed and its silent and no one is around. Or the K of C and the county fair and various other fun things in the summer.
But I'm a red and gold, scrubbed blue sky, chilly night/pleasant day, apple cider, corn maze, guitar and folk songs by a fire, let's-hear-it-for-fall fun kind of guy. Quincy fall days seem to have something special. Maybe it's just me, but there it is.
Sure, as a community we have issues, but all in all I don't think I'd want to live anyplace else, especially in autumn.
"And if I'd ever leave you,
It wouldn't be in autumn.
Seeing you in autumn, I never could go.
Your hair streaked with sunlight,
Your lips red as flame,
your face with a luster
That puts gold to shame..."
I like it here, falling leaves and all.
As the trees begin to turn, and the temperatures fall into a zone that I find very comfortable (60 to 70 degrees) and the sun loses its summer ferocity, I begin to feel the urge to take walks again, to breath fresh air, to ramble a bit (physically, not verbally).
Quincy is a great place to ramble about. There's one heck of a lot of cool stuff to see, from the riverfront to the airport, from the lock and dam to Moorman Park. Nature, manmade wonders, people, all kinds of stuff. Lots to see, lots to do. Or not do--I spent an hour yesterday just sitting in Washington Park and enjoying the day now that the heat finally seems to have gone bye-bye for another year.
Don't get me wrong: while I hate the incredible heat of summer, and the extreme cold of winter, those seasons have a beauty of their own in Quincy (and maybe other places, but I'm not talking about them today). I like them, especially that one night we seem to get every year when snow has fallen all day and now the sky is low and the snow undistrubed and its silent and no one is around. Or the K of C and the county fair and various other fun things in the summer.
But I'm a red and gold, scrubbed blue sky, chilly night/pleasant day, apple cider, corn maze, guitar and folk songs by a fire, let's-hear-it-for-fall fun kind of guy. Quincy fall days seem to have something special. Maybe it's just me, but there it is.
Sure, as a community we have issues, but all in all I don't think I'd want to live anyplace else, especially in autumn.
"And if I'd ever leave you,
It wouldn't be in autumn.
Seeing you in autumn, I never could go.
Your hair streaked with sunlight,
Your lips red as flame,
your face with a luster
That puts gold to shame..."
I like it here, falling leaves and all.
Friday, August 31, 2007
More ???s about Orthodox Christianity
This must be the month for questions about what it means to be an Orthodox Christian!
In conversation today a friend asked me why he wouldn't be allowed to take communion in an Orthodox Church. Best explanation I've ever found is this from Frederica Mathewes-Green, a journalist and NPR commentator--and the wife of an Orthodox priest.
Visitors are sometimes offended that they are not allowed to receive communion. Orthodox believe that receiving communion is broader than “me-and-Jesus”; it acknowledges faith in historic Orthodox doctrine, obedience to a particular Orthodox bishop, and a commitment to a particular Orthodox worshipping community. There’s nothing exclusive about this; everyone is invited to make this commitment to the Orthodox Church.
But the Eucharist is the Church’s treasure, and it is reserved for those who have united themselves with the Church. An analogy could be to reserving marital relations until after the wedding.
We also handle the Eucharist with more gravity than many denominations do, further explaining why we guard it from common access. We believe it is truly the Body and Blood of Christ. We ourselves do not receive communion unless we are making regular confession of our sins to a priest and are at peace with other communicants. We fast from all food and drink—yes, even a morning cup of coffee—from midnight the night before communion.
Only Orthodox may take communion, but anyone may have some of the blessed bread. If someone hands you a piece of blessed bread, do not panic; it is not the eucharistic Body. It is a sign of fellowship.
--F. Mathewes-Green, "12 Things I Wish I'd Known: First Visit to an Orthodox Church"
I couldn't say it any better myself.
That's "what's up with that", J.
---------------
"As this piece of bread was scattered over the hills and then brought together and made one, so let Thy Church be brought together from the ends of the earth into Thy Kingdom. For Thine is the Glory and the Power through Jesus Christ forever."-an anaphora prayer from the Didache
Random wanderings
I love the sun as much as the next guy.
A bright sunny day down by the river with a bag of sandwiches and some fruit to munch on, watching the river, maybe getting a lift from a friend for a trip up or down the Big Muddy for a bit, maybe sitting with the sweetheart, a little PDA, maybe doing the Friday evening Movies on the Muddy thing as the sun sets...
Sweet. Priceless. You get the idea.
But man I get tired of the sun rolling up over the post office roof and frying my eyes when I'm trying to sleep in the morning.
I think I'll move the bed and put up a shade.
------
Tomorrow's the big day. Paula is coming for a visit.
You know, if I kept up with my cleaning on a regular basis, I wouldn't be going crazy trying to get all 1400 square feet neatified now.
Yeesh, I'm such a slob. :(
OTOH, my sweetie's coming to town. :)
A bright sunny day down by the river with a bag of sandwiches and some fruit to munch on, watching the river, maybe getting a lift from a friend for a trip up or down the Big Muddy for a bit, maybe sitting with the sweetheart, a little PDA, maybe doing the Friday evening Movies on the Muddy thing as the sun sets...
Sweet. Priceless. You get the idea.
But man I get tired of the sun rolling up over the post office roof and frying my eyes when I'm trying to sleep in the morning.
I think I'll move the bed and put up a shade.
------
Tomorrow's the big day. Paula is coming for a visit.
You know, if I kept up with my cleaning on a regular basis, I wouldn't be going crazy trying to get all 1400 square feet neatified now.
Yeesh, I'm such a slob. :(
OTOH, my sweetie's coming to town. :)
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
People say the nicest things
Early this week I had a conversation with a friend who does a lot of reading in the Quincy blogs.
In discussing the vagaries and foibles of some of my esteemed "brothers and sisters of the e-page" my friend commented that he wished I would do more "Quincy commentary" as some of the local bloggers do (read "get political and controversial and say how nasty Quincy is").
Then he paid me what he thought was an insult and I took as a great compliment.
"Your blog is getting to be as boring and self-centered as Hart's!"
I had to laugh, because I think Rodney Hart's blog is an excellent mix of light commentary, musings, oddball sidebars, and just interesting conversation. To be compared to his fine writing skills makes me feel pretty darn good.
Self-centered? Well, I do talk about my experiences and thoughts, but I hope it doesn't actually come off as self-centered. My apologies if it does--but it is what it is.
As for the nastified stuff on some of the other Quincy blogs...
There's some fine meat out there in the blogs, and I do peruse them from time to time. But I don't care for the foul language, the insults, and the junior-high behavior of adults who ought to know better. I don't want that happening here--I don't have the time to ride herd on a bunch of people who would never behave in person the way they do online.
When there are issues that I believe are worth offering a comment, I will. I have in the past. But it's not going to happen on a regular basis.
There's also the fact that I have certain responsibilities due to my work and it would not be appropriate for me to comment publically on things I'm reporting on.
But dude, thanks for the compliment! :)
In discussing the vagaries and foibles of some of my esteemed "brothers and sisters of the e-page" my friend commented that he wished I would do more "Quincy commentary" as some of the local bloggers do (read "get political and controversial and say how nasty Quincy is").
Then he paid me what he thought was an insult and I took as a great compliment.
"Your blog is getting to be as boring and self-centered as Hart's!"
I had to laugh, because I think Rodney Hart's blog is an excellent mix of light commentary, musings, oddball sidebars, and just interesting conversation. To be compared to his fine writing skills makes me feel pretty darn good.
Self-centered? Well, I do talk about my experiences and thoughts, but I hope it doesn't actually come off as self-centered. My apologies if it does--but it is what it is.
As for the nastified stuff on some of the other Quincy blogs...
There's some fine meat out there in the blogs, and I do peruse them from time to time. But I don't care for the foul language, the insults, and the junior-high behavior of adults who ought to know better. I don't want that happening here--I don't have the time to ride herd on a bunch of people who would never behave in person the way they do online.
When there are issues that I believe are worth offering a comment, I will. I have in the past. But it's not going to happen on a regular basis.
There's also the fact that I have certain responsibilities due to my work and it would not be appropriate for me to comment publically on things I'm reporting on.
But dude, thanks for the compliment! :)
Friday, August 24, 2007
Shilling for something good
Listen up.
If you happen to be 55 or older (no, I am not, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate this program for its value), consider participating in what qualifies in my book as an "educational pilgrimage".
I'm talking about the upcoming fall POLIS series.
POLIS is Quincy University’s program of continued education for retired and semi-retired persons over 55 years of age and there are a lot of interesting subjects to be discussed beginning September 6th.
Want to learn more about the experience of vets in World War 2? How about some seriously interesting stuff about the Father of Waters, the Mississippi--Quincy's doorstep, if you will?
There are also offerings on local media, law enforcement, literature, music, Islamic civilization and stress and depression.
No tests, no grades, no pressure, just inexpensive education. $30, plus a small fee for each course (you don't have to take them all)--that's a deal you cannot beat.
Keep learning or settle in to become mulch right now.
Want to know more? Contact POLIS at 228-5594 or by email at polis@quincy.edu, or visit www.quincy.edu.
If you happen to be 55 or older (no, I am not, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate this program for its value), consider participating in what qualifies in my book as an "educational pilgrimage".
I'm talking about the upcoming fall POLIS series.
POLIS is Quincy University’s program of continued education for retired and semi-retired persons over 55 years of age and there are a lot of interesting subjects to be discussed beginning September 6th.
Want to learn more about the experience of vets in World War 2? How about some seriously interesting stuff about the Father of Waters, the Mississippi--Quincy's doorstep, if you will?
There are also offerings on local media, law enforcement, literature, music, Islamic civilization and stress and depression.
No tests, no grades, no pressure, just inexpensive education. $30, plus a small fee for each course (you don't have to take them all)--that's a deal you cannot beat.
Keep learning or settle in to become mulch right now.
Want to know more? Contact POLIS at 228-5594 or by email at polis@quincy.edu, or visit www.quincy.edu.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
What's in an Orthodox wedding
A couple of folks asked me just what makes an Eastern Orthodox Christian wedding different from a western Christian wedding.
For an overview, head here:
http://www.yasou.org/church/wedding.htm
It's primarily Greek in customs (though not in Tradition) but most of it applies to all the various Orthodox bodies.
The wedding of Paula and myself will likely have an odd mix of American, Russian, Greek, Syrian and even Serbian customs. :)
And for those who don't know yet--I am marrying my long time friend Paula of Franklin, Ohio next July 19 at St. Raphael Orthodox Christian Church here in Quincy. She will be moving here next spring.
For an overview, head here:
http://www.yasou.org/church/wedding.htm
It's primarily Greek in customs (though not in Tradition) but most of it applies to all the various Orthodox bodies.
The wedding of Paula and myself will likely have an odd mix of American, Russian, Greek, Syrian and even Serbian customs. :)
And for those who don't know yet--I am marrying my long time friend Paula of Franklin, Ohio next July 19 at St. Raphael Orthodox Christian Church here in Quincy. She will be moving here next spring.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Protection: A Story
On this Feast of the Dormition of the Theotokos (that's the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary for you Roman Catholics and high church Anglicans :), here's a little story I wrote perhaps more appropriate to the Feast of the Holy Protection, but I don't want to wait until October to share. They're both feasts of Mary, anyway.
--KNP
-------------
The rapid-fire tattoo of rolling drums drifted on the cold wind that blew across central Moscow. It scattered the sound, so that barely twenty meters from the high stone walls of the prison, all that could be heard was the hiss of the blustery gale.
On the first day of October, such conditions were unexceptional, as were the empty streets surrounding the structure. It was a dangerous thing even to pass by the hulking monolith of Lefortovo, the KGB's primary penal complex in the Russian capital. There was no protection from its prying, hidden eyes.
Usually there was no one to hear the rhythmic clatter of the drums and the subsequent tramp of military feet.
Usually.
Misha Korotev stood just across the narrow street, trying to blend into the bland gray wall and trying not to imagine what was happening inside Lefortovo.
The slim, fair-haired dockworker pulled his slouch cap lower on his head. He willed the brim to cast enough shadow over his face that any passing KGB informant would not be able to identify him. It could mean his own detention and likely disappearance if he were too obvious about his attention to the prison.
Misha moved slowly down the street, straining to hear the faint sounds that came over the towering wall. He knew there was a small courtyard just inside at that point in the fortification, and he knew his brother Alexei might soon be brought there. He feared what would happen if and when that occurred.
Misha glanced around nervously. Even with the multitude of reforms that had taken place since Mikhail Gorbachev had become leader of the Soviet state, it was still a good idea to remain as unobtrusive as possible. Hanging about the most notorious prison in the entire U.S.S.R. was not being unobtrusive.
The young man turned and shuffled down the street, trying to remain within earshot of the walls. As he went, his hand slipped into his pocket and touched the small, gold three-barred cross that had fallen from the package slipped into his lunchpail at work the day before. On the paper in which the religious symbol had been wrapped was a note:
Lefortovo. 1600 hours. Tomorrow. Painting ikons. Gospodi pomiloye (Lord have mercy).
Alexei Korotev was a religionist. He practiced and apparently believed the old Russian Orthodox Christian religion, and suffered because of it. Even in these days of perestroika, it was not safe to be openly religious. Alexei could not hold any kind of decent job, he was frequently in trouble, and was more and more outspoken on the issue of faith and belief. In the opinion of many, he was a man marked and thus avoided by more rational folk.
Only his younger brother regarded Alexei with something other than exasperation, though even Misha sometimes found disturbing his brother's passion for the bourgeois notions of the past.
"Those notions have gotten you carted off to Lefortovo," Misha sighed as he stopped, fairly sure he could not go further and still hear the faint sounds that echoed from the courtyard within the prison. There was nothing he could do for his brother now, no protection he could offer. All he could do was stand in the street and wait for what he knew would probably happen.
His hand clutched the cross and paper in his pocket.
Also on that paper had been a small pencil drawing. Misha had seen the image it portrayed once before when he had allowed Alexei to convince him to visit the Troitsky Monastery. There had been an ikon of the Mother of God bearing a white cloth, and Alexei had told him it was called The Protection of the Theotokos. It commemorated a supposed miracle in the history of Byzantium when legend said that Saint Mary laid a veil over the city to protect it from an enemy attack.
Misha scoffed at the idea. Miracles indeed!
Alexei had been quite upset at his brother's unbelief. "The day will come, Misha, when you will have to face the world without me," he had said. "The veil of the Protection of Our Lord and Saviour may be all that saves you from my fate."
And now Alyosha (the traditional nickname for someone named Alexei or Alexander) was imprisoned and perhaps to die for his stupid faith.
From behind the wall came the rattling of drums once again, this time followed not by the even steps of KGB soldiers, but by a single sharp crack, a pistol shot.
At that moment the wind circled through the compass, tossing up dust and debris from the street. It was biting cold, and it brought with it the sound of shouts inside the prison.
As Misha gasped at the sudden onslaught of the frigid gusts, he became aware of a shadow being cast on him from above. A glance upward revealed a what appeared to be linen drifting down, twisting and rolling in the wind.
The young man froze as the cloth settled on him, the ragged ends draping down his arms. His mouth fell open as he recognized the material, a military shirt, or at least a long piece of one. The sleeves were gone, and the collar, but the breast was untorn and there upon it was embroidered the name Alexei I. Korotev.
Misha felt a chill as he looked at the fabric that rested on his shoulders. It wasn't because of the wind, though.
Around the corner of the prison came an older model Zil, the kind that KGB officers would often drive when preparing to make a pickup. A man walked alongside the slowly moving vehicle, looking about.
The car and walker passed within 3 meters of Misha as he stood frozen on the curb, but apparently did not see him. How this was possible, the young man could not determine, but at the far corner the walking agent opened the door and got in, saying loud enough for Misha to hear, "He has gone, apparently, whomever he was."
A moment later the Zil roared off, vanishing around the corner.
Misha slowly turned and walked the other direction. Glancing up at the sky, he saw that the sun was trying to break through the clouds. His fingers toyed with the tattered ends of Alexei's old shirt.
"A veil of protection?" he whispered, feeling again a shiver of...something.
As he passed beyond the prison and into the next street, Misha wondered how soon he could arrange a trip to Troitsky.
---
Note from Dictionary.com
tat·too (n., pl. tat·toos)
A signal sounded on a drum or bugle to summon soldiers or sailors.
A continuous, even drumming or rapping.
--KNP
-------------
The rapid-fire tattoo of rolling drums drifted on the cold wind that blew across central Moscow. It scattered the sound, so that barely twenty meters from the high stone walls of the prison, all that could be heard was the hiss of the blustery gale.
On the first day of October, such conditions were unexceptional, as were the empty streets surrounding the structure. It was a dangerous thing even to pass by the hulking monolith of Lefortovo, the KGB's primary penal complex in the Russian capital. There was no protection from its prying, hidden eyes.
Usually there was no one to hear the rhythmic clatter of the drums and the subsequent tramp of military feet.
Usually.
Misha Korotev stood just across the narrow street, trying to blend into the bland gray wall and trying not to imagine what was happening inside Lefortovo.
The slim, fair-haired dockworker pulled his slouch cap lower on his head. He willed the brim to cast enough shadow over his face that any passing KGB informant would not be able to identify him. It could mean his own detention and likely disappearance if he were too obvious about his attention to the prison.
Misha moved slowly down the street, straining to hear the faint sounds that came over the towering wall. He knew there was a small courtyard just inside at that point in the fortification, and he knew his brother Alexei might soon be brought there. He feared what would happen if and when that occurred.
Misha glanced around nervously. Even with the multitude of reforms that had taken place since Mikhail Gorbachev had become leader of the Soviet state, it was still a good idea to remain as unobtrusive as possible. Hanging about the most notorious prison in the entire U.S.S.R. was not being unobtrusive.
The young man turned and shuffled down the street, trying to remain within earshot of the walls. As he went, his hand slipped into his pocket and touched the small, gold three-barred cross that had fallen from the package slipped into his lunchpail at work the day before. On the paper in which the religious symbol had been wrapped was a note:
Lefortovo. 1600 hours. Tomorrow. Painting ikons. Gospodi pomiloye (Lord have mercy).
Alexei Korotev was a religionist. He practiced and apparently believed the old Russian Orthodox Christian religion, and suffered because of it. Even in these days of perestroika, it was not safe to be openly religious. Alexei could not hold any kind of decent job, he was frequently in trouble, and was more and more outspoken on the issue of faith and belief. In the opinion of many, he was a man marked and thus avoided by more rational folk.
Only his younger brother regarded Alexei with something other than exasperation, though even Misha sometimes found disturbing his brother's passion for the bourgeois notions of the past.
"Those notions have gotten you carted off to Lefortovo," Misha sighed as he stopped, fairly sure he could not go further and still hear the faint sounds that echoed from the courtyard within the prison. There was nothing he could do for his brother now, no protection he could offer. All he could do was stand in the street and wait for what he knew would probably happen.
His hand clutched the cross and paper in his pocket.
Also on that paper had been a small pencil drawing. Misha had seen the image it portrayed once before when he had allowed Alexei to convince him to visit the Troitsky Monastery. There had been an ikon of the Mother of God bearing a white cloth, and Alexei had told him it was called The Protection of the Theotokos. It commemorated a supposed miracle in the history of Byzantium when legend said that Saint Mary laid a veil over the city to protect it from an enemy attack.
Misha scoffed at the idea. Miracles indeed!
Alexei had been quite upset at his brother's unbelief. "The day will come, Misha, when you will have to face the world without me," he had said. "The veil of the Protection of Our Lord and Saviour may be all that saves you from my fate."
And now Alyosha (the traditional nickname for someone named Alexei or Alexander) was imprisoned and perhaps to die for his stupid faith.
From behind the wall came the rattling of drums once again, this time followed not by the even steps of KGB soldiers, but by a single sharp crack, a pistol shot.
At that moment the wind circled through the compass, tossing up dust and debris from the street. It was biting cold, and it brought with it the sound of shouts inside the prison.
As Misha gasped at the sudden onslaught of the frigid gusts, he became aware of a shadow being cast on him from above. A glance upward revealed a what appeared to be linen drifting down, twisting and rolling in the wind.
The young man froze as the cloth settled on him, the ragged ends draping down his arms. His mouth fell open as he recognized the material, a military shirt, or at least a long piece of one. The sleeves were gone, and the collar, but the breast was untorn and there upon it was embroidered the name Alexei I. Korotev.
Misha felt a chill as he looked at the fabric that rested on his shoulders. It wasn't because of the wind, though.
Around the corner of the prison came an older model Zil, the kind that KGB officers would often drive when preparing to make a pickup. A man walked alongside the slowly moving vehicle, looking about.
The car and walker passed within 3 meters of Misha as he stood frozen on the curb, but apparently did not see him. How this was possible, the young man could not determine, but at the far corner the walking agent opened the door and got in, saying loud enough for Misha to hear, "He has gone, apparently, whomever he was."
A moment later the Zil roared off, vanishing around the corner.
Misha slowly turned and walked the other direction. Glancing up at the sky, he saw that the sun was trying to break through the clouds. His fingers toyed with the tattered ends of Alexei's old shirt.
"A veil of protection?" he whispered, feeling again a shiver of...something.
As he passed beyond the prison and into the next street, Misha wondered how soon he could arrange a trip to Troitsky.
---
Note from Dictionary.com
tat·too (n., pl. tat·toos)
A signal sounded on a drum or bugle to summon soldiers or sailors.
A continuous, even drumming or rapping.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Asking for trouble?
So I finally sat down this weekend past and jotted down some net links for possible birthday gifts, as my fiancee Paula asked me to do. There were six or seven items on the list running from the practical to the spiritual to gaming interests.
All in all it seemed a reasonable response to the question "Can you send me a list of things you might like as a birthday present?"
Now mind you, I don't NEED anything from her. The fact that she is coming from Ohio to spend two weeks with me beginning Sept. 1st, and that she loves me enough to want to share the rest of my life, is more than enough of a gift.
But she ASKED.
I showed the list to a longtime (female) friend here in Quincy and her reaction was "Do you REALLY expect to get those silly things?"
Huh? Did I commit some terrible relationship faux pas by actually assembling a list, as requested? My Quincy friend went on about how it was terribly selfish and rude to offer the list and I must admit to being totally bamboozled by her reaction.
On the other hand, it's not her reaction I really need to worry about, is it? And I guess the fact that she is once-divorced and been in four relationships since we met is a good comment on the value of her "advice".
I think I'll just wait til I hear from Paula as to whether there is an actual problem.
Even better, when she hands me the gift box on Sept. 13th I will kiss my beloved and thank her from the bottom of my heart, and my Quincy friend can go suck an egg.
Yeesh. People...you can't live with 'em and they don't allow you to bury 'em alive.
KNP
PS. Sorry for my spotting posting record. I admire those folks who can do this almost everyday. In my naturally lazy state I get a good fill of writing at work and there are so many other demands on my time that entail writing that this tends to fall down the list of priorities. I ,ust resolve to do better.
All in all it seemed a reasonable response to the question "Can you send me a list of things you might like as a birthday present?"
Now mind you, I don't NEED anything from her. The fact that she is coming from Ohio to spend two weeks with me beginning Sept. 1st, and that she loves me enough to want to share the rest of my life, is more than enough of a gift.
But she ASKED.
I showed the list to a longtime (female) friend here in Quincy and her reaction was "Do you REALLY expect to get those silly things?"
Huh? Did I commit some terrible relationship faux pas by actually assembling a list, as requested? My Quincy friend went on about how it was terribly selfish and rude to offer the list and I must admit to being totally bamboozled by her reaction.
On the other hand, it's not her reaction I really need to worry about, is it? And I guess the fact that she is once-divorced and been in four relationships since we met is a good comment on the value of her "advice".
I think I'll just wait til I hear from Paula as to whether there is an actual problem.
Even better, when she hands me the gift box on Sept. 13th I will kiss my beloved and thank her from the bottom of my heart, and my Quincy friend can go suck an egg.
Yeesh. People...you can't live with 'em and they don't allow you to bury 'em alive.
KNP
PS. Sorry for my spotting posting record. I admire those folks who can do this almost everyday. In my naturally lazy state I get a good fill of writing at work and there are so many other demands on my time that entail writing that this tends to fall down the list of priorities. I ,ust resolve to do better.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Why I went to Dayton
Actually I went to Franklin, Ohio, about halfway between Dayton and Cincinnati.
It was for a woman of course.
Her name is Paula. She is an "older woman". She's a former oncology nurse and medical transcriptionist.
Hopefully sometime next year, she will also be my wife.
That's why I went to Dayton. :)
PS. Yes, I sang for her. It appears to have done the trick.
It was for a woman of course.
Her name is Paula. She is an "older woman". She's a former oncology nurse and medical transcriptionist.
Hopefully sometime next year, she will also be my wife.
That's why I went to Dayton. :)
PS. Yes, I sang for her. It appears to have done the trick.
Odds & Ends
I have been remiss, my friends. Oh so very remiss--I have not posted since December!
I have heard the cries from the masses: "What's up with 'dat, loser?!"
I have no excuse. The fact is I am basically a sedentary, lazy bum. Really.
The fact that I actually had some people who read my stuff on a regular basis absolutely amazes me (you can only imagine how I react to compliments from people on the stuff I do at work :). I thank you all and I will try to do better.
When I started the blog I didn't want to necessarily do a "personality" blog, but it wouldn't be right for me to do a "news criticism" blog since hey, that's where I work. One of the reasons I chose "Quincy Pilgrim" was because I could then legitimately wander all over the landscape, but would try to bring it down to a point of focus of "living in Quincy". I'm afraid my natural lazy-a$$ tendencies got in the way.
But I'm back now, and will post with more regularity. Philips is good for that. :)
So some odds and ends.
1. I don't care what you think about Josephus' apparent "position" and the articles he posts on his blog. His point is that he wants you to read and think. I disagree (strongly in some cases) with some of what he offers, but I welcome the opportunity to see how other people have worked out their beliefs--and the opportunity to offer my own if I want to put in the work to respond intelligently. At the very least, food for thought that challenges is a very good thing that helps prevent clogging the mental arteries. Cut Joe some slack and try to use your brains--you're allowed to disagree.
2. Dumb criminals. It must be something in Hannibal's water, the way criminals have been falling all over themselves to do something stupid in front of the city and county's finest. This week alone: a guy was arrested for selling prescription drugs in the lobby and in the parking lot of the Marion County Jail; a woman punched a Hannibal policeman in the stomach for no apparent reason--in the police department; and finally a young woman was engaged in conversation with a uniformed Hannibal policeman who spied a little plastic bit sticking out of her pocket, asked what it was, and she pulled out a baggie of leafy stuff, handed it to him and said "It's marijuana!" Then having realized the stupidity of what she'd done, she ran--throwing away some crack she was carrying in full view of the police. Maybe the bad guys have gotten a sense of civic duty and just want to make it easier for the men and women in blue?
3. The Gems. Nice to see some good baseball coming out of the Gems this year. Almost a throwback to the early days. Of course we could use more teams in the CICL. Also it sure looks like the Civic Center folks are getting their act together not only in supporting and promoting the Gems, but everything else to do with the OLC too. Good work folks, esp. executive director Rob E.
4. Driving in summer. Take my advice. Never set out on a long drive in the summer when you a/c is on the fritz. The trip to Dayton, OH and back was only 7 hours each way but it felt like 10 years.
5. Grumble. What is it with our state legislators and our governor? EVERY OTHER state group has their budgets set up and approved and ready to go, so where the heck is the Legislature and Rod? If I turned in a project this late, I'd (rightfully) be at the least suspended--more likely fired. GET ON THE STICK, YOU GUYS!
6. There is NO....point 6.
And now to quote the little girl in the second POLTERGEIST movie: "Theeyyyy'rree bbaaaaaack!"
I have heard the cries from the masses: "What's up with 'dat, loser?!"
I have no excuse. The fact is I am basically a sedentary, lazy bum. Really.
The fact that I actually had some people who read my stuff on a regular basis absolutely amazes me (you can only imagine how I react to compliments from people on the stuff I do at work :). I thank you all and I will try to do better.
When I started the blog I didn't want to necessarily do a "personality" blog, but it wouldn't be right for me to do a "news criticism" blog since hey, that's where I work. One of the reasons I chose "Quincy Pilgrim" was because I could then legitimately wander all over the landscape, but would try to bring it down to a point of focus of "living in Quincy". I'm afraid my natural lazy-a$$ tendencies got in the way.
But I'm back now, and will post with more regularity. Philips is good for that. :)
So some odds and ends.
1. I don't care what you think about Josephus' apparent "position" and the articles he posts on his blog. His point is that he wants you to read and think. I disagree (strongly in some cases) with some of what he offers, but I welcome the opportunity to see how other people have worked out their beliefs--and the opportunity to offer my own if I want to put in the work to respond intelligently. At the very least, food for thought that challenges is a very good thing that helps prevent clogging the mental arteries. Cut Joe some slack and try to use your brains--you're allowed to disagree.
2. Dumb criminals. It must be something in Hannibal's water, the way criminals have been falling all over themselves to do something stupid in front of the city and county's finest. This week alone: a guy was arrested for selling prescription drugs in the lobby and in the parking lot of the Marion County Jail; a woman punched a Hannibal policeman in the stomach for no apparent reason--in the police department; and finally a young woman was engaged in conversation with a uniformed Hannibal policeman who spied a little plastic bit sticking out of her pocket, asked what it was, and she pulled out a baggie of leafy stuff, handed it to him and said "It's marijuana!" Then having realized the stupidity of what she'd done, she ran--throwing away some crack she was carrying in full view of the police. Maybe the bad guys have gotten a sense of civic duty and just want to make it easier for the men and women in blue?
3. The Gems. Nice to see some good baseball coming out of the Gems this year. Almost a throwback to the early days. Of course we could use more teams in the CICL. Also it sure looks like the Civic Center folks are getting their act together not only in supporting and promoting the Gems, but everything else to do with the OLC too. Good work folks, esp. executive director Rob E.
4. Driving in summer. Take my advice. Never set out on a long drive in the summer when you a/c is on the fritz. The trip to Dayton, OH and back was only 7 hours each way but it felt like 10 years.
5. Grumble. What is it with our state legislators and our governor? EVERY OTHER state group has their budgets set up and approved and ready to go, so where the heck is the Legislature and Rod? If I turned in a project this late, I'd (rightfully) be at the least suspended--more likely fired. GET ON THE STICK, YOU GUYS!
6. There is NO....point 6.
And now to quote the little girl in the second POLTERGEIST movie: "Theeyyyy'rree bbaaaaaack!"
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