Words from The Crone

The card game of bridge used to be very popular way back when (those old enough to know, know “way back when,”) and you learned it at your mother’s knee. By the time you went to college (if you did) you were really good at it and, perhaps, even played it for spending money! It is an excellent combination of wit, wisdom, and the deal of the cards.

My folks weren’t into the game so I didn’t learn it until I was married, and we played it quite often with the couple who taught us. My X, however, never really enjoyed the game much and when we moved out of town we gave up the game. I loved it, but since that was during my “Debbie Domestic, do what your husband says” phase of my life, there was no more bridge.

Then I married R and he loved bridge and was so good at it that he even has master’s points. Boy, was I intimidated. But, being the loving, patient man that he is, we started playing with friends who wanted to learn the game. R was the greatest teacher, and I improved as the years went on and we played more and more frequently. We both loved the game.

As we grew older and older a strange phenomenon occurred, and not only with us but with those couples with whom we were playing. We couldn’t remember who dealt the last hand! Now in bridge the person opposite the person dealing shuffles the cards and puts them on the right side of the table. This, presumably, is the next person to deal. It shouldn’t then be difficult to know who is to deal next, right? Hmmph!

This would be so simple if we all obeyed those rules, but what happens is that the person supposed to shuffle has to, say, go to the bathroom. Thus, someone else shuffles the cards for them and puts them on the right which is now the wrong side. Or, the person supposed to be shuffling shuffles and, in a moment of distraction, puts them on the left which not the right side. It happens all the time. Sad, sad.

Most annoying isn’t the shuffle shuffle though. No matter who shuffles, right or wrong, left or right, when the cards are all distributed, someone will invariably say, “Who dealt this mess?” And then the blank stares take over as no one can remember who dealt like two nanoseconds ago! We look for where the cards are set down after shuffling, but we already know that isn’t always right. This type of confusion led to two of the four of us dealing for about eight hands while the others kept asking “Who dealt this mess?”

But aha! We found an answer to this dilemma brought on by our rapidly degenerating brain cells. The Pretzel! Yes, I grabbed a pretzel from the bowl we had on the side table and it rotated around the table as we played each hand. Whoever had the pretzel was the dealer no matter where the cards were on the table. It worked like a charm for about an hour…then I inadvertently ate the pretzel and confusion once again reigned supreme!

I walked into the house and announced “I have to kill myself!” Of course, R (my shorthand for my spouse Ralph), immediately assured me that for whatever reason I felt that way, it was not the answer. “Yes, I have to kill myself because I got a speeding ticket!” “No, no, my love,” says he, “It is only a speeding ticket.” “No, no,” says I, “It is a BIG speeding ticket.” He gazed into my eyes with that don’t worry about it look and asked quietly, “How big?”

Before I answered that I had to inform him of the unfortunate circumstances of this ticket. I was so upset because I had just traversed through the small town of Milton, Delaware meticulously obeying those frustrating 25 m.p.h. to 35 m.p.h. to 25 m.p.h. to 20 m.p.h. to 35 m.p.h. zones that are, I am convinced, deliberately set up to trap the unsuspecting traveler and to stock the larders of the town ticket heaven. Make that hell. It is the same situation as found in Waldo, FL which is notorious for its evil speed zones and lurking radar traps. So much so that it is published as the equivalent to a “Watch Out for Satan Zone” in the AAA literature.

So, after tip-toeing through the speed zone tulips of the small town of Milton, I left the town behind and looked to the side of the road to find the posted speed. What I saw was a sign that said “20 m.p.h. when yellow lights flashing.” No yellow lights flashing, no school on Saturday, okay, I can now accelerate to the 50 m.p.h. standard for all roads in Sussex County.

I will admit that I almost always push that envelop by 7 m.p.h. as local lore has it that no one will stop you for going that much over the speed limit. But, I am not a scofflaw or even one who does not regularly obey the speed limit. In fact, when R is driving I regularly advise him of the speed limit if it changes so that he won’t be pulled over and get a ticket.

So, here I was cruising along comfortably anticipating getting home after a day-long seminar. And, as the good and conscientious driver that I am, I gazed into my rear view mirror and lo and behold (that’s a religious term I believe), there were those dreaded flashing red, white, and blue lights (like they think that if the lights are patriotic colors it will make me feel better).

Well, Officer Blazer asked for my driving credentials and then asked me how fast I was driving. I told him the truth – 57 m.p.h. He then asked me if I knew why he pulled me over. I said “No, I have no idea.” He said, “You were speeding.” I naively thought he meant in this 50 m.p.h. zone – NOT, he continued, “In a 35 m.p.h. zone.” I asked, “Where?” I then told him how careful I had been through town and had no clue where I was speeding.

Well, he carefully explained where this infraction occurred and I am sure he was right because they always are. He took my credentials and told me to wait while he checked to see if I was also some maniac criminal, drug dealer, or traffic violation abuser. I waited, and waited, and waited.

He finally came back and handed me a ticket and told me “Drive safe.” I had some well chosen four letter words swimming around in my head that I wanted to attach to him, but didn’t say them out loud. I’m not stupid. Then I went home and told R that “I have to kill myself.” The ticket was for $176.50 and would put 5 points on my license. I am now paying penance (in addition to the obscene fine of which only $86 is actual fine) by taking a defensive driving course to wipe out 3 of those points and hopefully keep my insurance from skyrocketing. As I said, “I have to kill myself.” Okay, not really, but I do feel dreadful. Sigh.

My spouse – I have to stop calling him that – so I’ll use his real name (with permission of course). His name is Ralph. We are “R-Squared” as my name is Rita.

At any rate, tonight Ralph and I were driving over to two meetings. I was dropping him off and going to mine. During the ride (in the rain) we were having a passionate (as in yelling at each other) discussion over my new windshield wipers. In light rain they make a grating noise like fingernails running down a blackboard only louder like, skraawcch – pause – skraawcch – pause – skraawch! It drives me mad I tell you, absolutely mad. For weeks I’ve been asking Ralph to return them to the store for an adjustment or a new set or SOMETHING to make the noise go away.

My Ralph, dear sweet stubborn Ralph, swears over his mother’s grave that the windshield wipers are just fine. It’s how they make them sweetheart. NO! NO! NO! I declare there must be some way to make that skraawcch go away. I’ll take them back to the store myself. Go ahead, says he, it won’t make any difference. And on and on it went for some twenty minutes our passion rising a decibel or so until we reached his destination. Then, all sweetness and light we kissed each other good-bye and I was on my way to my meeting. Passion, I thought. We have a very passionate marriage.

At home later that evening Ralph made us both a cup of tea and we sat in our usual chairs, I on the wing chair, he on the sofa, the dog by my side. I don’t recall the exact conversation but what I do remember is how heartily we laughed on a variety of topics. At one point we were laughing so hard tears were streaming down our cheeks. Passion, I thought. We have a very passionate marriage.

As I ponder these thoughts I wondered how many people don’t see the passion in their relationship and break up or divorce because they had a screaming match over something as insignificant as my windshield wipers. Passion, I realized isn’t about the big stuff when the movie scene crescendos and the lovers fall into each other’s arms and kiss for what seems like forever. Passion isn’t about the passion of Jesus, suffering up on that cross dripping blood and sweat down the wooden tree.

No, passion is about the highs and lows of a relationship and the smooth transition from one to the other. Passion is that burst of anger or resentment that, once you have vented, you regain your sanity and go on with life knowing that your partner will still love you. Passion is that outbreak of hysterical laughter over a silly little nothing that just tickled your funny bone to the point of tears. Passion can be a nightly ritual when your loved one rubs your back or your feet. Passion can be the thoughtfulness of helping your partner through a patch of unemployment, depression, or just a bad day. Passion can be the delight of a fabulous date night, or the joy of holding your firstborn.

Passion can be fleeting or lasting, but for me passion is the glue that keeps my relationship together. Why? Because no matter how intense the passion or how simple the passion, it is always the expression of our deep love for each other. It is the variety of our life together as we climb the mountains and traverse the valleys of passion. Ah, passion. Now, off to the store about those windshield wipers!

Well, for the month of February we were all hoping that the snow would go away! Now, it is the rain. Well, at least for me. We are having our Diocesan (church) convention tomorrow and Saturday and the forecast is for – yuck – rain! Time to move mountains, or at least clouds.

My favorite story about keeping it from raining occurred during our last trip down the Intracoastal Waterway in 1999 from Washington, DC to Tampa, FL. We had a 43’ Albin trawler that we lived on in DC when I was attending seminary. It was fun and we became known as “The Boat People.” We are called that to this day. At any rate, we cruised down the waterway to Charleston, SC and left the boat there while we drove over to St. Petersburg, FL for my ordination.

Thereafter, my spouse and I along with my mentor and friend and her spouse drove back to Charleston and picked up the boat for the remainder of the trip to Tampa. It was June and that time of year in Florida the rains come every afternoon. Most every day about 3:00 p.m. the clouds would loom dark and dreary ahead of us threatening a downpour for sure. And, each day I would stand up on the flying bridge of the boat (aptly named “Empyrean” which is Greek for home of the gods) and shout at the top of my lungs GO AWAY RAIN, GO AWAY. I would then wave my arms about like some maniac conjuring up I don’t know what. Good thing no one had a video of me.

Well, every day that I did this, the rain would go to the north of us, or the south of us, or anywhere except where we were cruising along. At first it was a laughable sort of thing. But after this went on day after day after day it became sort of an awesome thing – divine almost. We would all look askance at each other and wonder how this could be. Finally, our traveling companion’s spouse said, “You know, if this keeps up she’ll be impossible to live with!” We all laughed – but……it never rained on our parade down the waterway.

So, tonight and tomorrow I will stand in my yard and yell GO AWAY RAIN, GO AWAY! Who knows, maybe it will work again. Didn’t Jesus say that we can move mountains – if we believe? I believe! After all, I only want to move some water drenched clouds.

Who hasn’t grown up with this saying about the postal service:

“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”

Actually, it is an inscription on the James Farley Post Office in New York City,[1] derived from a quote from Herodotus’ Histories (8.98), referring to the ancient courier service of the Persian Empire. But hey, who cares, it is now so ingrained in our collective consciousness that we believe it to be our postal creed.

It didn’t work for us in the mid-Atlantic in February as we were buried under 3 to 4 feet of snow! However, mail delivery really didn’t matter if we had electricity and our computer for our email and online bill paying, we were still connected to the outside world. And, for those without electricity for days on end mail delivery didn’t matter either because there was no one to pick up the mail!

These past few days there have been articles about how the USPS wants to cut delivery from six day to five days and raise rates. Just to show my age, when I was 8 years old we had two deliveries a day Monday through Friday and one on Saturday. In those days, Sunday was for going to church. The rate for a first class domestic letter was 3 cents. But, that was then and now is now.

Although I am an old crone, I am computer literate and I make every effort to use that capability because it is fun and fast and fruitful, as in “green.” I am now not only paying most of my bills online, but I am getting my statements online as well. I also signed up for two e-greeting card accounts and I send most of my birthday and anniversary cards via email. I do however buy a sympathy card because I want to write a personal note. But, what all of this has done is cut way, way back on the amount of first class mail I find in my mailbox. My virtual mailbox on the other hand has a steady stream of mail.

One of the articles stated that the USPS’ volume is off 13 percent. Therefore, I think cutting back to five day delivery is a good thing. Maybe even cut back to Monday, Wednesday, Friday and really save some money. In fact, I would also cut out any mail that is not first class or a package. And to add on to that bundle of savings, I would not allow any mail addressed to “Current Resident!” If they don’t know my name I don’t want their product!

Even the USPS is becoming more computer savvy as they offer online stamps. But, then, well, um, er, they still have to DELIVER those letters with stamps. Although the computer and the acceptance of e-signatures will cut back on a lot of touchy-feely delivered mail, there will probably always be a need to deliver those care packages to grandkids in college, a gift for mom on Mother’s day, and of course, all those things you order online or buy at E-bay! C’est la vie!

1. ^ http://www.usps.com/postalhistory/_pdf/MissionandMotto.pdf