Words from The Crone

The Memorial Day I remember the most occurred in Hoosick Falls, NY, the birthplace of my maternal grandmother. I think it was in 1954 or 1955 but I can’t be positive. At any rate, my mom wanted to see where her mom was born (my love for genealogy really may be in my genes). The trip was planned for Memorial Day weekend.

Now, Hoosick Falls is a small town in eastern New York State and consists of only a few blocks of what we old folks would call “downtown.” But, OMG, for its size they had enough banners and flags out to make any veteran or any American proud! And on the day of the Memorial Day Parade everyone and everything and every official and every official vehicle and every horse, tractor, and a few cows participated. To a young girl (as I was back then) it could have been a downtown New York City parade (okay, forget the cows and tractors)!

The roads were jammed with spectators from all over the area, and the parade went on and on and on. Patriotic music filled every corner of the air, people waved those tiny flags, and sang God Bless America, America, and any other patriotic song they knew. People cheered as each car full of veterans drove by and, in a word, it was amazing! This small town’s expression of a nation’s thanks for the service of those who protected our freedom was a microcosm of what was happening in hundreds of small towns that day. I felt proud because my Dad had served in the war and this was a big “Thank You” to him and to all those who contributed to all past wars in some way. I’m sure there is at least one from every town in America.

My Bishop published the following on Memorial Day which helped me understand how that day begun in a way I never did before:

This coming Monday is Memorial Day. It is a day we now observe as the beginning of the summer season. This national holiday has much deeper roots. The first Memorial Day was observed by formerly enslaved black people in Charleston, South Carolina. Immediately following the end of the Civil War these freed slaves exhumed the bodies of fallen Union soldiers from a large, unkempt mass grave outside a Confederate prison camp. They reburied the fallen dead, honored the graveyard with an entry arch, and declared it to be sacred ground. Their work was completed in only ten days. On May 1, 1865, a Charleston newspaper reported that a crowd of nearly ten thousand, including 2800 children, processed to the location for a ceremony including sermons, singing, and prayers.

Let freedom ring. Unfortunately, Memorial Day parades have fallen by the wayside. I Googled “Memorial Day Parade Delaware” and only two parades were listed. Sure, we’re a small state, but I’ll bet we have at least 30 small towns that fifty years ago would have had a parade. One town did report having a “Return of Summer” celebration. Memorial Day is now more about sales and shopping, beaches and barbeques! We aren’t remembering anymore. And yet, we have men and women now serving in wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Not to mention the thousands of others serving in our military keeping our defenses up and running. Who will remember them? Who will parade and sing and show thanks for their service? Who?

If it wasn’t so serious it would be funny. Well, in retrospect, while it wasn’t funny, I can sense that it is going to be funny. Last Friday my spouse, R, had a partial complex seizure, or as the Doctor put it, a “brainstorm.” Essentially, his brain didn’t function properly and he lost motor control and had some weird thinking as he puts it, couldn’t walk in a straight line, lost depth perception, and was extremely tired. Unfortunately, he was out shopping alone and he took two naps (maybe blackouts) before he could drive home. He also had a minor fender-bender, thankfully in the parking lot, so no one was hurt. However, as a consequence, he cannot drive for at least six months to be sure he doesn’t have a recurrence.

So, our life changes as we get older and my daughter, K, and I will now become chauffeurs for a while. Also, R will be processing this change in circumstances so I pray that he will adjust graciously and his brain will not misbehave like that again. We expect him to be irritable and cranky for a while. Correct that…he IS cranky and irritable.

In fact, he was cranky and irritable from the get-go. On Friday when he came home in a foggy state I knew something was wrong. I had already started to worry because he was gone four hours on a two hour errand. He related his episode as we are calling it now (for those in denial, as is R, this sounds better) and I immediately got him into the van and took off for the emergency room. Yeah, sure.

For starters all the traffic lights were out in the town – really! So instead of a 15 minute trip it took 45 minutes. By the time we pulled into the hospital parking lot all of his symptoms had cleared up. He walked around the parking lot and refused to go in. “I don’t want to spend my evening in the ER for no good reason.” NO GOOD REASON??? The conversation was not what you would call polite, and I can’t repeat it in print.

After seeing the doctor, and not one hour back home, R is threatening to drive anyway, insisting that everything is fine, no problem, what’s the fuss, it won’t happen again – men! Then today he says he will drive in four months, not six. I remind him (not as gently as I should) that if he has a seizure and blacks out at 60 mph it might not only be his highness that he kills, but a van full with a beautiful family of handsome hubby, pretty wife, and gorgeous children. He was not amused, but then neither was I.

He is moping around the house telling everyone that he has completely lost his independence now that I am driving him everywhere. Losing his independence – him? If anyone is losing their independence it is me – I now have to keep up with his schedule and mine! Get real here. And, if his nagging about it keeps up I might be inclined to use a generous amount of duct tape to seal his whining lips. I must admit though that I did take his car keys away and hid them which, I guess if you are a guy, translates into losing your independence. I call it the “Vroom, vroom” syndrome.

So, all of you who read this please pray that the spirit of graciousness invades R’s brain and he settles into being chauffeured around quietly and without complaint or threat to grab my keys and drive away. I told him to pretend he is very wealthy and has a driver. Because, he does (at least the driver part)! And, while I am more than happy to do this, I’ll be praying for an extra modicum of patience!

We live in a rural area where the major industry is chickens and the associated crops to feed said chickens. The “crop” part is just great with rolling fields of winter wheat, soybeans, and corn. Sometimes the corn grows so high it is hard to see around corners for oncoming traffic, but it is beautiful to see amber waves of grain and corn as high as an elephant’s ear! Pastoral, I think they would call it. Serene, peaceful, quiet. Almost!

In the spring when they till and plant the land they put something in the ground to help the plants grow. Most people would call it fertilizer. Most people know it smells. Since we are in chicken country they are really good at recycling and guess what they put on the fields? Yup! Chicken manure. When spread it produces a great cloud of what I call “Chicken S—t Dust!” I hear tell that farmers in these parts call it the smell of money. The chickens probably call it the smell of death! And, rightly so.

The way we grow chickens in these parts, I am told, is through a system whereby the major chicken producers (Perdue, Allen, Mountaire) hatch fertilized chicken eggs in, I would presume, giant incubators. They then ship the chicks out to local chicken farmers who then raise them to adult chicken-hood. These farmers then summon up what I call “The Chicken Train.” Actually, it’s a big tractor trailer truck stacked way high with chicken cages. The chickens are loaded (jam-packed actually) into the train for transport back to the chicken producers.

Often while we are driving around our lovely rural area we find ourselves behind one of these chicken trains. For some reason it is disturbing to me, but I’ve never been able to articulate it. Recently, R said as we were behind a train, “I am always reminded of the Holocaust when I see one of these chicken trains. I think of the Jews being herded into trains and shipped off to be gassed and killed in the ovens. It bothers me.”

And, then it dawned on me that R had just voiced my feelings exactly. I knew those chickens were going to be killed. Stripped of their feathered clothing, and sent off to be roasted, broiled, boiled, fried, and grilled for our consumption. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love chicken and eat it on a regular basis. I also love fish, beef, lamb, and pork. But, I don’t have to see any of them crammed into cages being led to slaughter. Seeing is a lot more visceral than simply picking up the package in the local supermarket.

Of course, there is nothing to be done for these poor chickens so long as we like chicken and want to eat it (or any other animal for that matter). How then do I comfort myself and rationalize that killing them is okay. “They have small brains. Very small brains.” I say. “They probably have no concept of where they are going or what is going to happen to them.” Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better. I think a man named Hitler once said the same thing about the Jews. Maybe I’ll become a vegetarian. But sadly, probably not, because I am just ever so human and I really do like chicken. Maybe I just won’t eat so much chicken because I still feel the same way every time I see “The Chicken Train.”

I am now officially an “Anglimergent!” As I stare at that word I feel a bit like I have landed on another planet and am not quite sure where to go next. The planet feels safe and welcoming but, very unknown. There are many other people with me on this journey in ”Anglimergentland,” and they all seem friendly enough. What is most mystifying however is that many of us, well, okay, at least me, can’t quite make out the path or even where the end of this journey will be.

A word of explanation here. First, I am an Episcopalian in The Episcopal Church an organization of over 2 million people. Second, this Episcopal Church (TEC) is a member of a larger community called “The Anglican Communion,” at least for now. Some in that communion are upset with TEC because we ordain homosexuals in our orders of Bishops, Priests, and Deacons, but that’s another story.

Finally, I am a member of an ever growing group of people called “Emergents,” or “Emerging” people of God. We are seeking some new kind of Christianity that, as I understand it, takes us back to the very roots of our beginnings. I am seeking a way to think and be like Jesus in an honest and authentic way and to live my life in such a way that I promote Jesus’ wish that “We may all be one” (John 17:20 Holy Bible). This movement has been characterized as a cleaning out of the attic and holding a rummage sale. Getting rid of the old stuff that has no real meaning but that we keep around for no solid reason. Selling off useless items and using the income to produce something new and useful for all humanity.

And so, I am an “Anglimergent” (and I guess also an Episcomergent too). I still want to hang on to the best of my faith tradition while moving out in that faith to be a part of, and to make something better of that tradition. I am emerging and while the future is uncertain and the end unknown, it is exciting, and refreshing, and a spiritual journey that I welcome. Want to know more? Read Phyllis Tickle’s book “The Great Emergence,” or Brian McLaren’s book “A New Kind of Christianity.” Or, go to the link http://anglimergent.com . If you go to http://emergentvillage.org you will find many groups (called Cohorts) all over the world where you can meet these emergent souls. Or just Google Emergent Church and have a go at it! Who knows, you may become one of us too!

This afternoon I was sitting in my rocker in the solarium gazing out at the pond behind my new garden and listening to the musical notes of the water splashing from the fountain. I had been reading Lisa Miller’s Heaven in preparation for a seminar in July on Intercourse in the Afterlife. It wasn’t heavy reading, but I needed a break and so, I gazed. It was one of those daydream moments.

In my daydream moments I am not deliberately thinking about anything. Just staring out a window or at the sky or the sunset or simply the landscape. And what I find so amazing about daydream moments is what eventually does come into my mind. Sometimes I believe that this is how God speaks to me. Sometimes not.

Today I started thinking about my aunt who will turn 90 in November which then led me to think about her mother, my maternal grandmother. Grandma died just after her 76th birthday in 1963 and I realized that all I ever remember about her was that she worked in the house. Her children were grown and out of the house in about 1940 and for my entire time of 24 years with her she was what we call an empty-nester. Grandpa went to work, but grandma just worked in the house.

I don’t remember her as being warm or welcoming, but neither was she distant or foreboding. She was just, well, there. I never recall her knitting, sewing, or crocheting. She wasn’t an artist who either painted or made fabulous crafts. I never saw her sit down and read a book, listen to the radio, or watch a television show. It was always cleaning or doing the dishes or straightening up the house or cooking. For 43 years she did this. And I have no daydream moments or her that sparked my imagination or inspired me or did anything for me.

I do remember that she liked to garden and had the greenest thumb I’ve ever encountered. Her gardens were not manicured like an English tea garden, but each spring, summer, and fall they were filled with flowering plants of every imaginable kind. She would plant and weed and water day after day. And for all the flowers she had in her gardens she rarely ever brought any of them into the house and into a vase. But, oh, were they magnificent in their natural beds.

Not having such a talent myself (except that I can grow things in pots that thrive on neglect) I never considered my grandmother’s skills in the garden as a hobby or even a gift. Until I planted my own garden a week or so ago. And as I gazed over my garden, listening to the fountain, my daydream moment brought me to appreciate and recall those memories of my grandmother. She was an accomplished gardener. I wish she were here today to help me keep my tender green babies thriving to their full bloom of adulthood.

Thanks, God, for a daydream moment that, however late, helped me see my grandmother in a different light and with an enormous talent for tending to God’s green earth.

There are some things that happen to all of us without the benefit of explanation. Like for example, why does the phone ring just as you step into the shower. Or, why does your mother-in-law want to visit during the Master’s golf tournament or the final episode of American Idol? Timing, they say, is everything, but what I want to know is by whose timing? Surely it can’t be God even if God does have a sense of humor. I would imagine God has higher concerns. Maybe it is just the way the invisible force fields whizzing around in the universe happen to collide at just the most inappropriate times.

Last week such a thing happened to me and R. Being retired folks we tend to take our time moving around in the morning and getting showered and dressed. It is, after all, a perk of retirement. This particular morning it was 10:30 a.m. and we had both showered and were finishing our morning grooming, but were as yet undressed. Naked, as a matter of fact. And, the phone rang.

It was our real estate agent and he wanted to show the house in 20 minutes! Twenty minutes? You’ve got to be kidding, I thought. No, he wasn’t. Um, er, well, sure I muttered, but our cleaning lady will be here in a half hour! Surely that would delay him, I prayed. Nope…no problem, we’ll just look around her! Okay, I said very hesitantly and hung up.

“Who was it” R wanted to know. I gave him the bad news. He looked at my nudity and I at his and we burst out laughing. Getting ourselves ready and the house ready in 20 minutes was going to require a miracle. Just getting our daughter’s room ready usually takes us an hour. K, I yelled at my daughter, the realtor is coming in 20 minutes. Mobilize! And, so we did.

Replaying the scene in my head it was like one of those keystone cop silent movies. None of us said much but we sure moved around a lot, bumping into each other, throwing things in drawers, under beds, under sinks, in the car, and in the dishwasher. In exactly 19 minutes we were ready and waiting. No one showed up except the cleaning lady and she decided to wait for the realtor before starting her chores.

And so we all waited on the front lawn, holding dog and cleaning items, waiting. Five minutes late. Ten minutes late. Then they arrived and got out of the car, but no one made a move toward the house. We waited some more. Finally, I went over and asked if they were the folks to look at the house. Yes, they were, BUT they changed their minds and didn’t want to see it after all. It wasn’t in the right location. Why the realtor didn’t know this ahead of time is still a mystery to us.

After 19 frantic minutes we all had rather ugly thoughts about the folks who wouldn’t come into our house and the realtor who thought they would. But, like all of these things that happen at the most inconvenient times, they end and life goes on! And that’s the naked truth!

A couple of weeks ago it was Earth Day and reported on all manner of media people were planting trees to commemorate the occasion. I felt bad. We live in a condominium community and we are not allowed to plant anything without approval of our board. We have a landscape plan and a list of acceptable trees and shrubs, but that is only for the maintenance people to use.

We have a beautiful pond in our back yard and several of the neighbors have planted gardens around it without board permission I am told. The gardens are so beautiful until the neighbor moves on and then it becomes a tangled mess of flowers and shrubs gone wild and weeds laughingly taking over the once well groomed garden.

I woke up this morning and gazed at the neglected garden off my deck and saw a neighbor pulling weeds. “Are you going to plant some flowers?” I asked. “No,” he said, “I just don’t like the weeds and we are having company today.” My heart drooped and I walked back into the house.

Hmmmm….I thought. Should I? Yes, why not, others do it. Okay, let’s do it! And thus began my journey to plant a garden. I searched the internet for suitable annuals that would do well in the sun in poor soil. I printed off my list and went next door to confer with my neighbor to see what she might like to see in my garden. Then off to the nursery to purchase my precious few plants.

Oh, that nursery was so tempting. I could have bought dozens and dozens of beautiful flowering plants for my garden. My R bought a trowel to dig the holes for me. He is so good to me. When we counted 61 plants in our cart it occurred to me we had to get down on our hands and knees and dig holes and plant them! Suddenly, I wasn’t ready to buy any more. So we paid the piper and brought our blooming treasures home.

It wasn’t as hard as we expected, but it was work and it was exhausting. We rested after each dozen we planted, sat down, had a glass of ice tea, and rested our aching backs. We should have bought knee pads along with that trowel. And how I managed to get dirt in my hair is beyond me.

After two hours, a gallon of ice tea, and a really aching back we were finished and the new garden was properly watered and ready to grow into a beautiful flowering Eden for us. I haven’t done anything like this since I was in my thirties and it felt oh, so good! So this is what it means to take care of God’s creation, I thought. Today was my Earth Day and I planted a garden. I feel wonderful!

Taking care of one’s teeth used to be a simple thing. Go out, buy a 29-cent toothbrush, brush at least once a day (although dentists will tell you three times a day) and you’re done in three minutes. If you are really aged your toothbrush may have cost only 10 cents. My, my have times a-changed! It was a slow evolution into today’s tooth brushing practices, but it was like going from an amoeba to an orangutan.

The first thing to happen was that the old back and forth type of brushing just wasn’t doing the job. You should brush up and down. Okay, that was easy. Next it wasn’t enough to brush up and down in front of our teeth, but you had to brush behind your teeth. A bit harder but doable. Then someone, probably a seamstress, discovered that pulling or pushing a waxed thread between your teeth helped keep the villain “Tartar” in check. If you had really big spaces between your teeth, a conical shaped brush was invented (probably by Mr. Fuller wanting to expand the brush business) that you pushed in and out between those spaces.

For decades that was tooth brushing, plain and simple. Then Mr. Braun, being very lazy, invented the electric toothbrush and sold them for $40. Awesome things and the top-of-the-line model even had a timer so you would know when two minutes of brushing was over. Two minutes of brushing seems like 24 hours. The new improved 2010 model now has about 30 bristles in an oblong pattern and, I understand, tells you how long to brush and alerts you to any tooth area you may have missed and scolds you if you stop before the allotted time. It costs $95.

With the advent of the toothpaste “Mentadent” came the idea that if peroxide was good for your teeth in toothpaste, then rinsing your mouth with peroxide would also be a good thing to do. Those who swished it full-strength soon found the inside of their mouth cauterized forever. Many learned from that mistake and diluted it 50-50. Works well to keep a mouth clean, but does nothing for the evil “Tartar.”

Somewhere in the 1980’s some genius invented a thing called the Waterpik. You fill a container full of water, push a switch on the device which has a tube attached to it with a long, narrow, pointy, stick that shoots a steady, tiny stream of high pressure water on your gumline and tries to rip your gums off. If this stick is misdirected you could blast a hole in your cheek or remove your tonsils. It is also very good at spraying water all over the bathroom and particularly on your mirror.

An old proverb says “what goes around comes around,” and the latest technique for keeping those pearly whites whiter than ever and absolutely free of nasty “Tartar” is a thing called a Stim-U-Dent plaque remover (plaque is a precursor to the evil tartar). A Stim-U-Dent is nothing more than a glorified toothpick. Yes, folks, a toothpick. It is a sort of squarish piece of wood that you push in and out between your teeth to remove whatever lurks in the crevices of your teeth. Imagine that! It has been reported that ancient, primitive tribes used a similar device, although a bit rounder, which is why many skull artifacts found still contain a good set of teeth.

So, here I am taking more time each day to keep my teeth clean than I take doing most anything else (it seems like four hours). I brush (electrically of course) for the proper time, then I floss, then I use the conical brush, then I waterpik, then I use the Stim-U-Dent, and finally I swish with peroxide! I am confident that my dental hygiene is as good as it is going to get no matter what my dentist tell me. And, I’m only doing it once a day! I refuse to add one more thing to my dental routine because I really do need some time for having a life beyond my teeth!