Words from The Crone

This blog is about twice the normal length, but today I want to talk about Memorial Day and what it is and what it means and how it started. 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 The Beautiful , 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 died to protect 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 while he hadn’t died, I also felt this was a big “Thank You” to him and to all those who contributed to all past wars in some way. In all the excitement, I forgot about Armistice Day, now called Veteran’s Day when living service men and women are honored.

In those days, let freedom ring was every town’s cry!. But, unfortunately, today Memorial Day parades have fallen by the wayside. Traditional observance of Memorial day has diminished over the years. Many Americans nowadays have forgotten the meaning and traditions of Memorial Day. At many cemeteries, the graves of the fallen are increasingly ignored, neglected. Most people no longer remember the proper flag etiquette for the day. The flag is to be flown at half-staff until noon, and at full-staff from noon until sunset. While there are towns and cities that still hold Memorial Day parades, many have not held a parade in decades. Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, is a day of remembrance for those who have died in our nation’s service. some people think the day is for honoring any and all dead, and not just those fallen in service to our country.

There are many stories as to its actual beginnings, with over two dozen cities and towns laying claim to being the birthplace of Memorial Day. There is also evidence that organized women’s groups in the South were decorating graves before the end of the Civil War: While Waterloo N.Y. was officially declared the birthplace of Memorial Day by President Lyndon Johnson in May 1966, it’s difficult to prove conclusively the origins of the day. It is more likely that it had many separate beginnings; each of those towns and every planned or spontaneous gathering of people to honor the war dead in the 1860′s tapped into the general human need to honor our dead. On May 5, 1868, General John Logan, national commander of the Grand Army of the Republic, gave his official proclamation to establish a Memorial Day to decorate the graves of fallen soldiers. It was first observed on May 30, 1868 in Washington, DC

My Bishop sometime in the past published the following Memorial Day story which, while it may be apocryphal, helped me to understand how that day might have begun in a way I never did before:

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.

It is not important who was the very first or where it was celebrated. What is important is that Memorial Day was established. Memorial Day is not about division. It is about reconciliation; it is about coming together to honor those who gave their all.

In 1915, inspired by the poem “In Flanders Fields,” Moina Michael replied with her own poem:

We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.

She then conceived of an idea to wear red poppies on Memorial day in honor of those who died serving the nation during war. She was the first to wear one, and sold poppies to her friends and co-workers with the money going to benefit servicemen in need. In 1922 the VFW began selling silk poppies made by disabled veterans. In 1948 the US Post Office honored Ms Michael for her role in founding the National Poppy movement by issuing a red 3 cent postage stamp with her likeness on it.

This week I Googled “Memorial Day Parade Delaware” and only four parades were listed – Milford, Delaware City, Wilmington, and Newark. And, Newark cancelled their parade due to rain and failed to reschedule it. 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 dying 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 when they fall? Who will parade and sing and show thanks for giving their life for their service? Who?
To help re-educate and remind Americans of the true meaning of Memorial Day, the “National Moment of Remembrance” resolution was passed in Dec 2000 which asks that at 3 p.m. local time on Memorial Day, for all Americans “To voluntarily and informally observe in their own way a Moment of remembrance and respect, pausing from whatever they are doing for a moment of silence or listening to ‘Taps.”

We truly live in a nano-byte driven world when a whole day of celebration and remembrance has been condensed down to a “moment” at 3:00 p.m. on Memorial Day!   Perhaps we should now call it a “Memorial Moment” and go about our business of sales and shopping, barbeques and beaches.  Let Freedom Ring, but only for a moment. Sad.

Last winter we here in Delaware and environs were all bitching about the weather and the snow and the cold.  Then summer came barreling down at us and we all were bitching about the heat and the drought and the humidity.  Surely, there must be some middle ground.  Constant bitching and moaning is
not conducive to living a holy life and, quite frankly, it gets in the way of enjoying life.

Now, of course, the answer is to have eternal spring orfall, right?  For almost all of my 70-plus years I have been saying that somewhere, please God, somewhere there exists a place where it is in the low-40’s at night and the mid-70’s during the day.  With sunshine at least six days a week and a drenching rain for two hours once a week, scheduled for our convenience.  Where there are flowers always blooming and never an ounce of pollen to be found.  A place where a gentle breeze caresses ones cheek from time to time, but never blows so hard as to mess up one’s hair. And, where there is never any reason to bitch about the weather or anything else!

Some have said that if such a place exists we’d all get bored with it.  Try me.  I would never (and I always say never say never) get bored, ever.  There are so
many wonderful things I want to do with my life that being bored and bitching is just exhausting and time-consuming.  I would take walks every day because the weather wouldn’t keep me inside.  I would stop and smell the roses because
there would be year-round roses.  I would write and cook and play and sit in my swing never have to go shopping for a raincoat or an umbrella.  I would never have to bitch about my windshield wipers that squeak and squeal if there isn’t enough water on the windshield.  I would absolutely relish in life in this perfect place I am seeking.

If anyone knows where that place is, please let me know!  I might not pack up and go right away (obligations here, you know) but, I would at least know where it was that I would run to when the bitching just gets to be too much!  Hopefully, people there wouldn’t be bitching that it was too perfect!

The age of electronic advertising is reaching fever pitch. I remember when television first hit the scene (yes, I am that old) there was very little commercial interruption. With the advent of cable TV the programming was supposed to be commercial free because we paid for the service, but that didn’t last long. Today an hour long TV show contains about 15 to 20 minutes of commercials. So be it, life is like that.

However, I am now getting advertising through the Internet via my email account and through my Facebook account and through my Twitter account. I particularly dislike the email advertising because even though I can filter some out, put it in a spam folder, or hit the delete button, I really hate the message.

Just this past week I got ads for covering gray hair, dispelling body gases, erasing wrinkles with a miracle cream, keeping dentures stuck, and dating singles over the age of 45. I also got ads for refinancing my mortgage, hiring a maid, checking my credit status, elder-diapers, and finding lost classmates. God knows if my classmates are lost I am not the right person to find them. I can barely find my keys these days.

Obviously, they know I am old, or at least over 45. But, I really don’t need to be reminded that there are some bodily functions that are failing and need attention. I already know that! As for dating singles over 45, they obviously don’t know I am happily married. My financial status is really none of their business and if I get another electronic message to check my credit rating I’m going to puke.

What really annoys me about these ads is that they (whoever those “They” folks are out there) have no clue that I am smart, bright, intelligent, cultured, well-read, and enjoying a higher standard of life than they are offering. I have no plans to become an old fart sitting around drooling wondering if I can eat an apple without my dentures falling out. I also have no plans to erase one wrinkle on any part of my body. I earned every one of them and, thank you very much, most of them are smile wrinkles!

So, all you advertisers out there who are hacking into my email, Twitter, and FB accounts, you can go elsewhere to peddle your wares. I don’t want them. I don’t need them. And, your message makes it quite clear that you have no idea who I am.

I’m so sick of hearing “I’m sorry,” from people we either elect to high office, have achieved fame and celebrity in one arena or the other, or who are ordained to serve God. In case these folks don’t know it, they are expected to live by a higher moral standard than others. They are expected to live by this higher moral standard because they are supposed to be role models for others. We are supposed to respect, revere, and admire these people who are in leadership roles.

So, what do many of them do? They lie, they cheat, they steal, they rape, they behave absurdly bad and then some say, “I’m sorry!” The latest example was the ex-governor of California, Arnold Schwarzen-whatever. In today’s paper a pastor committed mortgage fraud and we should never forget televangelist Jim Bakker or the hundreds of Roman Catholic priests who abused young boys. And, don’t forget Mike Tyson, John Edwards, Ted & John Kennedy, Mark Sanford, Thomas Jefferson, Eliot Spitzer, Bill Clinton, Nelson Rockefeller, Franklin Roosevelt, Rita Hayworth, Jesse James, Leann Rimes, Jack Welch, John McCain, David Paterson, and of course, two biggies, Prince Charles and Tiger Woods. Well, you get the idea. Although some on this list are women, it is predominantly men who somehow think that their position puts them above the law and above the moral standards of society. And, I say, shame, shame on all of them.

Now being a Christian I am into repentance and forgiveness and I do believe that some of those who have publicly said, “I’m sorry,” do mean it. But, then there are some who just say, “I’m Sorry,” to be PC and don’t mean it at all. And, I’m always thinking in the back of my head, “What were (are?) they thinking?” Maybe we should ask them that question before we elect them, or pay outrageous sums for their albums, sports-events, or performances to support their bad behavior.

As an ordained priest I do know that we take a holy vow to live a life of a higher moral standard than others. We are supposed to be godly and to reflect a certain godliness to others in the way we live our lives. But, sadly even those vows are often violated. And again I think, “What were they thinking?”

And so it seems, our societal moral standards are no longer held so strongly by us. Our elected officials, celebrities, and holy folks keep violating these standards and we allow them to get away with it simply by saying, “I’m sorry.” Somehow it is hard for me to understand this behavior, much less accept it, and I hope that as a society we hold those folks more accountable for their moral behavior going forward. For if we don’t then we should be asking ourselves, “What are we thinking?”

I protested! That’s not a good acronym. We need something lyrical or memorable or anything but GART. DD#2 protested. It is perfect. It says what it is and besides, you will hurt my feelings if you don’t use my acronym. Mom caved. R says FART would have been better and continues to use that acronym. Mom really didn’t want to go around FART-ing all the time, or GART-ing all the time either, but in the final analysis, GART won out.

And, so there it is. GART – Great American Road Trip (FART would have been Family American….)! We’ve already had two GART planning meetings and one was hilarious and the other serious. What is GART you ask? DD#2, R, and Mom (me) are climbing into an eleven year-old minivan which has 194,800 miles on it and driving from Delaware to California and back in 38 days. We will be spending over 130 hours driving through 21 states, seven time zones, visiting or driving through twelve national parks or monuments, Las Vegas, San Francisco, Hearst Castle, the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta, and the St. Louis Arch. Along the way we will also be visiting my brother and family, and a cousin I haven’t seen in years. I am exhausted just telling you about it.

Our hilarious GART meeting centered around the possibility of making our trip into a reality show. We would record our planning, adventures, stops, arguments, picnics on the side of the road, mishaps, you name it. We even discussed being on Oprah until we realized her last show was this May. However, since we are taking our seven pound Maltese and will probably be sneaking him into various places, we didn’t think that would go over too well with my Bishop seeing as how I’m an ordained priest. It is isn’t heresy of course, nor is it as bad as having an affair with the Senior Warden, but it might get my wrists slapped.

Our more serious GART meeting centered around how we would behave as three slightly overweight mature adults crammed into five-foot by seven-foot space for 130 hours and also being in each other’s company for 38 days 24/7! We made a list and called it “Best Practices.” So far we have twelve of them:

1. Start early – but not before 6 a.m.
2. Take a daily shower – no smelly person allowed in the car.
3. Aim for 11 p.m. lights out – pretend to sleep even if you are not tired (we will all be in one room).
4. Private music (earphones) or all agree on selection.
5. Any extra road stops for photos should be short, about 15 minutes each
(we don’t want it to take us all day to reach our destination).
6. Minimal packing – one bag per person, plus electronics (only two computers per person).
7. Two hour driving shifts with stops every two hours for coffee, fuel, or relief.
8. Keep gas tank ½ full (who knows if we’ll get stuck in traffic or have to wrestle bears on the way).
9. Pee before we leave in the morning and/or at any stops we make for fuel or lunch (always be empty).
10. The person at the wheel is El Capitan! All must obey the EL!
11. No earphones for driver. He/she has to be alert for sirens coming from behind.
12. Speed must be reasonable for conditions and always less than 75 mph sustained.

We have another GART planning meeting scheduled for Saturday. Meanwhile I have to continue getting reservations. To be continued…..

For years and years I have been telling people that there is no such thing as a coincidence, or luck, or chance. Why? Because the timing is so perfect that the collision of these events or happenings in our life have to come from some well organized, higher power, God energy. We all have life-altering stories about the plane we missed that crashed and killed all aboard, or a transplant donor that showed up just as we were about to breathe our last breath. Some of these events are tiny, tiny things we hardly notice like the time we were delayed looking for our keys when a phone call came in with the news that you got the job you interviewed for last week.

But there are also things that I call “God Hits.” These are hits that are unexpected and jolt your brain or you heart in an also unexpected way. Some are serious, some are humorous, some are life-changing, some are just rather ordinary. Generally, these “God Hits” come when you are meditating, reading the scriptures, in a Bible study class, in church, or somehow involved in some godly activity.

One of my “God Hits” came as I was preparing a sermon.. It was on the passage of scripture that says we should love our neighbors as ourselves. I had always focused on the love your neighbor part when God hit me with the question what if we don’t love ourselves? And, then how do we love ourselves? I ended up with a vastly different sermon because of that “God Hit.”

My funniest “God Hit” happened this past Sunday as the Psalm was being read. It was from Psalm 16 and it was verse 10. It read:
For you will not abandon me to the grave, nor let your holy one see the Pit.
I was comforted to know that God would not abandon me to the grave as I have plenty of life left in me. But, I had all I could do to keep from laughing out loud (we were in church after all). You see, we have this 10 x 20 storage unit which, as many of you know, I call the Pit, and I was tickled to death to know that the “holy one” would not see my Pit and survey the mess of it all! What a relief!

So, watch out for those “God Hits,” you never know where they will take you.

Damn! I thought we would get the entire storage area, I mean pit, cleaned out in two days. Not. In fact, we only got one side and half of the middle cleaned out, but oh did we do a job on those sections. We took three trips to the dumpster and two trips to our local thrift store.

Downsizing can be heaven and hell. Heaven to have so much empty space, never to be filled again. And hell because of the challenges and heartbreak of what to toss, what to donate, and what to, gulp, keep.

My youngest DD was with me and R as we tackled the pit with ferocity. As we opened each box, many of which had been hermetically sealed since 1991, R and I had to look over each item, fondle some like my stuffed Paddington bear, or just hold an item and chit chat about the memories it recalled. DD on the other hand would open a box, look at it, and state, “Haven’t used this in over a year, won’t use it in the next year, in rotten condition, out it goes.” We marveled at her resolve.

About halfway through day one, DD knew intuitively that if R and I kept up this reminiscing act we would take the next year to clean out this jam-packed mess of a pit. In exasperation she said, “Look folks, you can’t take all day to sort through three boxes. You need to focus! I laughed hysterically because DD has an extreme case of ADD and it is I who is always poking her to focus. R and I pouted for about fifteen minutes, but we knew she was right. Our box sorting methods improved as our piles of donate and toss mounted.

Then we hit the two very large boxes of 35 mm slides that R had been hauling around with him for at least the 32 years I have known him. I insisted that they had to go. DD suggested that we take them out of the carousels and put them in slide holders in notebooks. R got angry. NO! THE SLIDES STAY! Since R is usually so gentle, though stubborn, I was taken aback by his resolve. Being a smart woman I acquiesced, but not until after I reminded him that he had not looked at any of those slides since at least 1983. He did agree to take the slides out of the Airequip magazines since we never ever had a projector with which to show them on. Maybe we can consolidate them into one box, I thought.

It was then that we hit the box of those baby clothes that I had been, ahem, keeping since at least 1961! R said, “Well, what are you going to do with these?” in a tone that was both sarcastic and challenging. I felt this horrible knot in the pit of my stomach that said, ouch, this one will hurt. Remembering what DD had said earlier, and thinking that neither of my children were ever going to present me with grandchildren, I fought back my sadness, and proclaimed, “DONATE.” R didn’t say anything. He knew better.

We still have about another three days of sorting, tossing, and donating to do and even then I’m not sure we will ever be able to get out of our 10 x 20 off-site garage and move into a 10 x 15 or 10 x 10 pit, I mean storage unit. But that is grist for another day!

Most of us don’t talk about weird things that happen to us for fear people will think we are looney. But, I’ve had so many strange spiritual things happen to me that I have come to the conclusion that I must be just plain weird.

For example, the other morning R got out of bed to begin his morning toilette. I was sleeping soundly (I take Ambien to be certain of that). But, he had no sooner left the bed when I opened my eyes and felt an emptiness in the bed. I intuitively felt that R was not in bed with me and sure enough when I rolled over he was gone. This happens to me all the time, not just once in a while. Often R will ask me what woke me up and I can only say, “You were gone.”

It is as though each person has an energy presence (and our dog too) that fills the room or the house. When they leave I sense the difference in a very physical sense. It is as if a room is spiritually full and then it is half-full or two-thirds full. Weird.

The other weird thing that happens to me is that I get other people’s thoughts in my head. This is very frustrating since I never know if they are my original ideas or those of someone else. I’ll be in a meeting and thinking of an idea when, in less than a moment, someone blurts out my idea.

Way too often R and I will share thoughts. I’ll say something like, ‘Let’s go get a Dairy Queen,” and he’ll say, I was just thinking that. Or, he’ll say something like, “I think you should call your daughter,” and I’ll say I was just thinking that. Weird.

But, the weirdest thing that ever happened to me was when I was visiting a friend who had recently purchased a home. At about 1:00 a.m. I felt this spirit trying to enter my body. I swear to God I am not making this up. It scared the hell out of me and I turned over in bed to wake Ralph, but something stopped me. I finally thought, I’m a Christian, I’ll pray to the Holy Spirit to keep this spirit from taking over my body. It was the spirit of a young woman. My prayer worked.

The next morning I asked my friend if anyone had ever been murdered in her house. She paled and was silent for a moment. Then she told me that the woman who lived in the house before they bought it was murdered there by a handyman her husband had hired. Really, really weird.

I have learned to live with my weirdness, and in fact, consider it a gift from God. A gift of communing with the spiritual realm that we Christians call eternal life, or the hereafter, or the afterlife. Maybe weird is good after all!