Wow. It is cold.
It does not matter how you feel about the science of global climate change. You may believe that the changes created in the atmosphere caused by nature and/or man have caused the jet stream to shift farther south resulting in this year's arctic blasts. Or, you may believe that all that kind of talk is just a fairy tale, a hoax perpetrated by those who stand to gain by such a ruse.. But whatever you believe about all that, for the next few days, does not make a lick of difference. By the way, don't lick anything outside. Your tongue will stick. I think we can all agree on that scientific principle. For research purposes I refer you to the cinematic authorities A Christmas Story and Dumb and Dumber. With that kind of sourcing I feel confident in the proposition. And then there was the personal experimentation with an ice cube tray as a child. But that is another, painful story.
Climate change believers and non-believers alike will bring pets and plants inside (hopefully), will stock up on firewood or some alternative heat source, will check on those friends, relatives, and all those who may need help, will put on layers of clothes and attempt to cover all exposed skin, and, here in the south, will buy milk and bread to appease the gods of winter, because we simply do not know what else to do.
I bring up this particular issue because I am about to put on my coat, hat and gloves, go outside and cut a little more firewood from the dead hickory and oak trees that lie in heaps just inside the woods around my house, victims of the series of storms we have had the last couple of years. It doesn't matter right now whether those storms were the result of climate change or just natural climate cycles. Right now I just need something to burn. Yes, I probably should have already done that. But it wasn't cold enough.
Till now.
Lest you think I'm a heathen this Sunday morning, let me say that I attended early church at Lester Memorial UMC, downtown Oneonta, Alabama, services at 8:30, 9:02 and 11:00 every Sunday. I believe that Jesus thinks it is okay that I go out and gather some tares to cast into the fire. After all, storms are considered acts of God. He knocked 'em down. I'll gather them up. It is a spiritual exercise. I hope. The scripture comes to mind about cutting off my hand if it causes me to sin, which is a bit worrisome. On the other hand, when the shepherds and the wise men heard about Jesus they came and saw. Get it? Saw? Sorry, it seems the frigid air has given me brain freeze. I'll be extra careful.
As I start the new year there is a notion that strikes me. Many are cold. Hungry. Hurting. Frustrated. Oppressed. Lonely. Sick.
In this moment, it does not matter why. Scholarly or spiritual debates as to the why of it all do nothing for the immediate pain. Word and argument will not fill a belly, warm a body, stop the pain, or soothe the soul. Somebody has got to get up off the sofa, go outside, and do something. It's not rocket science. It's not science at all. It is simply a command of Jesus. And morally right.
Don't get me wrong. While hunger, poverty of body and spirit, sickness, loneliness, oppression, are horrible, real, right-now conditions that must be met head on right now, are they the real problems?
Or are they symptoms of the real problems? While we deal with these immediate symptoms, is that enough?
It is kind of like the flu, to name another seasonal headache. When I get the flu, I want relief from all the aches and fever. It is too late to avoid the problem. The symptoms are with me. Aspirin, Tylenol, Ibuprofen, Tamiflu, chicken soup, liquids, wedding cookies, ripe olives and orange juice frozen into cubes (those last three have worked for me since childhood), and sleep seem to help relieve the pain in the moment. The symptoms must be treated immediately or I may die, or perhaps just wish for that relief.
But, next year, I'll take the vaccine, and hope that it works. I'll be more careful about washing my hands. I'll do what I can to avoid allowing that evil virus from invading my body. I will attempt to address the real problem, and not wait for the symptoms, wait until it is too late.
We have become gifted at argument and debate about solutions. Who is right, who is wrong.
But maybe we cannot get it right, maybe we cannot solve the problems until we actually see and experience the symptoms first hand. Hit the streets. Talk with the lonely. Touch the sick. Eat with the hungry. Sit down on the curb and drink coffee with the beggar. Hear the stories of the veteran. Learn the wisdom of the lonely elders.
Listen to those with whom I disagree as if they actually may be good, smart, decent human beings as troubled as I about our problems, and our solutions.
And maybe I need to resist the temptation to label people as problems. Because when I do that, the best solution seems to be to diminish, silence or even destroy them.
On this Epiphany Sunday, I was thinking of resolutions for the new year. Some of the old ones are re-adopted. More exercise, reading, writing, prayer, healthy eating.
But I've got a new one. With the Christmas story still ringing in my ears I want to be like that. I want to be like the God who comes. The God who heard the cries of his children and instead of standing off far away, got up, put on his earthly clothes, and came to see for himself what the problems were, and what he could do about them.
Even God realized that it was necessary to come and see.
And he saw.
And so must I.
.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
The music is the message. Lessons of New Year's Eve past . . .
When I was in junior high my favorite New Year's Eve tradition was waiting until the sun went down and the ionosphere got just right, bouncing far away radio waves back to earth, back to an even more rural Oneonta, Alabama, so I could tune in WLS 89, the AM radio juggernaut out of Chicago, as they counted down the final hours of the old year by playing the top 89 songs of the year. I think it meant more back then because we had to work so hard to hear the music through the static and interference. The Beatles, the Dave Clark Five, the Stones, the Grass Roots, the Mamas and Papas, the Temptations, Aretha, the Four Tops, Buffalo Springfield, Sly and the Family Stone, and, well I can't name them all. Clear, cold nights were the best, so New Year's Eve usually worked out.
One thing that was different about radio back in that ancient time was that even rock and roll stations regularly broadcast the news. Not the kind of news you hear on talk radio now. At the top of the hour every hour we heard the headline news of the hour. The news of that era was not good, mostly dominated by war, riots, and assasinations. Or at least it seemed that way to me. And back then they were All-American stories, tragically.
So it was an odd experience. The joy of the best music of the year. The angst created by what seemed to be a crumbling society.
And the music reflected what the newscasts told us. CSNY sang of Four dead in Ohio. Dylan offered the invitation "Come Senators, Congressmen, please heed the call. The times they are changing.". Dion grieved the loss of great leaders to assasination, "Any body hear seen my old friend Bobby, can you tell me where he's gone,. I thought I saw him going up over the hill, with Abraham, Martin and John " Edwin Starr asked the question that so many were wanting answered , "War, what is it good for? Creedence decried the inequity of the draft, "It ain't me, It aint me, I ain't no senator's son, I ain't no fortunate one. Sly and the Family Stone sang of racial, cultural and economic tolerance in Everyday People, " There is a blue one who can't accept the green one for living with the fat one for trying to be the skinny one." Even Elvis sang of the social condition, "In the Ghetto." I could go on and on. Feel free to add my commenting if you wish.
Of course there was Sugar, Sugar by the Archies, or Temptation Eyes by the Grass Roots, or my all time favorite feel good song, Build Me Up Buttercup by the Foundations. Thank goodness for the relief.
Where was I? Oh yeah. It was all mixed up together.
Music and news.
Art and life.
And so here we are now, closing out another year, several decades later. The amplitude modulated waves of WLS still rebound off the ionosphere to reach the hinterlands of North Alabama on cold, clear nights, but I never listen. I can hear the same talk radio out of Birmingham pretty much. And music stations don't dare give us any news. It's just not good radio.
And, other than a few rappers, there is very little news in the music, it seems to me. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm old and I just don't know.
But, if I'm right, it's too bad. Because the music of those New Year's Eves of decades ago made a difference. As Marshall McLuhan, a pop communications guru of that time, famously penned:
"The medium is the message."
Even now, when I hear the first instrumental notes of Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth," I get a feeling that I'll never forget. I hope.A couple of the verses are particularly timeless:
One thing that was different about radio back in that ancient time was that even rock and roll stations regularly broadcast the news. Not the kind of news you hear on talk radio now. At the top of the hour every hour we heard the headline news of the hour. The news of that era was not good, mostly dominated by war, riots, and assasinations. Or at least it seemed that way to me. And back then they were All-American stories, tragically.
So it was an odd experience. The joy of the best music of the year. The angst created by what seemed to be a crumbling society.
And the music reflected what the newscasts told us. CSNY sang of Four dead in Ohio. Dylan offered the invitation "Come Senators, Congressmen, please heed the call. The times they are changing.". Dion grieved the loss of great leaders to assasination, "Any body hear seen my old friend Bobby, can you tell me where he's gone,. I thought I saw him going up over the hill, with Abraham, Martin and John " Edwin Starr asked the question that so many were wanting answered , "War, what is it good for? Creedence decried the inequity of the draft, "It ain't me, It aint me, I ain't no senator's son, I ain't no fortunate one. Sly and the Family Stone sang of racial, cultural and economic tolerance in Everyday People, " There is a blue one who can't accept the green one for living with the fat one for trying to be the skinny one." Even Elvis sang of the social condition, "In the Ghetto." I could go on and on. Feel free to add my commenting if you wish.
Of course there was Sugar, Sugar by the Archies, or Temptation Eyes by the Grass Roots, or my all time favorite feel good song, Build Me Up Buttercup by the Foundations. Thank goodness for the relief.
Where was I? Oh yeah. It was all mixed up together.
Music and news.
Art and life.
And so here we are now, closing out another year, several decades later. The amplitude modulated waves of WLS still rebound off the ionosphere to reach the hinterlands of North Alabama on cold, clear nights, but I never listen. I can hear the same talk radio out of Birmingham pretty much. And music stations don't dare give us any news. It's just not good radio.
And, other than a few rappers, there is very little news in the music, it seems to me. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm old and I just don't know.
But, if I'm right, it's too bad. Because the music of those New Year's Eves of decades ago made a difference. As Marshall McLuhan, a pop communications guru of that time, famously penned:
"The medium is the message."
Even now, when I hear the first instrumental notes of Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth," I get a feeling that I'll never forget. I hope.A couple of the verses are particularly timeless:
"There's battle lines being drawn
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong
Young people speakin' their minds
A gettin' so much resistance from behind
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong
Young people speakin' their minds
A gettin' so much resistance from behind
Time we stop, hey, what's that sound?
Everybody look what's going down
Everybody look what's going down
What a field day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and they carrying signs
Mostly say, hooray for our side".
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and they carrying signs
Mostly say, hooray for our side".
Or maybe that's our problem.
Music does reflect society.
Art does reflect life
And maybe we just don't care anymore..
Or maybe I'm wrong.
Feel free to let me know.
Nothing would make me happier.
.
.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Nuttin' Important this morning . . .
Saturday. Sofa. Coffee
It is a perfect Saturday for the weekend between Christmas and New Years. Cloudy, rainy, cool. There is little temptation to get up and get out and about. Maybe later. Maybe not. For now coffee, the sofa, and Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me on the radio give me a feeling of contentment.
I was reading the news sites this morning. My favorite article this morning was on AL.com. There was a headline on the newsfeed which read:
"Woman Stabs Husband with Ceramic Squirrel for Not Bringing Home Beer."
Unfortunately, the lack of beer for Christmas enraged the woman enough to cause her to seriously injure her husband with the ceramic squirrel, so I am somewhat ashamed that the article brought a smile to my face. But it did. I am sorry. I think I was reminded of a ceramic nut bowl that my grandmother made and gave me for Christmas several decades ago. I confess that at the time I was not as thrilled with the gift as I let on. Again, I am ashamed of that feeling. Perhaps if she had included beer to go with the nuts the memory would have been completely different. I can assure you that would be a gift opening the whole family would still be talking about. If you knew my Baptist grandmother, you would know what I mean. She was so opposed to alcohol that she was convinced and adamantly insisted that there was absolutely no alcohol in her brandy fruit that she made, kept on the buffet and used for cooking. You could light that stuff with a spark from three feet away. But I must interject that my grandmother never used her ceramics to do harm.
The woman who enlisted the ceramic squirrel to do her dirty work was from South Carolina, thank goodness.
On the same page is an advertisement which made me proud to be from Alabama. Someone from Springville, just across the mountain from me, has invented a lighted hunting knife. If you've ever tried to field dress that deer in the dark, you know how hard it can be when you can't see what you're doing. So this knife has LED lights embedded in the handle in such a way that light is projected onto the area being cut. I am serious about being impressed. I am not a hunter, but if I were, I am sure that I would have tried to duct tape a pen light to the handle of my knife, which would be a constant source of frustration. That is a common occurrence with other projects in my life. So, if you want to give a late gift to a hunter, this is your opportunity to be on the leading edge of hunting technology and support the Alabama economy. From right over there in Springville. Here's to you inventor of the lighted hunting knife. I would raise a beer in salute, but I don't have any either.
There are many other things in the news this morning, but all those big things will be there next week, and I will probably write about them. But these small stories like assault with a ceramic squirrel and lit hunting knives don't have the staying power of healthcare, economy, war, and liberty. I'd rather talk about the small things this morning because they probably won't be a big deal next week.
Which reminds be of a facebook post a friend of mine wrote this morning. She said that she had a lot of important things that she really needed to do today, but for now, she was snuggling with her young son.
She is right. All that "important" stuff will be there every week-end.. But the small things, like young sons, won't be around to snuggle for many Saturdays. She has chosen the better thing.
Okay, that's enough rambling. Gotta go see if I can find that ceramic nut bowl before someone gets hurt.
.
.
It is a perfect Saturday for the weekend between Christmas and New Years. Cloudy, rainy, cool. There is little temptation to get up and get out and about. Maybe later. Maybe not. For now coffee, the sofa, and Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me on the radio give me a feeling of contentment.
I was reading the news sites this morning. My favorite article this morning was on AL.com. There was a headline on the newsfeed which read:
"Woman Stabs Husband with Ceramic Squirrel for Not Bringing Home Beer."
Unfortunately, the lack of beer for Christmas enraged the woman enough to cause her to seriously injure her husband with the ceramic squirrel, so I am somewhat ashamed that the article brought a smile to my face. But it did. I am sorry. I think I was reminded of a ceramic nut bowl that my grandmother made and gave me for Christmas several decades ago. I confess that at the time I was not as thrilled with the gift as I let on. Again, I am ashamed of that feeling. Perhaps if she had included beer to go with the nuts the memory would have been completely different. I can assure you that would be a gift opening the whole family would still be talking about. If you knew my Baptist grandmother, you would know what I mean. She was so opposed to alcohol that she was convinced and adamantly insisted that there was absolutely no alcohol in her brandy fruit that she made, kept on the buffet and used for cooking. You could light that stuff with a spark from three feet away. But I must interject that my grandmother never used her ceramics to do harm.
The woman who enlisted the ceramic squirrel to do her dirty work was from South Carolina, thank goodness.
On the same page is an advertisement which made me proud to be from Alabama. Someone from Springville, just across the mountain from me, has invented a lighted hunting knife. If you've ever tried to field dress that deer in the dark, you know how hard it can be when you can't see what you're doing. So this knife has LED lights embedded in the handle in such a way that light is projected onto the area being cut. I am serious about being impressed. I am not a hunter, but if I were, I am sure that I would have tried to duct tape a pen light to the handle of my knife, which would be a constant source of frustration. That is a common occurrence with other projects in my life. So, if you want to give a late gift to a hunter, this is your opportunity to be on the leading edge of hunting technology and support the Alabama economy. From right over there in Springville. Here's to you inventor of the lighted hunting knife. I would raise a beer in salute, but I don't have any either.
There are many other things in the news this morning, but all those big things will be there next week, and I will probably write about them. But these small stories like assault with a ceramic squirrel and lit hunting knives don't have the staying power of healthcare, economy, war, and liberty. I'd rather talk about the small things this morning because they probably won't be a big deal next week.
Which reminds be of a facebook post a friend of mine wrote this morning. She said that she had a lot of important things that she really needed to do today, but for now, she was snuggling with her young son.
She is right. All that "important" stuff will be there every week-end.. But the small things, like young sons, won't be around to snuggle for many Saturdays. She has chosen the better thing.
Okay, that's enough rambling. Gotta go see if I can find that ceramic nut bowl before someone gets hurt.
.
.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Merry Christmas
It is a quiet and brilliantly beautiful day on my hillside this morning. Frost covers the ground and the roof, and the early morning sky is an indescribable royal blue. Hot coffee sends plumes of aromatic vapor into the air, its swirls and curls shimmering in the early morning rays of the rising sun that shoot through my house from east to west. It is a good morning..
The baby Jesus nailed it at the Christmas Eve Service at Lester Memorial UMC last night, with an assist from his supporting actress, the little angel played by his slightly older sister.
The hallmark of the service at Lester has always been its sheer warm simplicity. The Christmas story is read to children gathered around the Chrismon tree, while the holy family comes in and settles in at the front of the church. The family is played each year by a willing young family that has been blessed with a new addition during the previous year.
Mary and Joseph made the long journey down the aisle toward their place in Bethlehem, just behind the altar rail, mother Mary carrying the cherubic Jesus. Along with them floated a tiny angel, also cherubic, complete with wings and robe, dancing with every step she took, seemingly as excited as if she had just wakened to see what Santa Claus had brought.
As the Christmas story was read and songs were sung, the little angel could not be contained, dancing, jumping, up and down the step behind the altar, occasionally coming over to the baby Jesus and whispering something to him. Jesus would look at her with delight, his face, framed with dark brown hair, beaming. The angel took it all in, looking at the tree, the children, the singers, occasionally at Mary and Joseph, and at the Baby Jesus. She could not contain her excitement.
And Baby Jesus loved it all. But especially the angel. He would look at her and smile, and break into a baby laugh. Sometimes it seemed to be more than he could take, his arms and legs beginning to dance as he sat in his mother's lap, his hands clapping with the joy of the night.
Of course Mary and Joseph played their part wonderfully as well, concern and a touch of anxiety on their faces, wondering what was to come next this night, and whether anything would ever be in their control again. An angel whose joy was uncontainable, and a baby boy who seemed to understand and welcome, even join in the irresistible anticipation of the angel.
And that's the way it really began. With joy and excitement. Heaven came down. Unspeakable joy.
God is with us.
And we will never be able to control Him. Might as well start dancing.
Merry, merry Christmas.
And a special thanks to the Holy family.
.
The baby Jesus nailed it at the Christmas Eve Service at Lester Memorial UMC last night, with an assist from his supporting actress, the little angel played by his slightly older sister.
The hallmark of the service at Lester has always been its sheer warm simplicity. The Christmas story is read to children gathered around the Chrismon tree, while the holy family comes in and settles in at the front of the church. The family is played each year by a willing young family that has been blessed with a new addition during the previous year.
Mary and Joseph made the long journey down the aisle toward their place in Bethlehem, just behind the altar rail, mother Mary carrying the cherubic Jesus. Along with them floated a tiny angel, also cherubic, complete with wings and robe, dancing with every step she took, seemingly as excited as if she had just wakened to see what Santa Claus had brought.
As the Christmas story was read and songs were sung, the little angel could not be contained, dancing, jumping, up and down the step behind the altar, occasionally coming over to the baby Jesus and whispering something to him. Jesus would look at her with delight, his face, framed with dark brown hair, beaming. The angel took it all in, looking at the tree, the children, the singers, occasionally at Mary and Joseph, and at the Baby Jesus. She could not contain her excitement.
And Baby Jesus loved it all. But especially the angel. He would look at her and smile, and break into a baby laugh. Sometimes it seemed to be more than he could take, his arms and legs beginning to dance as he sat in his mother's lap, his hands clapping with the joy of the night.
Of course Mary and Joseph played their part wonderfully as well, concern and a touch of anxiety on their faces, wondering what was to come next this night, and whether anything would ever be in their control again. An angel whose joy was uncontainable, and a baby boy who seemed to understand and welcome, even join in the irresistible anticipation of the angel.
And that's the way it really began. With joy and excitement. Heaven came down. Unspeakable joy.
God is with us.
And we will never be able to control Him. Might as well start dancing.
Merry, merry Christmas.
And a special thanks to the Holy family.
.
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