July 13
Spiritually Speaking
Play Time, Part 2
Play time is over. Vacation ended yesterday. I didn't get to play any games of miniature golf but I did win several games of Hearts, Scrabble and one game of Life. Remember that old board game? Now it is computerized and loads of fun to play. I ended the game with more than $6 million in the bank, a house with $1 million, a Ph. D., a best selling novel and a sub-compact car. I earned most of my money because early on in the game I discovered a cure for baldness which gave me $900,000, leaving the other players eating my dust for the rest of the game.
Each player gets a credit card which you slide into the little computer on your turn. It keeps track of your salary, your taxes, appreciation and depreciation - all the math of all the money matters you encounter. It also deducts 10% of your income per child. It also allows you to go as deep into debt as you wish. At one point I was a million in debt. That cure for baldness sure paid off. If you want a good family game, the new game of Life is fun to play for hours and hours. One game could last for days and days. You decide on how many turns you want to play and tell the computer. It keeps track, tells you when the game is done and converts all your dollars to Life Points at the end to see who wins. Enjoy!
In my family, Monopoly was always popular. We did play this for days on end. The game would be set up on a card table and we'd just keep playing until all but one player was bankrupt. I didn't win too many games of Monopoly but I loved to play it. Those house and hotels were easy to buy and build. Chance and Community Chest cards could make or break you. And we played that all our fines would go under the Free Parking corner instead of into the bank. When you landed on Free Parking, you got to keep whatever money was there. I liked the green properties best. They were good income and had lots of visitors. I always kept a "Get Out of Jail Free" card too. You never knew when that was going to come in handy. A similar board game which we still love to play is Careers.
Word games, board games and card games - these were an essential part of our social life while growing up. Somewhere around 12 or 13, we could join in the adult games and no longer be forced to play outside with the little kids. Dad used to play pitch with us at breakfast on Saturday mornings. Mom would play Scrabble anytime anywhere. Company came to us or we went to visit most Saturday evenings. Adults played Pinochle marathons. We children were left to our own devices. Sometimes we played board games, some times we made up our own games and eventually we would all fall asleep while the adults played on.
Stuart Brown, the president of the National Institute for Play (\Yes, there really is such a thing!) contends that play is essential for the growth and development of our brains. Pretty heavy duty responsibility for such a light-hearted and oh, so easily done enterprise. According to scientific research though, the play that helps our brain the most is full body movement. Our childhood games of playing house may or may not have helped depending on how much pretend housekeeping we did as opposed to rocking the babies to sleep, or sleeping ourselves. Our walks in the woods were unquestionably good for us, body, brain and soul. The benefits of recess time spent on the playground at school are harder to calculate.
Hopefully, we all have a few younger years to look back on as "play's good old days." In our minds, we may idealize play - remembering only the good. Or we may demonize play - remembering only the bad. My memories contain the whole gamut. There were bullies on the bus and playground whose play was hurtful. I was never among the first ones chosen for those lively games of Dodge Ball or softball. On the other hand I excelled at jump rope and Hopscotch. I resented it when I was assigned "parenting" duty and had to watch my brother and sisters playing. There were lots of fights to break up, little fun for me. On the other hand, I had many hours of solitude in the rock fort I built out along the back fence. Mom would have to send someone to get me. I wasn't quite out of earshot, but she didn't know that.
Scientists argue over the ultimate purpose of play. Why they are worrying about this, I don't know but scientists will research just about anything. Do boys play differently than girls? Are children being damaged by staring at computer screens and video games? Are they missing something when fantasy play is filled with Hollywood's imaginations rather than their own? These are some of the questions being addressed in current studies. Some think that play is a way that we practice and prepare for future responsibilities. Another theory is that our kaliedoscope of play activities makes us flexible and adaptable to the constant changes life throws at us daily. A few think that play is a luxury afforded only in the good times.
By studying monkeys, cats, rats, mice and even small children, all of the above theories have been both proven and disproven. Most of the play activities of animals are similar to the things they need to do when they grow up. But one study of cats proved that their hunting prowess was equally well developed whether or not they had played as kittens. Adequate play time does not always guarantee adaptability and flexibility. And, even in the concentration camps, children found ways to play proving it is not a luxury. (Check out the book/movie "The Boy in the Striped Pajamas" . Keep the tissues handy. There are lots of tears as well as play.)
"The Boy in the Striped Pajamas" deals with the innocence of play under the most horrific conditions.
Lord of the Flies by William Golding deals with the whole range of human qualities found in us.
As children most of us crave and carve out spaces where the adults cannot tell us what to do. Golding's story is a graphic account of what happened to one group of children when they had the world all to themselves. Play can be filled with trust and trickery - often both. Play can deal with truth and lies - usually both. Play can deepen friendships or destroy relationships. I don't care to study it in depth. I know that all that we do as children contributes to who we become as adults.
As children play time can be a safe haven from the raw reality of the world. It can also be a scary place where we magnify and multiply our worst fears, the world's greatest evils. There's a word for the latter - a wonderful word for a terrifying phenomena - phantasmagoria. This is when children's thoughts run wild and all the chaotic bits of the real world get tumbled together and pulled haphazardly apart in new, sometimes even scarier confabulations. I remember a few of those nightmares. I prefer to keep play a safe haven.
We hear the goodness of play with each joyful squeal of a happy child. We can see the benefits of play on each ecstatic face. We rediscover the world in a childlike way whenever we watch children at their best. We hear the downside of an active imagination whenever we run to comfort a child having a bad dream. We see the dark side of playfulness whenever we have to help a child confront a bully or deal with rejection. Play can mean gobs of goodness incorporated into life at its best, or a tidal wave of evil at its worst.
Scientists can argue over the ultimate purpose and meaning of play for as long as they want. I'm determined to keep on playing - whether they can prove it is good for me or not. I hope to minimize the nightmarish aspects of play, and maximize the protective fun loving aspect of it. I was quite happy to win the games that I did. On the other hand, I do think my sister was having malevolent thoughts especially when I got that $900,000, every time I managed to give her the Queen of Spades in Hearts and every time I got a seven letter word in Scrabble. The past week of play time was pure goodness and fun! It will have to last until the next vacation.
Playmate, I can't come out with you
My dolly has the flu
Boo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo
Can't climb your rain barrel
Slide down your cellar door
But we'll be jolly friends forevermore.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Play, Part 1
July 6, 2009
Oh playmate, come out and play with me.
And bring your dollies three.
Climb up my apple tree.
Look down my rain barrel.
Slide down my cellar door.
And we'll be jolly friends forevermore.
This song was on a record which I played
over and over and over and over. I sang it
with or without the record. It can take me
right back to childhood and those carefree
days when I got to play at Grandma's house -
with the wind up Victrola, the play spaces
in her flower garden, hunting for kittens in
the hayloft and helping Grandpa plant his
garden whether he wanted or needed my
help or not.
I consider myself most fortunate that
I grew up before televisions and computers
could monopolize my time. I remember hours
and hours of outdoor play - sometimes
alone, sometimes with other children;
sometimes with toys, sometimes with just
my own imagination. Or any combination
of the aforementioned.
There were many make-believe villages
built in the dirt under the shade of Grandma's
snowball bush. Hours and hours spent
playing house with cousin Jeannie, the
number of children depending on the number
of dolls we could find that day. Doll clothes
and actual baby bottles were optional.
Naked dolls always had pretend clothes to
wear which Jeannie and I could clearly see
and fully describe.
There was an element of play to chasing
the cows from the pastures to the barn come
milking time. There were trails to be named
and the obvious hazards to be avoided. When
herding cows one must watch carefully where
one steps. A playful attitude could be stopped
in mid-stream when forced to clean cow poop off
the bottom of one's shoes. To say nothing of
the lectures and turned up noses of the adults
hanging about if they noticed what had
happened because we had failed to get it all
off and our aroma made our presence
an intense annoyance to all for the rest of
the night.
We climbed across the monkey bars and
other playground equipment at school every
which way but loose. We wrestled each
other to the ground, pushed each other into
mud puddles on occasion, played endless
games of marbles and/or hopscotch at
recess. In the wintertime, there were
sledding and tobaggan parties, ice
skating, along with snow forts and snowball
fights. What fun!
Little did I know then how important
all this playtime was for the development
of my character. At least that is the
theory of Stuart Brown, M.D. who wrote
a book, Play: How It Shapes the Brain,
Opens the Imagination and Invigorates
the Soul. I heard him being interviewed
on the radio. I think I will have to read
this book. Sounds like fun!
Dr. Brown contends that the timeless,
guilt-free and purposeless hours spent
in play give us problem solving skills,
enable us to set visionary goals, and give
us the ability to trust and
to have empathy for the needs and welfare
of others. The murderers he interviewed
in prisons had never had the privilege of
playtime. Introducing play techniques is
actually benefitting these prisoners. They
are being changed for the better.
All of us are better off for
having had time to play as children.
And we do our children and grandchildren
a favor if we find ways to give them time
out to just be kids and play - without
benefit of computers, televisions,
ipods, cell phones or organized sports
programs. Even when we are adults,
we still need unstructured and seemingly
purposeless play time.
Lack of play makes one rigid and less
open-minded in thinking about people
and the world. Lack of play leaves one
easy prey for chronic depression and
less able to adapt to change. Know anyone
like this? I do. Some days it is me.
We are warned against "helicopter parenting" -
that is, hovering real close, trying to protect
our children from all hurt and harm which
can happen while playing. We ought not
exercise total control over how our children
interact and play together.
Yes, we need to intervene in case of serious bodily
harm, but Dr. Stuart suggests that some degree of rough
and tumble play actually prevents violence in later life -
and if we get hurt now and then, we feel the pain - and when
we realize how hurt we are - that's how we gain
empathy, hopefully deciding that we don't want to
inflict that kind of pain on anyone else. Combativeness
is normal - in girls and boys! We learn how to handle it
healthily when we are young, if allowed to experience the
school of hard knocks from time to time.
Well, it's not that simple but there is a big chunk
of truth in Dr. Stuart's observations. I'll talk more
about the importance of play next week. I'm on
vacation this week. And I foresee some games of
miniature golf in my near future. Find some
play time of your own. I hear it is good for the
soul!
Oh playmate, come out and play with me.
And bring your dollies three.
Climb up my apple tree.
Look down my rain barrel.
Slide down my cellar door.
And we'll be jolly friends forevermore.
This song was on a record which I played
over and over and over and over. I sang it
with or without the record. It can take me
right back to childhood and those carefree
days when I got to play at Grandma's house -
with the wind up Victrola, the play spaces
in her flower garden, hunting for kittens in
the hayloft and helping Grandpa plant his
garden whether he wanted or needed my
help or not.
I consider myself most fortunate that
I grew up before televisions and computers
could monopolize my time. I remember hours
and hours of outdoor play - sometimes
alone, sometimes with other children;
sometimes with toys, sometimes with just
my own imagination. Or any combination
of the aforementioned.
There were many make-believe villages
built in the dirt under the shade of Grandma's
snowball bush. Hours and hours spent
playing house with cousin Jeannie, the
number of children depending on the number
of dolls we could find that day. Doll clothes
and actual baby bottles were optional.
Naked dolls always had pretend clothes to
wear which Jeannie and I could clearly see
and fully describe.
There was an element of play to chasing
the cows from the pastures to the barn come
milking time. There were trails to be named
and the obvious hazards to be avoided. When
herding cows one must watch carefully where
one steps. A playful attitude could be stopped
in mid-stream when forced to clean cow poop off
the bottom of one's shoes. To say nothing of
the lectures and turned up noses of the adults
hanging about if they noticed what had
happened because we had failed to get it all
off and our aroma made our presence
an intense annoyance to all for the rest of
the night.
We climbed across the monkey bars and
other playground equipment at school every
which way but loose. We wrestled each
other to the ground, pushed each other into
mud puddles on occasion, played endless
games of marbles and/or hopscotch at
recess. In the wintertime, there were
sledding and tobaggan parties, ice
skating, along with snow forts and snowball
fights. What fun!
Little did I know then how important
all this playtime was for the development
of my character. At least that is the
theory of Stuart Brown, M.D. who wrote
a book, Play: How It Shapes the Brain,
Opens the Imagination and Invigorates
the Soul. I heard him being interviewed
on the radio. I think I will have to read
this book. Sounds like fun!
Dr. Brown contends that the timeless,
guilt-free and purposeless hours spent
in play give us problem solving skills,
enable us to set visionary goals, and give
us the ability to trust and
to have empathy for the needs and welfare
of others. The murderers he interviewed
in prisons had never had the privilege of
playtime. Introducing play techniques is
actually benefitting these prisoners. They
are being changed for the better.
All of us are better off for
having had time to play as children.
And we do our children and grandchildren
a favor if we find ways to give them time
out to just be kids and play - without
benefit of computers, televisions,
ipods, cell phones or organized sports
programs. Even when we are adults,
we still need unstructured and seemingly
purposeless play time.
Lack of play makes one rigid and less
open-minded in thinking about people
and the world. Lack of play leaves one
easy prey for chronic depression and
less able to adapt to change. Know anyone
like this? I do. Some days it is me.
We are warned against "helicopter parenting" -
that is, hovering real close, trying to protect
our children from all hurt and harm which
can happen while playing. We ought not
exercise total control over how our children
interact and play together.
Yes, we need to intervene in case of serious bodily
harm, but Dr. Stuart suggests that some degree of rough
and tumble play actually prevents violence in later life -
and if we get hurt now and then, we feel the pain - and when
we realize how hurt we are - that's how we gain
empathy, hopefully deciding that we don't want to
inflict that kind of pain on anyone else. Combativeness
is normal - in girls and boys! We learn how to handle it
healthily when we are young, if allowed to experience the
school of hard knocks from time to time.
Well, it's not that simple but there is a big chunk
of truth in Dr. Stuart's observations. I'll talk more
about the importance of play next week. I'm on
vacation this week. And I foresee some games of
miniature golf in my near future. Find some
play time of your own. I hear it is good for the
soul!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
June 22, 2009
Letting Go
We recognized our college graduates
in church on Sunday. We applauded
this milestone in their lives and their
plans for the future. Parents across
the nation are contemplating a major
irreversible change in the parent/child
relationship. They are growing up and
going out on their own.
Letting our children go out on their own
is a complicated emotional enterprise.
I remember the crying jags I went through
during Fran's senior year of high school.
I kept picturing how empty and quiet the
house would be once I was alone in it.
She was going off to college. She was
excited. I was proud of her and happy
for her. But that maternal bond was
strong. Silence and loneliness loomed
on the horizon.
I was her mother. I was certain that she
needed my constant vigilance and
parental guidance. How could she possibly
live without it? On the other hand,
I remembered how eager I was to leave
home when I went off to college. I was
quite certain at the ripe old age 18 that I didn't
need any vigilance or parental guidance.
As Fran packed her bags and prepred to
move out, I tried to comfort myself with that
memory of my own willful independence
at her age. I tried to let go of the internal
maternal bear hug in which I would have
liked to have held her for eternity.
I cried all the way home when I left her
at her dorm room that first year. I cried
constantly for nearly forty-eight hours as
I rattled around the now empty house. The
second morning of being home alone, I awoke
to the quiet without tears. I didn't have
to drive her to school. There were no
music or dancing lessons to remember,
no arguments over what time she needed
to be in or whether or not her homework
was done.
Instead of tears, I suddenly realized
that I was free. I only had my own
schedule to worry about. I could go out
to breakfast. I could go shopping without
arguing over which radio station to listen
to in the car, or which stores to go to in
the mall. I could do things I wanted to do!
Wow! I could be "me" again, instead of
Fran's mother. Maybe letting her go and
trusting her to grow up on her own wasn't
going to be so bad after all.
Lots of parents are starting the transition
of letting go now. Sitting through their
son's or daughter's graduation being pleased
and proud, while at the same time feeling
fearful and sad. We wonder what the future
holds, worry about how to stop being
the parent who protects and provides; and
become a parent who can "let go and let
God."
We go through this "letting go" transition
in many relationships as we come to terms
with who people really are and let go of
who they have been in our lives. I remember
when I moved to Rochester to
go to seminary. My sister Becky was
working on her degree at the University of
Rochester. We had always had a close
bond. But I had always been the big sister.
She had always been my baby sister. She
failed to appreciate my affectionate teasing
and persistent reminders that she was my
"baby sister."
I thought I was being funny until the first
time she drove me somewhere. I don't
remember where we were going but she
was driving. I was a nervous wreck
stepping on an imaginary brake pedal
like a driving instructor. It took months
before I could ride with her and trust her
as an experienced driver instead of thinking
of her as my "baby sister." It took a long
time to be able to relate to her as an adult
in her own right, perfectly capable of driving
a car and chauffeuring me around without
any pesky reminders of her "baby sister"
status. I had to let go of her as my baby sister
and embrace her as my sister, friend and
equal.
I crossed this bridge with Fran yesterday.
She's my thirty something daughter. We've
been through a lot of crises and conflict.
The letting go process takes a lot
longer and is a lot harder when the person
in question is your own flesh and blood.
Fran came down for a family gathering for
Father's Day in her new to her car. (Thanks
Bill Hawn!!!) She came to church in Pennellville
and she drove the two of us to Kirby's to meet the
others. We've ridden together before - but I was always
the over-protective mother and back seat driver who
rode in the front seat with her. Yesterday I let go of that
protective parent role and just enjoyed the ride
with my daughter, my friend and my equal.
It took awhile. Because she still annoys me
with her radio roulette routine.
As soon as a song comes on which she
doesn't like, she surfs until she finds a station
playing one she does. But it was her car
and her radio. She can even change stations
with a control on the steering wheel. I didn't
argue. I didn't make fun of her. I waited for
the next station to pop up and accepted that
it would change at her whim. I was quite
amused when she finally did keep one station
on - and it was music from the 40's - music
that BOTH of us enjoy. We had a great ride
and I closed another chapter in the book of
letting go and opened a new chapter on
being a parent to a child who is not a full-
fledged adult.
Of course, our children are always our children.
And, as parents, we'll always feel that we have
the right to tell them what to do - and that by
rights they ought to listen to our wisdom. But
time and again we will come to points at which
we must close another chapter in the book of
letting go. They graduate. The go off to work
or school, get their own place to live, fail to write
home or call or email. We're no longer privvy to
their private life. We have to let go and trust
that we have taught them enough to be on their
own and give them room to become their own
person - a person we will need to respect as
another adult - even though, in our heart of hearts,
we will always wish they were still a child who
needs us.
There will be moments when they will come to
us - and need us to be their parent again -
but only temporarily. They will become parents
themselves and come to us - apologizing for
not understanding what they put us through,
asking us how we did it, determined not to make
the mistakes we made and, in the process,
making mistakes of their own.
Coming to see them and accept them as
grown ups in their own right is a lifelong process.
Though we will always be their parent,
there will always be lessons to learn about
letting go and allowing them to become all grown
up like us.
4th of July
I don't remember when we started doing the
4th of July the way we do. It is a grand open
house event at Dad's. We all bring a dish to
pass: Aunt Fran's potato salad; Aunt Helen's
salt potatoes and chocolate Wake Cake;
Sonya's mac' and cheese, Becky's devilled eggs
and enough others to feed an army.
Everyone is invited by word of mouth. No
formal invitations are sent. No one is ever
turned away. It is always a mystery how
many will show up. And the picnic is held
rain or shine.
Though relegated to the sidelines as a
cheerleader these days, I used to be able
to hit a double or triple to right field - and
catch a pop fly when it came my way too
in the annual softball game. This is a highlight
of any 4th of July gathering - weather permitting.
We don't really keep score and anyone
can play.
Those who are very young, get assistance
with batting and somehow that fielder on
first base never seems to catch the ball
in time to put you out. There's always
someone to guide you to the next base.
And you may not have a clue why you
are running - and some of the youngest
ones have been known to take off for the
swingset before they make it to home base -
but most earnestly listen for instructions and
love the cheers of the crowd when they
finally cross home plate.
Those who can still hit, but are no longer
able to run, may have an assigned runner.
There is then the option - you may take
your base and take your chances - or let
the youngster run the gamut.
Mom used to organize a cutthroat croquet
game. You would think this lawn game
would be calm and civilized. Not when
Uncle Bruce gets hold of a mallet! He
loves to send other balls far afield whenever
he gets the chance. He plays to win and
so did Mom. It was often more exciting to
watch the croquet match than the softball
game. We haven't had one lately. I miss
the mayhem and banter with Uncle Bruce
in the middle of the mix.
Meanwhile there were card games and
conversations going on around the tables
and chairs borrowed from church. There
were hotdogs, hamburgs and sausage patties
on the grill, every condiment under the sun,
any non-alcoholic beverage you could want,
salads, deviled eggs, salt potatoes and
desserts galore. No one went hungry.
I confess that there has been many
a year when I spent the day inside
taking a nap in the recliner and missing
much of the festivities. We are a very
diverse family. If discussions got onto
politics and/or religion, my views were
the minority. It is not a day for arguing,
so I would just excuse myself and go
take a nap. My favorite past time was
playing Scrabble when I could
find a worthy opponent who wasn't
playing croquet or softball.
Fire works often ended the day. When
Fran and I were living there with
Mom and Dad, we used to go to Colgate
University to watch the fireworks. I wonder
if they still have them there. Some years
a car load would go to Sylvan Beach or
Oriskany Falls.
My favorite fireworks memory though -
is the year I was in Lexington, Massachusetts
visiting my best friend who had moved there,
Laurel Dutcher. I missed being home with
the family but I have never seen a more
spectacular display than I did that year
next to the village green where the
Revolutionary War began.
Other years I spent worrying about Fran
as she helped Cory Clark set up for
fire works in and around Edwards. I'm
glad she doesn't do that any more.
But I'm grateful to those who do.
A fire works display is the perfect ending
to any 4th of July celebration.
We often get so enmeshed in our family
celebrations of the 4th of July that we
forget the real holiday. On July 4, 1776
we declared our independence from
Great Britain and began our struggle
to become "the home of the brave and
the land of the free."
July 4, 1776 is the day that the Declaration
of Independence was formally adopted by
our first Congress. It took until August before
it was signed by all. Did you know that
the first celebration was actually on July 8th in 1776?
The Declaration of Independence was read
aloud, city bells rang and many a band played.
I don't know whether or not there were fire works.
It was not declared a legal holiday until 1941.
In 1776 there were 2.5 million Americans.
As of July 4, 2008, there were 304 million.
We are a great nation. We are a diverse
nation. Freedom is the quality we celebrate
on the 4th. Freedom is something we
frequently fail to appreciate. Freedom is
sometimes something we misunderstand.
Freedom from Great Britain, that's what
we gained in 1776. To be our own nation,
making our own laws as well as our own
mistakes.
Freedom is something people around the
world are still fighting and dying for. It is a
privilege we need to appreciate and celebrate.
Appreciating freedom means accepting
the diversity of our nation (as well as our own
families). Freedom means agreeing to
disagree aggreeably about matters such as
politics and religion in order to be the
democracy our founding fathers meant
us to be, and the Revolutionary War allowed
us to be.
There's a quiz online on the Declaration
of Independence - that document which
first proclaimed our freedom. Take the quiz,
It reminds us of the real reason for all the family
gatherings and fire works on every 4th
of July.
http://www.history.com/content/declaration/quiz
Letting Go
We recognized our college graduates
in church on Sunday. We applauded
this milestone in their lives and their
plans for the future. Parents across
the nation are contemplating a major
irreversible change in the parent/child
relationship. They are growing up and
going out on their own.
Letting our children go out on their own
is a complicated emotional enterprise.
I remember the crying jags I went through
during Fran's senior year of high school.
I kept picturing how empty and quiet the
house would be once I was alone in it.
She was going off to college. She was
excited. I was proud of her and happy
for her. But that maternal bond was
strong. Silence and loneliness loomed
on the horizon.
I was her mother. I was certain that she
needed my constant vigilance and
parental guidance. How could she possibly
live without it? On the other hand,
I remembered how eager I was to leave
home when I went off to college. I was
quite certain at the ripe old age 18 that I didn't
need any vigilance or parental guidance.
As Fran packed her bags and prepred to
move out, I tried to comfort myself with that
memory of my own willful independence
at her age. I tried to let go of the internal
maternal bear hug in which I would have
liked to have held her for eternity.
I cried all the way home when I left her
at her dorm room that first year. I cried
constantly for nearly forty-eight hours as
I rattled around the now empty house. The
second morning of being home alone, I awoke
to the quiet without tears. I didn't have
to drive her to school. There were no
music or dancing lessons to remember,
no arguments over what time she needed
to be in or whether or not her homework
was done.
Instead of tears, I suddenly realized
that I was free. I only had my own
schedule to worry about. I could go out
to breakfast. I could go shopping without
arguing over which radio station to listen
to in the car, or which stores to go to in
the mall. I could do things I wanted to do!
Wow! I could be "me" again, instead of
Fran's mother. Maybe letting her go and
trusting her to grow up on her own wasn't
going to be so bad after all.
Lots of parents are starting the transition
of letting go now. Sitting through their
son's or daughter's graduation being pleased
and proud, while at the same time feeling
fearful and sad. We wonder what the future
holds, worry about how to stop being
the parent who protects and provides; and
become a parent who can "let go and let
God."
We go through this "letting go" transition
in many relationships as we come to terms
with who people really are and let go of
who they have been in our lives. I remember
when I moved to Rochester to
go to seminary. My sister Becky was
working on her degree at the University of
Rochester. We had always had a close
bond. But I had always been the big sister.
She had always been my baby sister. She
failed to appreciate my affectionate teasing
and persistent reminders that she was my
"baby sister."
I thought I was being funny until the first
time she drove me somewhere. I don't
remember where we were going but she
was driving. I was a nervous wreck
stepping on an imaginary brake pedal
like a driving instructor. It took months
before I could ride with her and trust her
as an experienced driver instead of thinking
of her as my "baby sister." It took a long
time to be able to relate to her as an adult
in her own right, perfectly capable of driving
a car and chauffeuring me around without
any pesky reminders of her "baby sister"
status. I had to let go of her as my baby sister
and embrace her as my sister, friend and
equal.
I crossed this bridge with Fran yesterday.
She's my thirty something daughter. We've
been through a lot of crises and conflict.
The letting go process takes a lot
longer and is a lot harder when the person
in question is your own flesh and blood.
Fran came down for a family gathering for
Father's Day in her new to her car. (Thanks
Bill Hawn!!!) She came to church in Pennellville
and she drove the two of us to Kirby's to meet the
others. We've ridden together before - but I was always
the over-protective mother and back seat driver who
rode in the front seat with her. Yesterday I let go of that
protective parent role and just enjoyed the ride
with my daughter, my friend and my equal.
It took awhile. Because she still annoys me
with her radio roulette routine.
As soon as a song comes on which she
doesn't like, she surfs until she finds a station
playing one she does. But it was her car
and her radio. She can even change stations
with a control on the steering wheel. I didn't
argue. I didn't make fun of her. I waited for
the next station to pop up and accepted that
it would change at her whim. I was quite
amused when she finally did keep one station
on - and it was music from the 40's - music
that BOTH of us enjoy. We had a great ride
and I closed another chapter in the book of
letting go and opened a new chapter on
being a parent to a child who is not a full-
fledged adult.
Of course, our children are always our children.
And, as parents, we'll always feel that we have
the right to tell them what to do - and that by
rights they ought to listen to our wisdom. But
time and again we will come to points at which
we must close another chapter in the book of
letting go. They graduate. The go off to work
or school, get their own place to live, fail to write
home or call or email. We're no longer privvy to
their private life. We have to let go and trust
that we have taught them enough to be on their
own and give them room to become their own
person - a person we will need to respect as
another adult - even though, in our heart of hearts,
we will always wish they were still a child who
needs us.
There will be moments when they will come to
us - and need us to be their parent again -
but only temporarily. They will become parents
themselves and come to us - apologizing for
not understanding what they put us through,
asking us how we did it, determined not to make
the mistakes we made and, in the process,
making mistakes of their own.
Coming to see them and accept them as
grown ups in their own right is a lifelong process.
Though we will always be their parent,
there will always be lessons to learn about
letting go and allowing them to become all grown
up like us.
4th of July
I don't remember when we started doing the
4th of July the way we do. It is a grand open
house event at Dad's. We all bring a dish to
pass: Aunt Fran's potato salad; Aunt Helen's
salt potatoes and chocolate Wake Cake;
Sonya's mac' and cheese, Becky's devilled eggs
and enough others to feed an army.
Everyone is invited by word of mouth. No
formal invitations are sent. No one is ever
turned away. It is always a mystery how
many will show up. And the picnic is held
rain or shine.
Though relegated to the sidelines as a
cheerleader these days, I used to be able
to hit a double or triple to right field - and
catch a pop fly when it came my way too
in the annual softball game. This is a highlight
of any 4th of July gathering - weather permitting.
We don't really keep score and anyone
can play.
Those who are very young, get assistance
with batting and somehow that fielder on
first base never seems to catch the ball
in time to put you out. There's always
someone to guide you to the next base.
And you may not have a clue why you
are running - and some of the youngest
ones have been known to take off for the
swingset before they make it to home base -
but most earnestly listen for instructions and
love the cheers of the crowd when they
finally cross home plate.
Those who can still hit, but are no longer
able to run, may have an assigned runner.
There is then the option - you may take
your base and take your chances - or let
the youngster run the gamut.
Mom used to organize a cutthroat croquet
game. You would think this lawn game
would be calm and civilized. Not when
Uncle Bruce gets hold of a mallet! He
loves to send other balls far afield whenever
he gets the chance. He plays to win and
so did Mom. It was often more exciting to
watch the croquet match than the softball
game. We haven't had one lately. I miss
the mayhem and banter with Uncle Bruce
in the middle of the mix.
Meanwhile there were card games and
conversations going on around the tables
and chairs borrowed from church. There
were hotdogs, hamburgs and sausage patties
on the grill, every condiment under the sun,
any non-alcoholic beverage you could want,
salads, deviled eggs, salt potatoes and
desserts galore. No one went hungry.
I confess that there has been many
a year when I spent the day inside
taking a nap in the recliner and missing
much of the festivities. We are a very
diverse family. If discussions got onto
politics and/or religion, my views were
the minority. It is not a day for arguing,
so I would just excuse myself and go
take a nap. My favorite past time was
playing Scrabble when I could
find a worthy opponent who wasn't
playing croquet or softball.
Fire works often ended the day. When
Fran and I were living there with
Mom and Dad, we used to go to Colgate
University to watch the fireworks. I wonder
if they still have them there. Some years
a car load would go to Sylvan Beach or
Oriskany Falls.
My favorite fireworks memory though -
is the year I was in Lexington, Massachusetts
visiting my best friend who had moved there,
Laurel Dutcher. I missed being home with
the family but I have never seen a more
spectacular display than I did that year
next to the village green where the
Revolutionary War began.
Other years I spent worrying about Fran
as she helped Cory Clark set up for
fire works in and around Edwards. I'm
glad she doesn't do that any more.
But I'm grateful to those who do.
A fire works display is the perfect ending
to any 4th of July celebration.
We often get so enmeshed in our family
celebrations of the 4th of July that we
forget the real holiday. On July 4, 1776
we declared our independence from
Great Britain and began our struggle
to become "the home of the brave and
the land of the free."
July 4, 1776 is the day that the Declaration
of Independence was formally adopted by
our first Congress. It took until August before
it was signed by all. Did you know that
the first celebration was actually on July 8th in 1776?
The Declaration of Independence was read
aloud, city bells rang and many a band played.
I don't know whether or not there were fire works.
It was not declared a legal holiday until 1941.
In 1776 there were 2.5 million Americans.
As of July 4, 2008, there were 304 million.
We are a great nation. We are a diverse
nation. Freedom is the quality we celebrate
on the 4th. Freedom is something we
frequently fail to appreciate. Freedom is
sometimes something we misunderstand.
Freedom from Great Britain, that's what
we gained in 1776. To be our own nation,
making our own laws as well as our own
mistakes.
Freedom is something people around the
world are still fighting and dying for. It is a
privilege we need to appreciate and celebrate.
Appreciating freedom means accepting
the diversity of our nation (as well as our own
families). Freedom means agreeing to
disagree aggreeably about matters such as
politics and religion in order to be the
democracy our founding fathers meant
us to be, and the Revolutionary War allowed
us to be.
There's a quiz online on the Declaration
of Independence - that document which
first proclaimed our freedom. Take the quiz,
It reminds us of the real reason for all the family
gatherings and fire works on every 4th
of July.
http://www.history.com/content/declaration/quiz
June 15, 2009
But while he was yeat at a distance,
his father saw him and had compassion,
and ran, and embraced him and kissed him.
Luke 15:20b Parable of the Forgiving Father
Jesus took commonplace people,
places and things to use in his
teaching stories called parables.
These stories might exaggerate,
clarify, confuse, prove, disprove
or simply bring to life real issues
with which the real people of his day
were dealing on a daily basis.
Parables were meant to teach.
Yet their lessons were not always
clear cut. I look at these stories
like precious gems. Each time
I read one, it is like picking up a
beautiful amethyst (my favorite gem),
holding it up to the light to discover
new facets and new beauty with each
viewing.
When the Gospels give an interpretation
of a parable, it is generally something
that was added to the text at a later date.
Jesus told the stories to make people
think for themselves. There was no single
lesson to be learned by those listening.
No parable proves this better than
the Parable of the Forgiving Father -
more popularly called The Prodigal Son.
Some would, of course, identify with the
young man who left his home and family
to follow the devices and desires of his
own heart. The fact that the father was willing
to settle his estate before he was dead -
well, that would pique listeners' curiosity
because as far as they knew, no sane
father would do that - not for any son -
least of all the youngest.
But at this point in the story, most are imagining
themselves as that youngest son who gets
tomorrow's inheritance today and the chance to go
off by himself and do anything he wants as well.
Who among us has not had a time in our lives when we
wanted to just get away from the pain and
problems, the ruts of responsibility of ordinary life?
There are very few who have not fantasized about having
loads of money and no one to spend it on
but ourselves? A dollar and a dream is definitely
part of our culture today. A dream of being able
to do exactly as this youngest son was doing.
Some listeners would be more than ready
to take off with this young man, imaginining what their
life would be like if they could walk away
from all their obligations. Some would
daydream about a life free of responsibility,
the opportunity to pursue any personal pleasures
they had at any given moment. Of course, the
fantasy gets snapped back to reality when Jesus uses
this young man's journey - happily leaving
home but then returning humbled and
humiliated - to show how
wrong the young man had been. Ooh,
maybe we don't want to be that
young man after all.
Once we know the end of the story, the
next time we hear it we'll identify more
sympathetically with the father. What
an ungrateful son! How sad and hurt
the father must have been for a son to
choose this course of action! Listeners
who idenfied with the father would be
angry at this self-centered and self-
absorbed teenager. As the father, we
may feel righteous anger, rejection,
maybe even some self-pity until we
remember the ending of the story -
where the father welcomes home this
wasteful wanderer with open arms.
Ooh, maybe we don't want to identify
with the father after all. Forgiveness
and love like that, well, that's a tall order for
ordinary people. It is hard to imagine
welcoming this ingrate home without
at least a lecture - and some kind of
punishment. But that's not how the
story goes.
The only other main character is the
older brother. People would hear these
stories over and over again. They would
easily understand the older brothers
outrage at how his father was favoring
his younger sibling.. Hadn't he,
the older son, stood by his father faithfully?
Hadn't he taken up the slack and done
double duty to cover for his brother's
desertion? He hadn't wasted his father's
hard-earned money. Why hadn't his father
ever thrown him a party? Ooh, being the
older brother leaves a bad taste in one's
soul. He insists on wallowing in self-pity
and self-righteousness. He refuses to join
in the celebration. It's definitely
more fun to imagine ourselves back at the party
with the father and the younger son.
Look at all the lessons Jesus packs
into this one story. Look at the complexity
of each character. The main lesson, of
course, is that God is like the father in the
story - we are like one or both of the sons.
If we take the blessings God gives us and
squander them on years of wasteful living,
God will still love us when we come to our
senses, repent and request forgiveness.
God will exceed our humble expectations.
All we want is to get back in God's good
graces. God will throw a party and make
sure we have the best seat in the house -
the best clothes - the best food! WOW!
Okay, maybe we do want to identify with
the youngest son. He gets the happy
ending. Or, perhaps after seeing the
foolishness of the older brother's attitude
and actions, we'll have a newfound
appreciation for God's role in our lives:
how hard it must be for God when we
turn our backs and walk away; how
patient God has to be when we think
like the older brother that God's love
is a reward for good behavior rather
than an amazing resource available
to us for every day living whether we
are good or bad. The younger son failed
to value the bond of love until he was
at rock bottom. The older son
failed to understand that it was always
there. He didn't have to earn it. It wasn't
his reward for good behavior. His father's
love had been there for his benefit every
moment of his life.
The older son could have been celebrating
every day with his father. He worked
hard. He did all that was expected of him.
But he never said, "Hey, Dad, do you know
how much I love you? Let's have a party
to celebrate our relationship. You are an
awesome father and I just want you to know
it." What a party they could have had!
If the older brother had been able to
understand that love was a gift to be
shared - not a reward to be earned -
well, then he would have welcomed his
brother home too and helped his father throw
the party!
This little parable from Luke 15:11-32 is
full of other insights. I could preach on
this one story for the rest of my life. These
are only a few highlights which I thought
were good ones to share for Father's Day.
Our mortal fathers will have their faults
and flaws - ways in which they fall short
of God's capacity for love. But this secular
holiday - yes, it makes money for the card
manufacturers - but it is also a good excuse
to look at our Dad or the father figures in
our lives, to see what God sees in them
and to tell these fathering folks in our lives
how we see God in them. It may or may
not be a biological father - may not be any
relation at all - but someone who shared
love with us as the father in the parable does.
Someone who sometimes gives us exactly
what we ask for, lets us go off on our own
to learn from our own mistakes like the
father does for the youngest son.
Someone who has had patience with us,
is there for us day in and day out, someone
we failed to appreciate and/or to understand
as the older brother did for his father in this parable.
Someone who welcomes us home with open arms -
without the scolding or moralizing we deserve - but
instead throws a party and invites everyone to join in
the joyful celebration or our return and the love we
share.
Celebrate those someone's in your lives. And wish
them a Happy Father's Day.
But while he was yeat at a distance,
his father saw him and had compassion,
and ran, and embraced him and kissed him.
Luke 15:20b Parable of the Forgiving Father
Jesus took commonplace people,
places and things to use in his
teaching stories called parables.
These stories might exaggerate,
clarify, confuse, prove, disprove
or simply bring to life real issues
with which the real people of his day
were dealing on a daily basis.
Parables were meant to teach.
Yet their lessons were not always
clear cut. I look at these stories
like precious gems. Each time
I read one, it is like picking up a
beautiful amethyst (my favorite gem),
holding it up to the light to discover
new facets and new beauty with each
viewing.
When the Gospels give an interpretation
of a parable, it is generally something
that was added to the text at a later date.
Jesus told the stories to make people
think for themselves. There was no single
lesson to be learned by those listening.
No parable proves this better than
the Parable of the Forgiving Father -
more popularly called The Prodigal Son.
Some would, of course, identify with the
young man who left his home and family
to follow the devices and desires of his
own heart. The fact that the father was willing
to settle his estate before he was dead -
well, that would pique listeners' curiosity
because as far as they knew, no sane
father would do that - not for any son -
least of all the youngest.
But at this point in the story, most are imagining
themselves as that youngest son who gets
tomorrow's inheritance today and the chance to go
off by himself and do anything he wants as well.
Who among us has not had a time in our lives when we
wanted to just get away from the pain and
problems, the ruts of responsibility of ordinary life?
There are very few who have not fantasized about having
loads of money and no one to spend it on
but ourselves? A dollar and a dream is definitely
part of our culture today. A dream of being able
to do exactly as this youngest son was doing.
Some listeners would be more than ready
to take off with this young man, imaginining what their
life would be like if they could walk away
from all their obligations. Some would
daydream about a life free of responsibility,
the opportunity to pursue any personal pleasures
they had at any given moment. Of course, the
fantasy gets snapped back to reality when Jesus uses
this young man's journey - happily leaving
home but then returning humbled and
humiliated - to show how
wrong the young man had been. Ooh,
maybe we don't want to be that
young man after all.
Once we know the end of the story, the
next time we hear it we'll identify more
sympathetically with the father. What
an ungrateful son! How sad and hurt
the father must have been for a son to
choose this course of action! Listeners
who idenfied with the father would be
angry at this self-centered and self-
absorbed teenager. As the father, we
may feel righteous anger, rejection,
maybe even some self-pity until we
remember the ending of the story -
where the father welcomes home this
wasteful wanderer with open arms.
Ooh, maybe we don't want to identify
with the father after all. Forgiveness
and love like that, well, that's a tall order for
ordinary people. It is hard to imagine
welcoming this ingrate home without
at least a lecture - and some kind of
punishment. But that's not how the
story goes.
The only other main character is the
older brother. People would hear these
stories over and over again. They would
easily understand the older brothers
outrage at how his father was favoring
his younger sibling.. Hadn't he,
the older son, stood by his father faithfully?
Hadn't he taken up the slack and done
double duty to cover for his brother's
desertion? He hadn't wasted his father's
hard-earned money. Why hadn't his father
ever thrown him a party? Ooh, being the
older brother leaves a bad taste in one's
soul. He insists on wallowing in self-pity
and self-righteousness. He refuses to join
in the celebration. It's definitely
more fun to imagine ourselves back at the party
with the father and the younger son.
Look at all the lessons Jesus packs
into this one story. Look at the complexity
of each character. The main lesson, of
course, is that God is like the father in the
story - we are like one or both of the sons.
If we take the blessings God gives us and
squander them on years of wasteful living,
God will still love us when we come to our
senses, repent and request forgiveness.
God will exceed our humble expectations.
All we want is to get back in God's good
graces. God will throw a party and make
sure we have the best seat in the house -
the best clothes - the best food! WOW!
Okay, maybe we do want to identify with
the youngest son. He gets the happy
ending. Or, perhaps after seeing the
foolishness of the older brother's attitude
and actions, we'll have a newfound
appreciation for God's role in our lives:
how hard it must be for God when we
turn our backs and walk away; how
patient God has to be when we think
like the older brother that God's love
is a reward for good behavior rather
than an amazing resource available
to us for every day living whether we
are good or bad. The younger son failed
to value the bond of love until he was
at rock bottom. The older son
failed to understand that it was always
there. He didn't have to earn it. It wasn't
his reward for good behavior. His father's
love had been there for his benefit every
moment of his life.
The older son could have been celebrating
every day with his father. He worked
hard. He did all that was expected of him.
But he never said, "Hey, Dad, do you know
how much I love you? Let's have a party
to celebrate our relationship. You are an
awesome father and I just want you to know
it." What a party they could have had!
If the older brother had been able to
understand that love was a gift to be
shared - not a reward to be earned -
well, then he would have welcomed his
brother home too and helped his father throw
the party!
This little parable from Luke 15:11-32 is
full of other insights. I could preach on
this one story for the rest of my life. These
are only a few highlights which I thought
were good ones to share for Father's Day.
Our mortal fathers will have their faults
and flaws - ways in which they fall short
of God's capacity for love. But this secular
holiday - yes, it makes money for the card
manufacturers - but it is also a good excuse
to look at our Dad or the father figures in
our lives, to see what God sees in them
and to tell these fathering folks in our lives
how we see God in them. It may or may
not be a biological father - may not be any
relation at all - but someone who shared
love with us as the father in the parable does.
Someone who sometimes gives us exactly
what we ask for, lets us go off on our own
to learn from our own mistakes like the
father does for the youngest son.
Someone who has had patience with us,
is there for us day in and day out, someone
we failed to appreciate and/or to understand
as the older brother did for his father in this parable.
Someone who welcomes us home with open arms -
without the scolding or moralizing we deserve - but
instead throws a party and invites everyone to join in
the joyful celebration or our return and the love we
share.
Celebrate those someone's in your lives. And wish
them a Happy Father's Day.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Music! Music! Music!
Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,
to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak....
A bride mourning the death of her groom
says these words in Act 1, Scene 1 of
William Congreve's 1697 play, "The
Mourning Bride." It is often misquoted,
substituting beast for breast. Almeria,
the bride, is bemoaning the unrelenting
pain of her grief, curious as to why music
is not able to give her the healing peace
she seeks. Music is comforting.
Music may be soothing. It seeps right
into the depths of our souls. But music
cannot make the pain of grief
miraculously or magically disappear.
Nonetheless, it can and does distract
and delight us. Music can make a
happy occasion happier, a sad occasion
easier to bear.
In fact, Karl Paulknack concluded
in an article in the Christian Science Monitor
that we actually need music in order to survive.
"Music finds the invisible pieces inside our
hearts and souls...like a telescope that looks in
rather than out." As a singer and musician
myself, I agree with Mr. Paulknack's conclusion.
We each have our individual tastes in music.
Some love classical. Others love jazz, bluegrass,
or country. The all time favorite hymns like "How
Great Thou Art", "In the Garden" and "Amazing Grace"
please just about anyone. But no one style answers the
needs of everyone. In fact every generation's music tends
to offend the preceding generation. I clearly remember how
much my parents hated The Beatles. And their parents were
scandalized by the likes of Elvis Presley. Thank goodness,
we have an abundance of styles to soothe all the savage breasts
of any age throughout the world.
I can't remember life without music. As soon as
I came home from the hospital, Mom had me listening
to the radio. We loved the Jim Deline show on WSYR.
I learned to sing listening to the harmonies of Norma
and Sandy Bigtree. Even then, I wanted to sing like
them. I couldn't even talk yet. I memorized songs
as easily as I memorized the ABC's. Before I started
Kindergarten my repertoire of popular and Sunday
School songs was quite extensive.
My Aunt Frances lived in NYC. She had been
a missionary to the Philippines. I loved it when she
came home for a visit. She was my first piano teacher.
On the unheated porch at Grandma's house, with a
quite out of tune piano, she taught me to read music.
I can still play the first two songs she gave me to
learn.
In 2nd grade, Mrs. Kaltenbach and Mrs. Stauffer
taught us songs like "Oh My Papa" and the "Lichtensteiner
Polka" along with many others. I still remember all the
words to the Papa song but the German has evaporated.
This was in addition to a regular music class. We also
learned to square dance with these two teachers. We must
have been good because we got to appear on television. It
was the best year of elementary school for me because it was
the year with the most music.
The year I received a violin from my grandfather
and free lessons was memorable too. I was in fourth or
fifth grade. We got piano lessons whenever Mom and Dad
had enough money. This meant a trip to the big city of
Oneida. Mom would drop us - and our $3 each - off at Doris
Rhinehart's house on Stone Street. We'd get to read comic
books and pet her Dalmation "Pepper" while the others played
their scales and lesson pieces. I took more lessons at Crane
School of Music in Potsdam after I was married. It was hard
for me to understand why I couldn't have had lessons all the
time. It is a regret with which I have had to make my peace.
In Junior High, I was blessed to be offered free organ
lessons. The catch was that I had to agree to become the next
church organist so that my teacher, Arlene Alger could retire
and get married. I not only became the organist for the United
Methodist Church but also played for the Presbyterians. In fact,
they paid better. I earned $3 a week for my church and a whopping
$5 a Sunday from the Presbyterians. I played until I went off to
college. I didn't pick up the organ playing again until I needed
a paying job to help pay for seminary. I was a church organist
again for two of the three years of seminary. By the third year
I was a supply pastor.
As a pastor there was precious little time to play piano or
organ. But I count it as one of my blessings that I was able to
play for a few months for the Trinity Episcopal Church in Gouverneur.
Their organ was nearly identical to the one on which I first learned
to play - and, except for one hymn which it ended up that none
of us really knew - I hope that the music soothed listeners' souls
as much as it did mine as I played.
Recently I've started using those performance trax CD's and
learning NEW songs!!! What fun! It can take me as long as a
year to get a song performance ready. I will always regret not
learning to sing professionally too. When my thyroid was removed
in 1978, the vocal chords were scraped and damaged. There was
no way of knowing if the damage was permanent. I had no voice
at all for more than six months - six very frustrating months.
Fran, my daughter, was a toddler - an active, always getting
into trouble toddler. I had to wear a whistle around my neck
in order to keep her little butt safe and sound. I made a deal
with God - I know, we're not supposed to do that but I wasn't a
pastor then and I didn't know any better.
I told God that if my voice returned, I would learn to sing.
Eventually my voice did return and I did manage to get in a year's
worth of voice lessons before the divorce. When I first joined the
choir at the church in Norwood, my voice could barely be heard and
I was terrified of solos. Now I'll sing at the drop of a hat, don't
usually need a mike and the more solos the better. Many thanks to
Sandy Richards for giving me that first solo and encouraging me to
sing.
All of which brings me to the purpose of all these music, music,
music memories. Four years ago, I had this vision of a tent meeting
taking place at the Pennellville UMC. It was NOT a fundraiser. It
was an evangelism event!!! Music! Music! Music! I woke up all
excited. The excitement died in the face of reality. How could
we ever do such a thing? It was just a dream. And I put it in the
back of my mind. Two years ago, we had an ecumenical Lenten
study group. We shared visions God had given us. And when I
shared mine, the response was - "why can't you do it???" "Just
do it!"
I nearly gave up twice because no one was showing up at
planning meetings. One of the last things Dorothy Bell shared
with me was how excited she was about this event happening in
Pennellville. I didn't have the heart to tell her I had given
up. After she died last December, I called one more meeting
and FINALLY we got plans off the ground.
It has taken two years but the tents are rented. The
portapotties are due to be delivered. And the following music
groups have agreed to perform: Tired Hands String Band,
Diamond Someday, The Atkinson Family, Dennis Shortslef,
Les and Linda Green. Chris McCabe, Diana Gardiner and myself
will be filling in between groups. And Alice Popps will do a
couple of Native American dances around supper time. Watch for
more publicity of this event!
Meanwhile mark your calendar for Saturday, August 1, 2009
and head for 389 County Route 54. There will be music from
noon until 9 p.m. We hope to end with a bonfire and a singalong.
There will be music! music! music! Hopefully, this day will
soothe many a savage breast - and folks will leave with serenity filled
souls. Music does indeed have magical and miraculous charms
to add to anyone's daily life. And some of us wholeheartedly believe
that we need music in order to survive. Spiritually speaking, music
is simply good for the soul!
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Real Memorial Day
May 25, 2009
Lilacs, lilies of the valley, American flags placed on the
graves of Veterans, red paper poppies for sale, parades
and picnics - all are associated with our celebration of
Memorial Day. The Indianapolis 500 has been part of this
holiday since 1911. Most of us view it as the unofficial
beginning of summer. It is also the most dangerous season
for car accidents. There were and still are major objections to
observing it on a Monday instead of it's traditional observance
on May 30th.
According to Prof. David Blight of Yale University, the first
Memorial Day was observed by freed slaves just
after the Civil War in 1865. It was at a race track
in Charleston, SC which was also the site of a
prison camp. There was a mass grave for the
Union soldiers who had died in captivity. This
group of newly liberated men and women took on
the task of digging individual graves and reburying
the dead soldiers. This was a daring and dangerous
enterprise for freed slaves to do in the South.
Three years later they returned to place flowers on
those graves. There was a parade, patriotic singing
and a picnic. They called it Decoration Day.
It was May 30, 1868.
Northerners credit Waterloo, NY with first celebrating
Memorial Day on May 5, 1866. General John A. Logan
issued a proclamation on behalf of the Grand Army of
the Republic - a veterans' group - that Decoration Day
become a national observance. It was first observed
on May 30, 1866. The date was chosen because it
was NOT the anniversary of a battle. The graves of
Union soldiers were decorated in remembrance of their
sacrifice. Waterloo's role in creating this holiday was
nationally recognized by official proclamation signed
by then President Lyndon B. Johnson on May 26, 1966.
The alternate name of "Memorial Day" did not appear
until 1882. It did not become the official name until
1967. Four years later the date was moved from
May 30th to the last Monday in May. Hence we will
celebrate it on Monday, May 25th this year.
For me, this holiday is also associated with my
mother's death. We had all been home for the
holiday. We had watched the local parades
which we had been part of as children. We
heard the 21 gun salute coming from the cemetery.
Then we went home for a picnic lunch. It was
the last time we were all together.
In December of 2000, the U.S. Congress passed
"The National Moment of Remembrance Act."
It is meant to encourage the people of the United
States to give time, talent and money to their
country which affords them the freedom and
opportunities of living in a democracy. We are
asked to pause, wherever we are at 3 p.m. on
Memorial Day for a minute of silence to remember
those who have died in service to this nation.
This year we need to give special attention and
appreciation to the young men and women who
have fallen in Afghanistan and Iraq. It is good to
solemnly remember the dead - especially as a
nation - all together on the same day. It is also
good to say thank you to those who have returned
from battle alive, as well as those who are
still fighting.
Let us remember our history and be grateful for our freedom.
Let us celebrate the present with our loved ones, sharing
all the joy and gratitude we can.
Let us pray for our future with all the wisdom and grace we
can muster.
Have a blessed Memorial Day!
Drive safely and those who live in Phoenix, NY
wish Mary Earle a Happy Birthday
on the "real" Memorial Day - May 30th.
Lilacs, lilies of the valley, American flags placed on the
graves of Veterans, red paper poppies for sale, parades
and picnics - all are associated with our celebration of
Memorial Day. The Indianapolis 500 has been part of this
holiday since 1911. Most of us view it as the unofficial
beginning of summer. It is also the most dangerous season
for car accidents. There were and still are major objections to
observing it on a Monday instead of it's traditional observance
on May 30th.
According to Prof. David Blight of Yale University, the first
Memorial Day was observed by freed slaves just
after the Civil War in 1865. It was at a race track
in Charleston, SC which was also the site of a
prison camp. There was a mass grave for the
Union soldiers who had died in captivity. This
group of newly liberated men and women took on
the task of digging individual graves and reburying
the dead soldiers. This was a daring and dangerous
enterprise for freed slaves to do in the South.
Three years later they returned to place flowers on
those graves. There was a parade, patriotic singing
and a picnic. They called it Decoration Day.
It was May 30, 1868.
Northerners credit Waterloo, NY with first celebrating
Memorial Day on May 5, 1866. General John A. Logan
issued a proclamation on behalf of the Grand Army of
the Republic - a veterans' group - that Decoration Day
become a national observance. It was first observed
on May 30, 1866. The date was chosen because it
was NOT the anniversary of a battle. The graves of
Union soldiers were decorated in remembrance of their
sacrifice. Waterloo's role in creating this holiday was
nationally recognized by official proclamation signed
by then President Lyndon B. Johnson on May 26, 1966.
The alternate name of "Memorial Day" did not appear
until 1882. It did not become the official name until
1967. Four years later the date was moved from
May 30th to the last Monday in May. Hence we will
celebrate it on Monday, May 25th this year.
For me, this holiday is also associated with my
mother's death. We had all been home for the
holiday. We had watched the local parades
which we had been part of as children. We
heard the 21 gun salute coming from the cemetery.
Then we went home for a picnic lunch. It was
the last time we were all together.
In December of 2000, the U.S. Congress passed
"The National Moment of Remembrance Act."
It is meant to encourage the people of the United
States to give time, talent and money to their
country which affords them the freedom and
opportunities of living in a democracy. We are
asked to pause, wherever we are at 3 p.m. on
Memorial Day for a minute of silence to remember
those who have died in service to this nation.
This year we need to give special attention and
appreciation to the young men and women who
have fallen in Afghanistan and Iraq. It is good to
solemnly remember the dead - especially as a
nation - all together on the same day. It is also
good to say thank you to those who have returned
from battle alive, as well as those who are
still fighting.
Let us remember our history and be grateful for our freedom.
Let us celebrate the present with our loved ones, sharing
all the joy and gratitude we can.
Let us pray for our future with all the wisdom and grace we
can muster.
Have a blessed Memorial Day!
Drive safely and those who live in Phoenix, NY
wish Mary Earle a Happy Birthday
on the "real" Memorial Day - May 30th.
How Does Your Garden Grow?
May 18, 2009
How Does Your Garden Grow?
Gardening is an exercise in optimism.
Marina Schinz, photographer and author
I went to the garden store on one of those
warm days. Now it is cold. I've got a little
red wagon filled with plants. I've got my first ever
topsy turvy planter holding an unsuspecting
tomato plant. I can't wait to see if it's really
as good and as easy as those infomercials
proclaim it to be. I'm going to try a cucumber
vine in the other one I bought.
I've got one quarter of my flower beds dug up
and ready for new plants. I'm scratching my head
trying to remember the name of the plants which
I planted last year. Some are quite prolific.
They are filling in just as I wanted them to do.
I don't suppose it matters if I know what they
are in the grand scheme of things. I'll just
enjoy watching them grow and be pleasantly
surprised when they are all grown up for this
season. Maybe by then I'll remember what they
are.
I've got fresh rhubarb. The plants I brought
here from Dad's three years ago have finally
established themselves. The lilacs are in
full bloom under my bedroom window along
with the lilies of the valley. I wish it would
warm up so I could have the window open
and drink in their scents, especially first thing
in the morning. Ferns are unfolding in their
shady nooks too - all that I didn't accidentally
massacre with the weedwhacker last week.
Every year I am determined to buy a trellis
for the wild blackberry bushes. I think of this
when I am hanging out clothes and those little
thorns grab my clothes and leave painful
scratches on any exposed skin. Maybe this
will be the year I actully accomplish this
task.
I'm trying to fill in the flower beds with perennials
to minimize the care needed. But gladioli and
iris - and dahlias when I plant them - they all need
to be dug up and replanted each year. I'm not
good at doing that. Kneeling is already impossible.
Bending over is easier now that I exercise regularly
but gardening gets more labor intensive with each
passing year.
I've got my basket of pansies from Easter which
I have managed to keep alive. I have the haul
from my trip to the garden store which patiently
waits for their place in the sun. I have two broccoli
plants which a friend gave me. I have several
packets of sunflower seeds which I hope will have
a chance to grow rather than ending up in a
squirrel, chipmunk or bird's stomach.
Thanks to Jim Faulise, my sunflower mailbox is
back in service. Thanks to Ryan Wood, the lawn
finally got mowed. Hopefully, we'll keep ahead of
the grass from now on The rest of the work at hand
is up to me. In fact, I should be out there working
instead of writing about working. The weeds are
already winning in the front flowerbeds.
I cheated this year. Last year I started things
early from seed. This year I bought one of those patio
cherry tomato plants. It is loaded with green tomatoes.
In fact there are two of them almost ripe enough to pop
in my mouth.
Although most of what I plant fails to grow as
bountifully and beautifully as the pictures in the
garden magazines, I will do it every year for as
long as I can move. I do like exercising optimism.
One of my success stories is my super-size milkweed
plants. I fed them Miracle-Gro one year and now I have
a bumper crop. I have to warn those who like to pull weeds,
that the milkweed growing in MY garden does NOT
get pulled. Milkweed attracts monarch butterflies,
which proves to be delightfully entertaining.
I wholeheartedly agree with Maria - the photographer
and author quoted above - "gardening is an exercise
in optimism." It requires rigorous physical exercise
to get things in the ground and to keep the weeds
at bay. But it is sheer, soul filling joy to watch
everything grow and bloom as the summer progresses.
Even though it is only in the sixties and breezy today,
Memorial Day is not far away. Excuse me now, I have to
go exercise my optimism. I may have to wear my long johns
and a flannel shirt to keep warm, but I've got lots to do -
and, for the moment, optimism to spare and share.
Happy Gardening!
How Does Your Garden Grow?
Gardening is an exercise in optimism.
Marina Schinz, photographer and author
I went to the garden store on one of those
warm days. Now it is cold. I've got a little
red wagon filled with plants. I've got my first ever
topsy turvy planter holding an unsuspecting
tomato plant. I can't wait to see if it's really
as good and as easy as those infomercials
proclaim it to be. I'm going to try a cucumber
vine in the other one I bought.
I've got one quarter of my flower beds dug up
and ready for new plants. I'm scratching my head
trying to remember the name of the plants which
I planted last year. Some are quite prolific.
They are filling in just as I wanted them to do.
I don't suppose it matters if I know what they
are in the grand scheme of things. I'll just
enjoy watching them grow and be pleasantly
surprised when they are all grown up for this
season. Maybe by then I'll remember what they
are.
I've got fresh rhubarb. The plants I brought
here from Dad's three years ago have finally
established themselves. The lilacs are in
full bloom under my bedroom window along
with the lilies of the valley. I wish it would
warm up so I could have the window open
and drink in their scents, especially first thing
in the morning. Ferns are unfolding in their
shady nooks too - all that I didn't accidentally
massacre with the weedwhacker last week.
Every year I am determined to buy a trellis
for the wild blackberry bushes. I think of this
when I am hanging out clothes and those little
thorns grab my clothes and leave painful
scratches on any exposed skin. Maybe this
will be the year I actully accomplish this
task.
I'm trying to fill in the flower beds with perennials
to minimize the care needed. But gladioli and
iris - and dahlias when I plant them - they all need
to be dug up and replanted each year. I'm not
good at doing that. Kneeling is already impossible.
Bending over is easier now that I exercise regularly
but gardening gets more labor intensive with each
passing year.
I've got my basket of pansies from Easter which
I have managed to keep alive. I have the haul
from my trip to the garden store which patiently
waits for their place in the sun. I have two broccoli
plants which a friend gave me. I have several
packets of sunflower seeds which I hope will have
a chance to grow rather than ending up in a
squirrel, chipmunk or bird's stomach.
Thanks to Jim Faulise, my sunflower mailbox is
back in service. Thanks to Ryan Wood, the lawn
finally got mowed. Hopefully, we'll keep ahead of
the grass from now on The rest of the work at hand
is up to me. In fact, I should be out there working
instead of writing about working. The weeds are
already winning in the front flowerbeds.
I cheated this year. Last year I started things
early from seed. This year I bought one of those patio
cherry tomato plants. It is loaded with green tomatoes.
In fact there are two of them almost ripe enough to pop
in my mouth.
Although most of what I plant fails to grow as
bountifully and beautifully as the pictures in the
garden magazines, I will do it every year for as
long as I can move. I do like exercising optimism.
One of my success stories is my super-size milkweed
plants. I fed them Miracle-Gro one year and now I have
a bumper crop. I have to warn those who like to pull weeds,
that the milkweed growing in MY garden does NOT
get pulled. Milkweed attracts monarch butterflies,
which proves to be delightfully entertaining.
I wholeheartedly agree with Maria - the photographer
and author quoted above - "gardening is an exercise
in optimism." It requires rigorous physical exercise
to get things in the ground and to keep the weeds
at bay. But it is sheer, soul filling joy to watch
everything grow and bloom as the summer progresses.
Even though it is only in the sixties and breezy today,
Memorial Day is not far away. Excuse me now, I have to
go exercise my optimism. I may have to wear my long johns
and a flannel shirt to keep warm, but I've got lots to do -
and, for the moment, optimism to spare and share.
Happy Gardening!
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