Another childhood picture

Twelve years old,
apron on, making dinner,
younger children wait.

Dinner finished,
Bathtime finished, bedtime story
Then a book to read.

Up until midnight,
cup of tea, dinner ready,
waiting for Mom.

Childhood stories

Two sisters sit
Underneath shared quilts
Telling stories
Outside, the winds howl and moan
Blowing high drifted snow.

Just Plain Furious

As if it weren't bad enough that we are abusing our military through more and more frequent deployments, now we discover that funds raised for veterans are being frittered away. This really makes me angry. Hasn't this war stolen enough?

Over the weekend, someone asked me what my dad thinks of the war. I trotted out my standard response that I really can't be his spokesman, for fear of oversimplifying his thoughts - but I also pointed out that one of the things he's talked about since getting back is the level of profiteering off the misery of this war.

And I felt odd, out of place, cold. The table was full of holiday cheer - Holy Day cheer - candles, special foods, made this one season in the year, cookies and even my candies were there, festive tableware, a special centerpiece, everyone dressed colorfully. Everyone looking forward to the gifts that would come out after dessert. The room was full of joy and fellowship, but I was talking about death and misery and the pathetic mindset that looks at that and sees opportunities for profit.

I said afterwards to my husband that I wasn't sure whether they'd wanted the answer they got, but how could I say anything else? He pointed out to me that I was alone in that room in being related to a soldier, that it's important for others to hear the real story, because it's not being told in the places it should be told.

One of my favorite stories is the one about a worthless item that turns out to be a precious gift: the hospitality of Baucis and Philemon, the fool of Notre Dame (part of the inspiration for my blog's name), the clockmaker who brings only a sandwich to the offeratory, having sold the beautiful clock he had intended to give in order to support his neighbor. I agree with O. Henry. These are the gifts of the Magi, the gift of love. Often, it's a hard gift to give. We can't know how it will be received, or what the result will be. All we can do is give in hope and trust.

I'm back.

Caught up on my rest some after the grand train adventure. We wound up going sleeper car both ways, and it was lovely. While the "roomette" accomodations are indeed tiny (there was essentially no room for more than my husband's messenger bag, my small handwork bag, our coats and our two selves), they were plenty comfortable, with room to stretch out a little, a fold-out table, and a tiny closet. Meals were included, and while the selection was limited (it might be difficult to maintain a strict diet for more than a day on board), the service was prompt and the food reasonably tasty.

And they provided a space to go for quiet. While we enjoyed meeting many people over meals, it was also nice to be able to go to our own space and shut the door. In the dining car, we met train enthusiasts, a Katrina relief worker and his wife travelling to relatives, a professional dancer on vacation, a woman travelling to a school reunion and other interesting people.

I think if I were travelling with children, the train would have to be my first choice - on our way out, there were two infants on the same car with us, and a family with children. Unlike air travel, there were no major pressure adjustments, even as we travelled through the Appalachian mountains, since we mostly rode along the valleys. There was room to move about for the older children, and even my husband and I found ourselves practically glued to the windows, stopping only to sleep and eat.

The scenery was fabulous: from rolling hills and tumbling rivers to the vast open expanses of the Plains. At night, we found ourselves watching the Christmas decorations flow by. One house was plainly waiting for the train, because as we passed, they blinked the lights and waved to us. On the way back, we were able to tell when we passed the Eastern Great Divide, simply by watching the waters beside us - and watching the Potomac turn from a tiny mountain stream to the churning whitewater near Harper's Ferry was incredible.

Frequently, we found ourselves saying, "That town looks interesting. Can you tell where we are?" We were grateful for local businesses, because they often incorporate the name of the area, or prominant local features. Also, they were often nicer to look at.

As we left Chicago, we passed a large shipping yard and were simply blown away by the volume of freight containers - One part, we weren't sure - was that a warehouse made of freight containers, or simply a stack? We found ourselves thinking about the incredible wealth of a nation that produces those vast yards of food and goods. How can it be possible that we have created a system where so many lack basic heathcare? How could that happen?

Frequently, especially in some of those small towns, or along the rocky gorges of the Appalachians, we found ourselves wishing we could somehow both ride the train to see what comes next, and also that we could get out and explore the treasures that we passed...

I guess what I'm saying is... Wow, what a ride!

Banjo adventures update

The banjo lessons have resumed after a break for my instructor to go on his summer vacation, and I've improved tremendously during the break. "Skip to My Lou" is playing smoothly and I managed to keep good enough time on it to do a duet with my instructor of "Skip to my Lou" on banjo and guitar. Woot! "Polly Wolly Doodle" is where "Skip to My Lou" was before the break - I've got the notes and the note values, now I need to work on smooth transitions and steady timing. Chord transitions are going better, too, enough so that I'm learning 2 more chords in preparation for learning "Oh, Susannah" perhaps as early as next week. And another chord or two, "just because".

And some of the "tricks" I've been learning as "breaks" from actually concentrating on getting those chord transitions perfect are really shaping up, too. I've got this cool blues slide that I've learned how to do on the banjo, but no song to put it in, which is a serious pity as it sounds so nifty that it's hard to believe that *I* made that happen. And the new chords are minor chords, so I got some musical theory thown into this lesson, which has made practicing my strumming that much more interesting. (And given me a couple of variations on the chords I already knew to play around with. Just messing around with open G can be more entertaining than I'd ever have believed when I first tried strumming out a song.)

The only bad part is that it is really hard to put the banjo down some mornings and get myself to work. I'm really looking forward to this weekend's camping with the banjo along. If the weather is nice, I'll be hiking and paddling about with a cheap pair of binoculars along for wildlife watching. And if we get confined to the lovely new tent, I'll be sitting in the vestibule, watching the rain and playing the banjo.

Just writing that last bit reminded me of the one and only time I've ever been to New Orleans. It was over 10 years ago, and I went there with my mom and my sister, visiting my dad who was on a nearby base. While I am so not a morning person, my sister is and so we found ourselves up and moving rather earlier than I might have chosen by myself. We decided to grab some breakfast at the Cafe du Monde (Menu: coffee, beignets - a sort of flat donutish pastry, and fresh orange juice. Mmmm.)

When we got there, the river was still covered in morning mist and the city wasn't really awake, but the great thing about the Cafe du Monde is that it is basically an open pavillion where you can people watch or whatever, so we sipped our chicory coffee and juice, ate pastries, and watched the French Quarter wake up. About halfway though, rain started to fall. It went from a few tentative drops to a deluge in about 10 seconds, and the next thing we knew, there was a sax player taking refuge under the overhang. And he was *good*. The rain was his personal rhythm section, and he played music that dodged between the raindrops, climbed to the clouds, fell to the ground, and became the mist wrapping us each about. He played the river and the city, the heat and the cool mist, the rain and the warm coffee. When the rain passed again, he began to gather up his case and his hat, but we made sure to get out there in time to leave our contribution to this artist.

Part of me, though, has ever since heard a sax playing bluesy jazz in every good rain storm.

Aunt Joyce

Florida wet air
Hanging hot and languid
Over the river.

Bored children fuss
Wishing the pool had water
Despite gathered clouds

Aunt Joyce sweeps dullness
Up the banana tree,
Out the front door.

Aunt Joyce tells stories.
Sneaky gator in the pool,
Wishes he could leave.

How did he get out?
Curious children demand.
Eyes big, breath held.

Big ole gator jaw
Bit the swimming pool ladder
And flip! Out he came!

Aunt Joyce has magic
To make a little gator
Live in fantasy.

Vulnerability

Over at Peterson Toscano's blog, he has a a post on the power and vulnerability of sharing stories. His post specifically addresses the situation of people who have gone through ex-gay programs, but it spoke to the vulnerability I have sometimes felt as I posted some of the most difficult moments of the last year.

Recently, another regular reader wrote to me that my descriptions had taken her on an emotional journey as she followed my posts on the day-to-day waiting through my dad's deployment. And I found myself glad that I could share the deep tenderness and vulnerability of the wait, the fear, the fierce gladness of occasional contacts, the sadness and worry of hearing each time of another death, the heartsickness of not knowing, and the necessity of "sucking up and soldiering on."

I can remember wandering around a farm market in PA this February, clutching a cell phone, wondering whether I was really there or just some kind of wandering spirit, lost among the colorful quilts and hothoused produce... Dad's voice had a 5-second lag, as it was transmitted from him to a satellite to the phone in my hand, and I could hear that the concept of "home" didn't seem to mean much to him. He asked for descriptions of the market, and told me about the anguish of not being able to carry out a soldier's body, despite the requests of the rest of the troop, because it would have robbed precious seconds from his just barely living comrade, and possibly endangered the rescue mission.

But the one thing not in Iraq that did seem real to him was the blanket I'd made. He wanted to hear the names of every single person who had worked on it, the colors, the stitches. So, there I was, feeling like my spirit wasn't in the room, but was trying to be transmitted by sattelite, trying to give him the life, the calmness of the farm market, that seemed just out of reach for me, as well.

I want people to understand the costs of this war, not just intellectually, but with the wrench in the gut, the pure misery of that half hour, the sorrow of watching my dad flinch when a hummer drove past the restaurant we were eating in last summer, or hearing how he dropped to the floor, rolling under a desk when the heating system in his office kicked in, just before he was deployed again.

And I know that some of what I write can't be easy to read. Most Americans, it feels like, don't want to really understand what we're paying. As I was hearing my mom tell me that my dad had landed in Kuwait, I could also hear a couple of my coworkers discussing the latest "American Idol" and that also felt unreal. Is there really a world where my mom and I are sharing that heartfelt relief while someone else is discussing this total irrelevancy? Or is it that mine is the irrelevancy?

Over the weekend, Cindy Sheehan declared herself to be burnt out, and I really am not surprised. It's hard to even share my story, and hers... well, carrying on with only a small blog and a living soldier is hard enough for me. Dealing with the death of her son in the full glare of the spotlight must have been... oy.

But I do not agree with her analysis that this is it. I believe that her exhaustion and grief have led her to despair, but that only makes it more important for other stories to come forward, for people to understand that it's not just one story, it's all the stories. It's the story of thousands of families like mine, living with grinding fear. It's the story of every single soldier who has died in this conflict. It is the story of every single soldier who has returned wounded in body or soul. It is the story of every single Iraqi. Period. It is the story of what we could do, if we used the resources of this country properly rather than for personal enrichment at the cost of blood. It is the fact that every single military family, every Iraqi, every American has been sold for thirty pieces of silver, and it is a story that needs to be told.

Deliberate ignorance

One of the things that just about anyone who lives in or near a tourist town grows accustomed to is that you end up playing tour guide pretty regularly. Visiting friends and family will ask what's good and what isn't, how to get places, and so on and so forth. And then, of course, there are the lost tourists. "No, ma'am, you can still catch the right train. Just get off of this one and the next one on the track will take you there. If you can, sit facing forward on the left and you'll see a really great view of the monuments when you cross the river." I've given advice on the proper train station to take to get to the zoo, the Smithsonian museums, and somewhere good for dinner.

So yesterday, when my husband found himself helping a lost tourist and her son, he was pretty used to the situation. "No, ma'am, the Smithsonian doesn't cost to get in. If you've paid your taxes, you've helped to support the Smithsonian." And then she asked for advice - where should she take her young son who likes to run around? Well, of course, there's always the zoo - wide open and built on Rock Creek Gorge, so plenty of terrain to wear him out. Oh, and there are animals to see, too. But there's a storm coming soon, so you might want to consider some of the indoor stuff to see. The Natural History Museum is fun and has an elephant right by the main entrance.

And then she asked the question that floored him. "Does it have a lot of evolution in there?"

And when he told me the story, I found myself wanting to respond - Yes, and conservation of momentum, gravity, and basic thermodynamics, too. If you want to avoid the "evolution" bits, consider heading for the anthropological exhibits, the hall of minerals, and the cafeteria. I believe the elephant is "safe", though you probably want to avoid the dinosaurs and the ancient seas exhibits. Or maybe you just want to avoid anything that might help your son to think for himself, in which case, I heartily recommend the play area at McDonalds.

Gah!

How much else of interest is she avoiding by wishing to avoid one scientific theory?

A storytelling family

One of my favorite Nasruddin stories concerns the time he went to a conference of mystics. Now, the fellow who organized this conference was a very serious man. He liked things to be talked about in a sober and intellectual way, and so he invited some of the most respected experts in one thing and another to come to his town and hold a conference.

Nobody really knows how Nasruddin got an invitation to this sort of a thing, but he did. Well, he showed up, anyway. And he was wearing the robes he wore to teach in mosques instead of the rather more threadbare robe he wore to teach in the marketplace, so the fellow in charge let him in, but made sure he was seated as far as possible from the most learned, most respected fellows at the head of the hall.

Now, it was so serious, and so very intellectual a discussion that was going on there that the sound wasn't carrying far, and Nasruddin couldn't hear a thing. Did he let this bother him? You can bet that he didn't, of course. No, he sat down on the floor in the corner and began telling jokes and stories. In very short order, some of the people who were closest by him and couldn't really hear what was going on either came over to listen to the jokes and stories and they began laughing and slapping their knees, until more people came over to see what the commotion was.

Nasruddin just kept telling stories. And pretty soon, there was a large group of people straining to hear the jokes, while people repeated some of the stories and punchlines for the folks further back. Well, this couldn't be allowed to go on at such a serious conference, and so the organizer came over to shush them, saying "How will you know what is going on at the head of the hall?"

Nasruddin took notice now, and waved his arms at all the people who had gathered to hear his jokes. "From where *I'm* sitting, *this* looks like the head of the hall."


I'm from a storytelling family. Off the top of my head, I can name several writers, poets, and tellers of very tall tales. ("Now, you have to understand that I was glad the UFO landed in the lower field, because it distracted the Canadian invasion force that had come down the Mississippi...") When we all get together, we tell stories, play Scrabble, and eat a lot. In summer, there's fishing and swimming, too.

And that's why, in some ways, the blanket I am helping to make for my dad has become almost as much a thing of myth as a thing of wool, even before it's finished.

There are a gazillion different types of square - knit, crocheted, straight stitches, textured stitches, lace stitches, hand-felted squares, lopsided squares, very straight squares. And the colors: variegated yarns in different shades ranging from a sort of grey with subtle hints of many other colors to an exuberant blend of turquoise and purple, and plain colors -purples, reds, golds, blues, greens, and the black that edges every piece so they will fit together. There is camel hair, alpaca, merino wool, mohair, angora, and a few strands of people's hair that have fallen in. There is commercial yarn and handspun, hand-dyed yarn. There's even a bit of fiber made from soybeans in there.

The crafters range from a woman who professionally knits and crochets shawls to a woman who just learned to crochet so that she could participate. We have people from across the country participating - there are people making squares in Colorado and Kentucky. One square was worked in Boston. My mom came in for a swearing-in for the new Congress and crocheted a square while she was here and my mother-in-law is bringing a square from Chicago to go in. And as we've worked, we've told stories: happy stories, sad stories, stories about storytelling, and stories about music. I've told stories about my dad, for whom the blanket is destined, and stories that he told me once upon a time, and stories that I know he'd like.

And I'd like to think that somehow all those stories are being literally captured and knitted right into the fabric of the blanket itself, that maybe under that blanket, he'll dream of us all, sitting in front of the fire, telling stories and laughing, and all the time praying that he can come back to the head of the hall where we're waiting for him.

Dr. Martin Luther King Day reflections*

I can still remember it. We had come to Washington, D.C. and were visiting the monuments and museums. We had been to the Air and Space Museum, where we'd looked at a space capsule and watched the film about the Enola Gay. We'd been out to Arlington, where we had watched the solemn Changing of the Guard and visited the Kennedy graves. I have to admit, I was probably a little bit young to be much affected by the Kennedy graves, though I was amazed at all the little white stones over those low slopes.

And here we were, standing on yet another set of grey marble stairs, looking up at a giant seated Lincoln, sternly gazing out from his marble canopy. And my dad was drawing for my little brother and me a vivid word picture of a huge crowd gathered to hear a speech given there. And he told us how he'd seen that speech on television, halfway across the country in a small community hospital while recovering from a broken leg, and how he'd known that he was being called to help make the world a better place to be. He didn't yet know how - that came later, but he knew that he needed to make the world a better place.

There is a story that once upon a time, the Baal Shem Tov, a Jewish mystic, knew a secret place in the forest, where he would light a fire in a certain way and pray a certain prayer, and the Presence would come. In time, he died, but his students carried on, though they'd forgotten the exact place. Still, they lighted the fire and prayed the prayer, and still, the Presence came. In time, the fire was forgotten, but not the prayer, and still, the Presence came. Today, we have forgotten the place, the fire, and even the prayer, but we tell the story and it is enough.

As we stood on those steps, my dad told us the story of a speech, and how that speech had called him to respond to that Presence, and it was enough. I will not claim that that one moment was what resulted in how my siblings and I have turned out. It probably had a lot more to do with being raised to use our words, to believe in justice, in equality, that violence is not the answer, that every human being *deserves* access to food, shelter, medical care, security from intentional harm - not because they are especially good, or especially rich, or any of that, but because we are all human beings.

I was not alive to hear Dr. King in person. I have, of course, seen clips of that speech, heard them on the radio, read a transcript, and seen the pictures. But it was though the living story that my dad told us that day on those steps, and through the way my parents tried to live by those ideals that they shared with Dr. King that I was given the gift to hear the Presence that was in that speech. And I pray that it is enough to keep it alive in me.

* Okay, so I'm a day late in actually writing them down, but I was thinking them through yesterday.

A fable for today

This story goes back a long way, to the time of Francis of Assisi, who was born into a wealthy family, and who lived the life of a very privileged young man until one day he listened to the Spirit telling him to live in a very different way. He gave up the clothing, the web of aristocratic connections and paybacks that were common in Italy in the Middle Ages, the life of idleness and wealth he'd been born to, and ministered to the folks at the bottom, seeing that Spirit everywhere, in people, in the rain that soaked him and in the sun that dried him, in the birds of the air and the beasts of the field.

Around the same time, far away in Persia, there lived a very different man, named Jelal ud-Din Rumi, who was born the son of a mystic. When he was a boy, he was introduced to the most famous mystic of that age who pronounced a blessing on this boy. Rumi began to show that he, like his father, would be a mystic.

And one day, he met a man named Shams. His friendship and love for Shams became so intense that he called Shams his Beloved. And in learning to love Shams so unreservedly, he too came to love the Spirit of God moving in the world. One day, Shams was murdered, but by then the love between these two men was so great that the spirit of Shams did not leave Rumi, but taught him an even greater love, reflected in the poetry he has left us.

Now, there is a story that the followers of Rumi tell about a man who came to Rumi for healing. He was covered in sores and was naturally very upset about it. Rumi looked deep into the man's soul and told him, once you journeyed over the sea to the Christian countries, and there you saw a Christian mystic in the street. You kicked him, and it has left a mark on your soul that will continue to give you sores until you journey back there and reconcile with the man. Well, this fellow wasn't too happy about it, but he was amazed that Rumi could know about this, and so he set out to find the Christian beggar he had kicked. He found Francis and was amazed to find that Francis fully forgave him, so he stayed to learn from Francis for a time. Eventually, he returned to Persia, and became one of the followers of Rumi who said that these two shared a friendship that transcended space and time.

Don't you think it's time we caught up with the Middle Ages?

(Or even with my favorite Crusade, the one that never happened? Frederick II was commanded by Pope Innocent III to go out and smite the infidel... and well, Frederick interpreted this command as more of a guideline, shall we say. And achieved more by words than any Crusade achieved by force of arms.)