Jody

As I write, I'm visiting my parents in Indianapolis. It's the area where I grew up, and I can't help it that, when I walk around the area, I'm living in two times at once: the Indianapolis that exists now, and the Indianapolis in 1974 at the same time. I see all the changes that have happened over time, but I also see, very clearly, the way things used to be. My mom and dad were young and strong. I didn't think they were all that young at the time, but now I know that they were. The American people were prosperous, the middle class was strong, the war in Viet Nam was ending. People could find jobs--good paying jobs--without a lot of competition. If you had a job working as a UAW worker, you had it made with a big hourly pay and lots of benefits. A college education was affordable back then--down right cheap. I was off to Lincoln Christian College in the fall of that year. Tuition for me at that time was about three hundred dollars for the semester. I spent a few hundred more for my dorm and a meal ticket.

Now half of all Americans are either poor or low income. Good paying jobs are very hard to come by. If you start work as a UAW worker today, you get nine dollars an hour and no health insurance. If you start college today, you may find yourself in debt for the rest of your life. One grad class for me in Michigan is over 1500 dollars. That's about what my entire tuition for a semester at Indiana University was back in the 90's where I got my BA in English and Latin and did my Teaching Certification Program.

I am no longer 17 years old. I am 55, and the world has changed so very much.

I had a twilight zone experience the other day when I went to buy a "White Elephant" give for a coworker. I went to Goodwill and picked up a cheesy lamp for three bucks. When I went to pay, the clerk asked me if I was 55 or older, because I could get a senior discount. Without thinking I said, "no." My son with with me and laughed and said, "yes, he is." It was then that Rod Sterling stepped out from behind the counter and spoke to the television audience: "This is Mr. Ogle. When he walked into this store he was 17 years old. now he must confront the fact that he has just become a senior citizen living in third world America. He has two adult children who still need a lot of support, quite a few big bills, and he works 56 hours a week just to make ends meet...and now he must deal with the effects of...the Twilight Zone" And the music creeps up: Naw nee naw naw, naw nee naw naw....

Life is painful. I understand that. But why does it have to be soooo painful?

My dad took me to McDonald's this morning where he often goes to meet some other senior friends of his. It is his birthday today, but they must not know that since they don't greet him with a "Happy Birthday!" He's 81 and at this point in life, I wonder if anyone really want to be reminded of the fact.

Jody was working today. I know her from my high school years at Decatur Central. I found out that her husband, who is my age, has cancer. She said he went through one round of prostate cancer when he was 50. Now at 55 he is going through another round with a different cancer. The doctors, she says, don't know what it is. It is apparently rare and aggressive.

Jody greeted my father wit a lot of affection, rubbing his shoulders as he sat and ate. She's been there for years now--ever since that McDonald's opened up on the corner of 67 and High School Road. Dad has been going to meet his friends there for nearly as long as that, I think. Jody knows him well.

I haven't been following Facebook very much in recent weeks so when she first mentioned the cancer, I wasn't sure what to say since she had obviously posted some of the info on Facebook and I had either missed it or had forgotten that she had. Either way, I waited to see if I could figure out what was going on. She sat down and talked to us awhile. It is apparent that she needs to talk about the cancer thing, that that is restricted a bit by the social situation. I still listened and asked questions about it as much as I could. In another situation I would have talked and listened a lot longer. People need to talk about these things. She mentioned that sometimes at night, when she can't sleep, she would get up and write things down and that seems to help her sleep a lot better.

She showed me several pictures on her phone, starting with her wedding picture. She wore a white dress that looked a bit like a granny gown, and he war a suit and vest. His jacked had those really wide lapels and his hair was like a large Afro. It was easy to spot the era and it gave me a bit of whiplash when it jerked me back in time again to the 70's. She flipped through the pictures and showe me one of her husband on a motorcycle with a big beard and hair to match, and then finally to pictures of the recent cancer on his throat. "It's gotten wors since the picture was taken," she said. "He doesn't want people to see him like this because he's not sure how to react to them when they see it, but he doesn't seem to mind me letting them know by photos."

My heart really went out to her. She's such a good person. Why does life have to be sooo painful I ask myself again.

The conversation went in other directions since my dad and the others were around. Jody told a story about George, one of the other seniors that used to come there for coffee in the mornings with my father. George is dead now, but when he was dying, Jody said she got a call from him. "You'd think," he said to her on the phone, "that the manager of McDonalds would come and visit a regular customer on his death bead."

"What can I bring you, George?" she asked.

"How about a strawberry shake?" he answered.

jody took him a strawberry shake and visited with him several hours as he lay on his death bed.

I've reflected on that story since this morning--thought about it all day, in fact. I thought, what a remarkable person she must be, to have developed relationships like that; to have cared about these old seniors sitting around gabbing every morning. A wonderful, giving human being whose husband has come down with cancer a second time. Why, I wonder. I don't have an answer for what has been called "the problem of pain." there really isn't one. Life is full of pain, but what I am thankful for is that life also presents to us people like Jody. People whose hearts are full of love and care. People like Jody remind me that there is good in this world. Jody, I wish you the best. I will pray for you and your husband. Come what may, I want you to know that you give me the kind of hope I need this Christmas. I need to know that such things as love, kindness and compassion are still alive the way you have shown me in the few moments that you sat down with us today. I wish you well this holiday. God keep you.

St. Nicholas Day Boxes

When my children were little we observed St. Nicholas Day by having Elizabeth and Peter put their shoes out on the night of December fifth. They would put notes to St. Nicholas in the shoes and go to bed. That night we would take the notes (many of which I have saved), fill their shoes with candy, cookies and small toys. The next day they were very excited to find the treats in their shoes. But the shoes were little and couldn’t hold very much, so one year I hit on the idea of making special boxes with a picture of St. Nicholas. I drew the pictures and designs, painted my boxes, cut them out, and glued them together, then filled them with the cookies and treats.

Over the years I have made many boxes by hand, in many shapes and sizes. Now that my children are grown, I’ve altered things a bit. These last couple of years I decided to give boxes to my coworkers and friends as well, but making so many by hand would be quite a daunting task! So I made my usual artwork, but this time I reduced it all to fit on 8 ½ X 11 card stock and had them printed off. Then I cut them and assemble them in mass.St. Nicholas Day is a big event. Often I would read one of my three Peter the Pirate stories involving St. Nicholas to the family. Two of them I have posted on the sidebar of my blog, if you are interested. The middle story I’m still working on for the audio version. (Didn’t have it ready for this year either.)

We have emphasized St. Nicholas over Santa Clause because Santa is just a little to commercial for our taste and we like the connection to a real person who lived in the fourth century and who exemplifies generosity and compassion.

I thought I would share this year’s box with you all. I miss the times when our children were little and the excitement and expectation they had then. Elizabeth is a college and I hope she sees, in this blog, what she has to look forward to. I really miss her today. So Elizabeth, if you catch my blog, Happy St. Nicholas Day to you, and to everyone else as well!

The Texture of Autumn

I am often torn between empiricism and transcendentalism. A mouthful of words there, but that’s about as pithy as I can get. Why do human beings look at a year with its four seasons and so easily see it as a metaphor for a human life cycle. The seasons are the result of the tilt of the earth as it orbits the sun, aren’t they? Less light and colder weather triggers trees to shut down for the winter. Trees don’t really die; they simply lose their leaves as sap flow is conserved for the tree to weather the winter. Nothing metaphorical about it. There is no universal being sending us messages through nature about life.

But I just can’t help it. It seems too apparent that Spring (I capitalize seasons, get used to it), is like birth and growth; Summer like the productive years of a human adulthood; Autumn, in the brevity of its glory, is so much like old age and dying; and Winter is like Death. To walk under a tree that is exploding with yellow and peach and not feel a change in mood is impossible for me. And, I know I’m crazy, but, when I’m alone in the woods, I often have to stop and feel the bark of a tree. I feel the texture, but I also imagine that I feel the spirit of the tree, like a heart beat, and I feel that I communicate with the tree and know that the message comes from the roots and the soil and the moisture and the sun in the leaves and the wind in the branches and I find that heaven and earth are connected through the tree itself. It is as if human beings disconnected from this language thousands of years ago when we formed words on the tongue and started to speak with the mouth rather than speak the heart and spirit.

Or is it merely a tree’s bark that I feel? No meaning in it at all. Evolution—descent with modification—is random, says the empiricist—no meaning or a sense of purpose behind it at all. But I do not think it is human to live without meaning—even if that meaning is a Who rather than a Why, if that meaning is found through Love. Ah, Love, says the empiricist, does not exist—only biological urges, drives, predetermined genetic coding for the survival of the human species—that is all. If I am to believe the empiricist there is no love and no meaning, then I live in a rather cold, unromantic world. I have a hard time accepting that. But what ever is true is true regardless of what I can accept or not accept.

If I am to believe the empiricist, even I do not exist—I, that is as an entity, as a person. I am but a stimulus-response machine. There is no self, only what can be called personality formed by genetics and environmental conditioning. I am also brain chemistry, alter the chemistry and alter my personality.

So I am stripped of meaning, love, and even a self. Does anyone really believe that? Does anyone really live that way? It seems so apparent that there is more to the world than that. Don’t you, dear reader, sense it too? Put your hand on the bark of the tree sometime. Feel deeper than just the texture. Feel the texture of the soul of the tree, the soul of the earth, the soul of the sun on which it also feeds. Touch the bark of the Cottonwood, sacred to the Lakota, the one tree at the sacred center, of the sacred circle. There is a lot of air and water in Cottonwood. It seems to speak louder than other trees.

If this seems insane to you, consider this: a world without love, self, or meaning is a far greater definition of insanity. Look it up: Insanity—without reason. If all that exists is the result of randomness, then there is no reason for anything. So I talk about apparent reason. It is reason that is implied or inferred from all that is, but cannot be proven—proven in the empiricist sense anyway. Our intuition, as subjective as it may be, ought to guide us in to meaning and purpose, not objectivity. This is counter to our training and education—to the current meta-narrative that science takes such stock in. Not that I ignore science—science deals in the world of facts, but I do not believe that facts are Truth. It may tell us if some things are true, but it does not deal in Truth. Truth, just like the elusive person or self, must be known intuitively, and, like a person or self, can never be fully known. It is inexhaustible. Truth is not static, not an absolute, the way to know it is not rational. It is ever changing and yet ever the same, it is paradoxical. But the human mind, not brain, can grasp the paradox. The mind goes beyond the brain, stretching out, dreaming, and conceiving the impossible. The mind is unlimited and its imagination is boundless. This imagination will take us to the stars in great ships, one day. The Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria, the Mayflower, the Endeavor, the Enterprise and thousands more will leave this little orb and sail through the universe like dandelion seeds on the wind. We have only to imagine it, and dream it, and it will become real.

So I am reflecting on Autumn, the inward and outward Autumn, reminding me of my mortality and my immortality: the brain that dies and rots, the mind that rises to meet infinite thought and becomes one with God, as the Apostle says, in the day when all things return to God, who will be all in all. That which is born of the flesh is flesh: that which is born of the spirit is spirit. The empiricist; the transcendentalist.

A Reflection on: Old Goodman Brown

By Kenneth Ogle


“…ye had still hoped that virtue were not all a dream. Now are ye undeceived. Evil is the nature of mankind. Evil must be your only happiness. Welcome again, my children, to the communion of your race.”

..........Nathaniel Hawthorn from: Young Goodman Brown

Young Goodman Brown kissed his new wife, Faith, as he was about to leave the apartment. It was late, very late. She was puzzled, and she didn’t understand why he wanted to walk until the sun came up. “Are you angry? Are you upset?” She asked with a look of concern.
“No,” he said, “There are just some things I have to think about, sort out—things I have to know and understand.”
“But the night is so cold,” she smiled, “and my body is warm.”
Faith had a nice body and a heart of gold and she loved him well. Faith had made him a happy man, had made his life joyful, and had even given him a reason to go on with life in what seemed to be an otherwise troublesome world.
He smiled. “You must trust me,” he said softly. “I will do this once and never again. It isn’t something I can explain. There is a kind of truth I have to know. It won’t let me rest.”
She looked down. It was a lovely, sweet turn of the head. He noted again the play of light on her auburn hair held in place by a braid that was tied with a pink ribbon. He could smell her natural sweet scent, “I have had some very disturbing dreams—dreams I can’t quite recall,” she said.
“They have been bothering me the last few days—I don’t really care to sleep alone—and why this night? Why this night of all the nights of the year?” She looked back up at him; her brows knitted with worry.
He put his hands on her shoulders firmly, but lovingly. “You must trust me.”
She was quiet a moment. Her eyes darted back and forth as she read his face. “Wait a moment,” she said. She ran down the hall and returned with a scarf. “One night, then, and I won’t ask you about it. I trust you.” She put the scarf around his neck and tucked it into his overcoat, kissed him and added, “Completely.”
With the door locked up and Faith all tucked away safely, he now ventured out into the night. He wasn’t sure where he was going. He just walked and thought and visited his past. He paid little attention to where he was going. He recalled his childhood, and for some reason thought of his early experiences of going to church and how he had to wear tight, starched shirts with a tight neck tie, stiff black pants and those uncomfortable, hard leather, wing-tipped shoes on Sunday morning; and of how he was forced to go to church regardless of his many excuses and protests. He had passionately hated going to church, and sitting, for hours it seemed, on hard wooden pews in a cold church full of old people with hard faces. Neither did he like the preacher, Reverend Vernon Pierson, who shouted big, angry words that he didn’t really understand, but which frightened him all the same, and made him feel guilty.
He did like the white, gingerbread church with the bell and steeple, the smell of the perfume and the rustle of the taffeta skirts under print dresses. Women wore hats and white gloves to church in those days. He also liked the colors of the stained glass as the morning sun shone through the windows and the image of Christ. The colors scattering about the congregation with the deep red, emerald greens and dark blues—wild colors—falling on white hair, white dresses, white skin. His grandmother was playing the organ and Deacon James was leading the music. He could recall the smell of perfume and the lace dresses that the women wore. He remembered that he would sit sandwiched between his parents, and had been given Wrigley’s Double Mint gum that he had to chew quietly while he drew on a pad of paper to keep him from squirming with boredom.
And then there was Addy Johnson, his Sunday school teacher, who used to always sit in the second pew. She wore print dresses, white gloves and a black hat with netting. She sat in the second pew from the front. She would have sat in the first row if she could, but those pews were always reserved for the invitation when new converts would come down and sit and be saved. That usually happened when the second verse was sung so that it looked like these converts had spontaneously joined up that morning as if they had been moved by the spirit of God, and this, in turn, was supposed to urge guilty sinners to come down and be saved, since, it seemed, that everyone else was responding to the call of the Holy Spirit on their hearts also. The truth was that the new converts had been told to come down on the second verse by the preacher who had arraigned it that way. When they came down, it was Addy’s job to greet them, and pray with them when the Preacher came down to receive them.
Addy was a lot like Faith, he thought. She had been a little older perhaps, not nearly as pretty, but still there was something about her that reminded him of Faith. It was Addy who would eventually reach him, and inspire him. It was Addy and her love for him; along with her ice cream socials and picnics and croquet on the lawn, with all the children having such a good time—all this and more that drew him in, that helped to form his bond with virtue. And then there were also a number of walks that she had taken with him—just him. One day in particular, came back to him. It was a summer’s day down by the pond on the old cemetery grounds.
The pond was big enough to have a small island in it, and they walked across the little oriental bridge that led to that island. There they sat in the shade of a gazebo that had been built on that island back in Victorian times. He remembered that they were playing checkers. She wore a white dress with a big, brimmed hat and she carried a matching parasol. Summer’s blush was on her face and on her creamy bosoms--bosoms which he tried hard not to look at. And he also had to try hard not to imagine what it would be like if he explore them with his fingers. She was too holy for such thoughts. He had tried to hide his lust. He frequently blushed and shivered even though it was a summer’s day. But something of his redirected sexual energy went instead into listening to her lengthy lessons about God; and she taught him desire for the Kingdom of Heaven, in spite of the fact that he was often distracted that other desire which he had suppressed when he was around her.

A cold wind shook him from his thoughts suddenly. The lights flickered a bit and he now found himself in a part of the city he hadn’t seen before. Exactly how far he had walked he couldn’t say. Nothing looked familiar and he realized he was lost. There were bars, liquor stores, head shops, and strip joints. He didn’t like being there and didn’t feel particularly safe, so he turned around and tried to find a more respectable area for his meanderings. But everywhere he went it was the same or worse: prostitutes on the corners, homeless drunks pan handling, black cars with tinted windows moving slowly down the streets playing hip hop with the base deafeningly loud.
He paused, perplexed, and was now desperate to get out of there. He pulled out his cell phone to call a taxi, but his phone was dead. He walked into a bar and asked if there was a pay phone. A thin bartender with short blond hair and spectacles pointed and Goodman Brown wandered to the back of the bar only to find that the cord to the old pay phone had been cut. He returned to tell this to the bar tender who shrugged. He was about to leave when someone said, “You are late, Mr. Brown.”
Goodman turned and saw a middle-aged man having a beer at the bar. He was dressed a bit oddly, wearing a coat with evening tails and a top hat—but what caught Goodman’s eyes was the man’s walking stick. It was ebony, and was carved of in the shape of a snake, which, for a moment, actually seemed to hiss and strike at him. No one in the bar noticed this and Goodman thought it must have been a trick of the dim light and smoke in the room. As he looked at it again he saw plainly that it was just wood. “Faith kept me back a bit—what was I supposed to say?” He found himself saying, his eyes still lingering on the snake.
“That you were just going out to meet your father.”
At this, Goodman looked directly at the man in front of him. “But you aren’t my father.”
“No?” the man asked. But Goodman realized from the way this man looked and acted that he could, indeed, have been mistaken for his father. “Ah well, no matter,” the man continued. Come let’s walk for a while.”
They were about to leave the bar when a shriek of laughter caused Brown to turn. Two women, obviously prostitutes, were indulging an older man at the table. He was shocked when recognized that it was Deacon James—older but unmistakable. He was drunk, that was clear, but he suddenly stood when he saw the man in tails. “Well, it is such an honor to see you again, sir.” “Ah, Deacon James! Always with the ladies, it seems. Will you be joining us at the circle later? We have a few new initiates.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“I’d like you to meet Mr. Goodman Brown.”
Deacon James started to reach for Brown’s hand when he recognized him. Goodman, however, did not offer his hand in return, being both shocked and repulsed by what he was seeing. The old deacon ignored this and said, “Ah, yes, I’ve known you since you were little, Goodman. Well, I guess it is time you were introduced to our secrets. Way past time, really.”
Goodman was disgusted as the older man disengaged Deacon James with all the civility of a gentleman, and took Goodman from the bar, saying, “You’ll have to pardon us. We have many miles to walk together before this night is over.”
Looking through the window as they left, Goodman watched the prostitutes close in around Deacon James who was smiling and laughing. Goodman felt inexplicably sick. He wanted to return home to Faith and the comforts of her arms. And yet, at the same time, he also wanted to know the truth that was all around in this darkness—had to know, really. If all he had ever known was a lie, he had to find it out and call it what it was.
Breaking a moment of silence, Goodman, shook his head.” “I wonder when Deacon James left the church, and how he came to such a life.”
“Oh, he never left the church. He has always been an excellent servant for me in such a capacity. But, as I said, he has always liked the ladies.”
They walked on in silence for a while, past street lamps where he saw old men drinking and over heard them telling crude jokes. He thought he knew them from his church days. They stopped and waved at the gentleman that walked beside Goodman. “Looking forward to seeing you later, Sir.” They called out. If they saw or recognized Goodman, they didn’t show it and Goodman was rather glad.
Soon they came to a building that had been set up as a temporary campaign headquarters for a certain political party. The gentleman with the walking stick paused in front of this building, and told Goodman he had a bit of business to conduct here and they entered in.
A busy secretary didn’t bother to look up as the two men came into the room. “I’m sorry, but Vernon Pierson is in a meeting at the moment and could be a while. Could you…” She stopped when she looked up to see who it was. “Oh, I am so very sorry sir, I didn’t realize it was you.” She flushed with true embarrassment and stood up too fast, nearly spilling a cup of coffee on her desk.
“Quite all right. You can make up for it tonight at the ceremony.”
She smiled, obviously pleased. “Looking forward to it.” She said suggestively. “Mr. Peirson’s office is over there. Just go on in.”
Vernon Peirson, Goodman thought. He knew that name. As they entered he saw a startled Politician stuffing his pockets with cash that was being handed to him by men he recognized form the papers and magazines as the CEO’s of several large banking industries and drug companies. Goodman then recognized the politician as the old preacher from his childhood days. The men in the room were relieved to see that it wasn’t the press or the cops, and were even visibly relaxed when they saw it was the man in the top hat. They greeted him with warm handshakes and smiles, and all of them seemed eager to please, if not blatantly, brown nose him.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “You are among my greatest servants in whom I am well pleased. Rest assured that your positions are secure and you will have prosperity for the rest of your lives.” After a round of kissing his ring and staff, and giving expressions of gratitude, he said to them further, “Now if you will excuse me, I would like to speak with Mr. Pierson. It is in your interest that I do so.”
These prominent, dignified men quickly scrambled out of the office. Goodman was asked to stay and observe as they all sat down around the desk.
“What can I do for you?” Pierson asked.
“I simply want to reaffirm that we need to up the ante in our seduction of the Christians. Now, more than ever, we need their loyalty to our cause. Even though I allowed a candidate from my other party to win this time, I am rather disappointed by his performance. He has done entirely too much to help the common people at the expense of some of my most powerful friends in this country. I apologize for the damage that this has caused to you and to my more favored party. But trust me; it was essential to our long-term goal. While your party made huge advances the previous eight years at undermining the freedoms and liberties of the American people while advancing the profits of the banking, credit, health care industries and other corporations—all belonging to my great servants who have been so loyal to me—the problem of democracy has reared its ugly head. Perhaps all the efforts of the previous administration were too many and too fast. I had to slow you down a little by advancing my other party over yours for a while. But we are quickly advancing lies and innuendos regarding the current president which will grow and undermine him in the next elections. You will survive his time in office and then we can advance our cause some more.”
As the man with the walking stick talked, Pierson kept steady eye contact and nodded frequently saying, “Yes sir. I understand, sir. Had to be that way, sir.” And he kept on saying such things until the speech was over when he asked, “So how can we win back the Christians?”
“We must reiterate our pro-life position, only I’m afraid that we may have to actually throw them a bone this time. Many of them are becoming disenchanted with the party since we haven’t actually done anything about abortion in years and in the meantime our movement away from democracy toward the neo-baronial system ( a system, I might add, that is more comfortable for me and my greatest of servants) has left them concerned about the lack of jobs and the growing poverty in this country. They are, like the one they follow, rather idealistic in their compassion. But a pro-life position will keep them in line as it has done for years and years. I have it on the best sources that two members of the Supreme Court may be having medical mishaps after the current president leaves office and the new president will be in a position to appoint new pro-life judges to office. They won’t over-turn Roe vs. Wade, of course—nobody wants to do that—but it will give plenty of false hope to the Christians. And, of course, their continued support will insure that large corporations will have a friendly court to deal with and, personally, I am looking forward to the possibility that they will find a way to over-turn tobacco settlements in a number of states.”
To all of this Pierson nodded and salivated like a puppy. He never once recognized Goodman Brown, but Goodman remembered him all too well—and all of his sermons about hell and the terror of a wrathful God. Vernon Pierson would often preach that the love of money was the root of all evil and that it would be harder for a rich man to enter heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. Goodman wondered how such a man could change so much—become so corrupt, but he said nothing; just listened.
When they left the campaign headquarters, Brown turned to his partner for the evening and asked, “When did you win this preacher over? How long ago?”
“Oh,” He laughed, “that old avaricious son of a bitch has had his hand in the till since seminary. Why, greed and religion go hand in hand, and the belief that God will prosper the righteous overrides anything that is actually in the bible. But come, my son, we still have people to see and a long way to go before we arrive at our destination.”
And so they walked on. Goodman was miserable and wondering if there was any virtue left in the world. Faith, he thought, I still have Faith. She, at least is home and safe and waiting for me to return.
There were gangs roaming the streets through which they walked. Bloods, Kings, GD, all of them were cutting and shooting and fighting, so that Goodman was terrified of the night and the city streets. “No need to worry, they may kill each other, but they all know me.” Goodman’s escort was saying. And it was true—they all ran over to kiss his ring and staff and then went on with their endless war.
In time they came to what was commonly called a whorehouse. Goodman hesitated, not wanting to go in. “I know it is not seemly or tasteful for you to enter such a place, but I have business here also, it is a dear old friend, a mutual acquaintance who would like nothing more than to see you. He led the reluctant Goodman up a set of steps that smelled like old piss and vomit and, though there was incense pouring into the halls, nothing could cover the stench. Inside was a large open area with the smell of pot and women dancing half naked in red lights. Goodman turned his eyes and walked on until they came to a door and entered. A rather plump woman sat in a long, low-cut blue velvet dress. She recognized him long before he recognized her. Her eyes were dark and she wore heavy makeup. Her hair was bleached but it didn’t cover the white at the roots. She resisted rushing to him and turned again to the older man, “Why if it isn’t the Devil, himself.”
“Hello, Addy, you old witch.” He turned to Goodman, “Addy’s a witch who’s ridden a lot of broomsticks in her lifetime. She likes them young and firm, isn’t that true Addy.”
For a split second, Addy looked offended, but then quickly caught herself and laughed, “That’s right, I have a thing for young and firm; the younger and firmer the better.”
“But you never had Goodman’s, did you Addy.”
“No, not Goodman’s.” she sighed.
“And why is that, Addy?”
Addy paused, a bit unsure of what to say. “I couldn’t burst his bubble, I suppose.” She looked away.
Goodman thought he heard the older man’s walking stick hiss, but saw nothing. He dismissed it because he was feeling dizzy. He had been feeling sick and was getting worse, especially since he had realized who this woman was.
“Addy, what are you saying?”
“She’s saying that she fucked about every young boy in her Sunday school class but you.”
Goodman grew nauseas. His throat was constricting. He said hoarsely, “That’s impossible. Addy was so holy—I’d have known. The other boys would have told me.”
“No.” The older man said almost gently, “Not after the initiation. People keep their secrets only for the initiated. You never belonged.”
“Addy, is it true?”
Addy scowled at him, “Did you really want to know this, Goodman? Did you really want the truth? Didn’t you want to go on living your life in the bliss of naiveté?” She grew hard and bitter suddenly, “You think I didn’t want to fuck you too?”
“Why didn’t you, Addy?” the older man asked.
“You know perfectly well, it had to be his choice to do so.” She said this without looking away from Goodman. “You think I didn’t know your thoughts, Goodman? You think I didn’t see those furtive glances or notice the quick drop of your eyes to my bosom? It amused me. I pleasured so many of your friends and taught them the secrets of sin, but you clung to your—virtue.” She spat. “You could have had me, Goodman, and through me, known so many other secret pleasures.” Then she added slowly, bitterly “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, for time it is a flying. Look at your hands, Goodman.”
He looked down and saw that his hands were withered like an old man’s hands. His mouth was opened slightly. He felt his stomach lurch, he turned to puke.
The older man laughed. “Not a pretty sight, old man, especially with that puke on your chin.”
He stood, feeling an ach in his back he hadn’t felt before, glanced in Addy’s dresser mirror, and saw himself as an old man and was horrified.
“What have you done to me?” he asked.
“What have you done to yourself?” Addy said to him. “To have lived for your virtue all of these years and never seen it for the lie it is. You have lived a miserable, pathetic life—shunning every pleasure and want, in the name of virtue and what has it done for you? It has made you old and empty and alone.”
“No, no, no, I have Faith—she is my greatest pleasure and companion.”
“Faith!—Ha! Do you really think that Faith—“
“Enough! Addy.” The older man threw his walking stick on the floor and this time it turned into a very real serpent and hissed at Addy, who backed away.
“Yes, my lord as you desire,” she said with the downcast eyes of a servant.
The man in the evening tails picked up the snake which instantly snapped back into an ebony walking stick. He pointed it at Goodman and transformed him to his youthful self once again, “It is just a witch’s illusion” he said.
But Goodman still felt old, very old, inside his body, and wasn’t sure which was the illusion any more, his youth or his old age?
When they left the brothel, Goodman thought he had never felt miserable and unsure of himself. They walked on not talking for a while. He saw that people were moving along the streets. Some were just stepping from the bars and had hooded cloaks in their arms and others were putting them on alread. He recognized many of them.
“We are getting close now.”
“I still have Faith; I still have her.” He muttered to himself, but he suddenly wasn’t sure any more. People he had believed in for years, had shown that they were, in fact, the worst of sinners. Everything Addy had taught him was a lie, but worst of all was that Addy herself was a lie. He recalled how just earlier that evening he had thought that Faith and Addy were a little alike. How could he have thought that Faith was anything like her at all? Faith was nothing like her.
The older man did not talk now, but he just kept waking. More and more people were moving down the streets and the sidewalks. He heard a woman’s voice and thought it sounded like Faith. He turned and saw a woman in one of the cloaks but he couldn’t see her face. Her movements seemed troubled and she halted from time to time and seemed to be asking a lot of questions. His attention was suddenly jolted back to his companion ashe was abruptly greeted by another acquaintance.
“Good to see you sir, I am certainly looking forward to communion tonight.”
“Glad to see you also Father Andrew, are all things ready?”
“Yes, the sacrifices have been made and the cup is ready. I hear we have quite a few initiates tonight including a rather lovely young woman.”
“Yes, and a very promising young man.”
Goodman was just wondering if the promising young man referred might have been himself, when suddenly he heard a near by scuffle and a scream. It all happened so quickly. The young woman that sounded so much like faith had been abrupty seized and taken into the darkness. Goodman broke away from his companion and ran to the spot where she had been. The street was instantly empty, and it seemed as if all the people vanished into smoke and fog. A wisp of wind blew old news papers around him and something in the street caught his eye. He looked down and saw a pink ribbon. He picked it up and found several strands of auburn hair were still clinging to it. “Faith!” He panicked. “Faith! He ran in the direction that he though she had been taken. He stumbled several times over trash boxes and old homeless men as he made his way down a dark ally, but he came to a dead end of brick walls that were covered with graffiti and garbage. “Faith,” he whispered, out of breath, and he said to the air, “Faith, I’ve lost you!” He felt sick again, his belly cramping. He doubled over but couldn’t retch. He felt the cramps again and again. His face was contorted with agony, and he started crying bitterly, painfully.
“Pride, Mr. Brown, is the darkest of all sins.” The older man was saying to him when Goodman finally came to himself. “It may not seem so terrible to you as the acts of lust, greed, and others that are so graphic. Pride is simply the belief that you are holy—that you are above the lechery and debauchery of others—that you are better than others and somehow closer to God.” He was holding a pitch-black cloak in his hand, so dark that it was nearly a shadow or like it was made of some material that sucked in all light. “There are those who say that it is my particular sin, but it is also yours—like father, like son, they also say.”
“I’ve lost Faith,” is all he could piteously respond with.
“Well, it is all for the best, you know. As you said at the beginning of the evening, she—‘held you back.’ Now you are free, Mr. Brown. I hope you enjoy your fall.”
“What fall? What are you talking about?”
“There is mathematical relationship between height of Pride and the depth of its fall to the power of 6. And you, Mr. Brown climbed very, very high. Now perhaps you will understand that you are my son.” He threw the cloak around Goodman and everything went black except for the sensation of falling. It was a fearful fall, like being sucked down at light speed. He was burning like a meteor—like a falling star among falling stars cast out of heaven never able to return again. Faith was lost, ripped away from him. There was no safety net, nothing to catch him, no heaven above, no hell below, only the gaping mouth of oblivion at the end of a brief, meaningless existence.
He hit the pavement hard. It was still night—still the blighted city. He stood and found himself in the middle of a circle of cloaked people. Their cloaks were black but not so dark as his. They were standing on the black top of inner city basket ball courts. Torches and lanterns were hung on the chain link fences towering over those courts. Strange music began with a rhythm that matched a heartbeat. A procession of dancing women entered the court, but they looked as if they had stepped out of negatives of black and white photos so that shadow was light and light was shadow, so that Goodman didn’t realize at first that they were naked and that all of them looked like the reverse image of Faith. At one end of the court those women brought an alter and as they danced they also brought knives and bowls of fruits and other signs of harvest and then, one at a time, they cut themselves a little and gave blood to the cup—a mixture of black and white. Then from behind the alter, in a cloak as dark as Goodman’s, a figure stepped into the light of the torches. He had an ebony walking stick in his hands which he lifted and touched to the points of the Alter. The Stick transformed into a serpent once more and the figure placed the serpent’s teeth to the cup and milked the venom into the cup. He lifted the cup and swirled it to mix the venom with the blood. He seemed to be muttering secret words and made several signs before he placed the cup back on the alter.
“Bring forth the initiates.” He said loudly.
Goodman found himself going forward. Someone behind him reached out to hold him back. He didn’t look to see who or what it was. He pulled away and walked toward the altar. He wanted to be bad, wanted to do the wrong thing, wanted to be free of what was obviously a tyranny of lies that denied him all that was pleasurable in life and that kept him back from living his own life. All he had ever known was the suppression of desires because of his conformity to a religion which was nothing more than manipulation by charlatans who were out to control and take advantage of people to their own ends. He had dared to gaze into the mystery of sin and found that all those he had respected had participated in the secrets. He felt that he had been such a fool. He no longer wanted the charade of religion. If there was something in this cup to free him, he would drink it.
But then a third cloaked figure was brought to the altar. By its shape and walk, Goodman guessed it was a woman. She came and stood next to Goodman but he could not see her face and he guessed that she could not see his either. The older man with the serpent motioned them to turn and look. One by on the cloaked figures removed their hoods. Goodman now began to see how vast this secret of sin was and how many of his childhood friends, teachers and people he had respected and revered as saintly souls had participated. Deacon James, Addy, Vernon Pierson were among many more. And then in the smoke above this crowd, Goodman thought he saw the shadows of people long dead, even his own father and mother—and seeing them in this throng made him feel a twinge of the sickness he had felt several other times this evening. It was the booming voice behind him that turned him back to the alter and made him focus again. The older man was reading from a book that looked as if it had been read from over and over again. He knew he had read them before somewhere:

"There," quoted the cloaked figure, "are all whom ye have reverenced from youth. Ye deemed them holier than yourselves, and shrank from your own sin, contrasting it with their lives of righteousness and prayerful aspirations heavenward. Yet here are they all in my worshipping assembly. This night it shall be granted you to know their secret deeds:
An older man in the crowd went on as if from memory, having been through this time and time again. “…how hoary-bearded elders of the church have whispered wanton words to the young maids of their households…”
An older woman quoted: “…how many a woman, eager for widows' weeds, has given her husband a drink at bedtime and let him sleep his last sleep in her bosom… “
A young man quoted: “how beardless youths have made haste to inherit their fathers' wealth…"
A woman in her early thirties quoted: “…how fair damsels--blush not, sweet ones--have dug little graves in the garden, and bidden me, the sole guest to an infant's funeral.”
The Master of this ceremony finished the reading: “By the sympathy of your human hearts for sin ye shall scent out all the places--whether in church, bedchamber, street, field, or forest--where crime has been committed, and shall exult to behold the whole earth one stain of guilt, one mighty blood spot. Far more than this. It shall be yours to penetrate, in every bosom, the deep mystery of sin, the fountain of all wicked arts, and which inexhaustibly supplies more evil impulses than human power--than my power at its utmost--can make manifest in deeds. And now, my children, look upon each other."
He took the chalice and handed it to the female figure. She took it in her right hand and pulled her hood back with her left. It was Faith. She looked at Goodman confused and she started to put the chalice to her lips when Goodman slapped the cup from her hands and shouted, “Faith, Faith! Shun the devil and turn to God and to heaven.”
In an instant everything vanished, the crowd, the cup, the altar, the devil and Faith. He was alone in his coat with Faith’s scarf wrapped around him where she had placed it earlier that evening. He was standing on a basketball court somewhere in the city. He walked and walked until he started to recognize streets and eventually found his apartment just as the sun was rising.
He stood a long time at his own door, wondering if she would still be there. Oddly, he found himself knocking at the door rather than use the key to get in. Faith answered and looked surprised, perhaps because he had knocked like a stranger. She was in a night gown and her hair was in the disarray of sleep and yet she looked as if she hadn’t slept much. “Oh, my sweet,” she said, “come in, I have had terrible dreams, I’m afraid I had very little sleep. She kissed him and hugged him even though his response wasn’t really there. “What is wrong?”
“I’m just very tired. I didn’t sleep at all.”
“Then come and lie beside me and we can at last rest.”
Goodman went in and did lie down next to her on their bed, but she fell asleep long before he did. He stared up at the ceiling not knowing what was real anymore. His thoughts were scattered, fragmented and not logically connected. He saw that his future with her would never be the way it was before. He thought of Addy at the brothel and of what she showed him in the mirror: the truth. He was old, very old. His present youth was an illusion-- nothing more than the internal image of himself that was forever young, forever virtuous, and full of ideals—how he had always seen himself. Always, at least until now.
He looked over at Faith. What did he really know about her? He tried to tell himself that the night’s events were all a dream and yet, dream or not, there was something disturbingly true about it all. It was a truth that would haunt him all his life. It would isolate him from all people, and make him doubt the apparent virtue in even the best of men and women, and would even poison his relationship with Faith. He had compared her with Addy once, when he had thought of Addy as a vision of virtue, and had denied that she was anything like Addy when it turned out that Addy was a whore and a pedophile. But now, he wondered what darkness was in her when he was away from her. What if she did have secret sins and went whoring behind his back. How could he sure? How could he ever be sure?

Lake and Wind

VR Tech Staff Development: Ropes Course 2011

VR Tech High School is a very different kind of high school. It is a school that is based on online classes, but the students have a staff that keeps track of them, gives guidance, cares about them as individuals, and helps them to persist in their studies. I can honestly say that I have never, in all my years of teaching, enjoyed my work place as much as I have at VR Tech. I say that having taught for years in alternative education, which I loved with a passion. VR Tech is something of an alternative education situation, but remarkable in that it is well-structured and well-supported. Our students didn’t do well in a traditional high school, but they are doing very well here. The trust and respect between the teachers and the students is quite remarkable. There are many reasons for that, but much of this success is due, really, to Deb Feenstra who runs the program. She has a remarkable ability to create a positive, cooperative atmosphere, that is low-stress, but highly productive. She is also good at networking with many community groups and churches to give the students opportunities they would not otherwise get, and she is a very good advocate for her program, students and staff. It is a “happy ship”, as Patrick O’Brian, the author of the “Master and Commander” series would say, and I feel very fortunate to be a part of it.

One example of how different the program is, is shown in this video. It is of our staff development. Instead of having long meetings full of the usual in-service work and seminars, from which teachers come away feeling tired and sometimes even lectured to, Deb arraigned for us to go out to a place called the Filmore complex in West Olive, Michigan, to a ropes course that has been set up for troubled teens to push themselves and find out what they can do. Deb wanted us to use the course to do some team building exercises. I really appreciated it. I also appreciate the fact that we have pretty much the same group of teachers and staff that we had last year in spite of all the lay-offs and economic trouble my school district has had to face. I’m glad because we are a very good team. We work well together, and that makes us better able serve needs of our students—and those needs are very real, and run very deep.

Riddle #3: Nine Young Children

This month’s riddle is a little different than my past riddles. It is more like the riddles written by Kit Williams, a wonderful author who put together some very beautifully illustrated books. Two of his books were given to me as gifts—perfect gifts, given the kind of person I am—Masquerade and The Book Without a Name, which was based on the theme of bees. I am, and have been for many, many years, fascinated by his books which offer the most enchanting illustrations, clever puzzles, and a strong sense of mystery from pre-Christian pagan times.

My riddle, like most of the ones I have posted, was written sometime in the early eighties. I have mentioned this before. It was after moving from Sioux City, Iowa to Terra Haute, Indiana.

Regarding Sioux City, I think those areas along the grassy bluffs that over look the Missouri river and out across the flat, fertile lands of Nebraska and South Dakota are among the most beautiful and spiritually alive places on earth. I was there during a recession. Unemployment was at 14% and I was single and out of work. That is partly why I entered in to a kind of darkness of depression that was very deep. To deal with it, I used to escape to the bluffs and hike for miles and miles over the rolling prairie lands. My state of mind and soul are hard to describe. Perhaps it was because I was in that darkness that I became sensitive and receptive to all kinds of things that dwell in the darkness. I knew that the landscape was not just hills and grass, but it was very much alive—present. The sky, from the top of those bluffs was also alive and I could almost reach out and touch it. I began to listen to the crows and I understood that they possessed language and I could, if I listened long enough, begin to learn their language. And I knew the ancestors of the Lakota were right there, willing to offer wisdom, help and guidance to anyone who understood that all things are connected. All things are connected. Me, the bluffs, the trees, the crows, the ancestors and other people—all of us are connected.

But that is a long way from my riddle! The image of this riddle comes from when I was a young man, and I was put in charge of a three day camp with a group of church kinds who were about seven or eight years old at the time. We had a great time, but one of the nights I was there I had just settled down to sleep, when one of the boys needed me to walk him to the bathroom. “Just use the trees” I said. But he said it wasn’t that kind of bathroom. So I got up our of my bed to take him, and suddenly the rest of them had to go too. So I took them all, and as we were passing the girls tents, one of the women helpers heard us and shouted from her place in the tent that she had several girls who had to go too. So the next thing I knew I had about eight or nine kids processing down a path that ran through pine trees and out to the open grassy field to the bathrooms by the camp swimming pool. While I waited for them, I looked up at a full moon and thought it was the most enchanting night I’d seen in a long time. One, by one, as the children finished their business, they came out and stood with me under the moonlight and waited for the rest. We all thought it was a magical night. When all the children were with me, we didn’t go right away. “Grab hands and form a circle” I said. They did. And so we began to sing and dance in a circle under the moonlight. The girls in their nightgowns, the boys in their pajamas, all of us were dancing and dancing under the moon.

It is one of those things you never forget, and something those kids would bring up many, many years later: “Hey, Kenny! Rememer that time we danced in the field under the full moon?” Those kids are in their early forties now, and I bet they still remember. “How long will we dance together?” is the question I ask, and I need, for this riddle, the exact answer!

The Ghost in the Cloud: Chapters 17 & 18

Riddle # 21: I have an Eye

I worked on a new riddle this week. I still have a number of other riddles from the 1990’s that I haven’t done anything with. I realized, after I finished, that I may not be altogether original with this riddle. I realized that I might have heard something like it before. This is to the reader’s advantage in that it may make the riddle easier to guess. The originality lies in the song, the use of Greek Mythology and in illustrations.

I think I have reached the limits of my technology. I want better programs: like something more than Window’s Paint Program, and a good animation program, and better sound equipment and a computer with more RAM and faster processing and lots and lots of memory—oh, and while we’re at it a really expensive video camera. I also want a new guitar, along with musicians and vocalists and the consultation from a producer in the film industry.

A wish list is a wish list.

I hope you enjoy the riddle:

I have an eye, but I cannot see
One hump, two humps
Pass through me.
But Heaven help the rich man!
What could I be?
Clotho, Liechesis, Atropos
Must have me to make their clothes.

Dulcisdolores

My cousin Rhonda (on my mother’s side of the family) sent me a ton of pictures from our childhood as well as of her father’s (Uncle Donny’s) childhood. She was compiling these pictures to celebrate my Uncle Donny’s 80th birthday. Many of the pictures I hadn’t seen before. What I wasn’t prepared for was the powerful effect they would have would have on my soul. It is hard to describe the turbulence of sweetness and loss that they stirred up. Nostalgia isn’t a big enough word at all to describe it. I need a new word for this. Let’s call it dulcisdolores. Dulcisdolores is an instantaneous hyperemotional response to a stimulus involving the long forgotten past. It has an effect similar to time travel as well. For a moment, a very brief moment, the mental recall is so powerful that you can almost touch and smell and taste the past. People you loved, who are now long dead, are alive again and sitting around on the lazy summer lawn in the evening like they once did when you were a child. Dulcisdolores is painful thing, but it’s the kind of pain you wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

When I was three years old, we moved away from the little town of Paxton, Ill to a small town in Indiana. But all my uncles, cousins, and grandparents still lived back in Paxton and so we made occasional trips home in the summer or at Christmas to see everyone. Perhaps it is because I didn’t grow up with my cousins around all the time that I felt such a tremendous sense of anticipation when I came to see them and play with them in that little town with paving brick roads and those big gingerbread houses that were all painted white.

Time has gone by. A lot of time. I went off to Lincoln Christian College after high school, dropped out and got involved in a religious movement, married, had children, left the religious movement after twenty years of trying to make that delusion work, went to IU, became a teacher and watched my own children grow and launch. I didn’t get back to that little town very often. I didn’t see my cousins very often anymore. Most of my Aunts and Uncles are still living today, but when I have seen them, I am aware that time has done its work on them and they are not young anymore as they are in my perpetual memory of them. That may be why the photos have the impact on me that they do. They represent the way my parents, uncles, aunts and grandparents are in my eternal memory: forever young and strong; forever taking care of us children so that we could play always and eternally on long summer days and never have to worry about anything.

The power of a photograph, and especially in an old photograph, isn’t so much in what is actually visually seen. Its power lies in its ability to evoke and stimulate the memory. I see so much more than the photo. I remember. And what I remember is, for instance, my grandmother’s face, her dialect, her movement, her smile. Her lawn practically glowing in the evening sun, people sitting around on the metal lawn chairs, and I remember the color of the sky, the smells of cut grass and cigarettes, the feeling of the cool evening air on the skin, the sounds of the locusts in the elms, it all floods back so fast and so real that, if I let it go unchecked, I could cry and cry. It wouldn’t be sorrow exactly; it would just be feeling, wonderful, awful, powerful feeling. Here is meaning, deep meaning. Meaning that cannot be expressed in words or philosophy. The profound meaning of life is found in simple things--like a song Grandma Sophie used to sing: “Two little children a boy and a girl…” The voice lived, sang, and passed away. The voice sings no more except in my memory, along with her apple pies, the endless pancakes, the treats she kept for me on the top of the refrigerator, the way she would stare out the window in the morning as she sat drinking her coffee at the kitchen table, and a thousand more memories. As long as I have a mind that retains its memory, I will cling to these images, and the images of all my loved ones. All the simple little things they do that mysteriously become so profound with time.

I had a good childhood. I am grateful for my parents, my uncles and aunts, my wonderful grandparents for making it so.

VR Tech Graduation 2011

It took a while for me to get around to editing my video on VR Tech's graduation. I've had a lot going on this summer with endlessly re-roofing my house and searching for jobs. But I finally edited the graduation video. It was a wonderful year that I will not forget. I am posting this for my students and for myself, since my son was in this graduation. It was actually a very moving experience for those involved in it. Much thanks to all the staff and volunteers who helped organize it.

Spider Song

This is from something of an epic story poem I’m writing called Peter the Pirate: the Commodore’s Journey. It’s over a hundred pages long so far and written in ballad form except for the songs. Some people who have followed my blog for a long time might be familiar with the two Peter the Pirate Christmas stories I have published in audio form. I started telling Peter the Pirate stories when my son was a little boy and we would play with his Playmobile pirates together. The stories grew a bit more serious for me and have become a lifelong project. I’m thinking that I’m about eighty percent of the way, but have been having trouble with the ending though I know where I want to go with it—a lot like my own life.

Here’s the song with an excerpt from the story as well. I’ve tried to weave several myths together Ananzi, a trickster from Africa, Arachne, from the Greeks, Spider Woman, from a great many Native American cultures, and Taawa’s Grandmother Spider from the Hopi. The last one I take from Brian Swan’s collection of stories about a boy who finds out his father is the Sun God, and goes on a journey to find him with help from many creatures, most importantly, Spider Woman.

In this episode Peter the Pirate is being led by a spirit through a tunnel of webbing has been woven by spiders. Spiders link all realms and the spirit is taking him to a place where the living and the dead may meet. It is a journey into the underworld. The spirit sings this song as he leads the way and Peter follows.

O, does a spider bite and sting

And so is she an evil thing?

Yea, some spiders may be bad

And yet they serve to make us glad

Hey, ho,we find a hold

From the new born to the old

Yo, ho, we throw a thread

From the living to the dead

Ananzi tricked the god of sky

And stories now to earth do fly

So think of him next time you read

To your child some hero’s deed.

Hey, ho, we find a hold

From the newborn to the old.

Yo, ho, throw a thread

From the living to the dead.

Spider woman wove the world

And thus the cosmos was unfurled

Connecting stars, and earth, and sun

And so all things were thus begun.

Hey, ho, find a hold

From the newborn to the old .

Yo, ho, throw a thread

From the living to the dead.

And could Athena’s jealousy

With proud Arachne’s tapestry

Be relieved by punishment?

Nay, now her threads are better sent.

Hey, ho, we find a hold

From the newborn to the old.

Yo, ho, we throw a thread

From the living to the dead.

And where would young Taawa be,

When he ,the sun god, went to see,

If Grandma Spider had not known

The way to where his father shone.

Hey, ho, we find a hold

From the newborn to the old

Yo, ho, we throw a thread

From the living to the dead

So spiders dance a sailor’s jig,

As from deck to cap they rig

With stays and shrouds and ratlines lay

The ropes for us to climb this way.

Hey, ho, we find a hold

From the newborn to the old

Yo, ho, we have a thread

From the living to the dead.

Grand Haven

This weekend my son, Peter, and I took a trip up to Grand Haven State Park. We usually trespass on a long stretch of private land and find a place where there are no people and miles and miles of beautiful woods, dunes and beaches, but seeing new "No Trespassing" signs and having no place to park my camper for the night we decided to try one of the many state parks here in Michigan. I have to say while Grand Haven is a beautiful place, There are prettier and more remote State Parks to visit. A lack of trees and crowded RV's roasting in the sun will make me think twice about going back there. It was thirty dollars for me to essentially park my truck for the night. But I love the lake and really enjoyed the time with Peter.

Another thing it did was to give me a chance to document a very long standing tradition of the classic American Family Vacation. In the 1950's President Eisenhower pushed through the national highway system. This was partly due to the cold war. He wanted a way to quickly move missiles from place to place in the event of nuclear war. But it also opened up travel like never before. People were buying campers of all kinds and taking trips out west to see places like the Grand Canyon and the Black Hills and hundreds of sites. In the sixties the television show, Route 66 was a big hit and the sense of freedom and exploration of America was still expanding. I remember Freddy Sparks and his family kept up grading their trailers each year. Our family seldom went anywhere, but Freddy would bring me back little trinkets from his trips out west with his mom and dad.

RV campsites are all over the US and can be a lot of fun for a family. It's not unusual for people to meet and talk and share food, play cards and talk about what life is like where they came from and how it is different here and there (really not all that different).


The pier at Grand Haven is a bit more of a production than the pier in Holland, and it seems like in the summer there is a constant stream of people walking out to the end of the pier and back. The people fishing do their best to ignore the people traffic. In Holland, there are people who fish off the pier almost year round except when the lake freezes over. Then they go out onto Lake Macatawa and ice fish.

At the end of the pier is smaller lighthouse were, I presume, the lighthouse keepers must have stayed. This one looks similar to Holland's famous "Big Red" lighthouse.

Peter and I walked into downtown Grand Haven that evening just to see the shops and grab something to eat. It's a nice place to see with some unique sites. Next week they have their annual Coast Guard Festival when the cost guard brings in big ships and sometimes tall ships take up harbor for people to see, booths are set up and many fun activities take place. Below is Mr. Kozak's, which serves great gyros. We have on in Holland, but it is pretty much a funky little drive-thru. Here you get to sit outside and watch the tourists go by.

I don't smoke a pipe very often. Once in a while in the fall, usually, I'll take it out and go for walks. I like the smell and it's comforting, somehow. Seems to go with an evening on the beach.

I'm rather happy with this picture of Peter. He was very gracious to let me take it. He usually groans and rolls his eyes when I get the camera out. I didn't bring the video camera this time just for his sake!