Comfort and Acceptance

At or about the same time my great grandfather was engaged in a gun fight over cards (Heritage 6/3/09), a little to the north and on the other side of the family, one of my great uncles was a circuit-riding Methodist minister. In those days, rural communities may or may not have had an organized church, so they depended on ministers who were assigned a particular circuit and rode horseback from one community to the next over the course of a month.

As may have been common among circuit-riders, my great uncle kept a diary that has been passed along in the family. Being an ambitious young minister myself in college, I was eager to read his story, imagining we had in our possession the equivalent of The Journals of John Wesley. If you've read any of Wesley's writings, even as an historical exercise, you know his Journals contain the development of his theology which eventually coalesced into Methodism more or less as it's known today.

After the first couple of pages, I realized my great uncle wasn't John Wesley and his interests were far more ordinary. Instead of reflections on the nature of religious experience or even the details of local history, most of his entries include a date, which family he stayed with, what they had for supper, and whether anyone had been sick, given birth, or died lately. It was more an Excel spreadsheet than a Word document.

Like most people, I suppose, I've always rather hoped a scribbled note in the margins of my family history would reveal a connection with someone who "did something." And maybe there is such a note, but I've never seen it. A court house fire in the mid-1800s severed the cord that links what is to what might have been, so there are questions that won't ever be answered. Becoming comfortable with who we are sometimes involves learning to live with what we may never know. And accepting that we don't need to know everything to be comfortable with what we do.


(Public domain image of John Wesley via Wikipedia)

Tree Pranks

You could call it a dusting though it was more like a smattering -- the here and there evidence of a stratospheric pastry chef passing by this morning and scattering fine particles of the first snow of the season. Slightly more than the twelve flakes constituting last year's initial "storm," like powdered sugar on warm doughnuts, it's melting fast.

While early winter has already arrived in the mountains, we're still at the fag end of autumn in the mid-coast countryside and leaves are falling from the oak in my yard and its cousins bordering the hayfield. Growing up, it struck me as curious when someone mentioned the "mighty oak," because all I'd ever seen was the short, shrubby variety called Scrub Oak that looks more like a hedge than a tree. Here in Maine, it's a different story and the one next to the house climbs to nearly forty feet.

I have a love-hate relationship with that tree and I suspect it's mutual. I love the shade in summer and the colors in autumn -- the leaves that leave my yard buried over and over are something else. Twice this week I've raked and blown, packing piles off to the forest wrapped in a large tarp. And the next day they're back, though not the same ones, of course.

A few feet from the oak is a Butternut tree and I've decided these two are partners in crime. They stand there, quiet and unassuming, while I labor away and when I'm not looking, one winks conspiratorially at the other and whispers, "Hold onto your leaves -- when it's dark, we'll get him again." Now, it's entirely possible they like my company but truthfully, I think they're just messing with me. Sigh, tree pranks, you know?


(Image via Wikipedia)

We The People

I've written and rewritten today's post at least three different ways and none of them have really been satisfying. The problem is the subject matter. You may or may not be aware that yesterday's election involved a referendum in Maine to either sustain or repeal our same-sex marriage law. By a majority, though not a landslide, the decision was made to repeal.

I'm troubled by this because it limits access to a societal norm based on criteria that are presumed to be consistent throughout history. Yet, even in this country, we've altered the terms that constitute marriage in the sight of the law, did you know that? Up until 1967, it was still illegal in some states for a Caucasian and African-American to be married. Yes, we're talking about one woman and one man, but my point is, marriage as a legal concept has been reinterpreted to represent greater congruency with our sense of justness.

Whenever a group is set apart as being less deserving of the rights and privileges enjoyed by the majority, I start to worry. It doesn't matter whether it's related to age, gender, or anything else, I just don't feel comfortable with the notion that the rights of citizenship can be denied for no other reason than the fact that someone is different. When discrimination is regarded as socially-acceptable on one basis, what prevents it from becoming so on any other?

We the People. The preamble to the Constitution represents what we have determined. We form that more perfect union. America is not some entity that exists objectively outside of its citizenry. It's We the People and everything it stands for is who we are and the ways we treat one another. Freedom and justice have to extend to all of us, and if not, how can they extend to any of us?


(Image by kjd via Flickr)

Whitewalls, She Said.

It's been another early morning but this time, it was intentional. I had to take my car to the mechanic for its annual inspection and it's first-come, first-served. In Maine this is always a slightly stressful experience because they look at everything from the tip of the tail lights to the depth of the tread on your tires. Anything defective has to be repaired before you get a sticker. It's a practice that goes back a few years and testifies to successful lobbying efforts by the state's mechanics.

Now, Colorado is different. All you have to do is take your car to an emissions testing center, they plug a unit into the exhaust pipe (yikes, my dog would say), and run the car up to speed. If your results are under the limit, you get a sticker. There are even drive-by testing stations that somehow measure emissions like a radar gun gauges speed. You're charged for the service when you complete your annual registration.

Ordinarily, if my car was in good condition, I could ensure passing by changing the oil or adding a can of BG 44K to a full tank of gas, running the car to empty, and refilling the tank. The older the car, the more likely there could be problems and, after a particular age, emissions testing is waved entirely. I guess they figure a really old car has paid its dues and deserves a break. It's kind of like the company that makes glasses available for free if you're over age 100. That's something to look forward to.

Fortunately, mine got a clean bill of health today with one exception: the rear tires need replacing. Since snow season is near at hand, I can have my winter tires installed, pass inspection, and everybody will be happy. Almost everybody, that is. On the drive home my car pulled me over and said, rather petulantly, that she had been wearing these tires far too long and she was getting weary of the looks she was getting from other cars. If I knew what was good for me, I'd do some serious shopping in the spring. "Whitewalls," she said, "I want whitewalls -- four of them. They really bring out my headlights."
(Image by bondidwhat via Flickr. BG 44K is a registered trademark -- this is not an endorsement.)

A Future in Eggnog

I mentioned pumpkin eggnog yesterday and I have Harvey Perley Hood to thank for it. I don't know if he came up with the idea in 1846, but it's a good one. So's ginger snap and if you can obtain Hood products in your part of the country, you've got a treat coming. No, they don't subsidize my medical education, so call this word-of-mouth advertising. On the other hand, if there are any family members reading this and the company wants to contribute, I'm open to sponsors -- I'll even let my dog wear the T-shirt when we walk. That's got to be worth something, don't you think?

There'll have to be some limits, of course, otherwise every Tom, Dick, and Dairy in the country will try to sign him up. I'd have to quit school to manage his accounts and that would defeat the whole purpose. Despite his natural charm, he's never aspired to a career in marketing and I want to be a doctor. But I have absolutely no objections to an orange reflective vest emblazoned with the company logo.

Why an orange reflective one? Because hunting season's started and even those of us who believe in preserving the right to arm bears (you read that right) need to be protected when walking down the road. It's not stylish but it could be -- especially if it had (hint, hint) a Hood logo brightly displayed on the sides. Hey, this could start a fad with humans wanting them, too -- pawtographed by my dog.

Rap musicians -- Snoop Dog, naturally, has the honor of being first -- would wear them on stage and eventually I'll wager we'll see them at the White House. The First Kids Secret Service detail will see them as a way to better blend in at school since they'll have become a status symbol and everyone will be wearing one. Though, by now, we'll have expanded the color scheme and employed Ralph Lauren to produce designer versions for Chaps and Polo. Eat your heart out, Giorgio Armani, this is an American tradition we're starting here.

The best thing about it all? Hood grows beyond it's wildest dreams, my dog gets to meet the First Pup, and I graduate from medical school debt free. Why didn't I think of this sooner?

Spooking Myself

You're going to laugh about this -- and I even feel a little sheepish mentioning it -- but I kind of spooked myself yesterday with the story about The Ghost and the Gabled Window. I woke up early this morning while it was still dark, and passing the stairs on the way to the kitchen, half expected to see a faint specter on the upper landing. I knew this was likely to happen; after all, I wrote it during daylight hours and everyone knows ghosts don't go a-prowling until after midnight. What was there to worry about?

But this is New England and a lot of history has occurred up here. Something like ten generations have lived and died in the very spot where I make my home and at least one person died in a fall from the hayloft in my barn. Still, even if there really were such things as ghosts, I don't think any encounters I might have would be malevolent. I say that because this has never struck me as a place where unhappiness and resentment could take root.

Mystery, sure. What lies beneath that heavy metal door in the woods? Is it a root cellar or does it harbor Revolutionary War treasure? Nicolas Cage hasn't knocked on my door lately, so I doubt it's the latter, but one never knows. This is also one of the two or three oldest houses in town, yet it fails to appear in any of the local histories I've read. What was it about its inhabitants that they spent their entire lives going unnoticed? There are questions, all right.

But ghosts? I'm not saying I believe in them and I'm not saying I don't. Let's put it this way, there's just a part of me that hasn't outgrown being impressionable. Call it the residual of childhood or too much pumpkin eggnog before bed, but I still retain the ability to scare myself. I'd like to say I wouldn't mind the company of a late night chat with one of my historical predecessors -- on a purely intellectual level, that is. In reality, you'd probably see me running for the kitchen cabinet, hunting for the garlic, and muttering, "Where's the crucifix? It's got to be here somewhere!"

I know, those are for vampires, but what else am I supposed to do, call Bill Murray?

(Image by Helga's Lobster Stew via Flickr)

The Ghost in the Gabled Window

It was becoming a recurrent dream -- what was it, five nights in a row? In it he was asleep and then awoke hearing footsteps in the bedroom upstairs. Not heavy ones, but unmistakably, someone was walking around up there. He lay in bed, listening, following the steps as they moved from the north end to the south, passing directly overhead. He couldn't remember anything else nor was he certain there was anything else to remember. But each time, it was the same. Soft, steady, footsteps, as if someone was walking on tip toe.

Gazing out the window at the fog that looked like an opaque mass of grey cotton candy stretched out over his hayfield, he poured a second cup of coffee and contemplated his dream. "Downstairs is the unconscious," he said to himself, "and upstairs refers to, I don't know, maybe depending too much on reason instead of trusting my intuition?" Yet, he couldn't think of a situation in which that might be true and so he felt baffled.

The rest of the day went by as predictably as his nightly visitation was becoming. He worked on his book, spent some time raking leaves and picking up stray apples -- Black Oxfords he'd recently discovered they were, a winter variety that should be absolutely delicious after a few more weeks in the root cellar. A late supper, reading by the fire, then bed -- with sleep a somewhat less than welcome prospect given the nature of things lately.

The dog had just begun to snore comfortably when he heard the footsteps again -- only this time he was awake and he switched on the light to confirm it. Yes, I'm definitely awake he thought, glancing round the room and placing his hand on the gently rising and falling canine rib cage next to him. And at that instant, the footsteps stopped. He took his hand away and they began again, moving characteristically across the room.

He threw back the bad clothes, slipped on his robe and taking the battery-powered torch he kept in the nightstand, proceeded to climb the stairs, hopefully as quietly as his nighttime intruder pacing the floor. It was an old house by nearly two hundred years, and despite recent remodeling, it creaked and groaned in the wind, and the floor in his study slanted at an odd angle because of shifts in the soil beneath the foundation.

Anticipating a mouse or simply the physics of aging architecture, he nevertheless felt he had to know what or who was about, if for no other reason than to resolve the mystery of his dream. Gripping the brass doorknob with a slightly trembling hand, he pushed the door open and swept the room with light.

It was enough to make Stephen King's hair stand on end and he was certain his was, too. At the gabled window to his left shimmered what he told himself later over a rather large glass of Macallan Scotch, was the faint figure of a woman in what appeared for all the world like a dressing gown and in her arms was an infant. She turned, looking at him with eyes like moonlight, and when she smiled he felt his heart was pierced.

Then she was gone.

Not absolutely sure he trusted his feet to take him downstairs, he leaned against the door jam, then startled like a frightened hare at the presence of his dog on the landing. Chest pounding, he asked "And where the heck have you been?" Smiling, tongue lolling, his tail wagged the obvious, "Sleeping, and why aren't you?"

For good reason, he thought, sipping the Scotch a few minutes later while searching the archives of local history online. Not that he expected to find anything -- she didn't eactly introduce herself. Besides, ghost stories are as plentiful in New England as liars in Congress and despite the testimony of his senses, he was still reticent to admit what he'd seen. And that's when he noticed the calender, and the date. It was the end of October.

Of course.

(Image "Ghost in the Sunset?" by Scott M Duncan via Flickr)