The Great 'IM'

Many people across the globe and throughout human history have worshiped God. God has many names and at least a couple of genders. God has had a history of being schizophrenic - that is, alternately angry and punitive and lovingly forgiving. We have been His minions and Her beloved chick brood, held warm and safe under her wing. God has lived on Mount Olympus, in Heaven and has romped the Elysian Fields. God strikes down enemies and clothes the lilies of the field.

When I was a Catholic school first grader, we had to memorize the questions and answers in the Baltimore Catechism. The first question was: "Who is God?" The correct answer, as any good Catholic school child will tell you is, "God is the Supreme Being who made all things." Simple enough. Sometimes the school Principal, Sister Mary Sebastian, would pop in for a surprise visit and make us all stand up and answer the catechism's questions row by row. It was always better to be in one of the later rows, for there were more kids than questions (we had fifty in our class) and after a while, questions were repeated. If you had been listening, you would be given the answer sometime before your turn.

Robert Ruggles was in a middle row, and did not know the answers, but was listening intently. When Sister Mary Sebastian got to him, he was asked that central question, "WHO IS GOD?" Robert frowned and scratched his head. Suddenly he brightened. "God is the STRING BEAN who made all things!" he shouted triumphantly.

Silence. There is no laughing or snickering in front of Sister Mary Sebastian.

I think Robert's response was, at least partially true. If God created everything, animal, mineral and VEGETABLE, who are we to decide what incarnation He may choose to take at any time?
The Hebrews of the Old Testament feared and revered God so much that they would not even say His/Her name. "I AM WHO AM," G-d thundered to Moses. Okay. IAM sounds a little like a dog food brand and dog is god backwards anyway.

Nowadays, kids worship less at the church altar and more at the laptop altar. Facebooking, tweeting, instagramming, snap chatting and instant messaging are prayers, both sent and received. The Great IM.

Kid Justice

I believe it is good for kids to pitch in and help around the house. Not only does this make for a more harmonious household, but it trains them for adulthood when they will need such useful skills as vacuuming, loading the dishwasher, making beds, putting groceries away, sweeping, raking and, of course, doing laundry.
But kids do not want to do any of these things. No matter that they are the CAUSE for needing these things to be done on a daily basis. They are blind to this. I, as their mother have, in the past, failed them miserably, that is, let them get away with not doing chores, simply because it seemed easier to do said chores myself than fight with them.

"Pick up the clothes on the floor in your room," I would say to one daughter. "Aw, mom, why? Later, when I check, the floor is still littered with clothes, all except one small corner, that is clear. "I picked up MY stuff," she stated. All that other stuff is Jenny's. Jenny is a friend who she invited for a sleepover three nights previous.

"Clear the table and load the dishwasher," I say to my other daughter, after spending two hours cooking and serving her favorite dinner. "Aw, mom, why do I have to do ALL the work around here?" I leave the room. When I return in a half hour, there is exactly one fork, one knife, one plate and one glass in the dishwasher. The other dishes, pots, pans and flatware are strewn on the counter and dirty in the sink. "Why didn't you do as I asked," I barked. "I did," she said, not looking up from her Facebook page. "I loaded the things I used."

This is kid justice: "I am on the receiving end of countless thoughtful and caring deeds and yet I see none of it. I am forced into unfair child labor when required to lift any extra finger contributing to the welfare of the household of which I am so fortunate to be a part."

My 24-year-old son was home for Christmas. He cooked for us, cleaned up afterwards, folded my laundry before doing his own, walked the dogs and fed the cat without being asked. He got his siblings together to chip in on the expensive gift I had mentioned that I wanted and shoveled two feet of snow from the driveway so I could get my car out.

I like his version of kid justice better.

To Leap, Perchance to Die

Several times a week, my partner and I walk our four dogs together. The walk is lovely, down a rustic path that skirts a flowing stream on one side and fragrant woods on the other. We let the dogs off lead here. Watching them run at fill-tilt down the path and through the brush is such a joy. It seems at these moments that this is what they were born to do, and they love it.

There are a few problems, however. Three out of four of our pooches are not the best at coming when called. And they have become more and more brazen in their exploration lately. Sammy tends to walk too close to the railroad tracks off in the distance. Charlie likes to run up the hill and inspect a few private backyards while up there. But Percy takes the cake. Somewhere around mid-walk, we come to a big duck pond. Here we see an idyllic scene, complete with waterfowl and small mammals scampering about. Lurking beneath the mirrored surface, however are snapping turtles and piranha (okay, maybe none of the latter). We have had a few close calls with them. On the far side, the pond pours over a ledge in a 20-foot waterfall, down to a shallow pool below, filled with jutting rocks and debris. Percy loves this ledge.

The ledge itself is about 18 inches wide and runs the width of the pond, breaking open only for the waterfall itself. The ledge has a 2-foot step-down at one point. Percy usually just scares us by trotting out halfway or so, and coming back. Last week, she got braver. She went out far. My partner called to her, getting very nervous. Percy hopped down the 2-foot step and walked a little close to the falls. "Percy!, get back here," my partner yelled, some desperation now in her voice. She decided to go out on the ledge herself to rescue her, knowing the silly little dog could not scoot back UP those two feet. Now I was afraid. As I made my way to the edge, I heard my partner scream. "NO!!! She JUMPED!"

I ran down to the bottom of the shallow pool, waded in and scanned the water for what I thought MUST be a limp fur ball. I was ready for a November swim. Fortunately (for me!) Sammy located her on the edge and began barking. I ran to the edge, leaned way over and pulled her out. She looked like a drowned rat. I took off my jacket (just like in the movies!) and we wrapped our shivering daredevil up. My partner was crying. We carried Percy a ways back home, setting her down after a while to make sure she had not been injured. She was fine and said in dog body language, "Hey! That was fun! Let's do it again!". We said no.

We came home, made a fire and sat around eating dinner. The dogs, tired out from their excellent adventure, slept peacefully by the hearth. We re-capped, noting the similarity of the leap to the dramatic one taken by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in that movie classic from the sixties. "I can't swim," Sundance says sullenly. Butch bursts out laughing. "Are you kidding?", he asks. "The FALL will kill you!"
They leap, shouting as they drop, survive and go on to further adventures.

Percy must have seen the movie.

The Winter of the Goose

On the mornings I go walking without my dogs, I often pass Baxter Pond. Baxter Pond is man-made, I think, but lovely and natural-looking. There are weeping trees and hearty indigenous plantings all along its banks. A small bump of land in the middle is homebase to several clans - mallard ducks, sea gulls (visitors from the bay next door) and, especially, Canada Geese.

These geese are a lot of fun. They are not afraid of people, either pedestrian or automotive. In the spring, when goslings have hatched and the gaggles are especially close-knit, it is common to see those geese families crossing the road to get to the bay where, I assume, the menu selection is better. With one parent in front and one in the back, the geese babies walk carefully in a straight line across four lanes of stopped traffic. Most of the time people are very good and patient. They stop, roll down their windows and smile affectionately as the geese waddle their way across. Some crabby people try to weave around them or, even worse, try to muscle the geese out of their way by driving real close and honking their own horns. We don't like these impatient, heartless people.

Usually, the waterfowl of Baxter Pond keeps to itself. But one winter, a few years back, there was an odd bird (sorry, had to) living in the pond. He was a goose, but not a Canada Goose. He was brownish-gray and had one of those bumps over his orange bill. He was extremely friendly and openly solicited snacks from passersby.

I named him Harry. Since I was walking nearly every day at that time, I saw Harry quite often. It got to the point where I would stroll by, call his name and wait, knowing he would appear out of the rushes momentarily. And he did, honking and flapping. I fed him cracked corn (I know I shouldn't have) and talked to him for a few minutes before continuing on my way. Harry ate from my hand. He didn't seem to have any friends among the others. He was the only gray-brown goose and all the other birds pretty much kept to their own kind. I felt sorry about that. Such a friendly fellow deserved a few buddies.

These visits continued into the spring, until, after several straight days of not seeing a trace of Harry, I decided he was really gone. I never saw him again. It is interesting how powerful an impact even small interactions with other living things can have on us. I can still see Harry popping through the reedy grass upon hearing his name called. I can still hear his insistent honk when I took too long getting his snacks out of my pocket and how he would try to help himself, nosing in and sometimes getting my fingertip instead of corn.

A friend later suggested Harry may have been someone's pet at one time. That would explain his lack of shyness and his only-ness at the pond. Part of me wished I had taken him home, however impractical that would have been. I wonder and worry about him, even now. Does he know this? Can he remember these moments in his life? I wish I knew.

What Happened to Richard?

As recently as one generation ago, the name 'Dick' (most often a nickname for Richard - now how does THAT work?) was a fine and acceptable moniker. Dick Clark, Dick Van Patten, Dick Nixon, Dick Van Dyck (unfortunate sounding in every way).

But the name 'Dick' is only met with snickers nowadays. We all know what a dick is. When used in traffic, it is spat out with rage. When used to belittle, i.e. "dick-for-brains", the accent is firmly planted on it as first syllable.

There is a great big sporting goods chain that used to have a different, cool-in-an-athletic-sort-of-way name. It changed hands and became 'Dick's'. Whose bright idea was that? You go to the mall and it is the anchor store. You turn into the parking lot and see small signs for J.C. Penney. Macy*s. Hot Topic. Anthropologie. Then, looming in front, DICK'S!!!!

Now, there is some subconscious, Freudian reasoning, I guess. Dick's sells golf clubs and big weight sets. It has an enormous hunting department and carries many basketball and hockey jerseys.

But studies show that women are by far, the main patrons of such shopping centers. Did the new owner really think these women would be thrilled and enticed by this new name? "After lunch at La Petit Sushi and a pedi at Spa Francois, where should we go next, Brittany?" "Hmm, like, let me think. . . I know! Let's go to my totally favorite boutique! DICK'S!!!"

I don't think so.

In the animal kingdom, brains come in all shapes and sizes.
This is also true of humans.

Yankee Doodle Went to Town, Sitting in a Wine Bar

I live in a fairly close-knit town. I can wander down Main Street or the aisles of the local supermarket at any given time and run into people I know. I like that. I grew up in a different Long Island suburb during the 50s and 60s, when suburbia was coming into its own all over. But this town, now, seems friendlier somehow.

The two towns met in my world the other night. I play at this local wine bar every couple of weeks. It is a small place, but a nice easy venue to have a drink, chat with friends and listen to nice unplugged music. I walked in a few minutes before my gig time and saw a face from my distant past. "Patty O'Brien!!", I exclaimed, without thinking first. The woman, who was at a table with a man (her husband, I later found out) looked at me with surprise and concern. I could tell she had no clue who I was. "Lisa from Saint Edward's", I said, a little too earnestly. Her face changed and I saw a registering of recognition.

Patty O'Brien and I had gone through kindergarten and elementary school together. Her mother, Sally O'Brien, was MY mother's friend. They cleaned the church's altar together, the only women at the time who were ever allowed in past the communion rail. Even the nuns were not allowed back there. Patty became my faithful friend in first grade because I shared my lunch dessert with her every day.

We all brought lunch boxes in those days. They were metal and had glass thermoses inside that you could not put soda in (I learned the hard way) because they would explode and soak everything else in there. We all had our favorite lunches and, except for Fridays, when we Catholics could not eat meat, our lunches were the same every day. Nancy had a plaid lunch box and raisins. Mary Ellen always got a little wet wipe in her box which she washed her hands and face with. Terry had carrots (ew!)
I had a Gene Autry Lunch box. I did'nt even know who Gene Autry was, but it was the only lunchbox the hardware store carried when I needed one in a hurry. I had salami on Taystee bread every day except I had peanut butter and apple on Fridays. The Taystee bread was white and soft and spongy and could be flattened nicely and bitten into a disc which we pretended was Holy Communion.

The best part of my lunch (and Patty's by association) was dessert. I got an entire package of Yankee Doodles. That's three, count 'em, three cupcakes. I could only eat two, so, every single day, I gave the last one to Patty.

Sitting at the wine bar, we reminisced about our school days, our moms, and our lunches. Time stood still for a moment and we were back in the cafeteria in our green plaid wool uniforms, eating cupcakes and drinking milk out of little wax cartons. Funny what you remember.

Choiring Minds Want to Know

So. I belong to my church choir. I sing alto. I like the lower notes and I like to sing the harmony parts under the sopranos, who invariably sing the melody. Many women WANT to sing soprano just so they can get the melody. I admit, sometimes the alto line can be boring, a drone, or make no sense when sung alone.

But harmony is where the magic happens. Anyone can sing a plain old melody. La, la, la, go the sopranos, all high and mighty. Where would that melody be, really if not for the wonderful notes below, the wind beneath their wings?

My choir director lives and breathes music. He has either sung or played or conducted his whole life, and he is MY age. Which says a lot. But often, because he is so musically educated and perhaps a little bit gloomy, his tastes run to either the painfully classical, the obscure, the difficult or the grimly dark. Think Phantom of the Opera. You want to make this man happy? Give him a good Requiem.

Our choir is made up of a bunch of amateurs - the musical equivalent to weekend warriors - and a couple of professional ringers, uh, I mean, singers. The director hands out several weeks-worth of music at a time. He's the only person I know who can choose an Easter Song in a minor key. To keep our spirits up, we choir members like to poke fun at any weird names we can find on our sheet music. Pepper Choplin. John Rutter. Natalie Sleeth. But by far the best recently, was a piece of German music by a guy named Fuch Dich. I kid you not. Needless to say, we had a field day.
I won't go into the particulars here. Oh, okay, some references to Penal Colonies and Richard Nixon.

Choir is fun. Give us a rollicking good Requiem and we're off and running. Maybe Rutter knew Fuch Dich. IDK.