A Tribute to a Lovely Lady

October 28, 2010 United Church Fort Qu'Appelle, Saskatchewan
Marilyn and Allan and Family, Ladies an Gentlemen
For those of you who don't know me, I am the daughter of Russel Dixon. Kay was my stepmother and my friend.
I would like to thank Marylyn and Allan for allowing me to speak about Kay at this very difficult time...I hope what I am going to say will bring honor to her memory and serve as some comfort for her family.
As so many of us in this building already know Kay was truly a remarkable woman... someone who had led a life every bit as remarkable as any that I have ever met...from meeting Agatha Christie, Dancing at the Savoy, Skating at the Chrystal Palace and watching the Battle of Britain in her back yard with her brother...she never ceased to amaze me..but the time that I was most Amazed and oft times totally awe struck was during the time that she spent caring for Dad while he was hospitalized.
Dad and Kay were married in December of 2001 and before two months had passed Dad had suffered a debilitating stroke that left him paralyzed, unable to swallow, speak clearly, walk, play the Banjo, totally unable to fend for himself..and needing constant care until his passing. Now...I myself was not present at Dad and Kay's wedding but I certainly was a witness to their marriage which was every bit as important, meaningful and rewarding as any marriage involving two people of any age that is based on kindness, dignity and mutual respect--and the following is just a smattering of ways that this marriage and Kay's gift of seeing the possibilities of seemingly impossible circumstances made life and living not only for my Dad, but for all who choose to acknowledge it, more special and surprisingly precious.
Shortly after the stroke Kay stood over Dad's hospital bed and declared to me that LIFE IS SWEET--I remember being somewhat skeptical of this idea as Dad was so ill and it seemed that all of their high hopes for happy years together had been dashed...but for over two years Kay proved her declaration to be true...as she did everything in her power to make sure that Dad's life was richer than it otherwise would have been if she had not been in it...
Kay spent 27 months of not missing a day being by his side..making Dad's quality of life better than anyone could have imagined...I personally had not known really to what extent the concept of unconditional Love and total acceptance could be until I witnessed Kay's untiring dedication to my Dad--his life was enriched a thousand fold by her presence and never ending attempts to make life interesting and yes even exciting at times-some including contraband budgies, visits with Sammy the Cat , and fun with a Polaroid camera that I shan't explain at this time..but it will always bring a smile to my face whenever I think of it.
It was also due to Kay's insistence that we take dad out for drives as often as we could and consequently there were no excuses acceptable to her as to why a 50 plus woman didn't want to tackle learning to drive a HUGE Brand New Handicapped Van-- but I knew that if I didn't do it then she WOULD ... so learn I did..and it was great.
Kay always showed up in his room 7:30 am and wouldn't leave until twelve hours later--even if it meant that she had to walk the length of two football fields in January to and from the hospital in the dark because of car trouble and once because the town roads were blocked she literally crawled her way through snowdrifts to be at the hospital in time.
If she ever left him for an appointment or pressing necessity she always ensured that there was someone there to watch over him.
It is my fervent belief that Kathleen was SENT to be in Dad's life at that time and place--it couldn't have been any other way..
-I wish to take this moment to thank Marilyn and Alan and their family for unselfishly allowing Kay to absent herself from many many family gatherings, seasonal celebrations and even weddings while she was busy sweetening Dad's life with her vigor and imagination. Your generous and gracious sacrifice--not unlike Kay herself.. was duly noted, is appreciated even today, and will not soon be forgotten.
Kay's remarkable strength of character, her high ideals and value of life and respect for the institution of marriage not only enhanced my father's last days but also taught me and anyone else who observed this total dedication to duty and ultimate example of Love as a VERB, that there is no end to the possibilities when it comes to sweetening life..no matter what the circumstance. This concept is also reflected in Barbra De Angeles' quotation and it could easily have been Kay’s... “Marriage is not a noun, it’s a verb ...It isn’t something you get. It’s something you do. It is the way you love your partner every day.”
911 was a day that the modern world was forever changed... .I know that my world was changed that day..but not for the reason you may think..as September 11, 2001 was the day that I first laid eyes upon Dad's dear Kathleen...she was wearing a long blue dress and she was dancing to the music played by a band that included my Dad playing his banjo. It is my hope and prayer that perhaps the Good Lord in His Wisdom in some form of Sweet Eternity has allowed Kay and Dad to once again Play and Dance to the Music that they both loved so well.

Penny's Debauchery

I have been watching one of those COP shows on our limited television satellite reception.  The program basically is a constant repeat of police officers confronting ,  arresting, and counselling people who are out of control.  Most of the people are out of control mentally and physically due to the   consumption of  too much alcohol and drugs.

Combine  all that with the pretty much 'everything goes' attitude and one does have a recipe for what I deem to be debauchery.


Debauchery...such an interesting word.  I looked it up.  It means extreme indulgence in sensuality with reference to orgies; orgies  which I assume   are  sexual in nature.

The debauchery that I see on the streets of Las Vegas on that television program seems foolish, foreign, and almost surreal. 

I am going to suggest a further meaning to this unique word.


 I suggest that it can be applied  anytime when one's actions, words, and desires become focused on purely one's own wants and preceived needs no matter what the cost to another's rights,  particularly the rights of the innocents in this world.   Kony, a child kidnapper, abuser, and murderer, would then fall under the category  of someone who engages in debauchery..creating untold pain, misery and irrevocable harm as a result of his crazed self indulgence and seemingly disregard for  human rights.  

I am also going to suggest that my new definition of debauchery applies to the actions of  anyone, anywhere  who wield their control either through finances, emotional blackmail involving self righteous unforgiveness, or just plain screaming unleashed bitter wrath, in order to control others, ultimately harming and fracturing relationships.  

 The pain, waste, and destruction in the  self indulgent use of power, mixed with fear, immaturity and ignorance  inherent in this type of debauchery is every bit as destructive to society as it  is to the individual who  exercises it;  not unlike  drug or alcohol misuse or wanton sexual activity.
 
These activities that qualify for the label of Penny's Debauchery is present in not only the warring factions  throughout the world , but also is  the cause of social injustices, loss of peace, and  broken families, which can be traced  right down as much as to  my own actions as I suspect many  of the  readers' and beyond.


"How utterly futile debauchery seems once it has been accomplished, and what ashes of disgust it leaves in the soul. --Albert Camus

Hang Up and Dial Again

I am not sure if it is an Aesop's Fable or simply a little story from my primary school days, but there is a story about  How the Bear Got Its Tale 


 To the best of my recollection the story describes the Bear as at one time having a long tail as well as having a yen for the taste of fish.  As it was in the winter, the only way the Bear was able to do any fishing was to make a hole in the ice (the story did not give details as to how this was done) and then the Bear, not having anything else on hand subsequently placed his tail into the hole as bait and waited for the fish to nibble, and ultimately become his dinner.  The bear in the story waited, and waited, and waited..and then he waited some more.  He waited all through the night  in this position until he felt something distinctly bite on his tail.  The bear jumped up and turned around quickly to see what his breakfast was going to look like only to see that his tail had been left in the frozen ice. Hence that is why the bear to this day has a short tail.

Gruesome sounding isn't it?  I am not quite sure what the moral of the story is or why someone thought that that story should be chosen to terrorize the minds of small children for a generation.


Was the message about fishing and how one should always carry appropriate fishing gear? Or if it was written today, would it be a comment upon how long it took the ice to actually freeze the tail hard enough to rip it off as it might be interpreted by the Green House Gas Environmentalists?  


Personally, I think the story is about waiting and how one can get ripped off in time, money, and effort and yes even TAILS, if one decides to wait too long for something, whatever that something may be.


  It may be waiting for your order in a restaurant, which has gotten inadvertently dropped on the floor in the  kitchen , while your family of 6 waits patiently for 45 minutes as others around you are served their orders.


  It may be waiting for the 'party to which you dialed' has put you on hold and you have listened to the whole  Henri Mancini album twice until it is past the time that the government office you have called two time zones away is open until after the long weekend.  


 The story may even about waiting 2 or more hours  to be called into the office of some professional advisor such as  a doctor, lawyer, dentist or even mental health professional, all because you have gotten the date wrong and were supposed to be there at that same time of day but one day earlier.


Could the  message of this story be more about the survival of the fittest?..or more appropriately the smartest? Obviously  the intelligence of the fish far surpasses that of the Bear...not surprisingly as fish do travel in schools and bears travel without poles.  

Things may come to those who wait, but only the things left by those who hustle.
Abraham Lincoln

The Lost Has Not Been Found

I am looking for something.  I saw it about 3 months ago.  It  seems like 3 months ago anyways.  It was probably 6 months ago instead.  I did NOT throw it out.  I put it somewhere.  But wherever 'somewhere' is, it is nowhere to be found, and I have looked everywhere except wherever this item is.

I have looked in the last place it could be as well as the first place I thought where I might find it.  I have looked under and over.  I have even climbed upon a chair and perused the nether regions of the ledges atop of cupboards and china cabinets, as well as fridges and corner shelves. I have opened boxes and containers, and placed my hands between all sorts of things in my search. I have explored the entrance area, the den, the living room, both upstairs bedrooms, both bathrooms, the pantry shelves, and every cupboard and drawer in the kitchen.

The ironic part of all this is that I, as in a 'getting up there in years' pretty much computer illiterate older woman, can more easily find this item on the internet than I can find it in my own house. That just means to me that this item is truly and forever lost somewhere in the realms of items that have never been thrown away for the past several decades in compliance with the Dirty Thirties Philosophy that dominates most of my lifestyle choices.


What is really annoying is that without this item I cannot use another much larger, much easier to find item at all, and therefore, that item is rendered totally useless.  Although I probably won't throw this item away because I KNOW the other item is somewhere,  needing a new battery,  resting safely someplace in the shelter of my very modest, albeit crowded with 'things that we might someday need' articles. Articles that hopefully will be able to be found when needed and wanted. 

"Go to where it should be, and look there again.. only look harder"--advice from a friend--who doesn't really care one way or the other if I  ever do find what I am looking for.

Oh What a Beautiful Evening.

It truly truly is a beautiful May evening.  No wind. The rich lushness of the new leaves abound. The evening birds are calling.  Geese can be heard calling out perhaps in startled flight. Just a hint of a breeze.
An evening that my husband describes as 'the drippings of Heaven'.

I suppose people in town are out walking along sidewalks visiting with neighbours as they transplant petunias and pansies in their flower beds.  Some are cutting their lawns and some are perhaps watching a ball game .

We, I should more rightly say, 'He'  has not cut the lawn as yet in hopes that the theory about having the combination of long grass and baby frogs hiding in that grass is the reason why we did not, absolutely did not, without a word of a lie, have mosquitoes in our yard last year.  So as the grass becomes higher and thicker  and starts to waft to and fro like a stunted field of frozen tufted barley,  I will try to keep in mind that it is all for the greater cause of Science.

I do love a good baseball game.  My parents took me to one special kind of game in my home town  when I was about eight years old.  I am pretty certain of the date as my Dad was in the local garage dealing on a new car that same evening,  and we were waiting for him impatiently.  He was dealing on a 1960 Ford Fairlane, three on the tree, standard,   four door, red, with black and white interior, with what I think were called  fintails along with twin headlights. This was the first car we had that had signal lights.  It was in those decadent days when one ordered the color, both interior and exterior, along with the any extras such as automatic or standard transmission  . The Ford Motor Company would build it to order, and either ship the vehicle out to the far flung reaches of the Canadian Prairies,  or one could , like my Dad, either fly down or take the train to Windsor to pick it up.  La Dee Dah!  Those days are long gone!

With order form and glossy pamphlet in hand, Dad finally came out of the dealership and off we went to the strangest ball game I have ever seen .   It was DONKEY Ball.  I think I am correct when I say that the game had the regular rules except that the runner had to ride a Donkey around the bases.  I also think the Donkeys were used in the outfield and on the bases as well.   I remember the batter having to climb on to a not very enthusiastic donkey and try to get it to run all the way to first base before the ball got there, and the cheering crowd egging him on.

Being a kid from the country, that was the first time I had ever  been to any ball game   in  my home town,  and it was the first time I had seen a Donkey...

...although I suspect there might still be a few Asses in that vicinity even now.

10 Things...

Ten Things  One Never Hears From the Deathbed....


10. I wish I had saved more money.

9.  If only  I had that bought that bigger house.

8.  If I could do it again, I wouldn't forgive that  'person'.

7.  I sure rue the day that I apologized to him/her/them.

6.  Give me back my pride...I need it.

5.  I am sure glad that I didn't tell that person I loved them..now they will never know.

4.  I feel great about harbouring that resentment.

3.  What a waste of time that vacation was.

2. Would someone please give me a mirror?   I    wonder if I look ok.

1.  I am so glad I was RIGHT about so many things.


An old man on his deathbed implored his wife, "When I am gone I want you to marry Fred Uhland."
"Why Fred Uhland? she asked.  "You have always hated him."
"Still do,"gasped the old man.

Weird but OK

 A. Its .weird but ok that I get a cancellation notification for an order on my Amazon account..*

...because..I didn't order anything in the first place.

 B. It would have been more 'un ok' if I had ordered something and got a cancellation notice for my Amazon account.

 C. It would have been even MORE 'un ok' if I had not ordered something and not gotten a cancellation notification and recieved whatever it was that I hadn't ordered.

 D. But it would have been totally ok if I did not get a cancellation order and did not receive anything I hadn't ordered...happens  everyday..pretty much everyday...unless of course if I HAD ordered something...which takes us back to B...

E.  If I did not get a cancellation order because I did not order  anything AND received something AND then proceeded to use it, drink it or eat it then that would be  Stupid!

So in theory most of the time stuff happens as it should....unless it gets cancelled.

 *Dear Customer,

Your order has been successfully canceled. For your reference, here's a summary of your order:

You just canceled order 194-3849-37872 placed on May 12, 2012.

Status: CANCELED

_____________________________________________________________________

1 "Warships"; 2005, Deluxe Edition
By: Wendy Carter

Sold by: Amazon.com LLC

_____________________________________________________________________

Thank you for visiting Amazon.com!

Bella Jane LeClair (Cooper)

Bella Jane LeClair was my mother's mother.  She was born on October 13, 1884. She was a hard working, fun loving, religious lady who hailed from parents who lived in St. Peter's Parish on the  Pequis First Nations Reserve in Manitoba, what was then called St. Peter's Band.  She would  now be  considered to be of Metis heritage.


 The Grannie that I knew kept a boarding house with lighthouse keeping suites in Brandon.  It was always interesting to see which  number room we would be allotted  whenever we went to visit.  In fact, I think I first became aware of numbers because of the numerals on those bedroom doors.  I didn't think it strange at all that Grannie had hot plates and kitchen utensils in these rooms.  I do remember  the crispness of the sheets on the bed and the brightness of their whiteness, both probably  a result of bleaching and sun drying.

  Bella Cooper's was a popular place for service men's wives to stay during the War while their husbands trained in  the nearby military base of Shilo, Manitoba.  Her walls  at Christmas for years following were covered with cards   from the many friends she made while watching over  young mothers and wives who stayed under her roof during those tumultuous years.


    Grannie had a huge refrigerator for those days...well for any days actually. I think it would be considered a restaurant fridge, one with several doors that shut with the metal sound of a click and which covered almost one whole wall of the kitchen.  This fridge was always full whenever we visited. I had my first taste of cheddar cheese and sliced bread taken from that fridge.  That fridge  was  where that Milk in a Box came from. Milk that had an odd taste which I suppose is the taste of pasteurization which was foreign to someone who was used to the  warm and  fresh whole milk straight from the cow. This fridge  also had brown bottles of orange crush and bottles of 7 up (rare delights) which we were  allowed to have at any time during our stay.   Besides having these bottles of POP, Grannie actually had the only permanent wall mounted bottle opener that I had ever seen and have ever since seen in someone's private home. (None of that pound a nail through the top stuff for these city dwellers I guess).


My first sight of what most people nowadays call 'front loading' washing machines was at this grandmother's.  She also had a front loading clothes dryer.  She needed what must have been luxurious appliances of the day for her rooming/boarding house business.  I do remember  that my first $2 bill  that I earned was when I washed the floor behind her wood /coal cook stove. I was the only one visiting who could actually still crawl in behind and wash and rinse the wall and floor so the $2 job went to me.


Grannie also played the pump organ and my sister and I spent many happy times trying to get a tune going.  I still have some of the music  hymn sheets that were Grannie's from those times.


I remember her   aurora borealis  earrings and necklaces, the smell of her  face powder, the rouge on her cheeks. She always wore a dress with nylons and black laced shoes, even for housekeeping and everyday work. I remember her purposely drinking cold tea and dry toast. 
   
Grannie had a  unique way of sneezing. I am not sure wheather it was acquired or heritary but she sort of had a little snort when she did so..a family trait passed on  to my mother.  

I also remember the incident when we met Grannie at the train station in Melville and her hands were full of suitcases while her nylons , which were being kept up with what looked like sealer rubber rings, rolled down around her ankles with every step she took. The wind was blowing at her dress skirt as Grannie stopped suddenly and stared down at her legs  as the wads of material that were once her nylons slipped down, down, down past her knees in  little  brown rolls that looked liked  bizarre dougnuts wrapped around her ankles.
Her laughter at her own bizarre predicament is what I remember the most.

 I do not know if or where she attended school.  She could write a fine letter though..usually in pencil..with little notes written on the sides of the paper so when one read her letter one would have to turn it around and around to get the news from the 'asides' which, I guess, they truly were.

Her husband and her raised a family of five children, three boys and two girls, my mother being the youngest.  All five of her children served in the Canadian Armed Forces during the war and all five returned safely although one son had been permanently affected by his experiences, and another chose to relocate in California, a planet away in those days.  The other son and daughter lived relatively close by and her youngest daughter, my mother, married and lived on a farm in the next province.    Raising a family of five during the 1930's in central Canada was a challenge for Grannie and Granddad as they faced many financial trials and worries.  My mother would  rarely talk about those times of desperate want and crippling poverty, although she did mention how 'better off ' family members (aunts and uncles) would come to visit from the EAST  but wouldn't stay at their home ,  but  instead sought out refuge at  more suitable neighbours.

As we lived 200 miles from Grannie's it was common for Mom to pack us children up and catch the train for at least one visit a year.  In fact, for my 11th birthday my mother sent me,  ALONE, on the train, to see Grannie.  I had to ask someone at the Brandon train station to phone Grannie's house, so Granddad could pick me up in this Taxi .


 Grannie was at one time a deckhand for the 'June Bug', a small fishing boat that was owned by Granddad which fished off the coast of British Columbia for at least one season.  She also was the Cooper Cab dispatcher, answering the  ever ringing phone for  fares and keeping track of where and when the Cab was supposed to go next.  This keeping track was primarily done with pencil writings on the wall surrounding the telephone--didn't everyone's Grannie (who wasn't a bookie) have a wall like that? 

  She also had a jar with her gallstone floating in it, high up in the  mothball (no those are not peppermints) laden linen closet. It was the size of a small walnut.  My sister and I would climb up and have a peek and a shake whenever we got the chance. We would wonder when visiting  our other  grandmother where she kept her gallstones.

Grannie also had a plum tree and  grew columbines in her small garden on 1st Ave.   There was  a sun porch that we would sit out on on summer evenings and watch numerous cars go by, as Grannie's house used to be on the edge of the #1 Highway.  We would play car games- keeping track of colors, types, and license plates.  There were stained glass windows trimming the sun porch, the original lead trimmed type, and the ledges were filled with geraniums.  If I close my eyes I can hear the flipping hum of the tires of the vehicles as they passed by, the smell of the flowers, and taste pink strawberry ice cream that came in a block (making the ice cream portion square ) all while sitting in that warm little room with Grannie and Mom; listening to them talk about  things and people from their past  of which I had no idea.


Bella Jane LeClaire  did something that on the surface looks very avant- garde, riske, and even scandalous .  Besides smoking Black Cat cigarettes ,  she lived with a man who was not her husband.

After Granddad passed away Grannie found herself alone, in a huge empty house.  I do not know how they met.  He might have been a roomer that became a rumour  in the neighbourhood,    or  simply a very good friend that came a calling. I am not certain.   He was a very nice man. His name was Hector and he was about ten years her junior. My family accepted him sort of like another grandfather.  He was good to Grannie and that is all that concerned my mother I suppose.   Christmas cards were discreetly signed from Grannie and Hector.  I never heard anything negative about the arrangement,  and  I never  have I even considered (as granddaughters probably never ever even want to do) any of the so called moral ramifications of the living arrangements.

The last time I saw Grannie was just after completing my Grade 12 examinations.  Mom sent me on the bus to meet with Aunt Marie (Aunt Muzzie) to spend some time with Grannie in Brandon.  Sadly, the Grannie I had known no longer existed.  We found her unwell, unkempt, and lanquishing alone in her large home that was empty of any valuables, as was her bank account.   She had been duped by unscrupulous tenants and had suffered from the misjudgment and befuddled thinking that came from her unhealthy living habits which had started the War years  and became more problematic as time passed.  Hector had long since left not being able to handle the change  in her personality brought upon by her dependencies, although he remained her friend until her demise. 


Bella Jane LeClair (Cooper) passed away in a Brandon Nursing Home on September 4, 1973 just short of her 89th birthday. She died while Mom was enroute to be with her. I did not go to her funeral. 

Whenever I  see a Chinese Checker game in a store (Grannie kept her marbles in a sock), think of train travel or nylons which need garters,  see sparkling earrings,  have cheesecake with cherry pie filling (the kind she made me for my 11th birthday), loose tea--Grannie read tea leaves,  or an elderly lady without her teeth  (I have no recollection of Grannie ever wearing her false teeth), I think of this woman who showed me and still shows me how to be daring, smile at life, and never ever pass up a chance to be kind.


"Isn't that Grand?" was Grannie's favourite saying.


 And you know what?


 She was.

*


ps.  My sister and I had our gallbladders taken out the same day by the same doctor..neither of us kept the stones.




pss.  As I lay on the delivery table , in the throes of childbirth, I distinctly remember the face of my Grannie , Bella Jane LeClair, flashing across my mind and I knew all was going to be well.



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Just Because

Just because you can doesn't mean you          should.

 Just because you should doesn't mean you    will.

 Just because you will doesn't mean you       did.

 Just because you did doesn't mean its          right.

 Just because its right doesn't mean its         wanted.

 Just because its  wanted doesn't mean its    good.

 Just because its good  doesn't mean its        smart.

 Just because its smart doesn't mean its       kind.

 Just because its kind doesn't mean its         wise.

    It might just mean you  did what you       should,  

                   because it was wanted and       good.

                                    

                                                                                        

                                      

   In spite of you being neither smarter nor wiser ,

   but in fact the most kinder of all of those not thinking

                                                                      you  should. 

                   

JOY!

Don' t you just hate it when the plug in the kitchen sink isn't stuck right  down and  all the nice warm soapy water that you have just ran over the pile of dirty dishes has slowly but persistently seeped away..leaving you with a pile of slippery  slimy feeling dishes, that you now have to dig through to get your hand down to the bottom to reset the Gee Dee sink plug and start all over again?

That's only one thing I hate about doing dishes.  I think I dislike the diddliessness of it all..the washing, the rinsing, the putting away as if there is a LAW about where everything is supposed to go, tucked away, hidden and safe in case 'someone comes'.


 As if  it is  some sort of secret that we actually eat, and we actually use dishes and knives and forks and spoons, and we have cooked , fried, or grilled food in pots and pans.

 Would the casual visitor sooner assume that the people in  our household eat their  food raw and with their hands? while passing around cold cans of vegetables and  preprocessed meat such as Spam?  Do they visualize my family  tearing  random dry hunks off of loaves of bread with as much vigor as an evangelical communion feast?  Do they think perhaps that we must have    washed it all down by  taking turns slurping water from the kitchen faucet?

 I would like to know just who made the rule that in order to measure a person's worthiness one must measure their    ( historically a woman's )universal value as a human being by observing the visual cleanliness of kitchen dishes.  I suspect it was made by a group of Northern European mother-in-laws whose sole goal was to maintain superiority over their sons' brides in terms of clean counters, bleached towels, and virginal shiny sinks.

I am aware of the  health hazards involved in having unwashed dishes piling up as fly traps and mouse bait.   Yes,  there is the dust factor involved with just allowing the cleaned dishes  to sort of 'hang out' on the cupboard. But one must remember that there have been many valuable scientific discoveries made through the use of mold purposely grown in pitri dishes, so why couldn't that same type of thing happen in any of the dishes in my own kitchen?


 Nope..washing dishes is not one of my favourite things..never has been..never will be...

               ...but I do like dirtying them...
          
                      .....right down to the shine... 

                                                  ..its a real JOY !

God Bless Us.. and that means ....Everyone.

Dangerous Christianity *


I only buy about 10% of what this guy is saying.

This is  a prime example of a little bit of truth sprinkled in with ignorance, broad generalizations, and avoidance/deflection when asked direct questions on issues.

 It is THIS type of thinking that entices people to mock Christianity.  This thinking is like a red flag, a marked target,  the trigger incident, that allows people, indeed inflames people from other cultures, religions, and even different Christian backgrounds to rise up and totally dismiss anything and all this type of Christian proclaims.

I find that so many Christians who are out to point the finger at any other religion with vigour, contempt, and suspicion are often those same Christians who have neither bothered or desired to learn the true background, history, or philosophy of their own religion.

It's the rampant judgements passed and simple 'not knowing' and 'not wanting to know' that drives me crazy.  The feeling of being entitled to judge, mock, and criticize other's belief systems to me is the absolute antithesis of what Christianity is supposed to be.

How on Earth or in Heaven is anyone supposed to be able to persuade others to believe in Christianity when the Christians themselves lack trust and compassion for even those who claim to have the same belief system let alone someone from another religion entirely?  I have witnessed more blatant judgment, character assassination, and hypocrisy in  Christian churches than I have in any of the social organizations I have been involved with, which are often comprised of a broad cross section of cultures, religions, and education.

 Many Christians claim to embrace forgiveness and understanding, but what I have often witnessed is  ignorance, and self-righteousness all often based on fear.  To me the Christians whose faith is fear based  often live in the closed hot house of ideological superiority nurtured by  half truths and misunderstandings.

 No wonder Christianity is mocked.  Its almost like the person who says they are on a diet, wanting to lose weight, and  then they eat a chocolate bar while washing it down with a diet soda.  What they claim they want and what they actually do are not really connected. 

Instead of trying to persuade others by pointing out the faults of their religions or lifestyles,  Christians who are serious about really bringing the world to a better understanding should  start to  actually live the lessons taught in the Bible instead of trying to teach  or ' screech'  the lessons.   They could start this process by reading,  praying, forgiving, loving, and by learning about ALL their fellowman..not just the ones that agree, or seem to agree, with them.




*..click on the link to see the article.

Jigsaw Truth

Truth has a natural attraction about it. One may not like it, want to hear it, think it, or even seek it out, but we, as humans, do  search for truth just as assuredly as this middle aged muddle headed woman seeks out chocolate and onion rings.

I find that often original thought, rare as it is, most always is the most truthful. It's as if  when the combination of logic, fact, and the ability to organize the truth verbally, occur at the same time a new idea is then  born.  When one  thinks about it,  it really  isn't an idea if it isn't original.  If it's not original it's just sort of a copy of an idea; a facsimile if you  want to use technical terms. This facsimile is not necessarily less truthful, but it doesn't rank the merit of an idea because it hasn't got the 'first time it has been thought of' factor to it.

  I judge if something is true if it gives me that completeness feeling .  Anyone who has had the privilege of  finally putting in the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle after much searching, testing, and analyzing will understand what I mean by the completeness feeling.  Its the feeling that nothing need more be said, done, or explained with regards to that thought,  and as a consequence something  new has been created in the being of the one to whom the truth has been made evident.   An idea has thus been born, and in that sense the idea is original to the one who has undergone the process.
  The consequential truth discovery does not preclude others from discovering and discerning the same idea  from the same process of  searching and completeness.

Why am I so caught up in truth, ideas and consequential independent and original thought?  I think one reason is that I love the truth .   I love the feeling when I have the opportunity to experience the  'Ah Huh' moment.
I appreciate and yearn to be told the truth in all its  sometimes cold clarity. Nothing can be solved , cured, or  truly celebrated without truth being at the basis.

Another reason I worry about truth is because I find it such a rare commodity in our politicians and professionals.  I suspect there is more 'facisimilies' of truth being bandied about as rules of society rather than much clear thinking or  analyzing of facts.  Consequently, when the politician or law maker decides on what is truth they have no inner understanding of what it actually means.  What some of these people deem to be truth is merely some faded copy that   perhaps needs updating to be complete. 

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, more disrespectful than the luke warmth of mediocre communication based on befuddled thinking and misinformation. If one is going to use the energy to express an opinion, at least give the listener the respect of having done some thinking which involves the process of truth finding, before expressing it.

Otherwise, you might as just as well hand out a pamphlet that someone else has written.

Broad Plaza Blues

 Softball Season has begun.

Although it has been several years since I have been to a live game and even several more years since I have actually played the game, I still  like to consider myself a Softball Player. 
I started playing at the age of six and continued on throughout school and even  into my early twenties  while living in the nearby 'big city'.

I have played every base as well as the far far outfielder, back catcher, and short stop , along with a very short and unsuccessful try out for the position of pitcher. 

The Pitcher.  That sacred and coveted position of every team eluded me.  I could throw overhand with a force and accuracy of any of my male schoolmates 'zinging' it straight over the head of the pitcher to second base for a surprize 'out'.  I would slide head / feet/ fingers first to homeplate to score. I would 'run down' a batter in the soup until they were forced back to their team bench.  I could  isntinctively decide which base to throw the ball to execute a double play. There wasn't a hit ball that I wouldn't attempt to stop either with my glove, shins, or even mouth (I still have the cracked  front tooth), but I could not pass the Pitcher Try Out.

I am not sure why I could not attain that goal.  Perhaps I couldn't concentrate on the traditional three step / pitch rule which seemed to be required to throw the ball at the magic mid way section of the batter/base/ and umpire line of sight.  It might have been the taunts and encouragement from teammates and spectators such as " Chuck it in there Big Chucker" , "She Can't Pitch" , and  "Let Her Walk You" ringing in my ears  that affected my poor and unpredictable aim.  

Or perhaps...and I try not to be biased about this..it was because I wasn't 'Cool'.  Now I know coaches, teachers, and managers are to be immune from being effected by social coolness that is found in all genograms in any demographic study ; but I firmly believe that something makes these people, the truly 'Cool' ones,  just  emimnate some sort of energy that makes them the captains, social conveyors, fashion icons, cheerleaders and  PITCHERS if they so choose.  Maybe pitching skills at the amateur level did require finally coiffed hair, clear skin, stylish jeans, and cute little Size 7 running shoes. If that was  the case 40 years ago, it still is so today, as my daughters were rarely ever the pitchers on their teams .

Whatever the reason, and probably for the best of the team, I was never the pitcher for longer than 2 innings a season...and that would only be if the regular pitcher was sick, or  participating in some other more important activity such as singing in a music festival or attending a ceremony where she was receiving recognition for her figure skating performance the winter prior.

All bitterness aside, the game of softball is a wonderful activity both for the players and the spectators.  The game can be enjoyed by everyone in the whole family with the right amount of mosquito repellant and sun block applied. There is  no other sound in the world that quite matches the crack of the bat, the rising cheers, the chants and shouts of 'run, throw it, slide',  along with  the umpire's final and unchangeable shout of SAFE!

Combine all that  with the smell of freshly cut grass and  dusty leather gloves  one has a near perfect evening.   My grandparents returned again and again to watch games played even after the windshield of their parked car was smashed by contact with a stray fly ball.
We even had uniforms with the city team. The 'Broad Plaza Blues' had a few rare moments of victory which was even mentioned at least once in the local city newspaper.

 Ah  the firey flame of  the famous, fades as fast as the fleeting fashion of  the flinging of fly balls ..not unlike the fast final  fading of the flowers of flax ..frail , fallen, and  forever forgotten.. (by some anyways).