KATRINA

Well the paper had the first “God did it to punish the sinners” letter today. I’ve always loved the meat ax school of theology. Considering the state of the Gulf and Gulf coast part of our oil industry we could just as easily argue that God did it to remind us how fragile our oil based energy economy is. Or we could argue that overextending our economy to fight a war that didn’t need to be fought leaves very little margin for disaster. None of these are true.

 

We live on a world rich in earthquakes, tornadoes, volcanoes, blizzards, nor’easters and yes, hurricanes. If Katrina has any meaning it’s to remind us how little we understand any of those events, how preparations no matter how extensive may never be enough, and how much we depend on each other.

 

If the Creator has anything to do with these events it’s to lend us the strength to get through the tragedies, to try and find some comfort when comfort is in pitifully short supply, to rebuild where we can and move on if we have to.

 

If these words aren’t enough, I suspect we’re in a realm beyond words. There are times when words, no matter how well meant or well intentioned are never enough.

ANOTHER TIME AND PLACE

I think I’ll start with Edith Pargeter who wrote the Brother Cadfael mysteries under the pen name of Ellis Peters. I will say up front that I am not a fan of mystery stories just because they’re mysteries. If it’s a good story with marvelous characters and fantastic writing that just happens to have a mystery attached, don’t call me I’ll call you.

The twenty novels and three short stories are set in the monastery attached to the church of Saints Peter and Paul in the Shrewsbury of mid-12th century England.  The monastery was established in the early 1090?s and flourished until it was suppressed in 1540 during the reign of Henry VIII.

You don’t have to read the books in order, but it helps. One mystery often leads to another, characters pop up again and the common background thread to all the books is the on again off again civil war between two of William the Conquerors grand children over who has to right to plant their royal posterior on the English throne.

Williams’ youngest son Henry had outlived one brother (rumor had him helping big brother into the afterlife) and out fought the other to finally claim both England and Normandy. He had several illegitimate sons who were granted titles and estates but when both his legitimate heir William and his other son Richard were lost in a shipwreck he named his daughter Matilda (aka Maud) as his heir and convinced most of his nobles to swear to recognize her claim to the throne and swear oaths of allegiance.

When Henry died in 1135 his nephew, Stephen moved first. With lands in both England and Normandy, Stephen was the wealthiest of the Anglo Norman nobles. With the support of his brother Henry, Bishop of Winchester, Stephen used his status as the son of the Conquerors’ daughter Adela to seize the throne. Matilda had the claim of being Henrys’ daughter and her oaths of allegiance. Stephen had the right gender, a claim through his mother and more oaths of allegiance. The nearly twenty-year struggle over the throne dragged England into civil war.

The back and forth feuding, skirmishing, pillaging and general mayhem form the backdrop for Cadfael born in Wales, former crusader, sometime Mediterranean boat captain, and now a brother in the Abbey of St. Peter and St. Paul to practice both his talents for herb gardening and mystery solving.

Now in his sixties, Brother Cadfael has found a safe harbor in the religious life. But, if he has to choose between the spirit and the letter of the rules of the abbery he’s likely to obey the spirit and tidy up the letter of the law later. As the monastary herbalist he overseas the herb garden that provides varous remedies as well as seasonings. For many of the poorer members of the community, he’s the closest thing to a doctor available.

Peters paints vivid word pictures that bring the characters to life. The following short excerpt is from a short story, The Price of Light from the volume A Rare Benedictine. The story takes place before the individual stories in the novels.

Hamo FtizHamon of Lidyate held two fat manors in the northeastern corner of the county, towards the border of Cheshire. Though a gross feeder, a heavy drinker, a self-indulgent lecher, a harsh ladlord and a brutal master, he had reached the age of sixty in the best of health, and it came as a salutary shock to him when he was at last taken with a mild seizure, and for the first time in his life saw the next world yawning before him, and woke to the unesy consciousness that it might see fit to treat him somewhat more austerely than this world had done. Though he repented none of them, he was aware of a whole registeer of acts in his past which heaven might construe as heavy sins. It began to seem to him a prudent precaution to acquire merit for his soul as quickly as possible. Also as cheaply, for he was a grasping and possessive man. A judicius gift to some holy house should secure the welfare of his soul. There was no need to go so far as endowing an abbey, or a new church of his own. The Benedictine abbey of Shresbury could put up up a powerful assault of prayers on his behalf in return for a much more modest gift. ……….there follows a paragraph discussing his bestowing ot the rent from one of his properties to support the cost of candles for the Lady alter in the church and the gift of a pair of silver candle sticks to be presented at Christmas (very publically presented) and then……….

Abbot Heribert, who after a long life of repeated disillusionments still contrived to think the best of everybody, was moved to tears by this penitential generosity. Prior Robert, himself an aristocrat, refrained out of Norman solidarity, from casting doubt upon Hamos’ motive, but he elevated his eyebrows, all the same. Brother Cadfael, who knew only the public reputation of the donor and was sceptical enough to suspend judgement until he encountered the source, said nothing and waited to observe anddecide for himself. Not that he expected much; he had been in the world fifty-five years, and learned to temper all his expectations, bad or good.

I’ve taken the time to set the background for the stories because I believe that time and place are important to how the characters act. In the case of the short story that follows the exerpt. the candle sticks end up stolen (of course). They had been made by one of Hamos’ serfs, a silversmith, with the promise of permision to marry and freedom. Hamo, of course, hadn’t kept his end of the bargain and a little “intervention” divine or otherwise was required.

The characters come alive. They make mistakes. They learn, they grow, they fail, and they make wrong choices.  Sometimes the results are disastrous. Sometimes the outcome is something wonderful.  They’re just as real as the neighbor down the street. (Brother Jerome, the Priors’ clerk and general monastery busy body, doesn’t seem to learn anything new, but there are people like that.)

I suspect that our Neocon super individualism would be as incomprehensible to the people of Cadfaels' day as his world would be to us. A world that travelled only as fast horse, wind or feet could carry you. Where most folks seldom traveled more than a days’ journey from where they were born.

FIRST THINGS FIRST

Ok, there's some folks that have been visiting me that might have fun stories to tell about what they like to read.

How 'bout the wonderful gal from Midlife Matters,

or Gayla from SoMuchMore-when she has time between homework assignments

or Dave from Random thoughst from a Progressive Mind.

or Robbie from Robbies Ruminations

or Dave at Inner and Demons

Sorry, guys I am a Mac person and the journals don't work quite the same as for pc's. I can put links to other sites in my e-mail but they don't seem to work quite the same in the journal. :-(

If somebody can tell me how to get links in the journal proper I'd love it.

Looking forward to hearing what you like to read.

I'M STILL TAGGED

Thank the guardian angel of creativity for lunch hours and internet connections.

 

I’m not trying to duck Lisas’ tag but I’m running into some roadblocks in on the road to cyber space. I have my ideas but the entry appears to have its own take on nature of the beast. Since I started this journal I’m discovering more and more that the words have lives of their own and they can be very stubborn about how and where they “live.”

 

This has happened before with term or research papers. I would have my vision of how the work should go. The paper itself would simply refuse to go where I wanted it to go. Once I realized what was happening I would give in and just let the words flow. Truthfully, I usually got better results that way. Maybe it was my subconscious and I gave the paper a personality. I have never written a last draft of a paper and then copied it. The version I ended up turning in was just the last draft I had time to write before the deadline.

 

The new entry (entries) and I are negotiating. As usually happens, the entry will probably win. Something along the way these entries are heading has been knocking around in my mental pending file for a while. The last month or so have been really hairy at work so the idea just kept rattling. I’d hear the cage doors clink every now and then and tell it to be patient. Actually, I’d give it a few thoughts for breakfast and tell it shut the heck up, darn it.

 

What may happen is a series of entries on an author or authors. A special book, perhaps. You know the kind I’m talking about. The book that owns you as much or more than you own it. The ones you’ll part with only after they fall to pieces or if you can find another copy. (Alibris, you are a Godsend.)

 

Lisa, you were on target about college lit classes. I wasn’t a lit major so my exposure was limited to the Intro to whatever lit classes and Shakespeare. Intro classes in large universities are divided into lectures and discussion sessions. The discussions are led by grad students who are just full to the brim with similes and metaphors and kind of impatient when you don’t see the same picture they do. I loved Shakespeare. The only book I remember from the lit classes is Lady Chatterley’s lover and I’m still trying to figure out what all the fuss was about. I was bored stiff.

 

They didn’t cure me of my love of reading, but I didn’t always want to read what they wanted me to read. Three cheers for Cliff Notes. So, please be patient with me, I’m a work in progress. Also, I’m trying to figure out who to “tag” myself. Hmmmmmmm.

WELL DUH

Sometimes AOL reminds me of an irritating relative. You know the one. The get under your skin cousin who continually insists on pointing out the obvious.

It's bad enough getting dumped without the little notice coming up to tell me that AOL has unexpectedly quit. I tihnk I can figure it out for myself. Having everything disappear and losing the little red dot on my AOL icon at the bottom of my computer screen is a really big tip off.

I'm still working on the reading thing. It's statement week at work and frankly most of my brain is pan fried. I just LOVE this new computer system. Everything is broken into more little pieces than it used to be. Making sure I have all the pieces or I've created all the pieces so that it all fits in the end is a little more intense than it used to be. As they say this too shall pass. So do a lot of other things. But, this is a family journal so I'll leave it al that. LOL

I've been tagged part 1

Lisa tagged me to do an entry about my love (passion) for reading. While I’m working on that, here is the opening passage from one of my favorite books, Cry the Beloved Country. It was written in the late forties by an English South African, Alan Paton. If you have a love of the land this may be one the saddest things you’ll ever read.

A note some of the words. Ixopo is the name of a village. The x is pronounced with a ck sound. The veld is an open plain. The pronunciation is almost like fvelt. A kloof is a steep sided gully or small valley. The tithoya is a small bird like a plover and the name sounds like the birds’ call. Ingeli, Umzimkulu and Griqueland are pronounced pretty much as they are spelled.  The style in this novel is unlike anything I’ve ever read. It’s almost as if someone is writing down a spoken story. It probably breaks half the rules of conventional writing and that may be why I love it so much. The book is about people, the land, love, loss, forgiveness and acceptance.

So, here goes.

There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. The road climbs seven miles into them, to Carisbrooke; and from there, if there is not mist, you can look down on one of the fairest valleys of Africa. About you there is grass and bracken and you may hear the forlorn crying of the tithoya, one of the birds of the veld. Below you is the valley of the Umzimkulu, on its journey from the Drakensberg to the sea: and beyond and behind the river, great hill after great hill; and beyond and behind them, the mountains of Ingeli and East Griqueland.

The grass is rich and matted, you cannot see the soil. It holds the rain and the mist, and they seep into the ground, feeding the streams in every kloof. It is well-tended, and not too many cattle feed upon it; not too many fires burn it, laying bare the soil. Stand unshod upon it, for the ground is holy, being even as it came from the Creator. Keep it, guard it, care for it, for it keeps men, guards men, cares for men. Destroy it and man is destroyed.

Where you stand the grass is rich and matted, you cannot see the soil. But the rich green hills break down. They fall to the valley below, and falling, change their nature. For they grow red and bare; they cannot hold the rain and mist, and the streams are dry in the kloofs. Too many cattle feed upon the grass, and too many fires haveburned it. Stand shod upon it, for it is coarse and sharp, and the stones cut under the feet. It is not kept, or guarded, or cared for, it no longer keeps men, guards men, cares for men. The titihoya does not cry here any more.

The great red hills stand desolate, and the earth has torn away like flesh. The lighting flashes over them, the clouds pour down upon them, the dead streams come to life, full of the soil that is left, and the maize hardly reaches the height of a man. They are valleys of old men and old women, of mothers and children. The men are away; the young men and the girls are away. The soil cannot keep them any more.

Alan Paton, 1948

WHAT THE ?????????

This is one of those entries that are hard to put a catchy title to. I thought of "What are they thinking?" But, it's pretty obvious and I don't want to get any deeper into these folks twisted little psyches than I have to. I considered " The Sheep and the Goats." But even though it's in the bible I don't have anything against goats. They're great animals. Very bright, sometimes very funny. I remember watching them watching us at the fair. Comparing them to these folks would be insulting. To the goats.

Sorting the pieces had an entry last weekend about the funeral of a the brother of a family friend. The young man was in the service in Iraq and died in the line of duty. If you’ve heard of Westboro Baptist Church’s “ministry” of picketing anything and everything to do with gays, you may not have heard of their wider ministry. (Incidentally the “church” consists of Fred Phelps, most of his children and their families.) Their websites have to be seen to be believed. I think I’d feel cleaner if I took a dip in the castle moat at high noon on the hottest day of the year or dove headfirst into the trash pile at the local dump.

Apparently their church was fire bombed recently and they have announced that along with God hating f@#’s He also now hates America, too. In a way you kind of have to admire their chutzpah. Their latest schtick is to show up at the funerals of service people with their picket signs and venom. They blow into town, spend an hour or so spreading their own unique brand of “fellowship” and get the heck out of Dodge leaving the opposite of sweetness and light behind. Personally, I believe that dragging small children along on these little minesterial visitations is very close to emotional abuse but I guess you can claim freedom of religion and get a free ride on that. That, and their habit of sueing the pants off anyone who opposes them.

For a long time I've believed that heaven or hell is having to truly face the fruit of your actions. A time will come when these people will have to face the pain they've caused others. Matthew 25 is very clear about how the sheep and the goats will be divided. I don't remember seeing picketing funerals on the list. The activities do include caring for the sick, visiting the prisoners, feeding the hungrey, comforting the widows and orphans (falling down on that one folks) and clothing the naked. "By their fruits you shall surely know them. "

I truly believe hell would be being able to see the Creator but your spirit has become so alien to what the Creator envisioned that you are invisible. Forever on the outside, looking in, unheard and unseen. I gotta chew on that one for awhile

I was wondering how these folks would react to a nice silent prayer vigil. Apparently all they got at this location was turned backs. Apparently it didn’t faze them at all.