Six Things I Learned During the Blackout

Thursday night, about six-o'clock, the power goes out.  This coincides nicely with our first taste of winter.  Despite the hyperbole proffered, whenever the weather changes, by the local STORM TRACKER TEAM!!!!!, it wasn't that bad.  We had maybe two inches of snow, winds in excess of 35 miles per hour (which moved our STORM TRACKER TEAM into conniption-level blizzard warnings), and the temperature dropped from the mid-forties to the mid-teens in a 24-hour period.  But hey, it's December.  It's going to snow.

Ok, where was I?  It snowed, it got dark, and the power went out, all at once.  In the back of my mind was something about a Mayan end of the world.  And one more thing, the kidlets had just finished finals and this was their first evening of Christmas break.  Emotions were already high.  I had planned on some Cordon blue, twice-bakes with bacon and blue-cheese, and probably a simple salad.  Such was not to be.

After about two minutes, candles were sputtering and cries came out to go to grandma's house.  Being the horse's rear end that I am, I managed to pull off a 30-minute wait to see if said power might return. It did not.  During this time they noticed how slowly the hands on the clock turned.  I told the girls that if this were the 1820s it would be about bedtime anyway and that they should go play with string or make a quilt or something.  That's when we went to grandma's and had pizza.

After the pizza and some zany-whacky cable television, I opted to return home.  The doggies would be scared and cold and someone needed to watch the house. Alternate motive:  I wanted to go home.  After much worrisome banter I bid my farewells and braved the storm!

Long story short, the power was off for eighteen hours and some change.  I survived.  Here are six things I learned:

Lesson #1:  Social anthropologist could write a good paper on how a society spends its technology on what it values.  In our case one might list transportation, communication, and making coffee.  My grandparents used to have a phrase about how they were going to, 'put on a pot of coffee'.  It was quaint, but what did it mean?  My grandmother grew up in a house with a wood stove.  Let's think about that.  What would it take to make a pot of coffee on a wood stove?  All I can say to this is that at 5:30am, when I woke in the pitch-black cold house (had somewhere to be at 7:30), it was a triumph of fortitude to find the camping percolator, fill it with water and coffee, and get it to boil on a single-burner portable unit.  And it took forever.  And it was delicious.  But by 6am I had already expended more calories on that pot of coffee than I usually spend by noon on a regular techno-day. 

Lesson #2:  A messy house is not conducive towards emergency situations.  For example, where can I set the hurricane lantern in a house with no clear counters?  Hmmmm…. Good question - not only is it a fire hazard but it also adds to the level of aggravation.  Really, only the kitchen was messy and my bedside table always has books and crap on it.  But still.

Lesson #3:  Speaking of aggravation - I have a good number of things to use for when the power goes out, or whatever.  But I store them out of the way.  It makes sense until you need them.  Then, finding them and remembering where they are adds to the aggravation level.  So, after locating the sleeping bag, the camp stove, the lanterns, and etc… and after walking the dogs in the greatest blizzard known to mankind, I was ready to have some serious night-nights.  The best news was that I always have a flashlight handy and they are loaded with crisp batteries.  That helped.

Lesson #5:  I have a freakin' awesome sleeping bag.  During the night, the temperature in the house dropped from 64 to 41 Fahrenheit.  That made me happy about the insulation in the home because by morning it was fifteen degrees outside.  But during the evening I got hot inside the bag.  I had to unzip it part way and stick my arms out to help cool down.  It's a High-Peak with Hi-Fiber Technology.  Hubba hubba.

Lesson #6:  Speaking of freakin' awesome things, hurricane lanterns loaded with kerosene are gold.  They are bright and fun to carry.  I felt like somebody in a cool Dungeon's and Dragon's adventure walking around the house with the lantern swinging in my chilly little hand.  Those shadows put forth the righteous scare and, I dunno, it just felt right.  I read myself to sleep and like an old timey guy, blew it out right before my blistering heat-wave sleeping bag took me to la-la land.

Lesson #6:  Another little aggravation is remembering how things work.  It makes sense.  I do not use the emergency one-burner stove that often.  So yea, take a minute or two to remember how it operates.  But in the dark, when you really just want to push a button and get your George-Jetson cup of coffee?  Again, more aggravation.

Just call me the survivor...

Time for the Birch

"I'm getting the birch," Santa said.

"Oh dear," said Mrs. Clause.

He tapped the cold ash from this meerschaum and lay it on the desk before him.  He looked up and stared at his wife's cherry-hued cheeks and her big blue eyes.  This year he meant it, and it might break her heart.  "Have you seen the reports?" he asked.

The birch had not been used for long ages.  He'd wanted to use it every year since 1963.  That was the first year the naughty stack had been thicker than the nice.  But after the Coca-Cola campaign of the 50s, with the happy, jolly, fat man image being popularized, he knew there'd be PR problems.  And so, this debate became a ritual between him and his wife.  But not now.

"Dear," she began her well rehearsed template, "you don't mean it.  Where's the nice pile?"

"See for yourself."  He had a single manila folder with three pieces of paper in it.  "There's a kid in Wyoming, homeschooled, hardly ever leaves the house.  There's that girl who puts up nice posts on Facebook for the Down's syndrome kids, and… you're in there."  He pushed it across the desk towards her.

She flicked the edge of the folder with her thumb but didn't pick it up.  Could this be true, she wondered.  Had the world gotten that bad?  "How can this be?"

"Do you realize," he began, "I had to buy a new external hard drive just for the porn lists?  Bullying is up twenty-four percent, not minding is worse than the American national debt, and the meanness indexes… Pouting and crying are the least of my worries, but they're just as bad."

She tilted her head at him and saw something different in his eyes than in years past.  "What about coal?  You haven't used coal in forever.  Give them a warning.  Couldn't this be a coal year."

"I haven't used coal because in the western hemisphere I'd be fined by the United Nations for carbon emissions.  In the rest of the world it would be a reward."

She began to cry and he reached out and took one of her hands in his.  "It's not for all of them," he said.  "The real little kids, of course they'll get their presents.  But fourth grade and up is shot.  It's done.  Honey, they need the birch."   He put special emphasis on the word need.

She said nothing but bent and placed a gentle kiss on her husband's bald head, between two liver spots she found most charming.

When she left the office he stood and stretched his back and with a heavy sigh walked to the special equipment room and opened the iron vault where the most powerful of his things were kept.  Most of these relics had not made the songs.  He stepped inside and looked around. 

On one shelf, in a jar of formaldehyde, was the red nose.  He picked it up and swirled it around like he would an olive in a martini.   It yet glowed.  How he missed that little mutant.  Tragic really, he thought, that reindeer only live about twenty years.  He put it back and then saw the hoof-wreath from the others of that original team.  They were thick and grey with age.  Dancer's still had that big chip in his from when he'd broken his ankle and had to be put down.  He'd run the hooves along a line of the original harness and had hung it in the kitchen for a while.  But of course the Mrs. didn't stand for that very long.  I really ought to get rid of some of this junk, he thought, but knew in his heart he was just a sentimental old fool.

"Time for reminiscing later," he said to himself.  He walked to the metal cabinet that hung on the farthest wall opposite the door.  It had been the medicine cabinet from their first house.  He blew dust from the surface of the mirror and looked at himself, checking his teeth for bits of breakfast and thought about shaving.

Then he opened the door and there was the birch.  It looked like a principal's paddle from ages gone by.  It was two feet long and eight inches wide.  One end tapered to a handle.  Holes were drilled at regular intervals along the paddle.

He hefted it in his thick hands and slapped it on one palm.  "It's been too long and a long time coming.  Should have used this years ago.  Things might not have gotten so bad."

In the early morning hours of December 26th of that year, every child above the age of ten woke from a horrible nightmare.  They cried out in their darkened rooms and alarmed parents ran to find them red-faced with tears streaming down their cheeks.  Their rear ends burned and emergency rooms were filled with what looked like a severe rash on their backsides.  In the minds of the children rang the words, "You better be good, for goodness sake."

Seven Gift Ideas for Your Pastor

What does Pastor want for Christmas?  Good question.  Perhaps others might have the same concern.  So, here is a list of seven Christmas gift ideas for your pastor.

1.  Honesty.  They can't all be great sermons.  No one bats 1,000.  I can't think of one occupation where a person always does a great job.  Perhaps this holiday season, while leaving the building, you might say, "Not as good as last week's pastor."  Or a kind, "You've had better," would be fitting.  I can't speak for all preachers, but in a way, such a comment would be a breath of fresh air.

2.  Sincerity.  Don't be all, "Jesus is the reason for the season," and then go into debt buying plastic Chinese crap for the kids.  Jesus doesn't like debt.  I know because I've read the book.  Similarly, don't be all, "It's not X-mas, it's Christmas," and then miss church on Christmas morning to play with the electronics made by slave-wage Indonesians.  I mean, if you're going to spout a platitude, then pitch your tent on the plateau.

3.  A tithe.  A tithe for Christmas is always welcome.  See, what with all the extra expenses and gift-giving, the December and January offerings are always down.  And yet, the expenses for the church remain the same.  In December and January, churches use the same amount of water, electricity, natural gas, and (in some climates) have snow-removal costs.  Technically, this isn't a gift for the pastor, but knowing the bills will be paid for another month somehow makes things better for him.

4.  Homemade cookies and pies.  Nuff said…

5.  Prayer.  Pray that your pastor doesn't snap and say what's really on his mind.  Pray that your pastor doesn't preach from Jeremiah 10:1-5 on Christmas morning in front of all those people who only come to church on that day.  Pray that your pastor remembers 1 Peter 5:2-3.  Anything along these lines will help.

6.  Silence.  Turn off the cell phone.  Put the fear of God into your child before services.  Stop zipping your bible during the invitation.  Go pee after the invitation.  If someone next to you is snoring, nudge him.  Things like that.

7.  Forgiveness.  Remember that time the Pastor spit in your coffee when he thought you weren't looking?  Well, now is the time to forget it.  Ok?  Look, he's just another smelly human.  He's going to mess up and get on people's nerves, just like everyone else.  Let it go already.  Them grudges get heavy anyway.  Not doing yourself any favors by hanging on to ancient history.  So this one's like giving your spouse a Starbuck's gift card.  You know they'll spend some of it on you.

Poop Fire, Ned Flanders, and Me

Ezekiel was a prophet during a captivity of Israel. Many of his messages amounted to what we might call 'street theater'.  Sometimes he wouldn't say a thing.  He just did what he was led to do.  Now there's an idea.

If you will, take a minute and read Ezekiel 4:9-15.

I have daydreamed about the Sunday morning when I lay on the floor and just make Ezekiel bread; no sermon - just make the bread and lay there.  That's what Ezekiel did.

By the way, notice the fuel source.  At first the bread was to be baked, '…with dung that cometh out of man, in their sight.'  This can mean a couple of things.  To this day, dung is used as a fuel source.  After it's dry it burns slow and fairly hot, giving off very little smoke.  Don't ask me how I know this.  So, no surprise that dung is the fuel.   BUT (no pun intended) this at the least also means the people knew the prophet was using human dung for fuel.  There's an outside chance it has a toe-curling intensive meaning.

Ezekiel goes to bat for the crowd and the Lord lowers the bar.  Cow's dung is ok too.  Thank goodness.  There's got to be some symbolism there, huh?  I wonder what our fuel source might be if a prophet were to give this type of message today.  Imagine bread baked over a pile of porno-filled thumb drives or a stack of divorce-court records. Not that a polite purpose-driven pastor in today's America would ever do such a thing.  Doing so might, gasp, lower the numbers!!

But I digress, sort of.

Remember, Israel was in captivity.  This is one of the darkest times in their Old Testament history.  Can't Ezekiel see the people need encouragement and a happy face on Sunday morning?  How dare he sit there and make bread!  Where's the uplifting message!?  Where's the neck-hugging and joking?  What about the seekers!  Yet, in those dark times, the Lord commanded him to lay there and make poop-fire bread.

Here's where Ned Flanders comes in.  He's an effective caricature of what many people think of as 'that' neighbor of theirs who goes to church all the time.  Popular notions come from somewhere (so do stereotypes, but that's a different blog entry altogether).

Consider Matthew 11:16-19.  Jesus draws attention to the fact that he and John the Baptist were two different individuals, like no-duh, really?!  John stayed by himself, wore weird clothes (the uncle with the really, really wide ties), ate strange food, and didn't touch a drop.  For his efforts people said he had a devil.   Jesus, on the other hand, wore clothes that didn't stand out, went to the parties and often stayed in town.  People called him a fatty and a drunkard.  The wonderful thing is that neither man worried much about all that.

Right about now I'm wondering how many faithful followers are trying to fit into a mold they were never intended to fill.  Like, maybe there are a few Ezekiels out there who won't do the bread thing because it doesn't fit what they think everybody else would have of them?

Thing is, people are going to talk no matter what.  The only thing I control is whether or not they're telling the truth.

Day before Thanksgiving?

It is foggy this morning.  The trees are drippy.  Visibility is down to a third.  The neighbor just closed his car door.  It's easy to put on a jacket and just be, in the fog.  It helps to be off work.  I don't have to go to town today, and that' a glorious thing.

Back inside, the furnace and the coffee maker do their parts.  I have the house to myself and it is quiet.  It gives me time to write.  Today I'm going to explain a little about why I like Thanksgiving better than Christmas and Easter.  You might not agree.  That's ok.

Jesus never tells us to commemorate the day of His birth.  I'm talking Christmas here.  The apostles never did, nor the early churches.  And if they did, my guess is their commemoration would resemble very little of how we do it.  Greed, coveting, and debt are three things believers are to avoid.  Christ-mass shopping indeed.  If memory serves, we're not supposed to lie to our children either.  Just saying.     

Then there's Easter.

Strange but true party conversation:  the word 'Easter' appears in some Bible translations one time only.  The thing is, the King-James translators didn't want to tork-off the Catholics any more than necessary so they left the word in.  It literally means Passover and Herod didn't want to tork-off the local Jews by killing people on the Passover.  Eggs and bunnies and corn-sugar and chocolate?  I won't bore you with the pagan roots and symbolism inherent in all that.  Look it up.

So, after two slaps on the over-inflated American emotion-driven religious complex I better insert some platitudes.  Yes, one must remember the true purposes for the holidays.  Jesus is the reason for the season.  Easter is about the resurrection.  So on, and so forth…

Here's some scripture:

Matthew 15:8 - This people drawth nigh unto me with their mouths, and honoureth me with their lips; but their heart is far from me.  (9) But in vain they do worship me, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.

Colossians 2:6 - As ye have therefore received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk ye in him: (7) Rooted and built up in him, and stablished in the faith, as ye have been taught, abounding therein with thanksgiving.  (8) Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ.

Thanksgiving Day is not mandated in scripture, unless you're Jewish.  In scripture we are told to be thankful on a daily basis, and not for just one day a year.  Nor are we to be gluttons.  Pray for me because I'm not planning on wearing a belt tomorrow.  The portrayals of Thanksgiving dinners on those zany, whacky, tee-vee shows is also taking a toll.  And the marketing concept of Black Friday is closing in like a shadow that darkens our understanding.  Yet the intent of the holiday remains.  I do not see it as entirely overwhelmed.

The word is not corrupt:  thanksgiving.  It implies grace and an acknowledgement of goodness.  Polite and grateful people still say thanks when done a kindness.  In our country, we have more to be thankful for than the majority of the people on this planet for the majority of the planet's history.  That's saying quite a bit.

I'm thankful this morning for my quiet, foggy day at home.  Tomorrow will bring new blessings.

Darryl and Jill's Geopolitical Conundrum

Darryl made a machine that created world peace.  But, Jill wasn’t impressed so he dismantled it and rebuilt the garage door with the spare parts.

I just made that up.  I don’t even know what Darryl looks like and I’m not sure what his relationship with Jill is, other than it’s not where Darryl wants it to be.  I don’t know how old they are.

But this whole writing thing, the creation of stories with characters, calls attention to the concept of motivation.   Darryl created a wonderful and much needed device.  The unstated reason he created the machine was to impress Jill.  Jill didn’t appreciate the effort or the end result.  Darryl became discouraged and wasted the opportunity.

Motivation and discouragement… hmmm.    Is it safe to say our motivations can become, how shall I put this delicately, twisted?  And are we a bit too quick with the criticisms?  Yes, and yes.  Do we even stop to consider that sometimes we’re peeing on someone’s shoes and don’t even realize it?  Darryl wants Jill and Jill wants… well, I don’t know yet.  But whatever it is, it’s small, especially when compared to world peace.

Problem is, the ends do not always justify the means.  That’s pragmatism; git-r-done and self-instant gratification all rolled into one.  What will Darryl try next?  Maybe, he thinks, she wants a great and terrible war machine.  Is he overlooking the fact that Jill doesn’t like his teeth and the way he always smells like bacon and how she will never be attracted to him?  See, that’s called delusion and he’s wasting his talents and life on lesser desires.

I suppose, as a writer, I could contrive something – that invention Darryl is missing.  But then, that would make Jill a very shallow woman.  That would mean she wants the thing Darryl creates more than Darryl.  And if you have to have some thing before someone is interested, that’s materialism at its finest.

The heart wants what the heart wants, and all that.  We see that with both Darryl and Jill.  They are shallow people.

The General wanted some sex.  The autobiographer wanted some classified information.  The President wanted to cover up his malfeasance about things so sinister that if I knew them I would have night terrors.  Meanwhile, the world goes without peace.

I did not make that up.

Another day in Gomorrah

So there I was, gazing deep in my belly-button, trying to figure out what I thought of recent developments.  Then I remembered it’s already the middle of November and I haven’t given much time to this here blog.

Here’s a quote from John Adams (one of those founding father guys):

“Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.”

There are about a gazajillion other similar quotes by other signers of the Constitution.  No need to comment.  We’re living this right now.