Wednesday, February 21, 2018

The Mystique of the Antique

A quick stroll through my favorite Antique mall brought forth a wealth of emotion.  About twenty-five years ago, I discovered the pleasure of antique malls and antique collecting.  There is something calming about wandering around in an antique mall, surrounded by the relics of recent past.

I spy an old record album propped up against a stand.  It is set apart from the other hundred or so albums, set aside perhaps by another veteran like myself.  Navy Music is the title of the album.  I am a Navy veteran so of course the cover piqued my interest.  I picked up the album and read the cover.  The music brought back memories, mostly good, the bad faded away in the wash of time.  I thought about my roommates in Scotland, Chip, and Karl, from a time long ago, over thirty-three years ago, making my memories antiques themselves.  I placed the album back where I found it, but the memories remained, happy and sorrowful, old yet fresh.

The next booth contained two parrot figurines.  Now who had these parrots belonged too, what kind of person went into a shop and decided they just had to have the parrots for their house?  My imagination took flight and I thought of all sorts of bird-brained possibilities.  Perhaps a child coerced their mother or grandparent into purchasing the porcelain birds.  Mayhap an actual bird fancier purchased the beautiful statues, relishing in the beauty without the noise and upkeep.  Briefly, I considered adding the lonely and lifeless parrots to my non-collection of birds, and then thought better and wandered to the next booth.

Furs, jackets, coats, and stoles adorned the racks in the next cube of goods.  Who wore these items?  Were they rich, rich wannabes, posers, all the stereotypes crossed my mind.  What if a PETA person found this setup, would they have a conniption fit, buy all the furry items, and then have a bonfire.  A better ending would see the outfits bought by a local theater group.  Nothing of interest here, move on sir.

The next area revealed a shadowbox-like setting with a full arrangement of fifties furniture.  The family inhabiting the chairs and sofa were actually in my mind and not present physically.  The love, anxiety, and togetherness flitted through my thoughts until I saw the old television.  The television set evoked a time when my father and I ventured to the local drug store to use their tube tester.  We tested our tubes, a time consuming process for an impatient ten year-old and eventually discovered the bad tubes and bought the replacements.  We were so proud of fixing the television, a source of entertainment for our entire family.

Another exhibit contained numerous tools, some so old that I didn’t have a clue what they did.  A butter churn I could understand.  A scythe was either the implement of a harvester or the Angel of Death, neither of whom were there to demonstrate how to use the implement.  Most, if not all, of the items have been replaced by power tools.  Our time is much too valuable to be wasted on making things by hand.  Alas, the items made by hand seem to last decades longer than the ones made by machine.

The final booth was a potpourri of clocks.  One clock in particular jumped out at me and spoke to me of a time past, a time when my Father was alive, a time so long ago that the memories must be wound up on occasion to keep them viable.  A simple Miller Lite Beer clock brought back the occasion when my Father, Brother, and I went to the local bar when the Miller Lite Distributor was having a trivia night with loads of prizes.  A trivia buff, I had no problem defeating the legion of bar flies, okay two or three people, and we walked out with more items than we knew what to do with.  This particular type of clock had been in my procession for twenty some years until I gave it to the goodwill.  This might have been the same clock.  Regardless this clock contained my memories and that made it a treasure.

I left the antique mall feeling more melancholy then when I entered.  A mellow melancholy, be there such a thing, mellow because I felt both joy and sadness.  One brief trip conjured up the memories of my Father and my two roommates from Scotland.  All are deceased, yet they reside in my heart, and my memories, and as long as I am alive, they remain among the living.

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Saturday, February 17, 2018

The Assault Rifle

Another day has gone by since the Feb 14 shooting in Florida and we are a day closer to the next massacre.  The right-wing nuts are still saying, “guns don’t kill people, people kill people.”  Which to me is an absurd line of reasoning and the part that galls me is we think the gun is some innocent pawn in the game of killing.  The AR-15 is an assault rifle.  It is not a toy, it is a killing machine designed for one single purpose –killing a human being.

A car driven by a drunk driver can be a killing machine, but that is not the original intent of the designers of the automobile.  The rifle was designed to kill and it really doesn’t care who pulls the trigger, be it a deranged maniac, a toddler, an estranged lover, or a soldier.

If you need a weapon for self-defense, and in today’s messed up society that might be the case, then get a shotgun or pistol.  An assault rifle is not needed unless a platoon of miscreants is coming up your driveway.

Assault rifles were banned for a time during the Clinton administration.  Guess what … the world did not invade the USA because we were under-armed.  I am all for hunters having their rifles and shotguns.  I am for pistols and revolvers for personal protection.  I don’t think the average person needs an assault rifle any more then they need a Rocket Propelled Grenade or Stinger missile.  Although given the current state of moral deficit and willingness to accept NRA blood money, who knows what will be legal the day after tomorrow.

Friday, February 16, 2018

The Preacher in Me

When I was thirteen years old, I heard a sermon at the small Primitive Baptist Church I attended with my great-grandmother.  The congregation took a break for lunch and I ventured outside to play with the other kids, of which there were only about five.  I remember, very distinctly, thinking that I wanted to be a preacher when I grew up.  Then the shyness which I was afflicted with, or gifted with according to some, gathered itself up and strongly protested, saying there was no way I would could get in front of a crowd and speak.  The shyness won the battle, but not the war. 

Another forty or so years would pass by before I gathered up the courage, or should I say the Holy Spirit’s inspiration overcame my shyness, and I preached my first sermon.  I was amazed and perplexed that I spoke so easily, no hesitation or nervousness.  What I discovered is that when you speak the truth, speak in love, and speak with humility, then like Paul, you can speak with a voice given power by the Holy Spirit.

Before I traveled on my first mission trip to the Dominican Republic, I had a feeling, a tugging at my brain, perhaps my conscience that fed in me a desire to do something for others, to participate in something greater than myself.  And so I overcame my natural inclination to stay home and watch television and ventured forth with a group of people I did not know, to a land I knew nothing about.  That venture changed me and changed me forever.

On the second mission trip, I had an epiphany.  I encountered a force of love so strong it brought me to my knees and made me cry in joy and ecstasy.  The life-changing event happened at the church we were building and it was so powerful I hid from my companions.  Perhaps that was why Jesus wandered off to be alone with the Father, because it is so overpowering and emotional that you don’t want others to interrupt.

Upon my return, I entered into a process to become an ordained Deacon, even though I wanted to be a priest.  Alas, I seemed to have been misguided, I did not complete the process, nor was it a good experience.  After a few years of meditation, questioning, and praying, I concluded, rightly or wrongly, that God did not want me to be bound to the church, because the church has rules.  Where there are rules there must be enforcers, where there are enforcers there is power, and power corrupts.  Better to be beholden to God and not the church. 

What God wants I believe is someone preaching like a prophet, free to say what the Holy Spirit wants me to say, following sometimes a proscribed doctrine rather than a prescribed doctrine.  Seek and you shall find.  Look for the truth in all things.  If it comes easy, then it is probably a false truth.  Isn’t it easier to judge someone and call them names rather than help them?

While I was going through the process to become a Deacon a friend asked me how I felt about the mentally ill.  I confessed that they scared me.  I was being truthful, I did not know how to cope with mentally ill people, and I was ignorant.  But ignorance, unlike stupidity, can be cured with education.  With the help of my wife, who is a social worker, I took some online classes to learn about various mental illnesses.  Then I volunteered as a non-denominational worship leader at a local home for the mentally ill. 

After the first couple of meetings, my preconceptions were challenged and I changed.  I wanted to talk about meditation and one man told me he couldn’t because if he calmed his mind the voices would come in and say things.  I did some research and corresponded with a psychotherapist and found out that was true.  Over the months, the meeting evolved into a session where we read the scripture, sing, and talk.  Talk about all subjects.  The mentally ill are like most people, what they desire is to be heard, to be listened to, and cared for by another human being.  They desire love more than all else.  What I also discovered is that they know they are mentally ill, they remember a time when they weren’t, and they grieve for their current condition. 

So today, I am a preacher, a minister, and a follower of Jesus.  The path has been long and arduous, I have been crucified and resurrected, and I will not be still in the face of evil.



Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Another Week of Violence and Another Rant


Here we go again, another week, another school shooting.  This is not a normal society.  This is not a civilized country.  This is not a Christian nation.  This is the result of a brainwashed, heartless, and morally bankrupt society.  A country where the self-righteous religious fundamentalists will cry about abortion and remain silent about the carnage on our streets and in our schools.  A country where the president worries more about supporting racism than he does about helping the mentally ill.  A country where our politicians accept money from the NRA and then like puppets on a string, refuse to address the issues.  A country where the standard cliché and catchphrase has become thoughts and prayers.  What have we become?  Where do we go from here?

The rich, insulated in their gated communities, fat off the spoils of other people’s labors, could care less.  The rich, who never seem to have enough, have engorged themselves in a wealth of hypocrisy.  The rich, twice in the last one hundred years have driven this country and the world downward into a depression and a recession.  Then they have the audacity to blame the poor, always the poor, those eternal scapegoats, those who cannot defend themselves.  Only the poor commit violence.  I imagine the group in Mar Largo is having a prayer session and laughing it up with their God Mammon.

Ask yourself, who wins from this violence, who wins from selling weapons?  Not the poor freaking hillbilly that owns fifty rifles and shotguns because he thinks that will save him from enemy.  Who is the enemy?  The military-industrial complex wins and they rule the country, just as Eisenhower warned us in his Cross of Iron speech.  We did not listen then and we will not listen now.  Where do you think ISIS got their weapons?  They didn’t grow them, but that is the subject for another rant.

In the end, at least until he is a radioactive cinder, Putin wins.  His puppets will destroy this country and at the same time convince us that it is our own fault.  HE is correct though, it is our fault; our arrogance and our hypocrisy are driving this country to the brink of the abyss.

We are not a Christian nation, not even close.  If Christ set foot one foot in this nation and preached for the safety of immigrants, for the rights of women, for the abolition of guns, what do you think would happen?  I know what would happen, he would be beaten, thrown in a private prison, and crucified.  It is a never-ending story.