The Monster Under The Bed

I was drawn like a moth to a flame to anything spooky or scary when I was a kid. My mom could tell some great ghost stories, and I watched The Outer Limits and The Twilight Zone whenever I could. I remember pretending to fall asleep on the sofa one night when "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" was the featured movie, and being scared silly when Jane served the dead rat to Blanche for lunch. I relished horror movies and mystery books.


My mom rearranged furniture frequently, and I would wake up in the night sometimes in my room completely disoriented because I couldn't figure out where I was. It was a scary feeling, but also rather pleasantly thrilling. Mom's penchant for room changes backfired on her one night, though, when I got up in my sleep to use the bathroom, and my parents woke up to find me peeing on the foot of their bed. I went back to bed, and didn't remember a thing. If she hadn't moved my bedroom furniture all around, I wouldn't have made a wrong turn.


I did sleepwalk sometimes when I was little, and so did my mom's older brother when he was a boy. One time my grandparents woke up to find Uncle Clarence on the roof of the house. Other times, Grandma would go downstairs to fix breakfast to discover that Uncle Clarence had set the table in his sleep. My mom started putting chairs and other impediments in front of our doors before bed, because my parents woke up one night to hear me crying to get back inside; the door had locked behind me when I went outside. Once again, I never woke up and didn't remember a thing the next day.


I do remember one night, however, and it was very scary indeed. I'm guessing I was about 8 years old, but I'll find out for sure when I get to the correct year in my mother's diary archives. That day, Mom had moved my furniture into a new configuration, and I popped awake in the dead of night. And I could hear it.


Slow, steady, raspy breathing coming from the foot of my bed. In an instant, every nerve in my body was on high alert. I tried to convince myself that I was imagining things, but it was undeniable. The breathing continued, and there was no doubt that it was coming from the foot of my bed. This was the real deal. I was truly more frightened than I could ever remember.


I couldn't believe this was happening. All of the times I had awakened in the night and had been afraid of the boogeyman or the monster in the closet paled in comparison to hearing the real thing just a yard away. The heavy, gasping breathing continued. I tried to figure out a plan of survival.


Every child knows that if you can make it to your parents' bed, you will be safe. Home free. Nothing can touch you if you can get to your mom and dad's bed. It's like the safe zone on the Sorry board. I had to get there. But how?


My parent's room, just at the end of the hall. might as well have been in Canada. I needed to defend myself against attack when I made my move. I wracked my brain, trying to think of a weapon. I couldn't move a muscle to look around, because that would alert the killer that I was awake and aware. That would mean instant death.


There was a wooden musical instrument on my nightstand. My dad had brought it to me from St. Thomas, and I could use it as a club. I would lunge for the weapon, bash the killer on the head as he sprang, hit the floor running like the wind, and leap into bed with my parents. Safe. My dad would kill the beast; my mother would hug me. Problem solved.


But, I couldn't move. The breathing continued, and I was paralyzed with fear. Safety seemed so close, and yet so far. I pondered this cliché as I listened to the killer draw air into his lungs. Finally, I had enough. Better to lose an arm or be killed than live in this suspense. I threw back the covers and reached for my weapon.


And suddenly everything changed. My movement gave me a different perspective on the threatening sound. It wasn't coming from the floor beyond my bed; it was coming from the ceiling. It wasn't a killer; it was one of my parents breathing as they slept. We had recently had a new heating system installed, with forced-air ducts in the ceilings. In the silence of night, the vents carried household noises from room to room. When my mother rearranged my room, it threw the sounds from their room to the end of my bed.


I almost laughed and cried at the same time with relief. I settled back into my warm bed and went back to sleep.

I have Lisa to thank for this memory of nightime spooks. Click here to read about hers.

I Like You Just The Way You Are

In my car early this morning, the nice lady on NPR told me that today marks the 40th year that Mister Rogers' Neighborhood has been on television. Although Fred Rogers died in 2003, his show lives on. She also played a snippet of a conversation with Fred that ended with him telling me that he likes me just the way I am. That was a very nice thing to hear first thing in the morning. He was a gentle man in a comfy cardigan sweater.


I was more of a Captain Kangaroo kinda kid, myself. Dancing Bear, Mr. Green Jeans, Mr. Moose (think ping pong balls), and Bunny Rabbit were my morning companions after breakfast. Grandfather Clock seemed kindly and slightly spooky at the same time. Didn't Bunny Rabbit wear glasses? I'm sure he did, and they made him look smart. He must have been crafty, because he always managed to cadge carrots from the Captain.


When I got a little older, Bugs Bunny was my favorite, and I still love all the old Warner Brothers cartoons. I think my first exposure to classical music was via these cartoons. My dad enjoyed these old cartoons, too, and we would watch them together when he was home. My mom would just roll her eyes to see her Navy frogman husband laughing out loud at Foghorn Leghorn and the little chicken hawk. Then she would dash off to scrub, scour, or wax something in the house.


I still like to watch old cartoons, and I know that my dad would, too, even though he'd be close to ninety. I wish I could sit beside him today and chuckle at the old Looney Tunes characters. My dad always loved to laugh, and (just like Mister Rogers) he loved me just the way I am.

Happy Valentime's Day!!!

Isn't it nice to have a colorful holiday made for spreading love smack-dab in the dead of winter?

(image from domiknitrix.com)


I've been thinking lately about words; more specifically, words I love. One year I received a gift of a dictionary for Christmas. Not a pocket dictionary, or an abridged dictionary, but one of those great big dictionaries like you see on a stand in a public library. It's one of my all-time favorite gifts. Thank you, Michael!

Here are some of the words at the top of my short list of beloved words. This is by no means a complete list...just what popped in my head over the past week or so:

Balmy

Dandy

Malaise

Ennui

Abbatoir

Mellifluous

Serendipity

Arcana

Behemoth

Queue

Malaprop

I like some of these words for their meaning, and some for the way they sound. For example, abbatoir has a pleasant sound, but I wouldn't like to be in one. I picture Poor Bessie, thinking she's finally being taken out on the town to a fancy French restaurant, when she really gets taken on a ride to the slaughterhouse. Maybe she ends up in the fancy restaurant after all.

Balmy can apply to the state of the climate, or the state of one's mind. Either way, they both sound pleasant. When I go completely insane, I hope folks will say I'm balmy rather than deranged.

The next time someone asks "How are you?" consider replying with "Dandy!" Keeps 'em on their toes. "Grand" works well in this application, also.

Queue is a fun word. It sounds like a letter in the alphabet, but it needs four extra letters to make it happen. Fun to say, fun to spell, and fun to mispronounce as "kwee" with unsuspecting people. Fun, fun, fun.

Mellifluous sounds pretty. And it should. It means "sounds pretty."

Serendipity is how I've discovered the best things in life.

Malaprop or malapropism has an interesting history. Read below (from dictionary.com).

Word History: "She's as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile" and "He is the very pineapple of politeness" are two of the absurd pronouncements from Mrs. Malaprop that explain why her name became synonymous with ludicrous misuse of language. A character in Richard Brinsley Sheridan's play The Rivals (1775), Mrs. Malaprop consistently uses language malapropos, that is, inappropriately. The word malapropos comes from the French phrase mal à propos, made up of mal, "badly," à, "to," and propos, "purpose, subject," and means "inappropriate." The Rivals was a popular play, and Mrs. Malaprop became enshrined in a common noun, first in the form malaprop and later in malapropism, which is first recorded in 1849. Perhaps that is what Mrs. Malaprop feared when she said, "If I reprehend any thing in this world, it is the use of my oracular tongue, and a nice derangement of epitaphs!"

I'm sure you've known a Mrs. or Mr. Malaprop. I encountered a Mrs. Malaprop five days a week for years. The irony of her verbal confusion is that she had such a keen eye for the faults of others. I admit I delighted in steering conversations in ways guaranteed to bring out her spoken blunders. My buddy Scott shared a few he's heard from someone he knows, so I've included those as well. It's only fair that he helps with this project, since he's been prodding me to post a new blog entry. Thanks for the inspiration, Scott!

From my own Mrs. Malaprop:

Valentine = Valentime

K-Mart = K-Mark

Chaperone = Cafferone

Digital = Digikal

Chimney = Chimley

Hemoglobin = Hemogoblin

Credenza = Gazebo (don't ask me how this happens; I don't know)

From Scott's Mr. Malaprop:

Glove Compartment = Glove Department

Pall Bearer = Pall Burier

Supposedly = Supposebly

Ambulance = Ambalamps

Back in the 50's or early 60's my grandparents were traveling back home to their farm after visiting us in Virginia. These were the days before the interstate highway system, and they stopped for gas in a small Kentucky town. The man pumping their gas asked where they were from.
"Iowa," my grandpa offered.
"Iowa," the man repeated, paused, then said "Around these parts we pronounce it Ohio."

Rememble to add any malapriapisms you've underheard in the comments sectional!





"The file you need is in the gazebo."

Questions That Drive People Crazy

Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard?

Why do we press harder on the remote control button when we know the batteries are dead?

Who thought it was a good idea to put an 's' in the word 'lisp'?

Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?

Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?

What makes us think pressing the elevator button more than once will make it arrive faster?

Why do we park on a driveway, but drive on a parkway?

Paper or plastic?



Someone I know can be driven to fits by that last question. Seriously. I witnessed an explosive, foaming-at-the-mouth rant because of plastic grocery bags.

Why are some people remarkably unable to mesh with society? Recently most of us have heard about a man who went into a town's council meeting and killed several people with a handgun. Apparently, he was upset over parking tickets. I'll admit that I've only heard bits and pieces of this story, but what I found most astounding was watching this man's brother on a news segment act as though these killings were justified.

But let's get back to Paper versus Plastic Man. First, a little background.

I am close friends with a family of Rednecks. I'm labeling them as they describe themselves. Actually, they are down to earth, accepting, riotously joyful, and a heck of a lot of fun to spend time with. They are also always willing to lend a hand whenever I need them. They are the Aplin family.

Both Cathy and Ronnie come from large families, and there are many stories I could tell (and someday I may), but today I want to write about Cathy's brother Ralph.

I don't know Ralph that well, and he is just one in a large, colorful cast of wacky characters. Ralph is one of those folks who is stymied by human society. Highly individualistic, he gets along much better with animals than people. Paradoxically to some, he is also an avid hunter. He is a loner, and his family will see him frequently for a spell, and then he disappears for months or years.

At one point, he lived alone in an apartment with his dog, and was an arms dealer. Cathy told me that every room in his home was filled with guns and ammunition. She fully expected to turn on the news one evening to hear that he was in a stand-off with the SWAT team, barricaded in his apartment with his dog.

When things didn't make sense to Ralph, he made his own rules. During the summers when Cathy & Ronnie lived in a house with a pool, Ralph would come by with groceries and we would have big cookouts. Ralph always brought discounted meats and seafood. Here's how it actually worked. Ralph had a pre-set price in his head on food items before he went to the grocery store, and he always had a Sharpie pen in his pocket. It didn't matter that the grocer decided that shrimp would be $10.99 per pound; Ralph felt quite strongly that shrimp should not be more than $4.99 per pound and so it was. He would whip out his Sharpie, boldly cross out the grocer's price, and replace it with the price he was willing to pay. And it always worked. We always ate well at these cookouts because Ralph had a good eye for quality meats and seafood. Perhaps this came from being an outdoor sportsman.

One day he was looking through the meat section, and a woman picked up a nice roast. Ralph snapped it out of her hands, told her "that's too much," wrote in the Ralph-price with his Sharpie, and handed the package back to her. Faced with a crazy man with an indelible marker, the woman could only utter a tremulous "thank you."

At one of these gatherings the subject of plastic grocery bags came up, and Ralph was off to the races. He didn't like plastic grocery bags. He hated it when they'd ask him whether he wanted paper or plastic. I finally went in the house to get away from his rantings. I could hear him all the way in the house. Finally, he got himself so worked up and angry that he stomped off to his truck and left. One thing about Ralph, he never approached a topic with indifference.

One summer when I had some time off work, I spent a few lazy days at the Aplin's pool. Ralph was working the night shift, and he was often there, too. Even though he was known for going off like a bottle rocket and getting into fights, I never felt uneasy being there with him alone. We'd float in the sun, sometimes talking, but mostly lost in our own thoughts. Ronnie worked an early shift, and after finding us in his pool on the third day, he just shook his head and drawled "I'm gonna post a sign out front that says Fags and Lunatics Welcome."

You'd have to know Ronnie to know that he meant the "welcome" part with all his heart.

Proposed Oath of Office

Lord, make me a channel of thy peace;

that where there is hatred, I may bring love;

that where there is wrong, I may bring the spirit of forgiveness;

that where there is discord, I may bring harmony;

that where there is error, I may bring truth;

that where there is doubt, I may bring faith;

that where there is despair, I may bring hope;

that where there are shadows, I may bring light;

that where there is sadness, I may bring joy.

Lord, grant that I may seek rather to comfort than to be comforted;

to understand, than to be understood;

to love, than to be loved.

For it is by self-forgetting that one finds.

It is by forgiving that one is forgiven.

It is by dying that one awakens to eternal life.

Amen.

I'd like to suggest this as a new oath of office for world leaders. Every Presidential candidate talks about change. This simple prayer would be a novel approach to governing a nation. Many of you will recognize this as one version of the Saint Francis Prayer. It just seems to me that everything would run a little smoother in this world if folks added this to their job descriptions.

Saint Francis, born to wealth and privilege, turned to a life of poverty, privation, and devotion, much to his father's disgust. Popularly considered the patron saint of animals, his patronage also includes the environment, stowaways, and merchants. He was the founder of the Order of the Friars Minor, more widely known as the Franciscans. There's no relationship between Saint Francis and Frangelico liqueur. But the monk-shaped bottle with the little rope sash is cute.

I am no saint by even the most lax standards. I start my day with this prayer each morning. It's a good daily plan, no matter your spiritual leanings. I must admit, by the end of the day I fall short in one or more areas. I am making an effort, however. When I sum things up before I lower my lamp, I think about my shortcomings, forgive myself, and (most times) get a good night's rest. So far, I've been given a new chance each morning to try again.

Hot Stuff

I love hot, spicy food. I certainly didn't grow up with it, though. I've been wracking my brain trying to think of any highly-spiced dishes from childhood and the best I can come up with is my mother's pizza. Homemade, baked in a cookie sheet. Rectangular. It was only spicy compared to the usual meat and potatoes fare on our kitchen table. American cuisine in the 60's & 70's was pretty bland, at least in our neighborhood. Hot pickled okra did make regular appearances on Mom's nightly relish tray during supper, but that was still mild stuff.


After I moved away from home, I enjoyed dining out with friends, and it was unusual for me to cook at home. I believe the first time a hot pepper got the best of me was at a Chinese restaurant. I was in a training class for a new job where I worked, and the instructor spent 85% of our time in class discussing food, movies, food, books, and food. We learned a little about the upcoming job when there was a lull in the conversation. The instructor, Marci, was from New York City, and there were only two of us under her tutelage. So, there I was with two older black women who loved to eat, and we went to a nearby Chinese restaurant one day for lunch. I ordered Kung Pao Chicken, and decided on "hot" when given a choice. I wasn't a bit worried, because Marci asked for the same heat level plus a side dish of the shriveled, innocuous looking little peppers. After a couple of bites of my dish, I realized that I had stopped experiencing the taste of the food, and it felt like my mouth was full of red hot needles. Marci sat across from me, happily munching her side of peppers, and I gamely carried on.


Similar dining experiences increased my tolerance and enjoyment of red-hot spices, and I was always looking for the next incendiary dish. When a couple of friends warned me not to get the stuffed jalapeno appetizer at a new Mexican restaurant in the late 80's, I took their advice as a challenge. I should have known better, because Carol and Rae were adventerous eaters. I went with four women-friends and ordered the stuffed jalapenos right away. After all, I'd had these at other places, and they were never as hot as people pretended they were. These were whole peppers, stuffed with cheese, battered and deep-fried. Well, they said they were stuffed with cheese. They could have been stuffed with pocket lint or cat box droppings for all I could tell. My mouth had that hot pin-cushion sensation, and my scalp was sweating freely. The women with me wisely only took a bite each, but for some reason I had to prove myself as a man among lesbians, and I forged onward. The peppers were hot going in, but that was nothing compared to 2am when they wanted out. I sat on the toilet, and rocked and wept. Apparently, my digestive processes would have nothing to do with these jalapenos, and they came out very much the same as they went in. I know this isn't a pretty story, but it's a true one.


You'd think I would have learned something, but I can't say I did (although I never ordered those jalapenos at that restaurant again). The owner, Ram, at a favorite Indian restaurant told me that no other customer could tolerate hot spices like I could, and he served many patrons from India. Ram's wife was the cook, and she always made my selections extra-hot when she found out it was my order. The only other Indian restaurant I've found that served such hot food was in Nerja, Spain. Friends took me there, and warned me against ordering anything "phal," the restaurant's hottest spice level. I did, of course, and had to make several trips to the restroom, not to go, but to wipe my face and head with paper towels because of the heavy sweating the food induced.


One last restaurant story before you leave for more palatable fare. My friend Brenda and I were in New Orleans in the mid-90's, and we stopped for lunch at a restaurant near the Garden District. I ordered the Rabbit Etouffee, and our waitress (a willowy, attractive, Nordic-looking woman) warned me with a husky voice that the dish was extremely hot. "Oh, goody!" I thought, as I confirmed my selection. Sure enough, I ran back and forth to the men's room to towel off between bites. Our gracious waitress was right, and, as it turned out, a bit smoldering herself. When Brenda and I got our pictures developed from the trip, there was one we had taken with our waitress. It wasn't until then that we noticed her exceedingly large hands and prominent Adam's apple. I recalled the husky voice, and I added her to the list of reasons I loved my first trip to New Orleans. After all, who says drag queens should only come out at night?

Carolyn's Cast of Characters

Some of you have had fun perusing my mother's 1962 diary. It has been interesting for me to peer into a daily life I have few memories of (I was only two & a half). Reading through her diary has made me realize that some of my "memories" are faulty, and are the result of stories told and retold with subtle changes until they imprinted themselves as actual remembrances. In some ways, it is like trying to see things clearly while looking through a wavy glass brick.


Some of the things I've read make me appreciate the result rather than the journey. An example of this is my potty training. I'm glad someone took on the task, but I was getting weary of reading "Billy messed his pants today." I have been utilizing this training on a daily basis ever since, with very few mishaps. This morning a fellow at our breakfast table shared some wisdom about being a maturing male: Never pass up a bathroom, never take an erection for granted, and never trust a fart. That's all I'm going to say on that subject.


Ultimately, I am very grateful for my childhood, my parents, my neighbors, and the freedom that children could (mostly) safely enjoy in suburbia in the 1960's. I learned to wait for things, because most things took time. Popcorn made on the stovetop in a funny pan with a crank on the lid, photographs that had to be taken to the drug store and sent away to be developed, real chocolate pudding, shows like the Wizard of Oz and Cinderella which only came on television once a year. The only thing that came instantly was a spanking when I misbehaved.


This morning I'm going to share additional information about a few of the people my mother mentions frequently in her diary. Time factors will not allow me to talk about all of the important characters, but I may post a follow up on another day.


Ruby and Jim Humblett lived directly behind us. From the time that I was little until my parents moved in the mid-80's there was always an open space in the landscaping providing a pathway linking our homes. Ruby still lives in her house, and she bought my mom's car from me after Mom passed away. Ruby's husband Jim died in the mid-1960's, but I haven't read that far in Mom's diaries yet. Ruby & Jim had three children, and their youngest, Jimmy, was a favorite playmate of mine in 1962. They drove a Plymouth Fury station wagon. Ruby & Jim and my parents would play cards and Scrabble together some evenings, and Jimmy and I would play in my room.


Our next-door neighbors were Kitty & Elmo Newsome. They were older than my parents, and both grew up in Georgia (Jaw-juh). When my mother's relatives visited from Iowa, Mom would have to act as translator for the Southerners and the Yankees. Kitty & Elmo had lots of fruit trees and an enormous garden, and I loved to play in their yard. Elmo was a huge man, and he would pick me up and throw me WAY up in the air and catch me. I loved it when he did that. In the summer they would invite neighbors over for home-churned ice cream made from their peaches, and everyone took turns with the crank on the ice cream maker under their shade trees.


Gladys and George Baker were also neighbors, but they lived several blocks away in a brown-shingle rancher with a porch that had jalousie windows (remember those?). They had an older boy, Ronnie, who would grow up to become a chef and die with AIDS, and a daughter named Cindy who was a year younger than me. Their backyard had a large weeping willow, under which I talked Cindy into pulling down her panties to show me her private parts one day. George was a Navy diver on my dad's UDT team, and he gave me my first cat which I named after him.


Ray and Midge Warner lived one street over and a block down, they were both from West Virginia, and Ray was also in the Navy with my dad. They had a houseful of kids named Benny, Larry, Gary, Brenda, Barry, and Perry. They had a boisterous household, and I ate snowcream at their house for the first time when I was little. After Ray retired from the Navy, they bought a farm outside Dillwyn, Virginia, and Midge died with Scleroderma in the 1990's. Midge had my mother feel her face one time when my mom was visiting them, and my mom said her skin felt like porcelain.


Catherine and Fred Dowling were my unofficial in-town grandparents. Fred was my mother's former employer, and she lived with the Dowlings before she met my dad. My mother came to Norfolk from Iowa in the 1950's because of her second husband. He was in the Navy, and was an irresponsible husband-at-sea. My mother had no money, no food, and could not find employment because no one wanted to hire "Navy Wives" since they moved away with short notice. Fred hired my mom because she looked so pitiful, and because she told the truth when he asked her if she was a Navy Wife. He told her later that he could spot a military spouse as soon as they walked in his office, and she was the first one that didn't lie about it. She was the best secretary he ever employed. One day at work, my mom received flowers from her far-way husband; the next day she received divorce papers from him, which she signed immediately. My dad was friends with Fred, and eye-balled my mom when he came one day to visit Fred. That's how my parents met. After two losers, one abusive, one profligate, my mother found her handsome prince. Coincidence? You decide for yourself.


These ordinary, wonderful people helped weave the fabric of my life, and I am so thankful that I have been allowed to spend more time with them through my mother's diary. If you would like to spend a few moments with them, there is a link provided in the column to the right. My mom's daily diaries are an unintended gift, reminding me that my words and my actions impact others in ways I may never imagine, and, for that, I am responsible.

God in a Box

Yep, that's me...all dressed up and ready for church. No, this isn't a recent picture, even though I am dressed like an old man with my fedora and Hush Puppies. I am slightly taller now.


My mom and I went to church when I was a boy, but as I grew older the trips became infrequent. Perhaps we picked the wrong church, or maybe my mom was worn out from a week of waxing the household appliances. Perhaps doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs, and the mayor of Virginia Beach crowded us out of the pews. Our church had grown from a small congregation in an unassuming building to a bigger, better, more affluent house of worship. Nevertheless, I did have a foundation of Sunday school, church services, and vacation bible school when I was growing up.


One thing I recall was my amazement at how slowly time passed when I was trapped in a pew listening to the preacher drone on and on, when I really just wanted to be home riding my bicycle and playing with my dog. I wonder now if God didn't feel the same way some days depending on the sermon. The church I attended believed in predestination, and when that belief was explained to me I guess I missed the bigger picture. I thought "What's the point of anything if every thing's carved in stone and there's no way to change it? What's the point in being good or trying to do my best? God's not paying attention to it anyway."


As I grew older, I became aware of other denominations and religions. I learned that people believed in widely varying things. It was a bit confusing, but very interesting. Some churches had statues of Jesus's mom and his friends tucked away in nooks and crannies. One of my friends' family drove a car with a little plastic saint glued to the dashboard to keep them safe in traffic. Some people didn't even believe in Jesus! People across the ocean worshipped a guy with his big, fat belly hanging out. I had cousins who traveled halfway around the world to teach ignorant people the right thing to believe, and they were very proud of themselves for doing that.


When I was a teenager, my mother told me about an old lady who was deaf as a post. She couldn't drive any longer, but she would crank up the volume on her television to watch the religious programs on Sunday. Her son and his wife, new to their belief in Christ, would visit her after church. One day this man told his mother that she was going to Hell because she did not go to his church. The old woman was quite hurt, but when she tried to explain to him that if she went to his church she wouldn't be able to hear any of the sermon, her son said that didn't matter - she just needed to go and sit there. I didn't understand how anyone could tell their mother that she was going to Hell.


As a young man, I had my doubts about God and religion. Some of the adults I had admired growing up who I thought were good, honest people and went to church all the time seemed like hypocrites when I found out they had human faults like adultery, greed, dishonesty, and just plain meanness. I thought going to church meant religion, and, by extension, I thought religion equalled spirituality. I wanted to live a spiritual life, but most religions wanted to exclude me; those that didn't wanted to exclude everyone else.


It seemed like most organized religions existed in little boxes. Beliefs and customs were put in the box, along with people who fit in with those items. Somehow they managed to stuff God in the box, too. Everyone else was refused admittance because there was no room left inside the box. Some of the rejected found other boxes to climb into; others, like me, wandered around on our own.


Eventually, I learned that religion and spirituality are different, and that my doubts about faith were based on humans, not God. I've come to believe that God prefers being outside the box. He created an unimaginably big world, and I think he likes all of it. I believe He loves people whether they are inside a little box, or roaming around in the fields. I think his love is limitless, even though mine is not. I do try, though, because I think that is what God wants. I am stunned each time I see someone waving a sign saying that God hates someone. The God I have come to know loves inclusion, and I believe He'd be quite tickled if we unfolded all these separate religions just like cake boxes. I think God would clap his hands and laugh with us if we'd look around, wave to each other and hug.


I believe God loves to laugh. Otherwise, why would He have created the Platypus, the Giraffe, and the Human?

Treat the other man's faith gently; it is all he has to believe with. His mind was created for his own thoughts, not yours or mine. - Henry S. Haskins

Hey, Ewe! Look around!

Folks who live in Richmond, Virginia, will frequently tell visitors "If you don't like the weather, wait a few minutes." It is true that the weather can change dramatically here, but this seems to have been the experience of most of the country over the past year. Overall, our temperatures are fairly moderate if viewed over the span of a year. Summers are usually hot and humid, but the thermometer doesn't climb above 100 degrees for too many days in a row, and winter temperatures are normally above the teens. There are exceptions, of course, and that's what tends to stick in people's minds.


The weather can fluctuate wildly over a couple of days, however, and sometimes we have startling changes in temperature within the span of a few hours. My sinuses react accordingly. This is why, after cold weather last week, my buddy Sheldon and I decided to take advantage of a warm, sunny day yesterday for a walk in a nearby park. We went to a place near my home that is actually three parks that conjoin: Crump Park, RF&P Park, and the Meadow Farm.


Meadow Farm is a 19th century working farm with a handsome restored home from the early 1800's. Workers in period dress tend to the house, fields, and farm animals. The livestock are an assortment authentic to the period, and include work horses, cows, pigs, turkeys, chickens, and sheep. Sheldon and I strolled around in t-shirts and shorts, enjoying the sun, saying "hello" to the various farm critters.


Sheldon noticed a flock of sheep, and pointed out several lambs amongst the ewes. They were quite young; we guessed probably a couple of weeks old. All big ears and knobby knees, they were cute as they could be. I wished I had a camera (or a cleaver). Oh, shut up! I'm just kidding! Sheesh! Put down the phone and stop dialing PETA.


I'm guilty of traveling all over the place, but ignoring the many interesting places right here where I live. I'm going to change that. With gas prices escalating like mad, why spend the time and money going to far flung places when there's so much I haven't explored in my own backyard?


This afternoon, I took my friend John to visit Maymont. I've lived in this area for thirty years and never toured this gilded-age mansion. Built as a country estate, its one-hundred acres are now surrounded by a post-WWII neighborhood and Byrd Park, but once you are on the property it's easy to forget the encroaching city. The house and grounds perch on bluffs overlooking the James River, and offer an upstairs/downstairs view of life in the early 1900's.


A renovation a few years ago included the kitchen, laundry, service areas, and servants' rooms in the basement. Through research, the nearly-forgotten biographies of the African-Americans who worked for the mansion's owners are now included in the house tour. The owners had no children and left the property to the City of Richmond, so there were very few alterations made to the home since the time it was built. It's like a time capsule.


We immersed ourselves in the past inside the mansion, and then invigorated ourselves exploring the rose gardens, the Japanese gardens (big, hungry koi in the pond), and the collection of antique carriages. We were weary but happy when we got back to the car.


I'll bet there are similar things you can do near your home that you've never experienced as well. Have fun locally, and save a few trips to the gas pump. Let me know if you see anything interesting.

Cold Duck Memories & Coconut-Cranberry Cake

I made a visit to my friend Suzanne's blog, and enjoyed some pictures of her New Year's Eve festivities in Amsterdam. I was surprised that, although they live in an urban setting, they are allowed to purchase fireworks for home use. In my county in Virginia, if I lit anything more incendiary than a sparkler I'd have Homeland Security hammering on my door. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if even sparklers are illegal where I live. I played with a lot of sparklers when I was a kid. The last time I held one was when my friend Brenda rented a beach cottage on the Outer Banks, and her young daughter Emily, our friend Jean, and I ran around the pool with sparklers one night.


My New Year's Eve was spent in my usual style. I was curled up in the arms of Morpheus when 2008 arrived. I'd probably been asleep long enough to be in the REM phase of slumber, because I didn't hear a thing, and I'm sure someone around here set off some firecrackers. Staying up late just doesn't hold the appeal it did when I was little.


I remember being allowed to stay up late to welcome the New Year when I was a kid, and it seemed magical to be awake at midnight. Midnight was the hour never seen by children, the Mystery Hour when anything could happen! My parents weren't party-people, so we'd be at home with some neighbors, and as the moment grew close we'd all chant the countdown together. They probably had champagne on some of those nights, but what I remember is the grown-ups toasting the New Year with glasses of Cold Duck. It seemed so exotic, and no one could explain why it had such a weird name. Jimmy, the neighbors' boy, and I would be allowed a sip of the sweet, bubbly stuff, but I had to be promised that there were no real ducks in the concoction before I'd touch it.


As I've grown older, New Year's Eve doesn't excite me much, because I believe a new year starts every morning when I awaken. Sleeping through the Big Event has become a tradition in a way. One time about twenty years ago, my mom had traveled to my place for a post-Christmas visit. At the time I lived in a three-story apartment (just one bedroom, but three floors). It was a cozy New Year's Eve...just me, my mom, and my partner Michael who lived in town but came out to stay the night. We were in my den on the ground floor, and about nine o'clock I said I'd better grab a short nap if I wanted to be alert when the new year chimed in. Exit me.


Sometime after I went up to my bedroom on the third floor, Michael said a nap sounded like a good idea, so he stretched out on the sofa in the living room (second floor), and mom snoozed on the futon in the den. The next morning we all met up in the kitchen. We had slept through the new year's arrival, each on a separate floor. That's just the kind of exciting life I lead.


This morning marked the start of a new AA meeting that my morning group has started. We meet Monday through Friday at 6:45, and decided to start Saturday meetings as well. Because most folks don't have to go to work, we chose 8:45 for our weekend meetings. We had a wonderful time this morning, and last night I decided to bake a cake for the inaugural meeting. I'm going to share the recipe, which is one I made up using another recipe for inspiration; folks seemed to like it a lot. Then again, I had a captive audience since the only other thing available was coffee.


Coconut-Cranberry Cake

2 cups granulated sugar
3/4 cup butter
1/4 cup shortening
4 eggs
2 teaspoons coconut extract
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup buttermilk
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt (scant)
1-1/4 cups flaked coconut
3/4 cup whole fresh cranberries, chopped

Grease & flour a 10" bundt pan. Preheat oven to 350.
Cream butter, shortening, and sugar. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well. Add extracts.
Sift together flour, baking powder, and salt in a separate bowl.
Add dry ingredients to butter/sugar mixture alternately with buttermilk, beginning and ending with dry ingredients. Do not over-mix, or cake will be tough!
Fold in coconut and cranberries.
Bake 60 - 70 minutes or until cake tests done. Let cool on rack in pan 15 minutes before removing to serving platter or cake saver.

I pulsed the coconut and then the cranberries in a mini-processor before adding them to the batter. This worked well, allowed for cleaner cutting, and gave the cake nice tiny flecks of pink and red. Frankly, I had cranberries left over from holiday baking, and decided to throw them in at the last minute, and the tart berries balanced the sweet coconut nicely. Obviously, the baking time will depend on your oven and the pan you use. I'm still getting used to a heavy Nordic Ware bundt pan, so I always test the cake with thin appetizer skewers before I turn off the oven. You can, of course, play with the ingredients. Using all butter would be great, but I've been baking so much over the holidays that I started substituting a little shortening in some recipes because butter is so darned expensive these days.


Even though I put some cranberries out for the wildlife, I still had some left, so I just pulled an apple-cranberry-cocoa cake out of the oven. If it turns out, you may see that recipe soon.


There are beliefs interwoven in the concept of New Year's Day that I embrace whole-heartedly. One of these beliefs is that each one of us can make a new start. Others are the thoughts of freshness, growth, and new possibilities. Words like sunrise, horizon, discovery, exploration and frontier burst in my mind. The world outside my windows looks dormant, but I know that inside those trees and beneath the frozen ground new life is gathering strength and preparing to push forth, unnoticed at first, but before too many months have passed, in the glory of full bloom.


I hope everyone is off to a good start in 2008! If you make resolutions each year and have already slipped, don't be discouraged. You have a new year starting tomorrow morning.