The Master - In Augusta and in the Whole World

At the Catholic Churches in Augusta and Pebble Beach and Pinehurt and St. Andrews and around the world., an event like no other is now underway. The Church knows it as the Easter Triduum. 

Cornbread and Buttermilk and the unrolling of stuff

 When I was in my early teens or so my grandfather tried to feed me cornbread and buttermilk. Crumbled it in a tall glass and poured cold buttermilk over it.  Handed it to me, "try it, nothin better than cornbread and buttermilk." In my teens through present day, this seems a disgusting combination. I could take either separately, but not the combination. Like mustard and ice cream, Japan and Korea, Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln, lobstermen and opera - cornbread and buttermilk were two of God's gifts best left separate.

Yet, it is taxing to resist the touching of a family tradition. Doing things my grandparents did, and their grandparents did, has always had appeal. Not something of power or magic or mystical source of strength. Yet a thing with purpose that I often feel I should do. The past matters, my past, my ancestors past, my grandchildren's past. When I can touch it in some way that is not make-believe I do. 

It is Holy Week. My wife is in Arkansas, chasing tornadoes and siblings and the offspring of siblings. 

I made a pot of soup beans a few days ago. They are only available to me at times such as this. Solitary times. 

I also made cornbread, of course, to go with the beans. Used corn meal and Martha White flour and all the usual components. Baked it in my great grandmother's iron skillet. I had one hot slice after another, big wedges covered with butter, or mashed into a bowl of beans. While cleaning up I stared at the cornbread leftovers and a half quart of buttermilk, sitting side by side on the kitchen counter. I heard the voice of my ancestor, Houston Blevins, my mother's father, speaking a simple truth with his mouth full, drippings on his chin, "You ever had cornbread and buttermilk? Honey, it's good! "

After 50 or so years of resistance, I caved. Like the chicago cubs in August my strength of will faded before the still clear memory of his voice. 

If there is a Cornbread Church, this was the day I saw the light. The scales fell off my eyes. The sea parted, the rain stopped, the dove flew away, the fire fell and the lady turned to salt. This is day I walked the aisle and said "sign me up, and give me some more of that mountain stuff". 

That good mountain stuff. That good mountain stuff. 

2022 Travels

 Places where I went during the year, and were there long enough to spend the night. Like most of my life these travels were around the Mississippi and places east. 

Victoria, MN, Minneapolis, MN, Webster Groves, MO, Quincy, IL, Roan Mountain, TN, Lexington, KY, Woodstock, IL, Kansas City, MO, Steubenville, OH, Charlotte, NC, Roan Mountain, TN, Kenora, ON, Freeport, ME, Biddeford, ME, Webster Groves, MO, Chattanooga, TN

Books read in 2022

The following are the  books I read in 2022. Most of them are quite good. A few were not worth reading, several are worth reading a second time. Although I do not read much science fiction, I got started on the Foundation series by Isaac Asimov and had to read them all. 

A book that took me almost 50 years to read, The Dreaming Earth. I started it in high schook, got bored with it, lost it some time in the 70s. I thought about it last year and decided to find it online. I did, and am glad to have done so. Nice little sci-fi story. The Best Loved Poems of the American People was a book in my parents home as a child. A wonderful collection. 

I hope to someday read again Marina and Lee, and Churchill's six volume account of WWII. 

The worst book of the bunch was "I lived to tell it all" by George Jones. He was a bad man who treated people terribly and squandered his wealth and talent. He wrote this book to brag about the amount of liquor,  drugs, and human souls he consumed. 

Another loser was "Pre-Colonial Black Africa" by Chiop. Basically a rant that everything good in the world came from P-C B A. World religions, economic structure, democracy, music, art, writing, mathematics, astronomy, skittles, tacos, Buddy Holly, pickup trucks, checkers. The writer makes the case that even the pre-colonial slavery of Africans by Africans was a good kind. 

As a Catholic I am supposed to like Flannerty O'Connor and see how her Catholicism is relected in her writing. If I am a proper intellectual Catholic, this will just ooze out of her brain into mine. Didn't happen. I liked one, one, only one short story. A Good Man is Hard to Find. I asked my wife to read it but she did not. 

The books are listed in the order I read them. 

Foundation - Asimov 
Little Man: Meyer Lansky and the Gangster Life - Lacey
The Second World War - Volume 1: The Gathering Storm - Churchill
Marina and Lee - McMillan
Jesus and the Dead Sea Scrolls: Revealing the Jewish Roots of Christianity - Bergsma
Prelude to Foundation - Asimov

Beyond the Veil: The Adventures of an American Doctor in Saudi Arabia - Gray
The Dreaming Earth - Brunner
Rural Roots of Bluegrass: Songs, Stories and History - Erbsen
The Second World War - Volume II: Their Finest Hour - Churchill
The Second World War - Volume III: The Grand Alliance - Churchill
The Second World War - Volume IV: The Hinge of Fate - Churchill
The Second World War - Volume V: Closing the Ring - Churchill
The Second World War - Volume VI: Triumph and Tragedy - Churchill
The Guardians - Grisham
The President is Missing - Patterson, Clinton
Second Foundation - Asimov
Foundation's Edge - Asimov
The Best Loved Poems of the American People - Felleman
Forward the Foundation - Asimov
Salvation on Sand Mountain - Covington (2nd Reading)
Foundation and Earth - Asimov
The Big Short - Lewis (3rd reading, at least)
The Practice of the Presence of God (3rd reading)- Lawrence
I, Robot - Asimov
The Caves of Steel - Asimov
The Naked Sun - Asimov
Into Your Hands Father: Abandoning Ourselves to the God Who Loves Us - Stinissen
The Robots of Dawn - Asimov
The Complete Stories - Flannery O'Connor
Robots and Empire - Asimov
The Stars, LIke Dust - Asimov
The Currents of Space - Asimov
A Pebble in the Sky - Asimov
The Joke - Kundera
The Saint Monica Club (3rd reading) - Green
The Hope of the Gospel - MacDonald
Basic Music Theory for Banjo Players - McKeon
The Diary of an Old Soul - MacDonald
Fantasy Classics Collection - MacDonald
The Spirit and Forms of Protestantism - Bouyer
Unspoken Sermons: Series I,II and III. MacDonald
Four Witnesses - The Early Church in Her Own Words - Bennett
Introduction to Christianity - Ratzinger
Cash - Cash
I Lived to Tell it All - Jones
Precolonial Black Africa - Diop
The Hidden History of East Tennessee - Guy
Defeating Dictators: Fighting Tyranny in Africa and around the World - Ayittey
Disraeli - Blake
Churchill - Gilbert

Listening to my eulogy at the rehearsal for my funeral

 I recently had the experience of attending my funeral, via the imagination of my granddaughters. It was one of those experiences you could not think up or plan. The two masterminds were ages 8 and 6. 

We built a fort in their basement with blankets, cushions, pillows, etc. I was the bad guy they had trapped inside. When the fort collapsed on me, one of them said they needed to have a funeral for me. In enacting the funeral I was transformed from the bad guy to their real grandfather. 

The younger of the two, Ava, went first and said that I was "the kindest and nicest man" she had ever known, and how sorry she was that I was dead. That was very very nice to hear. 

The older, Lillian, began to recite the act of contrition, which she is learning for her first confession next Spring. She missed a few pieces of it, but basically she said something like this, 

"I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things. I firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin. Our Savior Jesus Christ suffered and died for us. In his name, my God, have mercy"

I thought it was rather fitting, and I think she changed a word or to so that it would sound like it was coming from me. But it was sweet and true. Her way of voicing the most serious thing could think of at a very serious, though make-believe, event. 

Most of us will attend our own funerals, at least in body. This "rehearsal" was short and to the point and was just about as good as the one that awaits me down the road. I hope they both speak when the time comes. 

When a drug addict steals your F150

 My truck was stolen last month. Once it was recovered by the police, it was obviously the woman, or man, who stole it, had not yet mastered the art of driving an F150. It was Kevin's truck once. 

Our Lord says to pray for your enemies. I do so by keeping a list of those who have been particularly unkind to me and my family in order to pray for them. This person became #8, and was added to my list on September 5, 2022. 

As I looked through the drug-related trash left in my vehicle it was hard not to feel sympathy for the thief. Especially when you know there was a time in your life, so many years ago, when you could have gone down this path. I grew up in an age when the life of the aimless, drifting, drug user was romanticized. 

In a way I will some day understand, I was preserved from going down to such a defeat. So far.

  

I am Covid

 In December 2019 I was teaching a series on suffering in my parish. I attended a performance of Handel's Messiah at St. Olaf's Catholic Church. I went to breakfast a couple of mornings with friends. I did all the usual Christmas stuff. 

Unknown to me, during that month a virus left Wuhan, China and started looking for me. It took 30 months, but he found me. Took me out when I had my guard down. Could have been in the grocery store, or at church, or just bumping into a fellow redneck at the C-store. 

My thanks to all of you who wore masks, got vaccinated, and paid attention to science. My thanks to all who listened to and trusted the CDC. My thanks to all who listened to their doctor and ignored the static. 

You kept this away from me for quite a while. You made it harder to find me. You bought time for the inventors. By the time it caught me, I was so well protected by the inventions of the pharmaceutical industry that I only had one day of mild nausea. So far. Thank you President Trump. Thank you President Biden.  

Too much of an above average thing

 Early this year I determined that I need a break from my heavy biographical and theological readings and just have fun escaping in good stories. I searched online and found that many people put Isaac Asimov at or near the top of lists of the best science fiction writers. 

I decided to read his Foundation series. Then his prelude to Foundation Series. Then his postlude to Foundation Series. Then I Robot. Now I am reading all the preludes to preludes to Foundation and Robots. 

He is a good writer. But this stuff is getting old. I have four books left to read, or is it five? I am bored but will finish them so that I can send them off to goodwill. 

In the 1950s he had an insight to the type of inventions that would come our way by the 1990s. Remarkable.

He had a very bad sense of the value of faith in God. Or I should say the main characters in his books that I have read have this trait. Unremarkable.  

Rod McKuen was the narrator of my college era

On August 6, 1976 I bought a paperback book by RodMcKuen. I still have it. It has been in my garage for years, by the trashcan. I have tried to throw it away but always pull it back. I wrote my name and the date on the inside, as if it were important that both be recorded. I was 19, almost 20. I sacked groceries in a small town in southern Missouri and lived in a trailer. It was the summer before my junior year in college.  

I am probably one of the few people on the planet who can lay claim to having lived a life influenced by the poetry of this man. But there was a brief time when I wanted to be a younger version of him. The contemplative loner, hanging out in a cafe in Paris, composing a letter from a LandRover in Bangkok, walking the beach at sunset in Malibu, meeting a friend for tea in St. John's Wood, writing ballads about sunsets and hitchhiking. 

I look at the lines I underlined and realize I plagiarized so many of them in letters to long forgotten girlfriends, perhaps even to my wife of 43 years. If any of you are reading this I must confess that these lines were not originally from me...

 "I've drawn your face on tablecloths across the country"

"I was drifting while waiting for your eyes to find me"

"I have yet to see a sky or world quite good enough for you"

And this is just a sampling. This book is dog-eared, underlined, highlighted. I sat on a rock by my driveway and re-read all my favorites. Some seem corny and schmaltzy but others still speak to me as they did 50 years ago. 

There truly was a time when my hair was thick and long and my bellbottoms were size 28 or 30, that this book slipped perfectly into my back pocket. If girls were not impressed with my charm, or my grades, or future prospects, there is always Rod. When doing my lonesome walk to class, or through a park, or being pseudo-contemplative, he was there, narrating the scene. Meanwhile, I loped and moped and hoped she would ask the question... "whatcha readin?". 

I read this today, which once spoke to a life I could but imagine, and now have, in a way. 

Freedom

"Free I am. 

I have no bills to pay. 

My debts are squared,

the edges smoothed out perfectly. 

My ducks are in a row

and I can sail. 

There are borders

in this final life

that were not here at nineteen

or at twenty-three." 

(It deteriorates from there but you get the point)

I bought this book at a time when I was human play-dough, being molded by chance and circumstance and places. I'm sure it made its way to the small chapel on campus, an aging tennis court, that park I fled to so often, the trunk of my 1969 Ford Fairlane. So now, almost fifty years later I am drawn back to this little book, at obscure times. I can go years without thinking one thing about this guy, until a trigger reminds me a of a time when he was a much bigger influence on me than he should have been. He was a man who accoumplished some things but not a good man that other men should want to be like.  

Now the jeans are size 34 or so and the bottoms have no bells. I would be embarrassed to have this book in my back pocket so it rests on a shelf in the garage. But still there are lines that gnaw at me as I thumb through the pages once more. I see that I wrote my name in it twice that August 6 of 1976, on different pages. Something was going on that day and I think I know what it was. 

In praise of Little League baseball

 They have no DH. Everyone bats. 

There are things in life that you know instinctively are wrong. The first time you heard of them they turned your stomach. "Mom, why would anyone do that?" "Dad, is this true that some people....?"

You felt the same way when you heard about the DH. It was just out and out wrong. And now, like it so many other things, the side of good has collapsed. There is now no difference between the AL and the NL. What we once knew to be wrong, we now sort of talk ourselves into thinking it is good. 

Stay tuned. There is much much more to come. 

Visions and Dreams and Johanna

 A note to my grandaughter who came to the earth on 3 March 2022. 

I may name my banjo after you, we'll see. I have been trying to contrive a name for it. It has five strings and you are my fifth grandchild. That is a stupid connection but it's all I have. 

Before you were born I was at your house, seeing your brother and checking on your mom. She was a day or two away from going to the hospital for your birth. As I was leaving she pulled me close in a hug and said, "Dad, would you say a prayer for me?". I stood there in the entryway, among a stroller, winter boots, scarfs with the woman I first held as a tiny baby decades ago. 

I don't know exactly what I prayed for that day when I put my arms around your mom. It was a bit about her and a bit about you. But I do know this. All of the deep things I have ever wanted for my daughter were realized in that little hall. My little girl, when deep into womanhood, asked me to pray for her. To that same Lord that she worshipped as a toddler. That is what I wanted when I first held her, when I first whispered the name of our Lord in her tiny ear. That when I was old that she would hold as tightly to Christ at 40 as she did at 4. As I was driving home I had this sense that every dream I ever dreamed and every prayer I ever prayed for her had been answered in that moment.  

On the 5th day of March, when you were two days old I held you for the first time. Like your mother, the first word you heard from my lips was "Jesus". The first time you felt my hand, it was to trace the sign of the cross on your forehead. 

Johanna, your safe arrival on earth was an answer to many prayers. Many more prayers are being lifted up for you now. It is my deep desire that when your mother and father are my age, that they will thank God for the faith they see in you. That does not waver. That does not tremble. 

banjo and golf

 I never was a serious student of golf. I am a very serious student of banjo. But there is something in my head and physiology that links the two. 

During the brief periods I tried to learn golf, I always had a major issue with whiffing, or just as bad, topping the ball. My body held back as though a normal divot would break my wrist, throw out my back, break my arm, or whatever. I still have fun on the golf course and there is nothing like a good foursome and a good cigar. 

How does this relate to banjo? I whiff. Especially with my thumb. I miss the 5th G string, or hit it much too often when the 4th D is the target. The same thing happens, though not as often with all the rest of my fingers at various times. I also have my banjo version of topping, hitting the strings too lightly, not giving a good resounding pluck. Things will be chugging along fine, i'm moving through the tune, and then comes a crucial period in a roll when suddenly the strings go eerily faint. Like I'm suddenly afraid someone will hear me! 

The golf stuff doesn't bother me, for I am not a golfer. The banjo stuff does, as I am banjo player, at least in my eyes and those of my grandkids.