Cricket And Porcupine

Two Coats

2011-12-20T07:57:00.003-05:00

We were just rich enough that we were not poor. By strict economy, my parents managed to keep us all clothed, sheltered and fed. The clothes may not have always been the exact ones we wanted. My mother often concocted meals based on whatever was left in the pantry. We sometimes wished the roof over our heads was a bit bigger. We did not live a life free from want. Still, we were mostly free from need.

Our neighborhood was safe, at least compared to the next one over. I learned to watch my back but I never slept in the tub. That counts. My mother seems to remember the whole experience as being worse than it was. I'm not sure why. To me, it was just ordinary. All my friends lived similar lives. There was rarely extra but there was usually enough. I look back on it without nostalgia or resentment. It was what it was. Ordinary.

Sometimes it is strange what we remember. I liked Christmas as most children do. Still, much of my memory is a pine-scented blur of trees and lights, punctuated by random moments of clarity. You might think I would remember going to see Santa, setting out milk and cookies, waking up to find that one longed-for present under the tree, but I don't. This all happened, I'm sure of that. I remember that it happened, I just don't remember doing it.

There were presents, of course. I had toys. I just don't remember specifically asking for and receiving any. There is one toy I remember Santa bringing. It was a glorious red, pedal-powered fire engine with wooden ladders on the sides, a pull-string bell, and a working light. Even though I had just turned three, I remember waking to find that. I didn't ask for it, though. Santa had chosen it for me all by himself, with wisdom and love.

No, the gifts I remember make an odd assortment. A puzzle given to me by my great-aunt that came in a can, not a box. A football helmet that was far less protective than I had hoped for the incredibly violent version of the game played in my neighborhood. Neatly wrapped packages of clothing from my aunt, who always hid candies and other treats in the folds.

I always felt a little guilty about the clothes. They were obviously chosen with care. The adults made such a fuss over them. I should have been more grateful, yet I was not. Christmas was about toys and sweets. It was a divinely revealed rule of childhood. Children do not want clothes for Christmas.

***************

My mother is a sensitive soul. Whatever charity is in my heart comes largely from her. She has always given herself to those who need her most: the poor, the troubled, the dying. She is not well-suited for this work. She cares far too deeply. She makes their grief her own. As a boy, I could always tell by her eyes when one of her patients had died. If it were my choice, I would have her teaching kindergarten, surrounded by light, joy, and laughing children. It is not my choice, though. She is called to something else.

One morning, my mother called my sisters and me to the kitchen table. She had a proposal for us. I know Who inspired it, though I'm not sure how. She asked us if we would try something different that Christmas: if we would give our presents to a more needy child. She left us to think it over. Now, even at that age, we knew there would still be presents for us that year, just perhaps one less. After a short debate, we decided that would be all right.

My mother contacted a friend from nursing school to arrange it. Sister Julie said she would find three children like us and send their Christmas wishes. One day, three cards arrived. I remember mine quite clearly. On the front was a picture of the Nativity. Inside, Sister Julie wrote that she had found a boy my age who needed a present this year. His name was Julian.

He wanted a coat.

There were no further instructions. He didn't want a New England Patriots coat. He didn't want a bomber jacket or a pea coat. Just a coat. A winter coat. Size 8.

My own coat was gray-green wool with wooden toggles. I loved the toggles. My grandmother had known I would love the toggles when she bought it for me. She said so. The coat was not new, but it had been chosen for me with love, and it was warm. Winter in New England is cold. It didn't take long for me to realize that any child who wanted a winter coat for Christmas didn't really want it, he needed it. Children do not want clothes for Christmas.

***************

I don't remember much else about that Christmas. My mother bought a suitable coat and let me give it my approval. The coat was wrapped and delivered. Christmas came and went in a blur of trees and lights. I'm sure there were presents, though I don't remember what they were. Perhaps I appreciated the clothes a little more that year, though I couldn't swear to that. Children do not want clothes for Christmas.

My coat seemed a bit warmer that winter, though. Each time I put it on, I thought of Julian, and hoped he liked his coat as much as I liked mine. I hoped he was warm. I hoped he would not want clothes next Christmas. I hoped that his life could be ordinary too.

I don't remember what presents I got that year, but I know the gift I received. Whatever charity is in my heart came to me from my mother, right then. That was the gift that mattered. That gift I remember. I still think of Julian whenever I pull my coat around me on a cold winter day. I hope he is warm. And I pray for a day when no children ever want clothes for Christmas.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

Better

2011-12-13T11:55:00.001-05:00

The Temple to Music

Roger Williams Park

Providence, Rhode Island

It's a beautiful place to walk, to watch the birds, or the changing seasons. Yet I've always felt it was missing something. Inside, the marble walls are engraved with the names of composers: the obvious, Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms, plus others more marginal, and even a few I've never heard of.

Now that's fine, as far as it goes. Bach wrote some of the most beautiful music ever. Even so, the most recent name on the walls is Debussy. This morning, I finally did my bit to correct this.

There. Now isn't that better? I sure think so. Now, if only I had a nice chisel....

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

Chapter And Verse

2011-12-09T08:43:00.002-05:00

December 2001. St. Mary's 7th Grade Catechism Class. The students grudgingly file in. Though the friendlier ones say hello, none of them are truly happy to see me. They are anxious to get this over with and return to their TVs and cell-phones. Christmas vacation is near. Their minds are on other things.

Silently, I take attendance from the front of the room. They look at me and look around nervously. He's smiling. Not good. He's in one of his moods again. Not good at all. I begin handing out paper.

You all know the Christmas story, right? Not the one about Ralphie and his B.B. gun, but the real Christmas story?

I receive the expected nods and mumbles. I direct their attention to a Nativity scene on the center table.

OK. Take the next half-hour or so and write it down. You can write it however you'd like. Spelling and grammar don't count, just include as many details as you can remember. If you get stuck, use the Nativity scene to help you. You can talk to the other people at your table if you like, but keep the noise down, and everybody has to hand in a finished story. Any questions?

There are none. They set to work. Thirty-odd minutes later, I call time. They hand in their work. Class continues.

The following Christmas narrative is compiled from their efforts. Every single line, save one, comes directly from one of their papers. All I have done is arrange them. Completely useless bonus blog points will be awarded to you if you can spot the one line I could not resist adding. It probably won't be difficult.

And now, enjoy the Christmas story according to St. Mary's 7th Grade Catechism Class, 2001.

***************

1 Once upon a time there was a couple, Joseph and Mary.

2 The virgin Mary was appointed

3 By one of God's angels in a dream.

4 One night an angel came up to Mary

5 And told her she was going to have God's body

6 And she shall call him Jesus.

7 Mary had Jesus in her stomach.

8 Mary came to Joseph pregnant

9 And Joseph thought Mary was with another man.

10 He got mad then Mary explained

11 And Joseph started to understand.

12 Jesus was God's son but Joseph was Mary's wife.

13 Her and Joseph travel to Bethlaham.

14 They had to go back to Bethlaham so Joseph could register.

15 They traveled and traveled

16 Because the hotels would not accept pregnant women.

17 They finally found a place in the barn of an old farmer.

18 There were a lot of creatures there

19 Like sheep and goats and pigs.

20 E-I-E-I-O.

21 And Jesus was born.

22 Jesus had no crib or a bed.

23 Mary wrapped him in swadling clothes

24 And laid him in the manger.

25 It was a place where the cows ate hey.

26 While in the manger, the baby did not cry.

27 He was supposely born on December 25th but this is not a fact.

28 A shepard came bringing sheep's wool.

29 An Angle told the tree wize man a King has been born.

30 They are told by shepherd to follow the North Star.

31 The three wise kings came and folled the big star

32 To Bethlaham to the manger where he was born.

33 They brought Jesus gifs.

34 Gold, franksense, mur and other good stuff.

35 They went because they thought Jesus was the Savour.

36 They were happy to see the baby.

37 News spread that there was going to be a new king

38 Which made the present king furious.

39 Jesus was born on the stable on Christmas.

40 Then he died on the cross and took away all our sins.

41 And they lived happily ever after. Amen.

***************

What can I say? It is so right, yet so very wrong. I was amazed that, for all their veneer of cool and sophistication, many of them began "once upon a time" and ended "happily ever after." I knew they were not as grown-up as they thought. Perhaps in their hearts, they knew that too. Strangely, this text speaks to us in its own way, and is worth its own meditations.

The kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

Charlie's Gift

2011-12-06T10:37:00.000-05:00

The music is the message. There is no other message.

John McLaughlin

**************

Once you reach a certain age, the best Christmas gifts are never under the tree. I've already received mine: a beautiful five year-old boy who still believes in all the magic. I can look into his eyes and hear every Christmas I ever had, every wish I have for him, every dream I hope he has when I tuck him in on Christmas Eve.

Maybe you can hear it too? Listen.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

File Under W

2011-11-23T10:46:00.005-05:00

File this one under "w" for "wtf?"

So, I'm going to throw out my empty deodorant when something catches my eye. There on the back, among all the usual stuff about not applying product to broken skin and discontinuing use if a rash or irritation develops, not to mention using product daily for "best results" is the following:

"Contains odor-fighting atomic robots that shoot lasers at your stench monsters and replaces them with fresh, clean, masculine scent elves."

Um... yeah... ok. Wtf? I can picture the guys in the copy room now, like something out of Crazy People.

"Geez... I meant that as a joke but it got printed up like that."

Truth, fiction, and all that.

Wishing you and yours the happiest of Thanksgivings,

Cricket and Porcupine

Short Subjects

2011-11-14T12:05:00.002-05:00

The Golden Calf: all grown up!

A collection of random thoughts on current events:

Why Occupy Wall Street and not Washington? Because the billionaires own the millionaires. A thousand times over.

The original Tea Party was known until the 1830s as "the destruction of the tea." It was a group of angry people who got together, broke the law, and destroyed private property. Think about it.

It amazes me that people can rail against high unemployment, then turn around and tell people protesting, among other things, high unemployment, to "occupy a job."

A note to the 53%: If there is 9% unemployment, then the 47% is 80% employed.

Conservatives will tell you that they opposed the bank bailouts. However, if a liberal opposes the bank bailouts, the conservative will reply that the banks paid back the money with interest. How does this make sense?

Businesses do not create jobs because of tax cuts. They create jobs when there is sufficient demand for their products and services.

Deregulation does not create competition; it creates monopolies.

30 years later, we are seeing the voodoo in voodoo economics. Supply-side theory is a failure in every respect. Well, not every respect. It did exactly what its proponents wanted it to do; it moved all the money to the supply side. Perhaps it is time to try "demand-side economics" for a while.

Too big to fail is too big to exist.

People say that Wall Street executives have not been prosecuted because they did nothing illegal. This is largely true. However, the fact that they did nothing illegal does not mean that they did nothing wrong. They did nothing illegal because they have been steadily lobbying for many years to have the laws changed.

An example: here's how a bubble works. Start with a few billion dollars or so. It doesn't have to be your money. Where might you find this money to play with? Pension funds and 401(k)s are a good place to start. Now, pick something to buy. What you buy doesn't matter: shares of stock, mortgages, wheat futures, oil... anything. Now, start buying. The price will go up if you buy enough. Others will see the price rise and get in on it too. Keep buying. At a time of your choosing, sell off quickly. Pocket the profits. Let the retirement funds eat the losses. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Ever wonder where your retirement money went? Now you know. Did you ever read a prospectus? I'll summarize them all for you: if we lose all your money, oopsie. Of course, the money isn't lost, precisely. It's transferred from you to them. It's perfectly legal. The next time someone starts yammering about supply and demand, you step back, then give him a good swift kick in the nuts. Tell him I said it was all right.

Slippery folk will switch back and forth between talking about the market and the stock market as if these are the same things. They aren't.

Likewise, there is a difference between equal income distribution and equitable income distribution. Or do we really believe that the CEO works 400 times harder than the wage laborer?

It is often overlooked that Adam Smith and Karl Marx have two important things in common: First, their books are very long and very dull. Second, most people who talk about these books haven't read them.

And speaking of Marx, his philosophy is flawed. This point I will readily concede. However, it does not follow from this that he was wrong about everything and said nothing of importance.

If you are going to tell me about equal opportunity vs. equal outcome, fine, but be prepared to show me that we have equal opportunity.

Many of the difficulties built into our system of government can be traced to the contradiction at its root: slaveowners wanting to be free.

It is not an unfair question to ask how much profit is gouging or how much interest is usury.

It seems to me that the greater purpose of Occupy Wall Street is not so much to support candidates or recommend policy, but to change the focus and language of the debate.

For the moment, Democratic or Republican are the de facto choices. What will happen when enough of us answer "none of the above?"

There seem to be more and more proponents of the Randian "cult of the individual," who argue that naked self-interest is the state of Nature and any attempt to mitigate this is a distortion. My answer is this: we are born into the world helpless, dependent upon the care of others. For the most part, we leave the world in the same way. We are born, in equal measure, both individuals and part of a greater family. This is the state of Nature. Surely this is a Divine lesson?

Very Truly Yours,

Porcupine

Eddie And Shakes

2011-11-11T07:21:00.002-05:00

With our gratitude to all who served - C & P

It would be hard to imagine a bus shelter that offered less protection against the weather: open to the wind, with only a thin sheet of plexiglas in the center. On a bitter, rainy day, it was almost useless. The wind and rain howled in one door, swirled around, and blew out the other. If you faced into the corner and timed it right, you could usually manage to light a cigarette. With a little luck and care, you could keep it lit. So much for shelter.

You could always tell if Eddie was drunk. If he was sober, he pushed his wheelchair forward with his arms; if not, he kicked it backwards with his one leg. He was sober today.

"What's up, man?"

"Hey, Eddie. How's it hanging?"

"Straight down with a fuckin' icicle on it. I'm freezing my nuts off. Ya got a cigarette?"

"Fuck you, Eddie. I know you've got your own."

I reached into my coat pocket. He flashed me a big grin

"Yeah, but yours are better."

Shakes held up two bony fingers and tapped his lips twice. Presumably, he could speak, though I never heard him do it. He looked at me inquiringly. I nodded, stuck two cigarettes in my mouth, and lit them. I handed one to Shakes. I passed the pack and lighter to Eddie.

"Thanks, man."

"No problem."

***************

You never really get to know people like Eddie and Shakes, though everyone seems to know them. You learn their names by osmosis: a part of city lore. We certainly were never introduced. For all I know, his name wasn't even Eddie. For all I know, he just answered to that: Crazy Eddie. I just called him Eddie, though. He never seemed all that crazy to me, just a bit lost.

He was a strange mix of soldier and hippie. The back of his wheelchair was covered with an incongruous assortment of bumper stickers: a pot leaf next to an American eagle next to a POW-MIA next to a Santana logo. One announced that he was firmly pro-tits. A small American flag flew on one side: an orange bicycle flag on the other.

I imagine he was in his thirties, though the years had not been kind. If he was not homeless, he was nearly so. He seemed fairly healthy, though, thanks to the local VA. He never asked for money, only cigarettes and, I guess, a friendly face and a bit of companionship. You never really get to know people like Eddie.

About Shakes I can tell you even less. Tall and painfully thin, he had a constant tremor: sometimes better, sometimes worse, but never absent. He startled easily and never spoke. I sometimes saw Eddie without Shakes but never Shakes without Eddie. I had the clear impression that they knew each other from the hospital, not the service, though I can't say why. Shakes had a searching look in his eye, as if he were forever on the verge of speaking.

One day, I can't say exactly when, was the last time I ever saw them. They were there, then they were gone.

***************

It's an accident of history, I suppose. Most of the veterans I have known served during peacetime. They tell their stories with a smile: of boot camp, war games, and shore leave. It all has the ring of a hunter back from safari. That's all right. You don't blame a fireman if there are no fires on his watch. He was there; he was ready; he served. That counts.

The combat veterans I've known were different. None of them ever told stories about their service. Not to me, anyway. I imagine the actual experience is horrific. The only story I recall is my Uncle Joe telling me of a Christmas Mass celebrated on the hood of a Jeep, somewhere in Germany or France: a tiny bit of heaven in the midst of hell. Other than that, they locked their memories away as best they could.

I suppose some people just can't do that.

If you can get to a parade this year, go. Salute the living; remember the dead. In this season of Thanksgiving, give thanks. But remember, when the parades are over, to say a special prayer for Eddie and Shakes, who made the ultimate sacrifice, too.

Just not all at once.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

Thanksgiving Comes First

2011-11-01T06:42:00.004-04:00

Our contribution to Suldog's Thanksgiving Comes First campaign - C & P

To every thing there is a season.

Ecclesiastes 3:1

***************

I think it's the smells that I remember best: cinnamon, nutmeg and pumpkin, roasting turkey and baking bread, a whiff of onion and sage, a note of coffee, and all of that floating above the faintest hint of fresh floor wax. If there is a heaven and if I should go there, perhaps it might smell something like that.

But I'm getting ahead of the story.

***************

All Wednesday morning we watched the clock. A half-day: 11:45 could not come soon enough. Our teachers taught us poker-faced, pretending it was a school day like any other. For our part, we pretended to work as we counted down the minutes to the bell. They couldn't fool us in any case. We caught them sneaking their own looks at the clock.

The bell still echoed as the school doors burst open and we poured into the street. Slowly, I walked home, savoring my freedom, shuffling and crunching through errant drifts of leaves. The gray November sky hung low over trees that had given up their October brilliance for muted brown, maroon, and mustard. The air was sharp and carried the musty scent of fallen apples.

My mother practically met me at the door with a bucket and some rags.

Christopher, I need you to scrub the baseboards.

Right.

It never occurred to me that this was all a ruse: a way to keep me quiet, out of the kitchen, and to get some work done in the bargain. We were having no guests. We were going to Nana's for Thanksgiving. But children don't question these things. I set to work.

The house seemed warmer than usual. It was, of course: partly from the oven and simmering saucepans, partly from the alluring aroma of baking pies rising on humid air. Still, the prospect of a fine Thanksgiving dinner filled my father with an uncharacteristic and expansive good cheer. He would bake pie after pie, tapping out rhythms on the mixing bowl with his wedding band, filling the house with his rich baritone.

... kissed my girl, by the factory wall, dirty old town, dirty old town.

His good mood was contagious. My sister and I sang and dusted and scrubbed, forgetting that these were chores.

Evening held in store a light supper of grilled cheese and soup. We munched our sandwiches, wishing they were the pies on the sideboard. We were dutifully bathed, brushed and trundled off to bed, left to dream of roast turkey and pie.

Thanksgiving had almost come.

***************

I awoke to the sputtering percolator and the smell of strong coffee. I knew a bag of doughnuts would be waiting: fresh doughnuts, still crisp on the outside. My father was already dressed. We munched away in cheerful silence, occasionally glancing at the pies. Waiting.

Thanksgiving had almost come.

This was one of the rare days when I would not be welcome at Nana's before the appointed hour. She was preparing and I would have been underfoot. There was nothing to do but wait. Absently, I watched the build-up to the Macy's parade in black-and-white and wondered at all the fuss. I tried to care and failed. And I waited.

At noon we were dutifully starched, pressed, and buttoned-down. Combed, brushed, and photographed. Handed one pie each and bundled out the door for the walk to Nana's. The walk took about five minutes. This was the parade that mattered.

I turned the key in the doorbell. My grandfather greeted me heartily, as if he had not seen me just the day before. He quickly ushered us in. All hugs would wait until the pies were safe and the hugs could not wait. He held out his arms and I wrapped my own around him. My fingers did not touch. I squeezed him as hard as I could. He pretended it was too much. It was our custom. Nana gave me a fleeting smile, a one-armed hug, a cursory kiss, and a shoo.

Thanksgiving had come.

***************

To my knowledge, my grandfather never drank. Even so, he enjoyed playing bartender to my sisters and me. With great fanfare, he mixed us his signature cocktail: Fresca with cranberry juice. We were free to roam, anywhere but the kitchen. We searched for hidden dishes of candies and nuts. We slid on the stairs. We wandered among the adults busy gabbling about football, politics, and other things of no importance. We picked out tunes on the parlor piano. My great-aunt winced at every sour note. An electric knife whirred in the kitchen. We made happy nuisances of ourselves until Nana appeared in the parlor door and solemnly handed me a pewter bell.

I suspect the entire neighborhood knew that our dinner was served.

We packed into the dining room and arranged ourselves: Grampa at one end of the vast table, Nana at the other. I took my place at her right hand. I did not yet understand the significance of this. Grampa stood for Grace

Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts

Which we are about to receive from Thy bounty,

Through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.

Casting a twinkling eye on us, he added his own prayer: "... and Lord, give us the grace to guide the children wisely." We children always joined in on the "wisely," drawing the word out. Everyone laughed.

And now the meal began in earnest. Dishes were circulated: butternut squash, mashed potato, tiny peas, my mother's creamed onions. Dressing with sausage. Baskets of biscuits and strange little Hawaiian rolls. I smiled to see my father and grandfather scowl at the turnips. Jellied cranberry and cranberry relish. Sweet mix and olives. Gravy and butter, salt and pepper, and a drumstick all for me.

It's the bountiful plate! Christopher has the bountiful plate! My sister trilled.

Indeed, it was. We set to work. While the adults gabbled about football, politics, and other things of no importance, my sister and I crafted careful forkfuls, attempting to recreate the entire meal in each bite. Now and then, someone would declare this to be the best Thanksgiving yet. Nana would simply nod. The dishes circulated again.

***************

And now, a few words about jello salad: Perhaps you may cringe at the thought. I understand. Not really a salad at all. But perhaps, if you're like me, if you're of the right age and disposition, you remember these fondly. My very fashionable aunt always brought an elaborately molded jello salad to Thanksgiving, back when that was fashionable. It was a two-layered affair: cranberry jello, with celery, apples, and walnuts. A sweet sour cream business separated the layers.

In hindsight, it doesn't surprise me that we children could have all we wanted. I'm sure the adults thought it mostly for show, yet we loved it. When else could we eat dessert with our meal and still have all the dessert we wanted after, as well?

****************

When the last trace of gravy had been mopped up with the last biscuit, the adults repaired to the living room. They sprawled on the sofas like walruses in the sun, ignoring the television, talking about football, politics, and other things of no importance.

Nana whisked me into the kitchen. Now I would earn my keep. Coffee was set to perk. The window over the sink was thrown open. Dishes were washed, dried, put away. Leftovers were organized and set aside. Pies and sweets were set out with plates and forks in neat array. Ice cream, whipped cream, fruits and cheeses. Nana relaxed visibly as each item was brought forth. Her smile warmed; her tone softened. Soon, she would consider her work done for the day and enjoy the party.

The doorbell announced the start of round two. The somnolent walruses roused themselves. Aunts and uncles, cousins and friends were arriving for pie. Dessert was strictly self-service. Again and again, we served ourselves. No one was watching and no one cared. I made another meal of pie. On what other day could I eat all the pie I wanted and be asked if I wanted still more?

The lights were dimmed. There was soft music from the radio. The sweet aroma of strong coffee. Adults gabbling about football, politics, and other things of no importance. Cheeks were pinched hello and kissed goodbye. My, how you've grown and how is school? Don't eat yourself sick and would you like more pie? I carried coats and hats upstairs and fetched them down again. The evening built in a slow crescendo and just as slowly faded.

I joined my father at the kitchen table for a final sandwich, on Arnold's white bread, with dressing and cranberry and extra mayo: the perfect coda to the day's excess. Leftovers were packed for travel. Dad walked home to get the car for my now sleeping sisters. Returning, he carried them out one by one. Love and smiles. Hugs and kisses. And we all agreed that this was the best Thanksgiving yet. We made the short drive home in cheerful silence.

Thanksgiving had come, but it had not yet gone.

***************

Friday morning dawned in shades of gray and brown. I awoke to the sputtering percolator and the smell of strong coffee. My father was already dressed. He nodded and smiled. Still in her nightdress, my sister drifted in. We were about to enjoy one of our traditions, one we looked forward to all year: pie for breakfast. I cut her a slice of apple, mince for myself. Two wedges of cheddar. I put water on for tea. In our hearts, we gave thanks for hot tea and cold pie. It was still Thanksgiving.

There would be Christmas sales that day, but these weren't part of our world. My very fashionable aunt would likely be there, but even to her these were sales like any other. She was not rushing to Christmas. She just wanted her shopping done. In our house, it was still Thanksgiving. There would be cold turkey sandwiches for lunch. Perhaps hot browns for supper. All day long we'd nibble at pies, recovering from our day of excess with a day of slightly less.

And we still had Saturday and Sunday.

All week long, that bird would feed us. Sandwiches hot and cold, open-faced and closed, on bulkie rolls or Arnold's bread, with dressing and cranberry and extra mayo. Turkey sliced thin or chopped fine for turkey salad. Reheated with gravy or served as pot pie until his poor old bones were all that was left and we boiled them down for soup.

Then, and only then, was Thanksgiving truly over.

***************

I love Thanksgiving. It's been my favorite holiday as long as I can remember. There have been changes, of course. My father is the grandfather now and I am the father. My children are the happy, noisy nuisances. Yet there is still something of those long-ago celebrations in every turkey and every pie. Nana is in my kitchen making sure the gravy has no lumps. Grampa still rises for Grace, and prays that we guide our children wisely. It is more than a memory. At least it is to me.

They are really there.

And I hope someday my children will remember our Thanksgivings as I remember mine. A time for family and friends and pies. A time to give thanks for all we have, and for everyone who has touched our lives. And whether my children realize it or not, I know my grandparents will always be there for them too. Even when it is beyond our awareness, love never fails.

Our lives breathe like the tides. A wave of weddings, then a lull. A wave of births, then a lull. A wave of funerals, then a lull. We float along on the surface. We welcome newborns, we mark milestones, we bury our dead. With a little luck, we play our parts: child, parent, grandparent. With a little luck, we greet each season of life with new eyes and an undimmed sense of wonder at each unique and unrepeatable day. And we give thanks.

***************

Why not resolve to make this Thanksgiving more than a day? It is a season all its own. It deserves three days, perhaps even five. Resolve to ignore anything Christmas, at least until Black Friday. Christmas will come in its time, I promise. But I will say no more about that right now.

Thanksgiving comes first.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

Who Said It?

2011-10-18T10:48:00.003-04:00

A fun quiz. See how you do.

1) “Marijuana prohibition has done far more harm to far more people than marijuana ever could.”

2) "Why should we hear about body bags and deaths? Oh, I mean, it's not relevant. So why should I waste my beautiful mind on something like that?"

3) "Publicly, we say one thing....Actually, we do another."

4) "It's voodoo economics."

5) "What does an actor know about politics?"

6) "I do not need to explain why I say things. That's the interesting thing about being president. I don't feel like I owe anybody an explanation."

7) "The question in my mind is how many additional American casualties is Saddam worth? And the answer is not very damned many. So I think we got it right, both when we decided to expel him from Kuwait, but also when the president made the decision that we'd achieved our objectives and we were not going to go get bogged down in the problems of trying to take over and govern Iraq.... Once we had Saddam rounded him up and gotten rid of his government, then the question is what do you put in its place? How long would we have had to stay in Baghdad to keep that government in place? What would happen to the government once U.S. forces withdrew? How many casualties should the United States accept in that effort to try to create clarity and stability in a situation that is inherently unstable? I think it is vitally important for a President to know when to use military force. I think it is also very important for him to know when not to commit U.S. military force. And it's my view that the President got it right both times, that it would have been a mistake for us to get bogged down in the quagmire inside Iraq."

8) "Religious factions will go on imposing their will on others unless the decent people connected to them recognize that religion has no place in public policy."

9) "Among conservatives there's been too much pseudo-populism, almost too much concern and attention for, quote, 'the people'... After all, we conservatives are on the side of the lords and barons... We...are pulling up the drawbridge against the peasants."

10) "Should any political party attempt to abolish social security, unemployment insurance, and eliminate labor laws and farm programs, you would not hear of that party again in our political history. There is a tiny splinter group, of course, that believes you can do these things. Among them are H. L. Hunt (you possibly know his background), a few other Texas oil millionaires, and an occasional politician or business man from other areas. Their number is negligible and they are stupid."

Bonus:

"The necessaries of life occasion the great expense of the poor. They find it difficult to get food, and the greater part of their little revenue is spent in getting it. The luxuries and vanities of life occasion the principal expense of the rich, and a magnificent house embellishes and sets off to the best advantage all the other luxuries and vanities which they possess. A tax upon house-rents, therefore, would in general fall heaviest upon the rich; and in this sort of inequality there would not, perhaps, be anything very unreasonable. It is not very unreasonable that the rich should contribute to the public expense, not only in proportion to their revenue, but something more than in that proportion."

***************

1) William F. Buckley Jr., closet hippie.

2) Barbara Bush, speaking about American war dead. Way to "support the troops," B!

3) Richard Nixon, just clarifying things a bit.

4) George H. W. Bush, on supply-side theory, before he got the memo.

5) Ronald Reagan, criticizing Ed Asner's views on foreign policy.

6) George W. Bush, public servant.

7) Dick Cheney, pre-rabies.

8) Barry Goldwater, well-known commie-liberal.

9) Bill Kristol's refreshing honesty.

10) Dwight D. Eisenhower, no comment needed.

Bonus: Karl Marx. No wait, it's Adam Smith, well-known socialist. I believe the "invisible hand" just flipped some folks the bird.

But maybe that's just me. Consistency is overrated anyway.

Very Truly Yours,

Porcupine

Sunday Sermon

2011-10-16T07:57:00.002-04:00

Today's sermon will not be mine, though that may happen soon. No, today let's look at a Scripture that is not preached anywhere near often enough. When it is, most of the time it is to try and explain why the author didn't really mean it. Right.

***************

Hear this, you who trample upon the needy

and destroy the poor of the land!

"When will the new moon be over," you ask,

"that we may sell our grain,

and the sabbath, that we may display the wheat?

We will diminish the ephah,

add to the shekel,

and fix our scales for cheating!

We will buy the lowly man for silver,

and the poor man for a pair of sandals;

even the refuse of the wheat we will sell!"

The LORD has sworn by the pride of Jacob:

Never will I forget a thing they have done!

Amos 8: 4 - 7

***************

Presented without comment. He who hath an ear to hear, let him hear.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

Buck's Blues

2011-10-11T13:01:00.000-04:00

Everyone deserves a song. That's just the way it is. This one goes out to blog-bud Buck, just as a day brightener. If I had a hip little convertible and a wide open Western highway to drive it on, this is what I'd hear in my head. Sure, we have our differences, but we share a fondness for Trappist beers, fine cigars, and things that go slide on guitars. It's a start. Hope you enjoy Buck's Blues.

Click the link to listen or for download. Sound quality is lo-fi, but so am I, and hey, what do you want for free? If you like it, tell your friends. If not, tell your enemies, because they listen to music too.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

Eternal Autumn

2011-09-29T06:27:00.005-04:00

Autumn, my favorite season, refuses to come this year. Almost October, and still the weather in my neck of the woods is warm, muggy, rainy. The trees are all green. And there it is.

Yesterday was my grandfather's birthday. He would have been 102. There was no chill in the air. I might have forgotten had my mother not reminded me. Where are the leaves this year?

Here are a few more words on the subject: one of my first posts and one of my favorites. Call it a summary. Perhaps it is enough. - Cricket

***************

My grandfather lives in eternal autumn. He is leaves crunching underfoot. Windfall apples and pears among the grasses. Orange and yellow and red and brown. The golden light of the October sun.

I sit on his lap reading Longfellow from a marble-bound volume. This is the forest primeval. The whispering pines and the hemlocks. He is sandpaper cheeks. Old Spice and Lectric Shave. Horn-rimmed glasses. A favored pink shirt. A four-colored pen. His eyes are blue. His hair still blond. His hand is strong. His touch is gentle. His teeth are all his own.

We kneel together in flickering shadows. He is frankincense and candle wax. Wood worn smooth and lemon oil. Fish on Friday and Saturday Night Suppers. Paternosters and Ave Marias. A well-thumbed missal in Bible-black leather. Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus. He is a firm handshake. A sturdy hymn. A tweed overcoat and matching hat. Ite, missa est. Deo Gratias.

I watch him tend his garden. He is tomato vines and butter-beans. Summer squash and sugar snaps. Petunias, hydrangeas and geraniums. Tiger Lily and Butterfly Bush. From out of the earth he has called them. He calls each one by name.

By a soft light on the porch he sits. I hear the whispered rustle of his paper. The kitchen is bright with activity. Nana gossips and chides, directs and instructs. We are running water and clattering silverware. The percolator coughs and sputters. I stack the dishes one by one. We chatter and tidy. We laugh out loud. What does he make of us?

I half-carry him to his favorite chair. He is scars and bones. His skin is translucent. His eyes are clear. His face is set. His smile is thin. I set out soup and sandwiches. We pretend he is not dying.

He lived the life he chose. This was the epitaph my great-uncle gave my grandfather. He lived the life he chose. I had never met him before. I never saw him again. But clearly the two men were brothers. Their eyes were clear and blue. They did not waste a word. They lived the lives they chose.

I loved my grandfather and he loved me. I knew him as well as any boy of 15 knows a man of 72, which is to say, not very. But we made the most of the time we had, and that is enough. He was bear-hugs and still waters. He was a warm spot by the kitchen pot-belly. He was Poor Richard's Almanack. He laughed with his eyes. He lived the life he chose.

No one ever really dies, of course. The people we have loved do not pass away, they pass within, for truly love never fails. My grandfather is beyond time now. He is everywhere he ever was. He is places he had never been, and all at once. He lives in my father. He lives in my heart. He lives in my son who bears his name. And he lives in eternal autumn. That is enough.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

Quote Of The Day

2011-09-08T13:13:00.004-04:00

Just passing this one on:

Remember when teachers, public employees, Planned Parenthood, NPR and PBS crashed the stock market, wiped out half our 401Ks, took trillions in taxpayer funded bailouts, spilled oil in the Gulf of Mexico, gave themselves billions in bonuses and paid no taxes?

Yeah. Me neither.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

Grateful

2011-08-29T06:37:00.002-04:00

One tree, six sections of fence, and a big mess to clean up: I can't, and won't, complain. No serious damage, no water, and no injuries to myself, mine, or my extended. Can't ask for more. We didn't even lose power.

Which reminds me of something George Carlin said, which I will paraphrase, since my book was permanently "borrowed":

I heard on the news that 250,000 people are without power tonight. I thought, actually 300 million Americans are without power. They're just not aware of it.

And there it is. Well, I'm grateful all the same. We hope to return to our regularly scheduled programming soon.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket and Porcupine

Privatization

2011-07-05T10:05:00.000-04:00

I have to say, it's a good thing we privatized most of our public works around here. Once upon a time, all we had were lazy public workers, with their "unions" and their "pensions" and their "benefits." Tax leeches, just like teachers, firefighters, and police. Who needs 'em?

But just look at this man. Now here's the efficiency of the private sector at work. This man hasn't moved in almost twenty minutes, but when he does? I'll bet he's the very picture of that can-do American spirit, the essence of that free enterprise system that makes us great, a man full of get up and go!

All right. Twenty-two minutes later, we seem to be working on the "get up" part. Now that's the spirit. Privatization sure worked for us. Why not try it in your community? Be sure to vote Republican to bring private sector efficiency to a city near you.

Very Truly Yours,

Porcupine

Value

2011-06-17T10:06:00.007-04:00

value n. 1. An amount considered to be a suitable equivalent for something else; a fair price or return for goods or services. 2. Monetary or material worth: the rising value of gold. 3. Worth in usefulness or importance to the possessor; utility or merit: the value of an education. 4. A principle, standard, or quality considered worthwhile or desirable: a background that emphasized traditional values. 5. precise meaning or import, as of a word. 6. Math. An assigned or calculated numerical quantity. [ME valew < OFr. value < valoir, to be worth < Lat. valere.]

I think we're all guilty to some extent. We use words quite casually and assume all the while that other people, or even that we, know precisely what we mean by them. The bigger the word, the greater the assumptions: God, love, freedom, justice, wealth. They sound so simple but try to pin one down and it becomes like a blob of quicksilver. Sometimes I think it a miracle that we have any effective communication at all.

Last time, we looked at wealth and money and saw that these are both far more abstract than we often believe them to be. Though these are often equated, in fact, they are only loosely related and their intersection is often problematic. This intersection involves the notion of value. Yet how do we determine value? And who, or what, decides? To reduce value to monetary value alone is a mistake at best and, sometimes, we can come up against the absurd. A few examples:

You have carefully selected a new car. You have brilliantly negotiated the best price possible. You pick the car up and drive it home. Congratulations. You have just lost several thousand dollars. It was the single most expensive trip you will ever take in that car. Why? What has changed?

An old man on my street died recently. His house was almost identical to mine. His son and daughter didn't want to keep it so they cleaned it out and put it up for sale. They priced it to move and lowered the price by $10,000 every few days until it sold. Based on this "comparable sale," my house is now worth less. Why? What has changed?

I needed a new spatula. I found a name brand one that usually goes for seven dollars in the dollar store. I bought it. It was now worth one dollar of store credit only. I took the tag off. At this point, I'd be lucky to sell it for a quarter at a yard sale. I used it to make a burger. Now, I probably couldn't sell it at all. Does it follow that the spatula has no value?

In 2006, Jackson Pollock's No. 5 1948 sold for $140 million, making it the most expensive painting in the world. Is the painting worth that much? Did the seller get a good price? Did the buyer get a good deal?

How would one find out?

***************

Determining value is not a simple matter. To suggest that "the market" determines value is an evasion. The market, insofar as it exists at all, is only equipped to deal with a commodity. This can work well enough if two conditions are met: first, there must be an actual physical commodity; and second, this commodity must actually change hands at some point. Meeting these conditions does not prevent distortions, of course. The common notion of supply-and-demand is so oversimplified as to be worse than useless. These merely define the appropriate sphere of a market: essentially, to facilitate exchange of commodities. This is what a market ought to do.

When these conditions are not met, we begin to see the problem in applying market logic beyond its proper sphere. For example, labor is not a true commodity. It is not a thing but an action. Yet as things stand nationally, and even more so globally, there are far more people than jobs. By market logic, labor is essentially worthless. The contradiction is obvious: we praise hard work, yet we give it little or no monetary value. If we agree that work has value, then market logic has failed.

This situation will only get worse. It is not a question of job skills. It is the obvious result of an ever-increasing population combined with an ever-shrinking job pool. A single backhoe or assembly line robot can replace many human beings. Other technologies enable the export of work to countries with the lowest labor costs. Yet even here the job pool is destined to shrink. This is what "the market" has decreed.

It is also necessary, if a market is to function properly, that the commodities involved actually change hands. This is necessary to prevent rampant speculation. In a situation where, eventually, someone must take possession of a million barrels of oil or bushels of wheat, there is far less incentive to bid up the price of these in search of a quick profit. This is, for example, the main source of rising gasoline prices: not war, not government policy, not even the oil cartels, but rampant speculation in oil futures.

This is what the market has decreed.

Yet to speak of "the market" is itself an evasion. It implies that this situation is the natural state of affairs, almost divinely ordained. This is not so. The market, insofar as it exists, is a human creation. Furthermore, to refer to "the market" hides the obvious; in a very real sense, the market does not exist at all as an independent thing. There is no impersonal "market," but human beings making deliberate choices: choices for which they are responsible. The question is not trivial: Do we exist to serve the market, or does it exist to serve us?

We could begin to answer these questions any number of ways. Still, before we do, we need to recognize one important point. Properly considered, wealth, money, markets and more are human creations. They are not things; they are ideas. We decide what they mean. We will see the answer to another question in the choices we make.

What do we value?

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

Wealth & Money

2011-05-31T07:14:00.002-04:00

I did something rather remarkable yesterday, even instructive, if you think about it. I spent a Canadian quarter at the corner store. I'll pause briefly to let that sink in while you catch your breath.

Now I don't know how common that is in other parts of the country, or if it's more a Northern thing, since we are, after all, much closer to Canada. Still, there is a fair amount of Canadian currency in circulation here. When I was younger, some shops would refuse it. Not so much anymore. We spend it and receive it in change quite freely, just like money.

Isn't that interesting?

***************

We hear a lot about wealth these days: the government does not create wealth, we should not redistribute wealth and so forth. If we speak of the wealthy, usually we are talking about people with a lot of money. Yet we rarely hear questions such as: "What is wealth"? or "What is money?" If we are going to concern ourselves with creating wealth, perhaps it would make some sense to know precisely what it is we hope to create.

I do not mean this in some spiritual sense, where we speak of living a rich life. That is a question worth considering, of course, but I am talking about material wealth, and the question remains: what is it? What is wealth?

Note that the word itself derives from the Old English wela: meaning the common good. My dictionary defines wealth as:

1. An abundance of valuable material possessions or resources; riches. 2. The state of being rich. 3. A profusion or abundance. 4. Econ. All goods and resources having economic value.

These definitions seem to focus on material things, goods, resources. This, I think, is correct. Wealth is a property of things. Only things have inherent value.

For example, my house is real wealth. It may not be ostentatious, but it has real value outside of whatever it is worth in dollars. In fact, its dollar value is irrelevant unless I would like to sell it. In the meantime, I can live in it. I can keep my other possessions in it. It has real value. It is called real estate for good reason.

Similarly, my car is wealth. It is 11 years old and has over 100,000 miles. Even so, it has been meticulously maintained and runs well. It does everything I need it to do. It has real value.

Money, on the other hand, has little real value in itself. It is pieces of paper or discs of metal. You can't do anything with it except exchange it for some thing. It is ultimately worth only what you can buy with it. There is something quite arbitrary about it.

Some would argue that money should be, for example, gold, or at least gold-backed. Then it would have real value. This is true to a point, but even here, we have exchanged one arbitrary choice for another. It would still be money, not wealth. Its value would be determined somewhat differently, but it would still ultimately be worth only what you could buy with it. Unless you are a dentist or a jeweller, there is little you could do with the gold itself.

Wealth and money are only loosely related and their points of intersection are often problematic. How do we determine value? Again, consider my car. Its market value is practically nil. Perhaps I could sell it for a thousand dollars or so. This is fine if I choose to sell it. Presumably I would be doing so for reasons that made sense to me, whatever those were. I could sell the car, take my thousand dollars, and call it square.

On the other hand, even a small accident would "total" my car. This would be a problem. I likely could not replace it for the thousand dollars I might receive in compensation. Its value to me as a reliable, functioning car far exceeds its market value. In this case, though I would not, in theory, lose money, I would lose wealth. In reality, I would probably lose both.

Real wealth is not easily measured. It is a property of things that relates to their inherent value to the possessor. This may have little or nothing to do with market values. Money is very different from wealth.

***************

So what is money? We could say that money is a medium of exchange. What is necessary for something to become money? Agreement between the parties. That is all. Think about my Canadian quarter. It is not legal tender in the United States. The shopkeeper would have been within his rights to refuse it. Yet he did not. Neither do I refuse one in change. No one wants to be the last one holding it so it has become money. It is money because we agree that it is.

Think about that for a minute.

But this does not go far enough. It describes what money does. It does not get to the essence of what our money is.

So where does our money come from? How is it created? What does it represent? Important questions, yet ones that are rarely asked, and even more rarely answered. This process is most often vaguely attributed to government. There is an element of truth to this, but only just. It is true that governments print the actual currency we use, but this is not the same thing as creating money. It is also true that the government can create money. However, most of the money in the world was not created by governments. If you want to understand why things are the way they are, you need to understand what our money represents: what our money is.

Money is debt.

Does that sound strange? It's true. All the money in existence today represents debt. It is created by private banks. Every time a loan in made, brand new money comes into existence. Contrary to popular belief, banks do not take my deposits at interest and loan them to you at a higher rate. Instinctively, we know this. When we apply for a loan, we are never told that the bank doesn't have the money. Under the current system, the bank has, in essence, a charter from the government to create money. If a bank loans me $10,000, then $10,000 is created at that moment: $10,000 that did not exist before, backed by my promise to repay it.

Understand this and you will understand how it is that almost everyone, from private individuals, to large corporations, to national governments, seems to be in debt to banks. Furthermore, the bank creates only the principal of the loan. What about the interest? A moment's thought will reveal something startling: more money is owed to the banks than exists in the world.

Under the current system, the way a government can create money is to take on more debt. A government, in practice, has no control over the money supply. Private banks determine how much money will be available and to whom. It is often said that the banks aren't lending because the economy is bad. Almost precisely the reverse is true: the economy is bad because the banks aren't lending.

There is an even stranger corollary to this. If all debts were paid, there would be no money. The system is absolutely dependent upon the creation of debt based money in ever-increasing amounts. If this process stops, the system collapses.

Does this explain anything?

***************

Are there any alternatives? Of course. Remember my Canadian quarter? What is necessary for something to become money? Agreement among the parties. That is all. If money can literally be based on debt, it could be based on something equally abstract, such as wealth. How we might answer this question is the province of politics. But before we attempt an answer to this question, we need to absorb the answer to the first: What is money? Under the current system, money is debt and debt is money. This is not a political opinion, just a fact.

Maintaining such a system makes no sense.

When we see the state of the world today, it might appear that those in power have the wrong answers. This is true, but it does not go far enough. The problem is deeper. The problem is systemic and any real solution will first have to recognize this.

The problem is not that we cannot find an answer; the problem is we are asking the wrong question.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

Memorare

2011-05-30T06:43:00.003-04:00

I really didn't belong there. I wasn't supposed to ride that far. I'd crossed two main roads and a highway. I wasn't even in our city anymore. My mother would have had a fit. Well, I thought, what she doesn't know won't hurt me. I leaned my bike against the chain link fence and climbed over.

The old cannon sat rusting in the vacant lot beside the American Legion. I'd been dying to get to it ever since I'd first noticed. Tucked away in an overgrown corner, it menaced North Main Street. I crouched behind its shield, peeking over the flap. The breech was rusted shut. No matter. North Main Street was the road to Berlin, each passing car a Panzer, and I was Audie Murphy. Now Jerry would get his.

Incoming! I shouted orders to my imaginary platoon. Down! Get down! Eeeeeeeee - BOOM! Quick, load, LOAD! I sighted along the barrel. Ready - FIRE! BOOM! One down, men. Here comes another. RELOAD!

No cap gun could compare. This was the real thing.

The real thing.

I felt his eyes on me before I saw him. The Legionnaire stood by the flagpole, lighting a corncob pipe. He nodded and gave me a casual wave. He wasn't going to kick me out. I waved back. The battle raged on.

Sure is a hot one today.

I whipped around. He had come up behind me. If it had been Jerry I'd be in big trouble. Up close, he was slight, but with the straight back and square shoulders that mark so many military men. He had a commanding air: a man that even street punks like me reflexively called "sir."

Yes, sir

The afternoon sun slanted in through the overgrowth. For the first time I noticed the heat. A cicada buzzed somewhere overhead.

That's a World War II 105mm howitzer you're playing on. You know that?

No, sir.

You like history?

Yes, sir.

He nodded approval.

Know anything about World War II, son?

I told him some things I knew. He nodded again.

I was there, son.

Really? Were you a general?

He laughed.

Nope.

Maybe I'll be a general someday.

Maybe.

You really fought in World War II?

Yup.

What was it like?

Hard.

Did you kill anyone?

He paused and stared at me. Silently, slowly, he drew on his pipe and exhaled. The blue smoke hung motionless in the stillness and heat. No cars passed. The cicadas seemed very loud. He looked off into the distance. He looked at the cannon. He looked at me.

You know what I hope, son?

No, sir.

He gestured toward the Legion building.

I hope some day we close this place down.

Huh?

I hope some day we don't have any members anymore and we can close down. We're the only organization I can think of that wants to go out of business. That's the truth, son.

Um... I don't understand, sir.

I know you don't. Just remember what I told you. Got that?

Yes, sir.

Been nice talking to you. I've got to be getting back now. You have a nice day. And son?

Yes, sir?

Remember what I told you.

He turned and left, trailing the scent of Captain Black. For some reason I didn't feel like playing anymore. I pedaled home slowly under the reddening sun. All the way, I could hear his voice in the back of my head. I can still hear it now.

Remember....

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

Epilogue

2011-05-16T08:41:00.000-04:00

Part nine of my Nana stories. - Cricket

During the last year of her life, my grandmother took to wearing her class ring: Boston University, Class of 1936. I do not know why. I never knew her to be nostalgic for her college days. One day she put it on and left it. I felt the obvious question would be unwelcome.

That last summer, she kept a copy of Fried Green Tomatoes At The Whistle-Stop Cafe always among her papers. She was a chronic reader, but it was a little unusual to see the same title remain for long. When we cleaned out her apartment, I absently picked it up, and saw that she had marked this passage.

"Now, you ask me the year somebody got married... who they married... or what the bride's mother wore, and nine times out of ten I can tell you, but for the life of me, I cain't tell you when it was I got to be so old. It just sorta slipped up on me. The first time I noticed it was June of this year, when I was in the hospital for my gallbladder, which they still have, or maybe they threw it out by now... who knows. That heavyset nurse had just given me another one of those Fleet enemas they're so fond of over there when I noticed what they had on my arm. It was a white band that said: Mrs. Cleo Threadgoode... an eighty-six-year-old woman. Imagine that!

"When I got back home, I told my friend Mrs. Otis, I guess the only thing left for us to do is sit around get ready to croak.... She said she preferred the term pass over to the other side. Poor thing, I didn't have the heart to tell her that no matter what you call it, we're all going to croak, just the same...

"It's funny, when you're a child you think time will never go by, but when you hit about twenty, time passes like you're on the fast train to Memphis. I guess life just slips up on everybody. It sure did on me. One day I was a little girl and the next I was a grown woman, with bosoms and hair on my private parts. I missed the whole thing."

Wiping away a tear, I gently placed the book in my box.

***************

And so the story ends, as all stories eventually must. Is it a true story? Yes and no. My grandmother was complex, and loving her was no less complicated. I believe that each person who knew her knew a different woman. That was who she was. All I can say is this is my story.

This is our story.

I cannot tell the truth about my grandmother because I do not know it. Though I was as close to her as she ever allowed anyone to get, she shared with me what she chose and took the rest with her. That was who she was. Yet I like to think that she gave me herself as best she could. That will forever have to be enough. She loved me from the beginning. I loved her until the end. We loved each other as we were and that is enough.

That is my truth.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

The Long Goodbye

2011-05-10T06:37:00.002-04:00

A repost: part eight of my Nana stories.

I have some misgivings about reposting a story so recent. If I could simply move it from its original place, I would. Since I can't do that, I am reposting this story here, where it belongs. I beg your indulgence just a little while longer. - Cricket

We were creatures of habit. Our lives were marked by ritual. Our days followed the same comfortable patterns, from hello to goodbye. It was our way.

Thursday was our day. Every Thursday I would make the trip to my grandmother's to do the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning. Perhaps I would bring her to one or another of her many appointments. It was routine but never boring. It was a ritual. It was our way.

Appointment days were always a little risky. They were unpredictable. There was always the chance of confusion or delay. The shopping, cooking and cleaning remained to be done after. Nerves could become frayed.

One day, I brought Nana to the opthalmologist. Her pupils were dilated for the exam. She left the office wearing the oversize sunglasses provided, feeling surly. I helped her to the car. We began the drive home in silence.

Why have we stopped? she snapped peevishly.

I began to laugh. Her irritation was palpable.

Well?

I stopped because there's a huge yellow dump truck right in front of us. You really can't see it?

She paused, then laughed herself, about as hard as ever I heard her laugh.

***************

My twenty-ninth birthday fell on a Thursday. No matter. I made the trip to my grandmother's. We kept our rituals: the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning. We kept our comfortable patterns. It was our way.

When it was time for me to go, she remarked casually that she had something for me. It was part of the ritual: as if it had almost slipped her mind. She rummaged through her papers and handed me a card. I received substantially the same card every year, inscribed with her good wishes and love. It was a ritual. This year, however, would be different.

I'm sure she watched my brow furrow as I slipped the card from its envelope. It was not a birthday card. It was a thank you card. With trepidation, I opened it and read:

Dear Christopher,

I am thankful that you are my grandson. You have been the joy since the day you were born. I wish you Life's choicest blessings. You deserve the best.

Thank you, Christopher, for all the happiness you have given Grampa and me all the years of your life. Happy Birthday and Many Happy Returns of the Day.

Who loves you?

Your Nana (that's who)

I looked up. Her eyes searched mine for what felt like a very long time. Finally, I managed a small nod. She looked away, satisfied. There was nothing to be said.

***************

Our days followed the same comfortable patterns. From hello to goodbye, we kept our rituals. It was our way. The only difference was one of awareness. Thursdays came and went. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year's. Thursday.

Nana?

Yes?

Your birthday's coming up.

So?

Let's have a party.

A party? Where?

Right here.

No, no... we couldn't.

Why not?

She had no answer.

The family was invited. Our daily telephone call became twice daily as we planned the menu again and again: a vast antipasto, meatballs, sausage. Bread would need to be baked. Sauce made. We debated the merits and defects of every imaginable shape of pasta. Of course, there must be plenty of wine, and only the best coffee. Cake and pastry were ordered. Ingredients were purchased.

I arrived early on the day. It took two trips to bring it all in. We set to work and finished with a little time to spare for a celebratory glass of wine. We sat and enjoyed the fragrant kitchen.

The family arrived. The wine and conversation flowed. Dishes were passed up and down the table. Plates filled and refilled. Nana encouraged us all to eat far more than was good for us, playing gracious hostess one more time. The table was cleared, the coffee brewed. She was duly serenaded and opened her gifts as I served dessert.

I had given her my gift when I arrived: an African violet. It was another ritual. She would accept nothing else from me. Don't put flowers on my grave. Give them to me now. African violets. And so I did. It was our way.

I cleared the remains of the party to the indistinct murmur of something classical from the radio. It was late. She was visibly tired. She caught my eye and held it for what felt like a very long time. Then, she smiled and gave me a small nod. There was nothing to be said.

**************

Thursdays came and went. Valentine's. St. Patrick's. Easter. Thursday.

***************

She had her first heart attack just before my thirtieth birthday. There would be two more. Eventually, she was moved to a cardiac ICU in Boston, very nearby. I went to see her.

Hi, Nana. How are you feeling?

She thought for what felt like a very long time. She finally spoke.

It's not easy, dear.

I managed a small nod. I sat down. We kept our rituals as best we could, even there. We were creatures of habit. It was our way. I'm sure we talked about something. A nurse came in.

You need to go, dear?

It was not really a question. I kissed her goodbye and turned to leave. At the door, she called me back.

Christopher?

Yes?

Who loves you?

I love you too, Nana.

There was nothing more to be said.

***************

My telephone rang that night much too late for good news. It was my mother.

Christopher, I just wanted you to know that Nana's organs are failing.

Is she going to die tonight?

Um... well..

Never mind. I'm leaving now.

It was the same room, yet it seemed strangely different. Dials and displays provided the light. An oxygen machine hissed softly. My grandmother lay sleeping, still and silent, almost as pale as her bedsheets. She did not stir. A nurse touched my shoulder.

We have her sedated. She should be comfortable.

How long?

I don't know. Maybe an hour? I think she can probably hear you.

I nodded. She left.

Hi Nana. It's me.

She did not stir. I stood for a minute, fingering absently my grandfather's rosary in my pocket. Her hair was out of place. I smoothed it with my hand. The oxygen machine hissed softly. I watched her final heartbeats being traced in green light.

Somehow, I had thought it might come to this: just the two of us, standing at the gates of eternity. Perhaps she could hear me, but she didn't need my words. There was nothing to be said. I pulled a chair to the side of the bed and took her hand. She had loved me as I entered the world. I would love her as she left it. The time for words had passed. Love was all we had left.

Perhaps it was ten minutes. Perhaps fifteen. A monitor sounded a soft alarm. The nurse returned.

She's gone.

I nodded.

Things began to happen very fast. Bright lights were switched on. Staff moved briskly in and out. Is more family coming? Yes. Then we'll leave her here for now. Can you take this? Yes. I was handed a small envelope with my grandmother's ring. Would you like us to remove the machines? Yes... yes, she wouldn't want them. I stood to the side as the room bustled with activity, then grew quiet. The lights were dimmed.Once more we were alone.

I stood for a minute, fingering absently my grandfather's rosary. Her hair was out of place, Once more, I smoothed it with my hand. Then, as you might kiss a sleeping infant, I leaned over and kissed her forehead.

Goodbye, Grandmother.

There was nothing left to be said. She had no more need of me. I left to wait for others who might.

***************

At her funeral, the priest directed a question to the grandchildren. If you could describe your grandmother in one word, what would it be? There was an awkward silence. He had no idea what a difficult question he had asked. I could feel many eyes on me. You're supposed to be so bright... answer that one. But I had no answer, and I refused to desecrate the moment with a lie.

The priest finally broke the silence. Well, I would say that your grandmother was a woman of faith.... It was a stock answer, I suppose, and it served his purpose. Yet it was inadequate. As he continued on, all I could think was Yes, but....

The question haunted me for several days. If I could describe my grandmother in one word, what would it be? Many words came to mind, yet every one was Yes, but.... I did, however, finally manage to answer the question, at least for myself. My grandmother was complex. That is the only word that does her any justice. No other word will do.

***************

When we cleaned out her apartment, I was given my choice of her possessions. I have the following:

A pair of eyeglasses

A wooden cane

A costume jewelry bracelet

A battered aluminum pot

Three pairs of scissors

Two wire whisks

Fried Green Tomatoes At The Whistle-Stop Cafe, in paperback.

These would all be quite worthless to anyone else, I'm sure, but she would have understood their significance. Except for the glasses, all these items are still in regular use. I think she would have approved of my choices.

***************

Did my grandmother want it that way? Did she wait for me before she left? Did she choose to share her final moments with me alone? I do not know. Knowing her, maybe.

Maybe.

My grandmother did not leave me money or property but, as she left this world, she gave me a final gift, wrapped in a lesson. Her gift to me was a life lived completely, from beginning to end. She was complex, and loving her was no less complicated. Quite likely, I am the only person who can say about her that, when we parted, there was nothing left to be said. That is enough.

And there lies the lesson. It is not easy. It is not easy living; it is not easy dying. The best we can do is try to live our lives completely, from beginning to end: to love one another, and to live in such a way that, when we part from those we love, we can know one thing in our hearts.

There was nothing left to be said.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket

The Last Dance

2011-05-04T08:10:00.005-04:00

A repost: part seven of my Nana stories. - Cricket

To my grandmother, they were always "the girls." Girls, though none of them would see seventy again. In a way, they still were girls to each other. They had grown up together, raised families together, buried their husbands together. They knew their age, yet they did not see it when they were together. Then, they were still the girls.

They all had pet names for each other. One day, I realized why. They all hated their given names. They all had the misfortune to be born during the era of ugly girl's names. An entire generation of Agathas, Ethels and Mildreds, compelled by a moment's fashion to bear those names for a lifetime.

My grandmother made a point of having me meet them all, or having them meet me. I was never quite sure which. Many an afternoon she would bundle me into the car for lunch at Helen's or Eunice's. There I would sit, eating thin sandwiches and sweet pickled watermelon rind, speaking when spoken to, mostly listening.

She wanted me to see her with her friends. To know that she had a life of her own. To know that she existed beyond the limits of wife, mother, grandmother. To know that she knew people with interesting stories to tell. People who had been places and done things. People who had lived.

She outlived them all.

I saw my grandmother cry exactly three times: for her brother, for his wife, and for my grandfather. When the last of her "girls" died, I thought I might see it again. Perhaps she did cry, privately. I don't know. To me, she seemed to find a certain peace, as if she had been given permission to complete her own life. She had outlived her husband and all her friends. She had raised her children. She had seen all her grandchildren into adulthood. She had even become a great-grandmother. Eunice had been her last tie to the past. Now she was truly free.

***************

Nana can still walk, but only with great difficulty. She prefers to conserve her energy. In the back-bedroom, we are setting out her clothes for the week. From an antique wheelchair, she gestures toward the closet.

Take the cream colored blouse and hang it on the rail, Christopher. Over there, next to the brown one.

This one?

No, not that. That's too nice. I want to be buried in that one. The other one.

Buried? You're feeling morbid today.

Morbid?!? I'm eighty years old, Christopher. It's not morbid, it's reality. Get used to it. Now bring me to the kitchen. I want to make a bread pudding before you go.

It is a ritual. We have made countless bread puddings. I know exactly how she will tell me to prepare it. She knows, too. She knows she could just ask me to make it and I would. We will not do that. I will take no steps without her instruction, not even setting out the eggs and milk. I will be her grandson. She will be my grandmother. We love each other too much to do it another way. We will do it together.

***************

Nana is uncharacteristically excited. She has given me an extra long shopping list. My cousin James and his wife Ginger will be flying in for a wedding. They will bring their daughter, Cassie. Nana will finally meet her great-grandchild. She knows this will not happen again. She wants to be prepared. She confirms with me several times that I will be there to help her entertain.

My cousins arrive. I serve coffee and pastry. We pay court to our grandmother as we get acquainted. I do not know them at all well, yet it is not uncomfortable. Sometimes blood is enough. Cassie entertains herself on the kitchen floor. She has just turned one. We pause our conversations now and then to watch her, and affirm to each other that she is a beautiful little girl.

My grandmother's face has an expression that I have not seen before. I cannot place it. It is in her eyes. As she watches Cassie babble and play, she is transformed. Her face shows more than pride, more than happiness, more than even love. I look from Cassie to my grandmother and realize what I see. It is joy. Pure joy.

***************

We attend the wedding together. I wear my grandfather's tweed suit, complete with vest and watch-chain. She wears her too-nice cream colored blouse. I have a cream rose boutonniere. She wears a matching corsage. She will be the matriarch. I will be her escort. We will make the most of the time we have. We will do this in style. She gently chides me over my cigar and cocktail, while enjoying a second glass of chardonnay herself. She knows we will both get home safely.

The evening winds down. The band plays Moonlight Serenade. We both love this song. We look at each other and know that we would dance if we could. I give her hand a gentle squeeze. That will have to be enough.

It is a pity that these moments have to end, but they do. Life goes on. We are compelled to complete the circle. Hopefully, we do the things that need to be done, in style, with love, together. Hopefully, we make the most of the time we have. That is all we can do. Forever and always, that will have to be enough.

Respectfully Yours,

Cricket