If you want to try a show that I think should be universally loved, this is the one. Each of us will discover something about what we think we know as we watch.
A few years ago, I watched a show that defied me to dislike it: Rectify. It’s still available on Netflix. As many said, it was the best tv show that no one was watching when it first aired.
“It’s the beauty, not the ugly, that hurts the most.” As wounding as this quote was, I laughed when I heard it again this week. Laughter emanates from the recognition of at least a kernel of truth. Though I was prepared for The Stranger scene in Rectify, the wallop it hit me with caught me off guard. If this quote seems strange to you, it is because you didn’t visit the emotional world created in this tv series.
When Daniel violently taught Teddy a lesson about his ignorance of assault, I laughed at that too, even though the lesson was graphic.
Like other shows such as Six Feet Under, Rectify tore through me like a tornado. It uses language and emotion so close to my own inner monologue that I felt like someone strip-mined me a bit to create this show. I learned more from SFU during the second viewing. Rewatching Season 1 of Rectify both amplified and soothed my past life for me. For those not exposed to brutality, it may seem counterintuitive to find redemption in seeing someone else suffer to find it.
Along with books like “The Prince of Tides” or “A Prayer For Owen Meany,” I add “Rectify” to the list of great works that line the perimeter of the sublime for me. If you watch “Rectify” with a keen eye, you will see bits of me hidden in there.
Watching the show again, I must admit that a couple of the scenes almost led me to burst into tears. I think it’s because I recognized the beauty in the struggle. We’re never the same person twice.
Here’s a link from something I wrote a few years ago:
A December moon at 4 a.m. is so substantially dissimilar and divergent from all others in part because we, as beholders at that hour, see ourselves differently. Our approaching day waits without burden, even if we’ve borrowed our troubles from the previous day and packed them inside today’s purse. This year, more than most, brought unwelcome problems and made somnambulists of us. Oddly, it also brought a duality for some of us, ushering in a fierce determination to be the person inside our own heads.
Someone possessed with an uncanny soul took the picture and shared it with me. That she was up at that hour surprised me. It was her first message to me for the day.
She stood in the kitchen and recognized something ethereal, authentic, and beautiful in the shadows that formed on the floor under her. Most might snap a picture of the moon itself; I think you might agree with me that the echoes and reflections of beauty in our lives often outshine the source. It is a gift to glimpse something previously unseen in the midst of the familiar. I’ve known a few people whose lives sparkle with the ability. They all radiate the same force that hides in the moonlight. Such radiance is difficult to discern by looking directly; we have to turn our heads and observe the consequences of their presence.
Whether she sometimes tries to control the radio or stomp the floorboards too often, she radiates.
She, of course, doesn’t see it.
I whisper words of grace for her, ones petitioning a clear mind and the kind of sleep that few of us find at our easy disposal. Meanwhile, I return these slivers of moonlight to her.
This post is part recipe, part observation, and the result of intense thought, none of which was used in the making of said post.
I opened the oven, temporarily forgetting that the wall of hot, moist poisonous gas was about to hit me.
For a second, I felt myself start to faint. I wondered what it would sound like if I fell headfirst into a hot oven.
{Did you know that a lot of adults don’t know that chipotles are just smoke-dried jalapeño peppers?}
You’d think I was making a batch of meth, which is ridiculous. It’s cheaper to buy. Also, if you don’t know whether I’m being serious or not, assume I’m not. The police are tired of hearing my name and definitely tired of my picture.
It’s been YEARS since I made oven-roasted/dried jalapeño slices. Part of the reason is that I’m not a big fan of ‘hot.’ Given the amount of Sriracha and various crazy hot things I’ve eaten in the last couple of years, I might be mistaken. I don’t seek out heat. I’m too old to be playing Russian Roulette and too smart to ingest that kind of heat on purpose. Or so I thought.
{What did the jalapeño dress up as for Halloween? A Ghost Pepper.}
Using fresh jalapeño slices sounds better, but most of the time, the kind already in a jar turns out better. Feel free to cut up fresh peppers and remove the seeds. Don’t get wrong – they are delicious that way—just a bit more work. At Walmart right now, I can buy a 64 oz. jar of Mt. Olive sliced jalapeños for less than $4. That’s crazy.
I drain the juice off of the slices and put them on a piece of aluminum foil. While I can jazz it up, I rarely do. I put the foil sheet on the bottom rack and set the oven anywhere from 325 to 500. And then I wait. Depending on the temperature, it might take 15-25 minutes to dry the slices out or watch them darken.
That brings me to a warning: don’t open the oven without preparing yourself for a wall of fumes that will make you see Jesus on a skateboard. If you’ve ever got a whiff of chlorine gas or accidentally attended a political rally, it gets you close to the feeling that scorched jalapeño slices bring.
If you watch the slices as they dry and darken, you’ll figure out exactly what temperature and time work best for you. I was shocked to find out how much I loved the slices when they turn dark. It’s no surprise, though, given that I love burned food.
Why I stopped making these is a mystery. They ignite my taste buds and are very healthy. If harsh breath is a concern for you, you’ll have to take precautions. Even dogs curl away from roasted jalapeño smells, so I can imagine that your significant other won’t want to kiss you for a while, either.
Notes: {1} Zebras are black with white stripes. If you doubt me, go shave your zebra. If you don’t own a zebra, you’ve obviously made bad choices. {2.} I will never forget the first time I handled hot peppers without considering what and where I might be touching. That’s wisdom right there. {3} Most people don’t stop to think that New Year’s Day comes before New Year’s Eve each year. {4} A day on the planet Venus is longer than its year. {5} Bite your tongue and then imagine words with an “S” in them. You’ll find that the voice in your head has a lisp, too. {6} It’s almost impossible to hum while holding your nose closed. {7} Many baseball fans know that some pitchers have used jalapeños on their nostrils to produce the ‘slippery’ needed for curveballs. I thought you should know. {8} Most people breathe primarily from one nostril; more interestingly, most people don’t know that your nose has a 4-hour(ish) cycle. It’s complicated, and almost no one realizes it, much in the same way that we forget that we see our nose all the time – but that our brain processes it ‘out’ of our vision. {9} I googled “make meth in an oven” without thinking about the consequences. Tell the police I was joking. On the plus side, I think I could now make meth in a 2-liter soda bottle – which evidently is a ‘thing.’ {10} The perpetual contrast effect is a cognitive bias that distorts our perception of something when we compare it to something else by enhancing the differences between them. The easiest example for this is to mention that cold coffee and warm soda are at the same temperature. It is so obvious that you might have to read it twice. {11} The dot over a lower-case i and j is called a tittle. {12} Although it is no secret that the unicorn is Scotland’s national animal, people don’t believe me when I tell them. (13) Pringles are NOT potato chips. They are made from dehydrated potato flakes. Look on the can. They aren’t called chips, either. {14} Lemons have a staggering number of uses and health benefits. I won’t list them all because I like the element of surprise on this one! {15} The majority of laughter doesn’t happen as a result of jokes; instead, it follows social cues and bonding. {16} Newborns and kids have TWICE the number of tastebuds as adults.
Jake pushed the piece of apple pie across the diner table. He sighed. Two interminable years had passed since Jessie died. For reasons only someone left behind could understand, he continued to visit their favorite diner. The smells of toast, hash browns, and grilled onions whispered “home” to him in a way that even his own house couldn’t. It didn’t matter what else was on the limited menu there. Everything smelled of onions and breakfast food. His own house smelled of creeping loneliness and the distant moldy smell of someone living alone.
Two or three times a week after work, Jake distractedly drove the two miles out of the way. He climbed out of his car with his favorite book tucked under his right arm and went inside Joe’s. Everyone knew him there, even as the cast of employees and characters rotated with fresh faces from the local school and tired, worn-out faces of those who needed a job anywhere they could get it. If it was available, he walked to the farthest booth. Every couple of Saturdays, Jake found himself leaving the house and driving to Joe’s, even before he had his first cup of coffee. At 5:30 a.m., he was already sitting in the far booth cradling a cup of coffee.
The joke was on him, all this time later. Neither Jessie nor Jake really liked the food at the diner. He was sure that not many people did. No matter what they ordered, they knew that the apple pie for dessert would fill them.
The first time Jake went to Joe’s, Jessie talked him into it. “It’s so bad! You have to try it, Jake.” He said no until she took his left hand into hers and pushed it against her chest, and smiled. He couldn’t say no to that trick. When they were married, that’s how Jessie recited her simple vows.
At Joe’s, they laughed about the soggy toast and buttery hashbrowns, which were both overcooked and partially uncooked. That sort of result took either talent or blatant disregard for food. The owner didn’t seem to mind being ribbed about it. She was a small woman who moved there from Alaska.
Jake disliked the food so much that they started eating at Joe’s at least once a week. It’s the sort of inside joke that only close friends or lovers would appreciate. While they seldom left with full stomachs, they left with a belly full of apple pie and an hour of conversation. Joe’s was the place where they connected. For four years, they were as happy as any couple could be.
In June, almost three years ago, Jessie started coughing one Wednesday morning and didn’t stop. Within a week, Jake sat with her in the oncologist’s office to hear the doctor tell Jessie, “It is too far advanced for treatment. Here’s the name of another doctor for a second opinion. Go as soon as possible.” They went to Joe’s after the appointment with the oncologist. It was the first time they sat silently across from one another. The fear in Jessie’s eyes was a mortal wound for Jake. He knew a single word would shatter them both.
Four months later, Jessie died at home.
Since her death, Jake ordered two pieces of apple pie during each visit to Joe’s. He left both untouched after every meal. It was wasteful, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. He didn’t know if it was superstition, grief, or another long con he was playing against himself.
Today, a new waitress came over to take his order. Jake couldn’t guess her age. Her hair was hidden inside a ballcap, but her face was crowded with wrinkle lines. When she took his order, she looked at him directly without diverting her gaze. Her eyes were alive with interest. Jessie did the same thing when they met. It was one of the things that convinced him that she was for him. People often said they wanted to be heard. For Jake, being seen was blatantly magical.
After he pushed away his mostly untouched plate, the waitress returned and asked him if he wanted any pie. “Yes, two pieces of apple pie. Thank you.” Jake looked at her name tag. “Alicia,” it indicated.
In a moment, Alicia returned. She put a slice of lemon pie in front of him and another on the other side of the table.
“Do you mind?” she asked him, pointing at the empty side of the booth across from him. “I’m on break for twenty minutes.” Before Jake could answer, she smoothly slid into the booth to sit across from him.
As she adjusted the pie of pie in front of her, she looked at him directly again.
“I don’t eat lemon pie, Alicia. Just apple.” It sounded lame to him as he said it.
“Jake, that’s not true. You don’t eat apple pie either. That’s okay.” Alicia winked at him.
Jake blushed. Through no dishonor to Jessie, the world around him suddenly diminished to Alicia’s face as she looked at him.
“I don’t know what to say, Alicia.”
“You don’t have to say anything, Jake. Just sit and be with me and enjoy the pie. Everything else will follow.” She winked again.
He smiled at Alicia and took his first bite of pie in two years. His new favorite was lemon. She met his gaze as they began to talk. *
“Time seldom approaches with a wild machete. It creeps from behind with a small, concealed knife.” – X
But Mel Brooks said, “Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die.”
Someone more creative than me pointed out that the sand in an hourglass imprisons itself, as glass is made from sand. Don’t you wonder if we aren’t the same, becoming our own prisoners? There’s no emotion or problem that we can’t complicate, escalate, or initiate.
Noted philosopher Coco Chanel said, “Don’t spend time beating on a wall, hoping to transform it into a door.” She obviously never worked a real job or dealt with people who have few laughs in their hearts.
My scars insist that time is real, but in the quiet moments, I wonder. I used to assume that most people had these thoughts. It was disappointing to discover that many people can’t imagine that Aslan or tesseracts are real – or walk in an imagined world where they might be the figments of a greater creature’s imagination.
“There’s never enough time to do all the nothing you want.” – Bill Watterson. I was equally surprised in later life to find people who deny that sitting in a quiet room can sometimes be better than a vacation. All good lives start with a quiet room. Add your preferred levels of crazy for a great life. Subtract what takes you further from the quiet room. It might be that simple for many of us.
“Why is that I never heard these words: ‘Let’s gather by the river, drink moonshine, and tell jokes and the stories of our lives.’ But I always hear stories of obligation and things that don’t linger in the minds of others.” – X
If you’ve never read “The Time Traveller’s Wife,” you missed this quote by Audrey Niffenegger: “It’s dark now and I am very tired. I love you, always. Time is nothing.”
Haruki Murakami said, either comically or seriously, “For a while” is a phrase whose length can’t be measured. At least by the person who’s waiting.”
Hippocrates (assuming it was the father of medicine and not the hockey player of the same name), said: “Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity.”
We all wonder about 2020, which ends in about a month. We look forward. Where were we a month ago? The difference between comparing now to then is a question of knowing what lies in the interim. It requires no faith. With what lies ahead, our imaginations seize us. Whether that imagination is fueled by the dread of what will come or the expectation that we will find a way to be who we need to be is our choice.
This is my New Year’s post, written a month early.
If you can’t feel time slipping up behind you with that knife, that is okay. There is no defense against it except to live a good life. You only win by yielding.
One last wise quote: “Time is a great healer, but a poor beautician.” -Lucille S. Harper
After six weeks+ of not biting my nails, I can say that my fingers feel alien to me in a way that a normal person would not find credible. I’ve not gone a week without biting my nails. For my entire life.
Several weeks ago, when I turned the switch off mentally about food, I just decided that I no longer bite my nails. Despite nothing else ever having worked for my nail-biting, not even public shaming or a global pandemic, I just knew I could do it. While my cuticles look odd, I don’t recognize my fingers. I’ve had to adjust a lot in my life for something so simple as suddenly having fingernails. From not using my hands to stir mud and potting soil to avoiding scratching ANYTHING and EVERYTHING. At night, I find myself touching my fingernails with my front teeth. Until you bite your fingernails for fifty years, I don’t think you’d believe me if I accurately describe how odd it is – as if someone put thimbles on each of my fingers and asked me to play the piano.
It occurred to me that if I were sufficiently crazy enough to do so, I could get a manicure. It’s important to note that I don’t know what proper nail care looks like, having gnawed on my talons like The Bachelorette bites the neck on her first date of the season. (Note: I’ve never watched the show. I put that bit in to trick the manicure-crowd into believing I might have.) I have promised my fans I’m going to learn to paint nails properly, though. I’ll let y’all know when I have my first nail-painting party.
I’m not looking for an attaboy. I should not be complimented for no longer doing something that is honestly pretty stupid to begin with, especially after 50 years of it. Much in the same way, it would be imprudent to congratulate me on no longer shooting black tar heroin into my eyeballs. It’s just a bad sign I started to begin with.
That’s my cat in the background. He’s nervous I might start scratching him.
P.S. There’s a link to a post in below, one I made several years ago. It’s stupid – and that’s why I think about it more than I should.
For many, the tradition of holiday cards is a dying custom. I don’t envy people for their interests or habits. It’s not a good recipe for living to feel obligated to follow the old ways. For me, though, there are times when the opportunity to send cards brings out the part of me that lives in a vast world full of billions of souls, each wanting a little bit of spectacle and magic. Oddly, even those who’ve scorned social media are as likely to have given up writing letters or sending a holiday card to friends and family. It’s a dying custom.
It’s hard for me to send a simple card. I have to make it complicated and personal!
I don’t send out cards in expectation of reciprocity. That, too, is a poor way to live one’s life. There are times when I put in a little bit of effort and then am surprised when I hear nothing in response, though. That’s part of the bittersweetness of sending unsolicited bits of fun and zaniness out in the world. People don’t have the time – or always make it – to let you know they liked it or hated it. Static sometimes fills the air. It’s a gift to be able to tune it out when you put out some creativity in the world. A good response is to keep sending them cards regardless of their interaction.
A couple of years ago, I created a complex and custom birthday card online and sent it to an acquaintance. I made the card from social media pictures. It was a work of art, if I do say so myself. I used another return address to conceal my identity further. Since the company which printed and mailed my creation sent it, there was no postal marking to identify its origin. My acquaintance was genuinely perplexed and spent DAYS vainly trying to discern who might have created the artwork cards. So great was her interest that she finally posted on her social media page to beg for help figuring out ‘who.’ I was surprised that no one immediately connected the dots to me, given the work’s detail.
In a tradition I don’t always follow or do in the same manner, I send several personalized Christmas cards to people and families that I’ll never meet. In a few cases, I found pictures of LinkedIn, yearbooks from long ago, or social media. I downloaded them, and in some instances, photoshopped them before creating the custom cards that went to each of them. I chose a person at random from a yearbook for one of the lucky recipients I’d never seen before and researched them sufficiently to discover their new life. I also used ancestry to find a distant cousin and pieced together clues to figure out their real identity from the anonymous one used on the ancestry website. Using an inmate website, I found a person’s name and I.D. number and then sent him a glorious card and words of encouragement.
Though it might paint me as a bit of a weirdo, I find it challenging to explain to others how much fun I derive from sending total strangers a holiday card, especially when I personalize each with their pictures.
In each of these cases, I enjoyed each recipient’s imagined scenarios in my head, as they puzzled the personalized card from someone they didn’t know. In some cases, I used fake identities and addresses. In others, I used my real name, which might not necessarily allay concerns. “X” seems more like an accusation in some cases.
Of course, I also sent a few cards to people I do know, without using my real name and address, hoping to give them a bit of yuletide joy as they vainly attempted to figure out who had sent them a card. All those cards were customized and were a pleasure to create. I also sent a few to people using other friends and family members as the sender. I love living in a world wherein it is possible to convince people that someone else sent them a card, no matter how they might deny it.
Likely, I’ll never hear any of the stories that resulted from most of these custom cards. That’s how it works, though. Not knowing is often more rewarding than discovering the mundane answers.
Many people received Xmas cards over the years without knowing the person they thought sent it had nothing to do with it. Also? People don’t always look closely at the pictures. You wouldn’t believe the people and things I’ve edited into images without anyone noticing.
I can imagine several of the recipients scratching their heads in bewilderment, wondering who, what, when, and where – all without an answer. They may half-expect a repeat this year. Because I used an online address book for most of them, I could go back and send them another card this year. That would get them thinking.
Because much of our modern lives are now redirected by technology, the old ways provide another road to have a bit of fun.
P.S. If you are not familiar with Postable, it’s a great way to have some of the fun without needing to do the actual creation by hand. Postable – Create and Send Custom Cards You can upload pictures and design custom cards. They’ll also put it in an envelope and mail it for you – using any return address you might dream up. If you want to do Christmas or holiday cards, I highly recommend that you give Postable a try.
Note: no one in their right mind should take nutrition advice from me. However, I do know what really works well for some people. Sometimes.
If you’re going to eat tuna, I recommend that you ditch the mayo entirely. Lite sour cream, if such a thing is needed, works admirably in place of mayo. Two tablespoons of lite sour cream equal 40 calories, whereas light mayo is about twice that. Regular mayo is 100 calories per tablespoon. If you are craving the lovely sheen of fat when you eat, this won’t help you. You might as well take a bite of Crisco and get it over with. Growing up, several of my family members did just that.
Ditching the creamy additives saves you time, calories, money, and fridge space. It also lessens the amount of dairy you consume.
While I don’t count calories, I’m unavoidably aware of the benchmarks for many foods. When you’re trying to eat healthy, unless you are treating yourself, it is weird for me to justify eating something that is so much higher in calories. For that reason, I stopped using anything creamy in my tuna. Unlike most people, I much prefer to eat my tuna as dry as I can get it. If I add anything, it might be the miracle of lemon juice.
As for tuna, one of the best fillers you can use is dill relish. It’s one of the few things that is inexpensive yet adds bulk and texture. Dill relish is zero calories, too. Combined with shredded lettuce and the spice(s) of your choice, tuna can be made to be filling and savory. It’s hard to beat lemon pepper on tuna – although I enjoy at least a dozen different seasonings and spices on mine in varying degrees.
For the record, green olives are, in fact, delicious in tuna. They are only about eight calories each. My problem is that I need at least forty to be satisfied, especially compared to dill relish or something similar. A lot of people think the idea of green olives with tuna isn’t appealing. Most of those people have never tried it.
Another sore spot for me is the delicious taste of a well-made olive tapenade! If you want to fight, I’ll argue that green olives are indescribably delicious as a pizza topping – and more so than the dreaded counterpart of black olives.
If you are in tune with your body at all, it is easy to hold yourself to 1,000 calories a day if you need to. I know that isn’t sustainable, so don’t preach at me.
But if you eat two cans of tuna, add half a jar of dill pickle relish, a mound of shredded lettuce (mixed with lemon pepper), and two flavored bags of Pop Chips instead of crackers or bread, you’ve only eaten around 400-500 calories. It’s hard to complain about being hungry by that quantity of food.
P.S. If you are a Sriracha fan, you’re going to think I’m crazy. But. Sugar-free whipped cream drizzled with Sriracha is a surprising treat for the taste buds, much in the way jellied jalapeños are on vanilla ice cream. I’m not a huge fan of overly hot foods. But Sriracha came out of the left field for me a couple of years ago and took a place in my heart for flavor.
Millicent was a pretty and quite precocious young girl. By age 5, she had developed a startling trait of listening to adults a little too closely. While her contemporaries squabbled over dolls and crayons, she dedicated herself to watching the strange adults around her. Instinctively, she also learned to spread her questions around among a variety of adults. After a certain number of questions, most adults became defensive or, worse, annoyed. Much of the time, their answers made little sense. Though she was young, it didn’t take her long to decide that most adults were winging it in life. Because she figured out that it was true for almost everyone, it didn’t upset her or make her sad.
Grandma Tuggins, her mother’s mom, noticed Millicent’s vocabulary had exceeded her own by age 6. Millie often sat on the floor while the older women watched “As The World Turns.” In the mid-70s, it was the show that defined daytime soap operas for women in Georgia. During one of the biggest melodramatic moments of the season, Millie stood up and announced, “Well, the plot is a bit preposterous if I’m expected to swallow the fact that she’s in love with both of those gentlemen!” She stomped away to get herself a bottle of Coke from the fridge. Tugs and the other women laughed.
Tugs, as her friends called her, knew the dangers of a girl being too smart. Alabama was still behind the times in 1975. Tugs made it her mission to bend Millie’s inquisitive nature before things got out of hand. Tugs was the organist at the Methodist church in town. She played the organ on Sundays and did the books for Reverend Hawkins. Within weeks of watching her grandmother as she counted the money and paid the bills for the church, Millie could do the math in her head.
Everyone knew that Millicent had announced that she could read on her fourth birthday. For a year, she would stare at the books on the floor or in her lap as she sat in the rocking chair with her mom. Her lips didn’t move, but her eyes seemed to read the words on the pages. She started with her collection of Curious George Books. Soon enough and her mom found her with a Nancy Drew series boxed up in the cellar. Millie’s other grandmother, Ellie, bought Millie a set of Encyclopedia Brown books for her birthday. “Just like a real set of encyclopedias,” she proudly (and wrongly) proclaimed. No one told her they weren’t the same thing. After eating the cake with no frosting, Uncle Pete asked Millie to read a bit of Encyclopedia Brown to him, knowing she wouldn’t be able to. A full chapter later, as Millie recited the words perfectly, Uncle Pete kept saying, “Lord, where did she get all them brains from? Ain’t none of us got that much smarts.” Grandma Tugs knew better. Millie’s dead father Andrew was the guilty party to passing along so much brains. Andrew also liked to take shortcuts for everything.
What concerned Tugs the most was the Wednesday evening when Millie turned from her chair and said, “The Reverend makes a lot of money for selling promises, doesn’t he?” Tugs burst out laughing at the question. “Yes, but his message makes a lot of people happy, Millicent!” Millie looked a little troubled. “Mr. Harley doesn’t seem happy about the message. I think his drinking has him thinking he might not go upstairs when he dies.” Grandma Tugs laughed again, but she was surprised that Millicent knew that Mr. Harley had a drinking problem – or that she had a grasp of the difference between Heaven and the brimstone place.
As the years passed, Millicent’s grades suffered. She was more interested in learning from books on her own and doing things with her hands dirty up to her elbows. She learned the piano by watching Grandma Tugs. Her Grandma spent one afternoon showing her what all the squiggles were on the music book and how they corresponded to the keys on a piano. Grandma Tugs spent years to get decently good. Millie needed less than a few weeks before her fingers learned the keyboard and improvised on the fly. “Grandma, can we jazz it up a little next Sunday? Give Reverend Hawkins a shock?” Grandma Tugs hugged Millie close to her on the piano bench. “That would be a hoot, wouldn’t it?” Tugs decided she needed to keep an even closer eye on Millie.
In fifth grade, Reverend Hawkins visited Heritage Elementary School, where Millie attended. Despite all the arguing about it, her school still offered a Bible Study class. Millie hated all the discussion. “People say it means stuff that isn’t written in there! At least with Encyclopedia Brown, the answer is the answer.” Grandma Tugs would shake her head and tell her to focus on not blurting out what was going on inside her head. Reverend Hawkins had no idea that he was about to face his most formidable adversary.
“Boys and girls, I hope you’ve been reading your Bibles. It’s just as important as math and reading comic books,” he said, as Millie’s focus wandered. She started at the open dictionary on her desk instead.
Millie looked up, surprised. The Reverend had asked her to tell her what her favorite Bible verse was. “Proverbs 31:6,” Millie said immediately. The Reverend looked startled as he hastily searched for the verse in his Bible. Millie told him, “Give beer to those who are perishing, wine to those who are in anguish.” Several of her classmates laughed. “Proverbs 20:1 says, ‘Wine is a mocker and beer is a brawler, whoever is led astray by them is not wise.'” Ms. Atkins politely applauded Reverend Hawkins.
Reverend Hawkins began to speak again. Millie cut him off, saying, “1 Timothy 5:23: Stop drinking only water, and use a little wine because of your stomach and your frequent illnesses.” Both the Reverend and Ms. Atkins stared at one another in consternation.
“Can I speak to you in the hallway, Ms. Atkins?” The Reverend didn’t wait for an answer and almost ran outside into the hallway. After a minute of whispered discussion away from the eyes of the class, they both returned.
Ms. Atkins folded her hands in front of her. “Class, let’s all give Millicent a round of applause for studying her Bible so diligently!” Her face was flushed. Her classmates nervously applauded. They knew something wasn’t right but didn’t know quite what had happened. “Let’s all make our way single file to the cafeteria where we’ll all enjoy a milk and chocolate pudding with the Reverend.” At that, everyone began to talk animatedly and to lose their interest in what had happened. When Millicent stood, Reverend Hawkins asked her to wait a moment.
“Millie, how did you know those verses? Alcohol is a subject a little advanced for you.” The Reverend had underestimated Millie. He wouldn’t be the last.
“I learned the Bible, Reverend. And everyone has alcohol in their houses. Even you.” Millie smiled at him.
“You learned it? How much?” He seemed concerned. He filed away the idea that Millicent somehow knew he liked to drink a bit of whiskey. Oddly, he suddenly wanted a sip right then, too.
“All of it. It’s already broken into indexed pieces by book, chapter, and verse.” Millie wasn’t bragging.
Revered Hawkins opened and closed his mouth several times. Finally, almost croaking, he said, “Let’s go get some pudding.” Millicent ran out of the classroom, smiling.
My day started with bursts of restless sleep, punctuated by a cat insistent that I get up. Truthfully, I lay there writing stories in my head and attempting to gather the threads of my own life together. After giving the cat his beloved morsels of treats, I made a staggeringly strong pot of coffee. My first cup was black as tar. The bitterness, as always, renewed me.
Writing these words, I fully realize that the pandemic has changed everything. It’s the new baseline. Whether it has emboldened you to waste no further energy on things which don’t bring you joy, or robbed you of the pieces of yourself that make your life meaningful, I hope you can find refuge in this day. Gratitude is a daily affirmation more than an occasion.
For years, I tried to get the tribe to accompany me to Clarion Inn, try a new tradition, and trust me enough to experience something that I once loved. They resisted until one day, the Clarion closed. I’m not bitter about it; disappointed, yes. (It was their loss more than mine. New experiences aren’t as common as we’d like to think.) Likewise, I hinted and asked if we might try another type of food, with anything on the literal table for options. Those who needed turkey and the fixings could still have those. I offered to ensure that they would if they would join me in something unexpected and non-traditional. It’s not the food that makes the day. The people around the table, the spirit of the day as originally intended – these combine to make the moments worth doing. With each hard pass, they’d futurize and point to a vague moment in our shared future in which we could be creative and spontaneous. Moments delayed often never materialize. The players find new games, and lives scatter. It’s the way life is.
If you are counting the wrinkles on participant’s faces to determine who might not be with us in the years to come, you are foolish. From experience, I can tell you that youth is no shield from loss. I call this tendency, “The Clarion Misconception.”
One of my favorite people in the world hates Thanksgiving. For her, the day was her mother embodied. She’s faced more loss since, and the holiday has yet to recover any joy for her. It’s hard to enjoy some of the day when someone you love is hurting. Ache and loneliness are holes that seldom fill. As for my loved one, she is at least opting to have an extraordinarily simple meal of her choice to celebrate the day. In that way, she is lucky beyond compare. It’s ironic that our simple choices are envied by others. Those with a full table often envy a small personally chosen meal, while those with simplicity often find themselves wondering what a full table might bring.
While I’m no fan of the holiday, I am a genuine fan of the opportunity that the day can bring. At its heart, it is a day of companionship and love. It is a gong being rung in our hearts to remind us that this day, like all others, is not a given. I wish people could stop looking toward the pomp and ceremony of the preparations and instead take the chance to use the day to sit and laugh. And eat, too, yes. Whatever suits them, no matter how ridiculous or unexpected. Even the first Thanksgiving, the one we supposedly observe, resulted from what was available rather than what people wanted. Traditions are meaningless to me if they cannot be bent or broken when people want them to be something else.
Things? I need none.
Food? I’m more full now than I ever was while eating unhealthily. By focusing on less, I have more and enjoy it more.
Love? No gauge can ever read full in this regard.
Whatever number of days you have, you now have one fewer to sit and laugh. Take the small moments and hold them close to your heart. As you do, the larger moments will take care of themselves. You can’t have an empty life if you fully appreciate who and what you love in the small moments. Most of your life is lived in the intervals.
After all, the day is about having a hungry heart. Mine is ravenous.
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P.S. A couple of links below, if you’re interested…
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 