It was a hospital story that dominated discussion this morning. Sometimes it is a recent trip or political commentary; recently we delved into the varied nuances of deer hunting regulations at the county level. Rarely, however, is there silence. For the past 16 years -- or perhaps 17 or 18, I forget -- most of my Wednesday mornings have begun at 6:30 a.m. with a group of men who have little in common apart from that sausage biscuit, banana, the weekly conversation and our gender. It isn't a religious group, nor is it therapy even though it was birthed by one of the staff at the Des Moines Pastoral Counseling Center who had a particular interest in men's issues.
We read a book together from time to time -- about transitions, for example, or gender issues appropriately enough; we have read about soul work and parenting and currently happiness. But the books and their topics have become less important over the years. Indeed, a book may last us a year because weeks will go by with the upcoming chapter unacknowledged, sidelined by more important matters. In the course of our meeting together we have shared the trauma of devastating diagnoses and the physical and emotional swings of subsequent treatments, even singing at the funeral of one of our "members." We have patiently and presently listened until tears abated long enough to continue a telling about a marital separation or a breathtaking insight or a parental disappointment or a recent and still-stinging grief. We have buried spouses, been part of foreign adoptions, nurtured the blossoms of budding romance and eventual marriage, counseled retirements and waved goodbye.
We have held each other in our keeping. For some reason I have been reflecting on the miracle of this community. In this Twittering Facebook world, there is certainly no absence of information. We know all manner of detail about friends and family and virtual strangers alike. We are made privy to political views, personal and sometimes questionable photographs, the details of new tattoos, shopping frustrations and the color of the baby's vomit. But I'm not sure how much this tsunami of information creates real community.
Churches occasionally get it right, creating moments and spaces for sharing the substance of our joys and concerns. But just as often congregations are better at advocating for community than they are at building it, worshiping side by side but too easily going our separate ways having shared little more than an attendance register and a common pew.
Genuine community requires a double-edged vulnerability: we have to be willing to speak out loud about what we find in those nooks and crannies of our being moist enough for real life to germinate; and we have to be patient and available enough to listen as those around us are sharing it. Of the former, we need be cognizant enough about ourselves to trust in the significance of small and often quiet inner voices. Of the latter, we must keep in mind that "interesting" and "important" are not always the same. Community requires a reverence for both the mouth and the ear.
I'm grateful for this merry band of men who have long since been content to laugh together, cry together, mourn together, argue together, celebrate together, wait together and, above all -- or perhaps it is "through it all" -- to hold one another in our collective keeping.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
A Worthy and Blessed Adversary
I learned late this week of the death of Loren Cartwright -- a hundred-and-something year old member of First Christian Church. His is a noteworthy passing, for more reasons than his advanced age. Loren, whatever his other accomplishments, was a blunt straight-shooter.
A retired banker, Loren always presented himself as a businessman with a clear grasp of the numbers. Numbers, he would argue, don't lie. What I hadn't known about him until a year or so ago, at his last birthday gathering in the private dining room of Scottish Rite Park, was that he had started out as a musician of some talent who had even played one night as a fill-in with the Lawrence Welk Orchestra. "Playing in a band," he recalled, "was the hardest work in the world, and after that night I decided to go back to school and get a regular job."
But it wasn't his resume that impressed me. It was his aliveness and forthrightness. Widowed several years ago, Loren kept connected with family and the world through the internet. I don't know how many computers he went through while at Scottish Rite, but I remember him showing me his new laptop years ago. He wasn't one to coast. Knowing that he was thusly "connected" despite being homebound, I emailed him my Christmas sermon a couple of years ago as we were headed out of town, thinking he might appreciate the token. He emailed me back the next day, thanking me for the thought, but taking issue with the content of the sermon itself. "I just can't imagine what relevance Al Capone has to the Christmas story," he wrote referring to my opening illustration. I dutifully wrote back, trying to better explain my thought process. He, in turn, wrote back; thanking me for my consideration but confessing -- or muttering -- that he "still didn't get it." The truth, I suspect, was that he "got it," he just didn't approve.
What will always endear Loren to me, however, was his relationship to the sanctuary renovation project the church undertook several years ago. In short, Loren was against it. Vigorously. Noisily. It was foolishness, he said often and to whomever would listen. "A total waste of money." I no longer recall what it was about the project that offended him. Maybe it was simply the expenditure of money on a room that, as far as he was concerned, was perfectly fine. Maybe -- and this is likelier -- Loren was pessimistic about the future viability of the congregation and he saw it all as throwing good money after bad. I don't know. All I know is that Loren continued to vote against the project at every possible opportunity, even after the workers were well underway.
It isn't his negativity, however, that marks this particular congregational episode. It is his public repentance. After the project was completed and the congregation, after the six or eight months of worshiping in Fellowship Hall, had moved back into the "new" space, Loren stood up during the sharing of joys and concerns one Sunday during the service and confessed his mistake. "I was wholeheartedly against this renovation project," he acknowledged before the congregation, "but I am here to say that I was WRONG" (emphasis his). "This," he concluded with an arm sweeping around the room, "is WONDERFUL."
I'll never forget that moment. Loren didn't suffer fools, was a verbal curmudgeon, and he was never short on certainty. We often disagreed on what was "certainly" right, and I still think he was wrong about the Al Capone story, but it takes a large person to stand up in a crowd and admit his error. Despite his rather diminutive stature, at that moment Loren became one of the biggest men I know.
Loren loved life, but I have no doubt he was ready to go. He never ceased to miss his beloved Ethel, and the world, as far as he was concerned, was getting crazier and crazier. "Enough," I can almost hear him declare, "with all that."
Rest, then, you signal centenarian, in peace.
A retired banker, Loren always presented himself as a businessman with a clear grasp of the numbers. Numbers, he would argue, don't lie. What I hadn't known about him until a year or so ago, at his last birthday gathering in the private dining room of Scottish Rite Park, was that he had started out as a musician of some talent who had even played one night as a fill-in with the Lawrence Welk Orchestra. "Playing in a band," he recalled, "was the hardest work in the world, and after that night I decided to go back to school and get a regular job."
But it wasn't his resume that impressed me. It was his aliveness and forthrightness. Widowed several years ago, Loren kept connected with family and the world through the internet. I don't know how many computers he went through while at Scottish Rite, but I remember him showing me his new laptop years ago. He wasn't one to coast. Knowing that he was thusly "connected" despite being homebound, I emailed him my Christmas sermon a couple of years ago as we were headed out of town, thinking he might appreciate the token. He emailed me back the next day, thanking me for the thought, but taking issue with the content of the sermon itself. "I just can't imagine what relevance Al Capone has to the Christmas story," he wrote referring to my opening illustration. I dutifully wrote back, trying to better explain my thought process. He, in turn, wrote back; thanking me for my consideration but confessing -- or muttering -- that he "still didn't get it." The truth, I suspect, was that he "got it," he just didn't approve.
What will always endear Loren to me, however, was his relationship to the sanctuary renovation project the church undertook several years ago. In short, Loren was against it. Vigorously. Noisily. It was foolishness, he said often and to whomever would listen. "A total waste of money." I no longer recall what it was about the project that offended him. Maybe it was simply the expenditure of money on a room that, as far as he was concerned, was perfectly fine. Maybe -- and this is likelier -- Loren was pessimistic about the future viability of the congregation and he saw it all as throwing good money after bad. I don't know. All I know is that Loren continued to vote against the project at every possible opportunity, even after the workers were well underway.
It isn't his negativity, however, that marks this particular congregational episode. It is his public repentance. After the project was completed and the congregation, after the six or eight months of worshiping in Fellowship Hall, had moved back into the "new" space, Loren stood up during the sharing of joys and concerns one Sunday during the service and confessed his mistake. "I was wholeheartedly against this renovation project," he acknowledged before the congregation, "but I am here to say that I was WRONG" (emphasis his). "This," he concluded with an arm sweeping around the room, "is WONDERFUL."
I'll never forget that moment. Loren didn't suffer fools, was a verbal curmudgeon, and he was never short on certainty. We often disagreed on what was "certainly" right, and I still think he was wrong about the Al Capone story, but it takes a large person to stand up in a crowd and admit his error. Despite his rather diminutive stature, at that moment Loren became one of the biggest men I know.
Loren loved life, but I have no doubt he was ready to go. He never ceased to miss his beloved Ethel, and the world, as far as he was concerned, was getting crazier and crazier. "Enough," I can almost hear him declare, "with all that."
Rest, then, you signal centenarian, in peace.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Rejoicing Always -- Even Amidst Happy Holidays
Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. Do not quench the Spirit. Do not despise the words of prophets, but test everything; hold fast to what is good; abstain from every form of evil.
May the God of peace himself sanctify you entirely; and may your spirit and soul and body be kept sound and blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do this. (1 Thessalonians 5:16-24)
Well, for many of us. But for many others it is about a wide variety of other affirmations and celebrations and -- yes, it's true -- religious devotions. Christmas may be the loudest jukebox at the party this time of year, but it isn't the only music playing. And even Christians have to admit that we sort of pirated this season from an already existing semi-religious observance full in the hearts of many. Nobody, after all, really believes that Jesus was born on December 25. I wonder if the druids decried what they must have viewed as the lamentable shift from "Happy Solstice" to "Merry Christmas," and scratched their heads over how to reclaim what, as far as they were concerned, was the "reason for the season"?
I have a hunch that if you asked 10 random retail merchants why they opted for "Happy Holidays" signs in their store instead of ones encouraging a "Merry Christmas" not one of them would mention political correctness. They would, instead, speak to the need to relate to a wide variety of consumers, only some of whom are Christian. Especially in this challenging economy, retailers who rely on the goodwill of their customers can't afford to alienate any available constituency. While Christians ought to feel perfectly comfortable and free to wish the cashiers who serve them a "Merry Christmas" as we leave, surely we can cut the same employee some slack for not choosing to predetermine the faith tradition of the stranger placing a nick knack or a sweater on the counter.
Why is it that Christians seem always to pick such flimsy fights? While we are busy fuming over slogans, who is worrying, meanwhile, about the unemployed who, in greater and greater numbers each month, simply give up looking for work because jobs are not to be found -- a statistical fact hidden in the rosier unemployment statistics published every few weeks? Who is concerned about the long term effects of the shrinking middle class and the consolidation of the citizenry into merely the "ultra rich" and the "ultra poor"? Just today the Des Moines Area Religious Council's Food Pantry announced that they are reducing the number of canned goods in the bags given to needy families because -- and this truly shameful -- the supply of food received by the Pantry is not keeping up with the escalating need. I wish a candidate for President would condemn this state of affairs. Or, I don't know, maybe all this would be instantly fixed if only the Shoe Carnival clerk would wish everyone a "Merry Christmas."
This is not the kind of distraction that ought to be consuming we consumers. This is not an issue worthy of the church's energies. The scriptures we purport to read and use for guidance are full of succinct reminders of stronger priorities. When the prophet Micah recalled that "God has shown you what is good," he wasn't talking about season exclamations. He went on to enumerate the doing of justice, the love of kindness, and the daily walk, in humility, with God. When Jesus preached to his hometown congregation, he didn't announce that he had come to police appropriate holiday greetings; he claimed the enjoinder of the prophet Isaiah, acknowledging that "the Spirit of the Lord is upon me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, ro bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor..." And when Jesus imagined the final judgment and the rubrics for reward and punishment, he didn't name Christmas signage. He spoke of sharing cool water with the thirsty, sharing food with the hungry, sharing companionship with the lonely, sharing comfort with the mourning and clothing with the naked. The question of how we greet each other in the marketplace during the month of December is too puny of a windmill for Christians to tilt at.
If I were preaching this Sunday I would focus on the epistle reading out of 1 Thessalonians from the Revised Common Lectionary. For one thing, the passage strikes me as a powerful and light-filled word for a people living in a fairly dark time. For another, it focuses our attention where, day in and day out, it ought to be in the first place: less on judging others as to what we think they ought to be doing, and more on those behaviors and attitudes that we -- as disciples of Jesus -- ought to be exhibiting.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Sears, Redux
Lori tells me I have to post an update. The Sears saga has come to some resolution, and I agree that it's only fair that the rest of the story be told.
For starters, I did, indeed, receive a follow-up email from Sears after my second rather spicy provision of feedback. It was, I have to say, a rather patronizing response that suggested if I had wanted a stove equipped a certain way I should have mentioned that at the time of purchase. Never mind that I had done precisely that, and had included that information in my initial communications. Nevertheless, the message continued...
"If you had an issue where an installation occurred from one of our licensed installers, and they connected the appliance to your propane gas line without converting it and telling you, then that is a separate issue. If such a case has occurred, please contact [number deleted], and we will escalate your case to our Installation Solutions, and they will discuss further options."
"Escalate." I love that. So, I took my "separate issue" into escalation, dialed the number, and after two or three tries was connected to a helpful man in Florida in the unenviable position of working in the central office of "I'm mad and want to complain." He agreed that my experiences were unacceptable, and that while his options were limited he anticipated that the local store manager would not want a customer "out there" feeling the way I do, and that surely he would want to "participate" in some resolution.
At this point I anticipated that my helpful Floridian was going to suggest I call the store. Cutting him off I indicated that I had tried that, but that the Sears phone jail system made it practically impossible to ever talk to anyone. He mentioned that he had a "direct" number. After being on hold for several minutes he came back on the line to tell me that the store manager didn't seem to be available, but that an assistant manager was on the line who would help me. After introducing us to each other, my first helper left the conversation in our capable hands. Much to my surprise, the assistant manager listened, empathized, asked questions about how much money I was now spending on what should have been covered in the first place, clattered around on a calculator, and offered me $500 to cover the extra expenses. After I happily accepted his offer, he took my bank card information and relayed that he would call me back when the refund transaction was completed.
Hours later I got a call from our original salesperson, apologizing for the mess and reassuring me that he had looked up our order and confirmed that what we had ordered was correct; the problems had started after it left his and our involvement. "Oh," he continued, "and I understand that the assistant manager offered you $500 to cover the extra costs." I confirmed the offer. "Well, the assistant manager talked it over with the manager and..."
It was at exactly this moment when I thought I was really going to have to eat crow. "They are going to up the ante," I thought to myself.
"...and the most we are able to offer is $450."
"Really," I thought to myself; "you are going to jerk me, an already mad and mouthy customer, around for a lousy $50 bucks? Really? I can't believe it."
But that's where I left it. I took the $450 and ran, thankful that I had come out of the aggravation with anything but more aggravation. It will likely cover most if not all the expenses, and I wasn't, after all, out for blood.
Simply what I had supposedly purchased IN THE FIRST PLACE.
As for you, Mr. Cheapskate store manager, take your spouse out to dinner with my $50 and enjoy every miserly bite.
For starters, I did, indeed, receive a follow-up email from Sears after my second rather spicy provision of feedback. It was, I have to say, a rather patronizing response that suggested if I had wanted a stove equipped a certain way I should have mentioned that at the time of purchase. Never mind that I had done precisely that, and had included that information in my initial communications. Nevertheless, the message continued...
"If you had an issue where an installation occurred from one of our licensed installers, and they connected the appliance to your propane gas line without converting it and telling you, then that is a separate issue. If such a case has occurred, please contact [number deleted], and we will escalate your case to our Installation Solutions, and they will discuss further options."
"Escalate." I love that. So, I took my "separate issue" into escalation, dialed the number, and after two or three tries was connected to a helpful man in Florida in the unenviable position of working in the central office of "I'm mad and want to complain." He agreed that my experiences were unacceptable, and that while his options were limited he anticipated that the local store manager would not want a customer "out there" feeling the way I do, and that surely he would want to "participate" in some resolution.
At this point I anticipated that my helpful Floridian was going to suggest I call the store. Cutting him off I indicated that I had tried that, but that the Sears phone jail system made it practically impossible to ever talk to anyone. He mentioned that he had a "direct" number. After being on hold for several minutes he came back on the line to tell me that the store manager didn't seem to be available, but that an assistant manager was on the line who would help me. After introducing us to each other, my first helper left the conversation in our capable hands. Much to my surprise, the assistant manager listened, empathized, asked questions about how much money I was now spending on what should have been covered in the first place, clattered around on a calculator, and offered me $500 to cover the extra expenses. After I happily accepted his offer, he took my bank card information and relayed that he would call me back when the refund transaction was completed.
Hours later I got a call from our original salesperson, apologizing for the mess and reassuring me that he had looked up our order and confirmed that what we had ordered was correct; the problems had started after it left his and our involvement. "Oh," he continued, "and I understand that the assistant manager offered you $500 to cover the extra costs." I confirmed the offer. "Well, the assistant manager talked it over with the manager and..."
It was at exactly this moment when I thought I was really going to have to eat crow. "They are going to up the ante," I thought to myself.
"...and the most we are able to offer is $450."
"Really," I thought to myself; "you are going to jerk me, an already mad and mouthy customer, around for a lousy $50 bucks? Really? I can't believe it."
But that's where I left it. I took the $450 and ran, thankful that I had come out of the aggravation with anything but more aggravation. It will likely cover most if not all the expenses, and I wasn't, after all, out for blood.
Simply what I had supposedly purchased IN THE FIRST PLACE.
As for you, Mr. Cheapskate store manager, take your spouse out to dinner with my $50 and enjoy every miserly bite.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Because Sears Won't Return My Call
Fair warning: this is a rant. Think of it as payback -- retribution, the very kind of thing that a decent Christian is supposed to eschew. The problem is -- as happens so often in these circumstances -- I'm not feeling particularly Christian.
In short, I'm mad at Sears. I know that inducts me into a rather large fraternity. Almost any time I mention Sears I am met with eye-rolls and groans. We aren't talking high reputation here. If my experience is representative, it is derision honestly and thoroughly earned.
As you may know, we recently moved. Two months ago. In the process we purchased new appliances...from Sears. In contrast to previous experiences, we actually found -- and liked -- a salesperson. He was friendly, winsome, and helpful. He went -- and I don't say this lightly -- above and beyond. So did we, I might add. We bought several appliances. Nice ones. Plus the extended service contract.
On the appointed delivery day, all seemed to go well. Again, the delivery personnel were efficient and affable. But when I found a floor covered in water from the refrigerator a scant two hours post-delivery, I called the super, handy-dandy, elite service number and, after talking with nine different people -- literally. Nine -- who each solicited from me the exact same information, I learned that they would be happy to send someone out in two weeks. "It's a brand new refrigerator that hasn't been here two hours," I replied. "And it is flooding my house." Two weeks was the best I could get. "Did I want to go ahead and schedule that service call?" I was asked. No, I responded, and suggested that I would prefer my service contract back. I called a plumber who came that afternoon.
Meanwhile, the stove. I don't know anything about propane -- our new fuel of record out here in the country -- so I don't know how to assess "normal." But in our two months of use we have wearied of the black soot that cakes on the bottom of the pots sitting over the fire, and subsequently smears on clothes, rags, rubber dishwashing gloves, etc. It's gross. It's persistent. But as I say, who knows? Maybe that's propane's normal. Before resigning ourselves to the nuisance, however, I once again called our local repair service. I was concerned that I might not live long enough to see a service call from Sears. I called yesterday. A technician was here at 9:00 a.m. this morning. From him I learned that the stove was incorrectly installed. There is a conversion kit required for propane -- the very one I was promised actually came with the stove -- and a second adjustment that is supposed to me made. Neither action had been accomplished. "I can't believe you have been living with this," he marveled. "Besides, it's not really safe. See those yellow flames? They are producing carbon monoxide. That, and the flames are way too large. That's dangerous, too. Something could catch fire." Yes, I muttered, and cover the world with soot.
So now I have ordered, for $165, the conversion kit that I supposedly already bought, will enjoy a second service call, neither of which should have been necessary, and Sears won't respond to my invitations for conversation.
So, as I duly promised them in one of my queries, I am ranting out loud, cautioning anyone and everyone who might have an interest to save yourself the headache -- and maybe even your life -- and shop somewhere else. Anywhere but Sears. Please, God, not Sears. Your heart will thank you. Your blood pressure will thank you. Your pots and pans will thank you. And quite possibly your insurance company and the fire marshal will thank you, as well.
So there, I've said it. My rant is officially over. Go back to whatever you were doing. My stove still doesn't work right -- and won't until the parts come in -- but it's nice to get it off my chest. And maybe now I can get back to being a reasonably decent Christian.
In short, I'm mad at Sears. I know that inducts me into a rather large fraternity. Almost any time I mention Sears I am met with eye-rolls and groans. We aren't talking high reputation here. If my experience is representative, it is derision honestly and thoroughly earned.
As you may know, we recently moved. Two months ago. In the process we purchased new appliances...from Sears. In contrast to previous experiences, we actually found -- and liked -- a salesperson. He was friendly, winsome, and helpful. He went -- and I don't say this lightly -- above and beyond. So did we, I might add. We bought several appliances. Nice ones. Plus the extended service contract.
On the appointed delivery day, all seemed to go well. Again, the delivery personnel were efficient and affable. But when I found a floor covered in water from the refrigerator a scant two hours post-delivery, I called the super, handy-dandy, elite service number and, after talking with nine different people -- literally. Nine -- who each solicited from me the exact same information, I learned that they would be happy to send someone out in two weeks. "It's a brand new refrigerator that hasn't been here two hours," I replied. "And it is flooding my house." Two weeks was the best I could get. "Did I want to go ahead and schedule that service call?" I was asked. No, I responded, and suggested that I would prefer my service contract back. I called a plumber who came that afternoon.
Meanwhile, the stove. I don't know anything about propane -- our new fuel of record out here in the country -- so I don't know how to assess "normal." But in our two months of use we have wearied of the black soot that cakes on the bottom of the pots sitting over the fire, and subsequently smears on clothes, rags, rubber dishwashing gloves, etc. It's gross. It's persistent. But as I say, who knows? Maybe that's propane's normal. Before resigning ourselves to the nuisance, however, I once again called our local repair service. I was concerned that I might not live long enough to see a service call from Sears. I called yesterday. A technician was here at 9:00 a.m. this morning. From him I learned that the stove was incorrectly installed. There is a conversion kit required for propane -- the very one I was promised actually came with the stove -- and a second adjustment that is supposed to me made. Neither action had been accomplished. "I can't believe you have been living with this," he marveled. "Besides, it's not really safe. See those yellow flames? They are producing carbon monoxide. That, and the flames are way too large. That's dangerous, too. Something could catch fire." Yes, I muttered, and cover the world with soot.
So now I have ordered, for $165, the conversion kit that I supposedly already bought, will enjoy a second service call, neither of which should have been necessary, and Sears won't respond to my invitations for conversation.
So, as I duly promised them in one of my queries, I am ranting out loud, cautioning anyone and everyone who might have an interest to save yourself the headache -- and maybe even your life -- and shop somewhere else. Anywhere but Sears. Please, God, not Sears. Your heart will thank you. Your blood pressure will thank you. Your pots and pans will thank you. And quite possibly your insurance company and the fire marshal will thank you, as well.
So there, I've said it. My rant is officially over. Go back to whatever you were doing. My stove still doesn't work right -- and won't until the parts come in -- but it's nice to get it off my chest. And maybe now I can get back to being a reasonably decent Christian.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Menu choices of the Absurd
The setting was in every way extraordinary -- elegant, dignified, gentle while at the same time quietly assertive. Perhaps its reputation had co-opted my objectivity, but I rather believe the restaurant truthfully was what it held itself out to be: quite simply one of the finest restaurants in the world, at least as adjudged by the professional muses of such matters.
In Napa Valley for yet another foray into cooking, both our hosts at the B & B and our chef instructor for the week at the Culinary Institute of America had called attention to the place. I, of course, had never heard of it before their mention, and I will leave it anonymous; more than a bit embarrassed to have indulged ourselves with such an extravagance. If, however, a sin, it was a glorious one that we will never forget.
We were ushered to our "lovely table" that had been "prepared for us" as though we owned the place. We tried to contain our giddy grins with the aloof air of people who frequent such destinations customarily, but I am confident that no one was deceived. Any opaqueness was scrubbed when, after one particularly delirious course, I asked our demur server how she kept from giggling her way through each night's dinner. "It is quite wonderful, isn't it" she replied.
We were not, however, alone. Behind our "lovely table" was another, occupied by a couple on whom the room's otherwise library-like decorum was quite lost. They talked business (the state of the global economy, for which the man of the table seemed to possess all the answers), politics (they were not independents or moderates), and wine. By the end of the evening the sommelier had to be delighted to see them go, having dominated her time the entire evening with arcane questions of vineyard sites, vintages, lot numbers, colonial varieties and alcohol content. Before the oenological carnage was finished, three opened bottles had been rejected and the fourth only tepidly approved.
But however annoying the pair was through the rest of the evening, they provided one enduring and delectable gem. Surveying the rather adventuresome menu, the woman of the table almost yawningly observed, "it all looks interesting, though I am particularly drawn to the cocks comb and the trout. Ah, but we so rarely have trout."
And let's face it, cocks comb can become so tiresome night after night.
Smugness, the comment reminded me, no matter how elegant the setting, is ultimately oafish and demeaning.
Maybe that's one of the reasons Jesus counseled guests at a dinner to select the seats at the places of least honor.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Putting the Garden to Bed
The sense of satisfaction certainly drowns out the melancholy, but the latter's voice is undeniably singing. Yesterday, I drove out to the Baxter farm for the official wind down. I took down the fencing and rolled it up for next year's use. I surveyed the largely spent plants and plucked the languishing harvest -- a couple dozen more tomatillos, a couple of peppers, and some spicy lettuce. There was an entire section of wispy green onions that for months I have been expecting to mature into something larger I uprooted and bagged. And then the larger pulling and chopping began. The marigolds that had offered such beautiful perimeters all season were the first to go. Their dried golden blooms and weary stems came up easily -- almost grateful, it seemed, for the rest. The tomato cages and the woody plants they supported offered themselves smoothly as well. The okra plants refused to go -- roots apparently woven deep into the soil, no doubt accounting for their prolific output. It all went quickly -- even with the digging and chopping required of the few; a surprisingly brief process given the hours and months invested in the creation. The debris was hauled away to the burn pile, and then the work was done.
I have not been attentive to this precious plot of ground since the moving process began in earnest mid-August. There is the only lament. There were too many boxes to pack; too many loads to carry from garage to garage; too much to organize, thin and clean, and then the inevitable unpacking and fresh organization. There was work to be done here, where the future is being built, but out there the plants continued to thirst and push out fruit as best they were able. Regularly Larry and Shirley, the garden hosts, would bring me reports of its progress along with offerings from the late season harvest. But it was tough to focus, given so much to do.
It had been weeks, then, since I had made the trip up north. The weather had changed and the season was passing. Still present, its eyes were closing. It had done its work as best it was able, and it was time to close this chapter.
I am profoundly grateful for the gift of the land that made the experience possible -- a generous wish to encourage my new passion. My benefactors endured my routine visits for weeding and watering and mowing and tending around the edges of my professional life, early in the morning and late in the evening. They looked after things when I couldn't, and offered advice and inspiration and encouragement throughout the months.
And I am tenderly grateful to the plants themselves. Some things turned out well; others shriveled without so much as a bud. We gleaned too much of some things -- okra and tomatillos come to mind -- and too little of others, like the beats and the brussels sprouts and the melons. But overall I am humbled by the results tendered to someone so utterly ignorant of the process. It has been, from seeding to plucking, an educational experience. I'm not sure what all I retain, but the plants have taught me well. They had the temerity to sprout from their seeds in our living room window; the charity to forgive my ignorance about temperature and light, and the hardiness to withstand the transplanting and the tending and the vicissitudes of weather.
And now the garden is clear. It takes a careful look to recognize what actually went on there over the past six months; most signs of cultivation have been eradicated. It's gratifying to learn that Shirley plans to sustain the project next summer, while I relocate my efforts to ground we have come to occupy. But for now there is satisfaction in the completion.
Until the seed catalogs begin to arrive.
I have not been attentive to this precious plot of ground since the moving process began in earnest mid-August. There is the only lament. There were too many boxes to pack; too many loads to carry from garage to garage; too much to organize, thin and clean, and then the inevitable unpacking and fresh organization. There was work to be done here, where the future is being built, but out there the plants continued to thirst and push out fruit as best they were able. Regularly Larry and Shirley, the garden hosts, would bring me reports of its progress along with offerings from the late season harvest. But it was tough to focus, given so much to do.
It had been weeks, then, since I had made the trip up north. The weather had changed and the season was passing. Still present, its eyes were closing. It had done its work as best it was able, and it was time to close this chapter.
I am profoundly grateful for the gift of the land that made the experience possible -- a generous wish to encourage my new passion. My benefactors endured my routine visits for weeding and watering and mowing and tending around the edges of my professional life, early in the morning and late in the evening. They looked after things when I couldn't, and offered advice and inspiration and encouragement throughout the months.
And I am tenderly grateful to the plants themselves. Some things turned out well; others shriveled without so much as a bud. We gleaned too much of some things -- okra and tomatillos come to mind -- and too little of others, like the beats and the brussels sprouts and the melons. But overall I am humbled by the results tendered to someone so utterly ignorant of the process. It has been, from seeding to plucking, an educational experience. I'm not sure what all I retain, but the plants have taught me well. They had the temerity to sprout from their seeds in our living room window; the charity to forgive my ignorance about temperature and light, and the hardiness to withstand the transplanting and the tending and the vicissitudes of weather.
And now the garden is clear. It takes a careful look to recognize what actually went on there over the past six months; most signs of cultivation have been eradicated. It's gratifying to learn that Shirley plans to sustain the project next summer, while I relocate my efforts to ground we have come to occupy. But for now there is satisfaction in the completion.
Until the seed catalogs begin to arrive.
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