Riley

Being stranded in an airport for six hours is not as bad as being stranded for several days, but still the airport is not a place where I want to spend an excessive amount of time.

On Christmas Day my wife and I traveled to be with our son, his wife, and nearly two year old son. We chose Christmas Day on the grounds, or belief, that there would no hassles, everyone was at their Christmas holiday destinations, and the planes would not be full. Additionally, in our part of the country, the weather was good; cold, but good.

What we did not anticipate was that the airline would have to delay the flight. Apparently, our plane had mechanical problems and could not fly. I am glad the problems occurred on the ground and not in the air with us on board. Another aircraft had to be diverted to pick us up and fly us on to our destination. We arrived six hours later than we had planned.

No big deal. What else did we have to do anyway?

So, as we waited an elderly gentleman (I say elderly only because he seemed older than sixty) came to our spot in the waiting area with a child in tow. The child, a cute little girl, had her carry-on luggage in tow and seemed concerned that she would some how lose her grip on the elderly gentleman's hand.

The two sat down across from us. He smiled and gave sort of a greeting. Initially the little girl was shy. She kept messing around with her carry-on, and eventually it tipped in my direction and came close to hitting my right big toe. She looked up and smiled, picked up her carry-on and said, "I'm sorry." I assured her that it did not hit me so everything was all right.

Trouble is, this happened again and again. I began to think, "What in the world? Are we going to have to put up with this for another hour or two?" It turned out to be another six hours, but what seemed like a potential airport irritation turned into a delightful time.

The little girl, who told me her name is Riley, was as precocious as any five year old one could meet. She engaged everyone. She was polite, and responded to her grandfather's directions, and then she learned the names of everyone around her. No one did not want to talk with her. She is as cute as any five year old can be and if she is a view of the future, then we are not without hope.

If you have to be stranded in an airport for six hours, hope that you spend them with Riley.

Ancestors

Now that I am retired I have decided to study my origins and build a family tree. So far, I have found some evidence of family all the way back to the 13th century. Further, I have found people who immigrated from Wales, England, France, and Germany. There are even lords and ladies, knights, and damsels. There's even evidence that my wife and I have a common ancestor. Who would of thought?

However, I can only attest to the validity of five generations. The reason for that is I heard my parents speak of these people and I met some of the older ones. In those generations I learned that a great grandfather immigrated from England in the 19th century. No reason learned. I expect he had an opportunity for a good job. Another great grandfather came from France during the Civil War period. Do not know why, but I suspect he was a fugitive from justice some where. He does not show up in any census list. His headstone has been located and there is evidence of a marriage. After that he just stands in the mist of time.

A grandfather's name was something else than what I knew him as. He was taken in by a childless couple at a very young age.  Well cared for and educated he had his name changed to that of his foster parents. So the line of inquiry stops there. His wife's family, my grandmother, however is a different matter. It can be traced back to England on her father's side and back to pre-revolutionary times on her mother's side. No evidence, however, that any of my grandmother's relatives participated in the War of Revolution. Alas, a sad outcome for some in the family.

My paternal grandfather is totally unknown to me. I know his name, where he was born, the names of his two wives, and the names of all his children. But I do not know anything about him. My paternal grandmother has been idolized in my family ever since I can remember. We do not know much about her. She died of tuberculosis when my father was two years old.

In fact, I do not know much about any of the people past my maternal grandparents. I never met my paternal family. My father left his family at an early age to escape abuse (he reports that and I believe him). Nevertheless, on both sides of the family there is a sweep of history that ranges from the feudal period of Europe, to the colonization of North America, to the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and all the history since then.

My wife's family tree is well rooted, leafed, and documented. So well documented that academic papers have been written about it. Her family tree also reflects the sweep of European and American history. It is that idea that interests me the most when I search for ancestors.

I cannot take any pride in being related to an earl or a knight, nor am I chagrined because somewhere in the past there was a brigand and a fugitive from justice. It is exciting, nonetheless, to bring them back to life in a family tree. I do not know what most of my fore bearers looked like, what they sounded like, and if we could even communicate, but they are the DNA or gene pool from which I evolved. On that fact alone all those men and women of the past deserve my attention.

Christmas Pageants

This is the best Christmas pageant ever!

When I was a child I think I participated one time in a Christmas pageant. I do not know why it was only one; other than I may have protested a lot after that experience. Nevertheless, I remember it well. I think the year was December 1941; we were living in Annapolis, Maryland, where my father was stationed at the Naval Academy's seaplane squadron. The event took place at the Francis Street Lutheran Church; a congregation my parents selected because a fellow navy man and his family went there. The Francis Street Church, I think, no longer exists. You had to walk to get to it, and you know what that means in the age of the automobile.

At any rate, the pageant took place on an evening before Christmas (it may have been Christmas Eve, but that is a detail I cannot recall). The non-speaking role of shepherd became my assignment. My mother dressed me out in a bathrobe, made me go barefoot, and put a dish towel on my head, held there with a ribbon. I hated it, I hated it a lot. I was embarrassed to be seen in my bathrobe and going barefoot and wearing short pants in December was a dumb thing to do.

Before the night was over, however, the embarrassment was overcome when a little girl, about three years old, came onto the stage to sing a Christmas song. Wearing a pretty satin dress that had a short skirt she stood in the spotlight and looked out at the audience of beaming parents. No song came out, but she smiled and smiled and smiled. From off stage came a whisper, "Sing your song." The little girl just stood there. Everyone felt exasperated; especially me. I wanted that night to come to an end so we could go home and I could take off that bathrobe and the silly thing on my head.

Then, suddenly, the girl lifted her pretty dress and announced to everyone present that she had gotten a new pair of pink panties for Christmas. Her mom came racing up to the stage and the Sunday school teacher raced from the wings and the little girl was quickly escorted out of view. All the shepherds laughed so hard they were useless as adoring extras in the pageant.

Much later, when I was a deacon in a parish in New Mexico, a pageant was staged and took place at the church's altar. All the usual characters were there; shepherds, wise men, angels, and, of course, Mary and Joseph with a baby doll. In addition to the human being parts (less the angels) were stars. Very little children wore stars with cut outs in the middle so we could see their faces. One child, a beautiful little girl of three or four, was the Star of Bethlehem. Her role was to stand on a chair behind the altar (a free standing altar) and beam. As we watched the pageant progress we began to notice that the Star of Bethlehem was fading. She began to sink behind the altar and then catch herself and stand up straight again. This went on for several minutes and finally the Star of Bethlehem disappeared completely. The child had fallen sound asleep and was sitting on the chair with her head held up by the star cut out.

Christmas pageants a long standing tradition and probably can be traced to the middle ages. A child performing in Christmas pageants is likely, however, to be a fairly recent phenomenon and also likely an Anglican based tradition, maybe starting soon after the invention of Sunday school in the mid nineteenth century.

Watching children, especially our children, perform in Christmas pageants is heartwarming and adds to the beauty of the season, but we need to be careful in that these pageants actually teach the salvation story of God.

I have been to Bethlehem and visited the Church of the Nativity. It is an interesting place where devoted pilgrims come to pray prostrating over the supposed place of the manger.  For them the story of the birth of Jesus is not a sentimental tale of a baby and his mother; with Joseph as a silent secondary character. For the devoted pilgrim the story is a miracle of birth and hope. The children in the annual Christmas pageants (and their parents too) need to see and feel that miraculous hope in the story of Jesus' birth.

This does not require us to overlook the comedy of children struggling with standing in front of parents wearing funny costumes, and it certainly does require adults to lecture or preach to children about this miracle of life, but there is need to somehow teach the saving grace of God in Jesus Christ through these little plays.

As the children prepare for Christmas and sing carols and songs, let us tell them that the story is about them. The Nativity Story is about their life as much as it about the birth of Jesus. Remind them that God so loved the world that Jesus was born and given to us so that we may have life in abundance.

White Christmas

Pretty scene, but cold and wet.

I say, "Bah Humbug!" to white Christmases. In fact, I do not like snow at any time.

Instead of being a boy of ten, let's say, when people were fighting in the Pacific island jungles and swamps in World War II I had been one of those soldiers or marines, no doubt a white Christmas would have been great. The fantasy of such a condition at Christmas certainly must have been soothing.

Nevertheless, snow is not something I have or will enjoy. You see, being born in a tropical zone, my first life experiences were being warm and living free of the bondage of heavy winter clothing. Cannot remember the first time I experienced snow. I have a memory of going into the backyard of our home in a snow suit and the next thing I remember was being in the hospital with pneumonia. I think I was five or six years old.

Another was getting a sled for Christmas and on the first snowy day went out to use it. Sledding to the bottom of a moderately sloped hill was fun until I reached the bottom. There I fell  off the sled and landed in a small snow drift. I came out of it covered in snow and snow in my boots, under my mittens, and soon I was freezing cold. No fun.

Sometime around 1949, when the family was in California, I got a job as a newspaper boy for the local evening journal. The route they gave me was big and long (it even included a place called "China Alley".) Well, snow in Southern California is not totally rare, but it is exceptional. The route I had included a busy intersection of U.S. 101A and several streets that led to the heart of town. When I arrived at the intersection on my bicycle and heavy two-sided newspaper delivery bag the snow flakes were as big as half dollars. I could hardly see the traffic. I was wet and cold. So I went home. The next day, as the snow was melting, I returned to deliver the papers. As I took a paper to one of the subscribers, he came from his home and said, "Every time it snows you don't deliver papers, right?" I said, "It has only snowed once here in the past 20 years." I don't know if that was true or not, but I wanted him to know that every 20 years or so, he may not get a paper due to snow.

Snow has been my nemesis for many years. Ate frozen C-rations, fell in the snow in front of a bunch of South Korean soldiers, and shivered constantly until I came down with pneumonia again when in Korea in the mid 1950s, slept in an snow shelter in the High Sierras of California, and lived in Alaska for three years. The snow shelter was not fun; it was home for two weeks when I was in the Marine Corps. Alaska winters were challenging, especially up in the interior. Just last Christmas we had a white one. On Christmas Day my wife and I delivered hot meals to shut-ins. The snow was deep, it was cold, and while it was photographically beautiful, all I wanted was to get home and get cozy again.

Instead of dreaming of a white Christmas I dream of palm trees, warm sunny days, and mild tropical rains.

Cats



Victoria



In fifty years of marriage there have been three cats sharing space with us. Probably, it would be better stated that we shared space with them.

The current cat with whom we share space we call Victoria. However, she does not care what we call her. She responds only to sounds of cat food cans opening, racing to the highest level or farthest corner when the doorbell rings, and avoiding me as much as possible. Nevertheless, she is a good cat. One of her characteristics is that she trills when she really wants the immediate attention of the other big cats in her house. I am certain she thinks of as large and inferior cats.

Victoria, who we believe in a Maine Coon cat,  is connected to my wife mostly. Whenever my wife is comfortable in front of the television or in bed, or even sitting at a desk or table top, Victoria wants to be with her. Early in the morning she jumps up on the bed and snuggles up to my wife and usually stays there until my wife awakes. That use to me my task, but in bed or on the bed Victoria is less demanding.

We found Victoria through an announcement in the newspaper that an abandoned cat that had been nursed back to health after a serious dog attack needed a home. At first I said we did not need to have a cat again. But as most devoted husbands do, I caved in. Victoria has been with us now for nearly five years.

Before Victoria we had a calico. I liked this cat a lot. She would box with me and often won the match. Like all cats that own human slaves she was demanding. When she wanted to box she would not accept a negative response. One morning, after getting out of the shower and returning to the bedroom to dress she jumped on to the bed and began to indicate that it was time to play. Of course, I had duties to attend to and as usual I was running late. I told the cat, who we called Cissy, to take a hike, I was busy. Cissy went to the opposite corner, then by stealth inched across the bed until she got with in inches of by rear end. I was aware that she was there, but did not give it any thought. Suddenly she leaped forward, bit me on the bottom, then ran off saying (I believe), "Got you that time." She did not show up again for about two days.

The first cat we lived with came to us as month old kitten when we lived in Alaska. This cat, a month old grey tabby, had been part of a litter that had been abandoned at St. Mary's Church in Anchorage and left on the vicar's doorstep. The vicar's wife went around the parish hall one Sunday morning trying to find homes for the litter. I was asked and said, "No, we do not need a cat." The the vicar's wife went around to ask our three year daughter if  she would like a cat. Well, you know what happened. We got a cat and it lived with us for almost twenty years.

This cat was unusual in several ways. Early we discovered that it was mean. Talk about cats only tolerating humans, this one tolerated humans only after the human was cowed into a corner. But, the cat had talent. First, I should explain that we were not certain of the cats gender for several weeks so at first we called the cat, "King of the Yukon" after Canadian Mountie Sergeant Preston's dog. We thought that was clever. However, soon after naming the cat King we found out the cat was a queen, but we had already registered the cat with the animal control at Fort Richardson; the name stuck.

King would chase after things we threw across the room. She would grab the object and then come back and drop it at our feet and then stand by ready to retrieve it again. We would make a loop with our arms and tell her to jump through it and she did. Remarkable. Another thing about this cat, which has nothing to do with her innate abilities (other than to survive) is this is one of those rare cats that has traveled from border to border and coast to coast and quickly reestablished her dominance over the new home immediately.

Cats are more intelligent than dogs. Even though king would perform when she wanted to, she actually never did anything useful. In fact, the other two cats that have lived with us in the past fifty years have not done anything useful either. They just are, nothing more. Except King, would chase down and eat bugs. I guess that's useful.

"I am Adored"

Recently I had in my inbox of my email one that advised me that "you are adored." That's interesting. I don't think anyone has ever told me that, but here an unknown person, probably from hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away told me that "you are adored."

Other emails have told me that I was a "dear friend." Some have suggested to me they wanted to be "extra nice to me" and invited me to get to know the emailer better. But, alas, I have failed to respond and have not even opened these emails.

Once I opened an email that said a "friend" was sending me a "postcard." Some friend; it took me about a week to get the Trojan Virus out of my computer and it never did run well again. Had to eventually buy a new one.

Just a note to any and all out there who want to "adore" me and be my "friend," or invite me to get to know you better, have a name I recognize from a place I know about. Otherwise all my adoring friends will end up in the trash bucket unrequited.

An Advent Story



Giotto's Arena Chapel Visitation, 1305-6



     A young woman, still in her teens, has a dream of an angel speaking to her.  The angel she knows to be one of the great legends of Hebrew lore, the archangel Gabriel.  In this vision she learns something that’s troubling and something she is uncertain she should repeat.  Nevertheless, the fact is that she will have a child, a gift, and a very special gift from God.

     Despite the angelic greeting, she is frightened. This young woman leaves her home village in the hills to visit a cousin who lives in another town some distance away.  The encounter with the angel is a secret that is too much for her to keep to her self.  She needs support; she needs someone to talk to.  She cannot talk to anyone in her village about this—she would be accused of a terrible sin.        

     It is late winter, but in her part of the country, the weather is mild.  Mild winters are common in her part of the country.  This makes travel easier, but to assure her safety she joins a group that is traveling in the same direction. 



     Coming down from the hills in the east, she crosses a wide and long valley rich in agriculture.  The valley fields are already showing signs of a good harvest.  All will be well fed this year.


     Later, the heat of the day adds to her exhaustion.  She is feelings insecure.  She is fearful of the future.  But the cool of the night, however, relieves the pain in her head and helps her quiet her mind.  She can sleep and be rested before she greets her cousin the next day.


     Her cousin does not know that the young woman is traveling to visit her.  In those days there’s no way to get a message to her before arrival.  Thus, our young woman has added to her anxiety the fear of being unwelcome if she shows up at her cousin’s home unannounced.  Her encounter with the angel, a trip from the hills, and not knowing how she will be received at her cousin’s home adds to the young woman’s anxiety.



     She asks herself, “What will I tell her? How can I explain all this?” 

     There is no explanation, and all she can do is tell her cousin what happened.  In being forthright, maybe, she will get some help from her beloved kinswoman.


     The young woman arrives at her cousin’s home and to her surprise she finds that her cousin is also expecting a child.

     The greeting from her cousin is a rush of exciting happy words; her joy cannot be restrained.  She is so joyful; in fact, the child in her womb seems to move with joy.  She calls out to her unexpected visitor from the hills, “Blessed is the fruit of your womb.”  The cousin knows without being told what our young woman’s secret is. 

     Between them the joy of expectation is boundless.  They both know of the very special nature of the children conceived in them.  The cousin and her husband were beyond childbearing age.  The young woman who is also carrying a child is almost too young an age.

      There are further complications.

     She is to be married; the young woman has to tell her husband-to-be what has happened to her.  It is going to be difficult, he may not believe her, and further, he may not (no, he will not) want her for a wife. But all of that can be put aside for now.  For the days and weeks ahead she can enjoy the company of her beloved cousin.  In fact, she can use this time to learn about childbirth, and what happens as the child forms in the womb.  She will be there to help her cousin when she gives birth. Both are thankful that the weather is so mild.  They can spend more time in the out of doors; they walk the hills together and ponder what it is that has happened to them.

     The two of them learn to pray together and to talk freely with one another.  In their walking and in their conversation they find support from each other, they laugh together, they sing together and they learn what sisterly love truly is. This is a time only women can understand.  Even in my meager effort to try to capture their emotions, I fall short.  Yet, I can sense that this story is more than a tale of two women (one very young and one quite mature) sharing an event that was and continues to be truly unique.

     Their story is the Advent story.  It is a story of expectation, love, hope, and finally peace.

     After her cousin’s child is delivered, our young woman begins the trip back to her home village.  Again she travels across the valley the hills of her native village.  She notes that the crops are harvested; the weather is beginning to change.  More rain now.  She is returning home to the unknown. 

     Regardless of the possibility that her community and family may ostracize her, the young woman now fearlessly faces the her future, trusting in God and the words of the angelic vision.  To her joy and surprise the young woman was not only accepted and loved by her kinswoman, she is loved, cared for, and blessed by the man who will be her husband. He sees more blessing in being her mate than in worrying about his status in the village or the embarrassment his bride might cause.  Her husband-to-be, by being open to the direction of God’s Holy Spirit, brings to himself honor and ultimately he is the model of married and fatherly love.  She is also a model.  She is the model of hope, faith, and love.  In faith she accepts her role in the mysterious plan of God.

     Now she is home in her village, but now she is clearly pregnant.  If there has been gossip, she has not heard it.  If the men of the synagogue have lectured her husband, he has not spoken of it.  All that has happened in the past several months, however, have only been prelude.  She and her new husband have received word from a tyrannical government that all men must return to their family homes.  So now, she faces another journey.  This next journey is more demanding and will require all the strength that her faith can provide.  Birth is near and walking is difficult.  Even riding on their beast of burden—a humble donkey—is difficult.  They persevere, they make it to the tribal home, and just in time.

     What happens next was more than they had expected.  In fact, it is more than we expected.



Too Much Television

Sometimes I think that my television watching time is too much. The reason I think this is because I find myself commenting on commercials.

The biggest peeve I have with television commercials is that husbands, and I presume boyfriends, are depicted as stupid or inept. The only exception seems to be when the husband or boyfriend is giving his wife or girlfriend an expensive diamond. Watch the commercials for awhile and you will see a stupid husband who can't do anything right. Husbands don't know how to get rid of bugs, wash windows, barbecue hamburgers, and so on. Once, I would like to see the man of the house do something that demonstrates aptitude.

Another commercial that truly bothers me is about some little wheat doodahs that talk. Recently they have been swimming in hot milk. No doubt these layers of wheat doodahs taste delicious and of course by now we all know we need whole wheat fiber (my mother called it roughage). I know at my age roughage is essential. She also complained, often, that cold cereal was no better than the box in came in; in fact, she would often suggest the box was better tasting and probably more nutritious. She made me eat cooked oatmeal. Once, on a snowy Saturday when all my playmates were outside sledding, I refused to eat the stuff (it had a scum of gluten on it I think and the milk had little flex of cream in it) and she declared I would not leave the breakfast table until I ate all the oatmeal in the bowl. I sat there long enough to see it really become scummy and the milk sour; I ate it for lunch.

Anyway, the little buggers in the commercial talk! That's right, they talk! Now, I am not going to eat anything that talks and enjoys swimming in hot milk and then talks about it. Can anyone imagine turning little squares of shredded wheat into talking buddies and then eating them? I can't.

Now you know why I think I am watching too much television. I think I will go to listening to books on CD.

Thanskgivng Day

Unlike past Thanksgiving Days no family members close by and I could not visit any. Nevertheless, the day was spent in giving thanks.

Children are spread around the globe. A son in Afghanistan, his family in Virginia, and a daughter in New Mexico, and brother and sister and their families also spread about the country makes a family reunion difficult. The telephone, however, did unite the family somewhat. The son in Afghanistan tried to call, but did not make contact until Friday. Daughter and daughter-in-law were easier to contact and we talked about children.

After a person gets a certain age holidays and other celebrations lose their impact. The exception being birthdays and achievements of grandchildren. But, the holiday season, as it is now known, means little to me. I am not at all interested in Black Friday or Cyber Monday. I have been trying to think of what I would need that would drive me to stand in line early on a frosty morning and get trampled by greedy shoppers? Can't think of anything.

Nevertheless, I am thankful. I am thankful for a loving family, for longevity, for the comfort and abundance I have and for being able to sit down at my desk in retirement and write stuff like this.

Jannette Walls

If you have not read the two books by Jannette Walls about her family, you have missed reading two extremely engrossing stories.

The first book is the The Glass Castle: A Memoir (Simon & Schuster). This is a story of her childhood and eventual escape from the problems of two very strange parents. To say that Jannette was neglected is not accurate. Both her parents, Rex and Rosemary, loved their children, but dad was alcoholic and mom lived in an unreal world.

Walls tells of her three sisters and brother coping with parents who were unsettled and lived delusional lives. Beginning in Arizona and then migrating to Nevada and on to California then back to Arizona, the family never knew what "adventure" or disappointment was next.

They eventually go to West Virginia, Rex's native state, where life gets worse. The three older children finally find their way out of the poverty and despair of their West Virginia home to find their own lives.

The second book is one every reader will find this a gripping story. However, the second book, Half Broke Horses: A Biographical Novel (Simon & Schuster).  Even more gripping and profound, this story is of Walls' grandmother Lily Casey Smith.

The title comes from the practice of Lily and her father working with horses that had not been adequately broken and suitable to be work animals. She was able to ride and tame them. A frontier woman, Lily grew up in West Texas, the Hondo Valley of New Mexico, and matured in North Western Arizona.

Because of my love of and experiences in New Mexico, this story struck a note with me. The Hondo Valley in Lincoln County is a part of the New Mexico that holds fond memories for me. This is where Billy the Kid and the Lincoln County Wars took place. This is the place of Sheriff Pat Garrett and it is the place of the Coe Ranch. A book about the Coe Ranch kept me grounded in my second year in Viet Nam.

The story of this robust woman is fascinating. She takes on a teaching job in a remote part Arizona at age 15. She gets to the job by riding alone on horseback for over 500 miles. Untrained and not certified to teach, she, nevertheless, does the job. This only the beginning.

Read Half Broke Horses to find the origins Jannette Wall's own story.

Wisdom has Built Her a House - A commentary on Proverbs 9:1-6

To King Solomon, mentioned

            in the Bible,

 Wisdom was his love.

He was true to her and he fought,

struggled, and strove

To let her be his guide, but alas

it came to naught.

"How’s that?" You say. 

"Wasn’t Solomon the wisest

of the ancient kings?"

Yes, with wisdom he would often lay

            to soak in her beauty and her charm

In a futile hope to be like her and fly on her   

            wings of ecstasy.

How could he have gone wrong?

He knew that wisdom had built

            her house of seven pillars

             and she then called everyone: 

The thieves, the merchants, and the millers

to come  to drink her wine and

feast among the seven pillars.

 She called the simple and the stupid

            to her party. But, alas,

            they were not to his liking,                

            the king did not wish to be amid

Those with whom he did not mingle,

He thought he was so very clever, and his

            cleverness made him tingle.

Yes, Solomon was clever, but he

             was neither wise nor intelligent.

             he kept three hundred women

In his palace; some were wives,

             many were concubines

             there only for his pleasure.

Others were there to be a palatial ornament.

All together they were so much wiser

            than he could ever be.

Numbers alone were not what counted.

He faltered because he failed to account

            for the fact that

In their number they became a giant WE

            and that Wisdom is, after all, a she.

The Holiday Season

I am writing this on November 19, a Friday in 2010. Yesterday I rode through the main street of town in which I live and surprised by the Christmas ornamentation that is already up. Probably surprise is not the correct word. Maybe dismay or despair might be better choices. Thanksgiving Day is about a week away and Advent does not begin until November 28. What's the rush? Why is it so important to get into the "Holiday Spirit" so soon after Halloween?

Complaining over the years has not changed anything. So complaining again this year is not likely to change anything either, other than lead me into a gloomy despair over the misuse of Christmas. Once I was asked if I was ready for Christmas and my response was that I had not observed Advent yet. When I said that the questioner was taken back and asked, "What is Advent?" Trying to explain that the Advent season prepared us for the celebration of the Nativity of Jesus Christ and it is the four weeks before Christmas did not help. I suppose that my despair is not so much about the misuse of Christmas but the loss a religious culture that gives as sense of stability and slows down the pace of life.

So far I do not have a shopping list, I do not plan on buying a lot of gifts. The children of my family will not be disappointed, however. They will receive what they need and a little extra so that Christmas is memorable for them, but I am not going to add to the over stimulation of the "Holiday Season" that leads only to greed and disappointment.

Maybe old Scrooge was right after all. Bah humbug!

The 180th Meridian

180th Meridian
Water Color
by William F. Bellais
2010

A day gained a day lost

Out to sea to face the cost

Of not being aware

Of what we are or to care

How we got this far.

Out at sea an imaginary line

Is crossed and we toast with wine

The new opportunity we

Thought was lost only to be

Disillusioned again by reality

That the line is an imaginary

Experience and the ordinary

Sailor simply takes in stride

Because it is just another ride

Across an empty sea.

Virga



Virga
New Mexico Ranch Country
Photo by
William F. Bellais



The clouds tower over the desert floor.

Full of promise.

The rains fall from the promising clouds.

The earth is not moistened -- the air is still

The earth is not nourished.

Hope rises in the heart over our desert floors.

Full of promise.

The silver and white glistening clouds billow

Over our parched lives,

        and like the desert

We resist the rain.

There is virga.

Then comes the storm, the wind, the rain;

Like the desert we cannot resist.

The parched spirit is watered,

Soul is nourished.

Rive l'Isle



Bridge over the Rive l'Isle
Coulaures, France
Photo by W. F. Bellais



Bridge over the Rive l'Isle
Coulaures, France
Mixed Media: water color and Ink
by W. F. Bellais

Bridges can be fascinating. Often the big and majestic bridges such as the Brooklyn Bridge or the Golden Gate Bridge are not only impressive feats of engineering but also great works of art.

It is the small country bridges that often get my attention. I am thinking of bridges off the beaten track and spanning small rivers or creeks. In the mid-west of the United States covered bridges are eye catchers. There is only one that I know of nearby but up in Iowa, just two counties north, the bridges of Madison County are famous. Although a covered bridge is only  a few miles away, I have never seen one.

A bridge thousands of miles from home, however, was the subject of a painting and photograph in 2009. The bridge crossed the Rive l'Isle at the village of Coulaures in southwestern France. Coulaures and the Rive l'Isle are part of the Perigord Region that includes some of the most beautiful countryside anywhere in the world.

For several days in September 2009 I stood on the banks of the river and studied the bridge. Apparently very old and well constructed, this bridge also reflected imaginative engineering and artistic beauty.

The bridge over the Rive l'Isle connected the newer section of Coulaures with the old village that included an antique chateau, ancient church, and old homes dating back to the seventeenth century and maybe earlier. The new Coulaures was functional and modern, but it did not have the character and interest that the old village had. I was glad we were living for a brief time in the grand chateau of the older part of Coulaures.

Being there engaged my imagination and I wanted to keep the memory in my mind forever. So, I painted several water colors of the bridge and took several photographs. I am sharing one photo and one painting with you today.

Marc Chagall



In Imitation of Marc Chagall,
W. F. Bellais, 2010



The first two weeks of September were spent on the Cote d'Azur of southern France. The experience included going to ancient villages and seeing the works of renown artists. Additionally, painting watercolors took much of the time. Virtually endless, the subject matter for watercolors included landscapes, odd ideas, and still life renditions of fruit and croissants.

Best of all the trip included a visit to the Matisse Chapel in Vence and and the Chagall Museum in Nice.

Matisse's simple idea of rendering thoughts in unadorned lines. His masterpiece, the Stations of the Cross in the Dominican Chapel in Vence, mesmerized me. I needed to study every panel. The work is highly imaginative and reflects a profound understanding of the Passion Story.

Chagall, however, grabbed my attention and held it. I still think about the paintings I saw at the Chagall Museum. In the museum a show of unusual surrealistic subjects or brilliant reds, cadmium yellow, and cerulean blue first attracted me. However, the permanent display of Chagall's depictions of Hebrew Bible themes enthralled me. The surrealistic depictions of Adam and Eve, the angels visiting Abraham and Sarah, and Song of Songs helped me see things differently (maybe even better).

On returning to the chateau overlooking the Mediterranean Sea I pulled out a piece of water color paper and worked on a parody of Chagall. The highly imaginative and sensual Song of Songs set of paintings stayed in my head. So, I tried to put on watercolor paper the spirit of Chagall.

He used vibrant color. The paintings were often defined by diagonal lines, and he used symbols to great affect. Further, he often included himself in his paintings. The latter feature, however, did not appear in his Biblical renditions; nevertheless, I put him in my parody.

While I do not wish to copy Chagall or Matisse, I do want to have the same spirit in my work.

Antiques Road Show

The Monday night ritual is to watch the Antiques Road Show on Public Broadcasting. Often, at about the half-hour mark, I doze off, but just as often I watch the show all the way through and then doze off.

The people are more interesting than the item they have brought for appraisal. Still there are times when I wish I owned something that has a long and interesting history. I like paintings most of all. That preference probably arises from my own interest in painting and art in general.

Now, here is what interests me most of all. As I have written, it is the people and their reactions to the appraisal. A parody of the show is one of the GEICO commercials that proclaims that a "bird in the hand is better than two in a bush." The commercial moves to a mock up of the Antiques Road Show. The appraiser points out the qualities of, I suppose, a ceramic hand holding a ceramic blue bird. The appraiser goes on to tell the owner of the object that it worth "two in a bush." The owner responds in amazement, "Really!"

Every now and then on the Road Show the response is "really", but more often than not the response is "wow!" Of course, this does not apply when the appraiser tells the proud owner that he or she has been bamboozled and the item is a fake. Nevertheless, "wow" is the operative word.

One evening I decided to count the number of times the word "wow" was spoken by an amazed owner of a valuable antique. The first count was about six or seven (probably seven). Then one evening I counted sixteen wows. So far that's the record. A week ago I counted ten wows. I am looking forward to the day when twenty wows are expressed.

See, there's more to a TV show than just what's presented. Look deeper and you may say, "Wow!"

Veterans Day 2



Ann in her army uniform



Yesterday (Veterans Day) my wife was honored for her service in the Army National Guard.

She served in the Guard for three years. Two were in the Arkansas Guard and one in the Texas Guard's 49th Armored Division.

She was 34 years old when she enlisted with an Army officer husband and two children. Fortunately her mother was with us when my wife went off to basic training at Ft. McCellan, Alabama. The experience was an adventure for all of us. I used to tease the kids that the mother "wore combat boots", which was a small slur back in the 1970s.

My wife was among thirty or so other women who had served in the military going back to World War II and up to the present conflicts. They were honored by a resolution of the Missouri State Legislature. The event, sponsored by the American Legion and the Veterans of Foreign Wars, helped the community remember that veterans were not only the "boys over there" but the "girls" also.

Veterans Day

Today I am thinking about all the years I spent in military service. Beginning in 1952 I joined the Marine Corps reserve while in the late months of my junior year in high school and remained active all through my senior year. In September of 1953 I joined the regular Marine Corps and went to boot camp at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego, California.

Within in minutes of stepping off the bus at the recruit depot, about 9:00 p.m., I knew I had made a bad choice. I was pushed up against a wall and shouted at by the sergeant of the guard at the gate. When all the men, they were really boys, got off the bus we were marched to a large barracks complex. Nothing much happened for the rest of the night. The next morning was an unexpected hell.

Nevertheless, despite the initial shock of drill instructors and adjusting to 24 hour military life, I was extremely proud that I had completed boot camp and was on my way to being full-fledged Marine. I spent three years in the Marine Corps as combat correspondent. Served in the 3rd Marine Division in Japan and the 1st Marine Division in Korea and Camp Pendleton, California.

After release from active duty in the Marine Corps I remained active in reserve components. I joined the Army reserve and was in a military police criminal investigation detachment as a photographer. Later I entered the ROTC program and earned a commission in the Military Intelligence Branch.

In the Army I served two one year tours in Viet Nam.

The Viet Nam Memorial in Washington is very special to me. I knew some of the men listed on the wall.

Remember all those who have served their country in times of peace and war. The military life is difficult, but the remembrance of friends and places wipes away most of the hardship.