The Hub is a Pub

In Paris, it's the Champs-Elysees.  In New York City, it's Times Square.  In beautiful, downtown Boring, it's the intersection of State Highway 212 and Wally Road.  In their own way, each of these locales is a focal point of activity in their respective corners of the globe.  Each is where the pulse of life beats the strongest.
               Many has been the day, in the late afternoon when the God-fearing and faint of heart dare not go to make a left-hand turn onto the highway.  It's better to wait for five minutes, work a crossword puzzle, or read an advice column, and hope to heaven that the line of traffic starts to show breathing space.   This may not be the "crossroads of America", but for those who live and work here, "Crossroads of Clackamas County" feels like almost too tight a fit.
        The vintage Cadillac, parked next the building to the left fronts the main artery through town, highway 212.  It is home to a sign company, a real estate office, an antique shop, and several apartments.  Once upon its time, the building housed the post office and the town hall.   As readers of this blog are very much aware, Boring has never reached city status.
              To the right, and across the highway is the buff-colored two-story known as McCalls General Store.  This establishment was spotlighted in a previous issue of The View.  The owner/operator, Ben, still holds forth; wishing this intrepid patron "a nice day" as he leaves, toting his one gallon jug of low-fat milk.
             And to the left, directly across from McCalls and Wally Road is the place where locals-in-the-know go to hob-knob,  quaff a stein of Boring IPA, and munch on the specialty of the house; the "Not-So-Boring" burger.

             Constructed originally in the early 1920's, the building which houses the Not-So first served a dual purpose as post and electric company offices.  It is one of the three oldest buildings in the village.
             Following those early days, the Hub of downtown saw a succession of taverns.  Some were reputable establishments, and some were not. The last of the latter appeared just before its current proprietors.  Called the "FullMoon", every intention was expressed by management to keep it a "family tavern"...one of the greatest oxymorons of all time.
            That noble effort continued until the cash drawer told the tale of
shrinking patronage.  The owner then decided to spice up the venue by appealing to the lowest common denominator of society.  A bevy of dancers was hired who, literally and figuratively, had nothing to hide.  The results were predictable.  Following a spike in business came the sparring amongst the clientele.  There is a suburban legend that the local fire department was dispatched to "the Moon", armed with fire hoses to break up brawls.  Thus far, nary a denizen disputes the legend.  In the aftermath, the owners liquor license was revoked. Ultimately, the Full Moon was eclipsed.
             Six months or so later, the Hub that is a Pub rose, like a phoenix from the ashes; under the new ownership of Mike and Vickie.  Their friendliness and goodwill have been the principle factors in the restoration of their business.  Of course, time, a fresh coat of paint, and a sign declaring, "No More Nude Dancers", have done their part to restore the trust of the local constituency.

           For a thirty-one year old, Vickie has logged a lot of miles.  Born and raised in LaGrande, Oregon, she had a promising future as a professional basketball player until she blew out a knee in her junior year, playing AAU ball.  Upon graduating from high school, she "hit the road", gaining experience on the highway of life while earning a living in  locales like Las Vegas, Alabama and Utah, before returning to Baker City in eastern Oregon.  Since the age of fourteen, she has acccumulated seventeen years of experience in the food and beverage industry.  Mightily she tried to talk her betrothed, Mike, out of ever venturing into this business.
                       However, Mike was of a different mindset.  Twenty-five years as a general contractor, specializing in window and door installation had taken a heavy physical toll on him.  He needed to find a way out of the demands of his day job.  When the opportunity to buy the Full Moon surfaced, his vote outweighed Vickie's...by just enough....despite the understanding that he had no previous experience in this line of work.
                    "Not-So's" demands do not deter Vickie in the pursuit of her own ambition.  Having already received a certificate as a certified nurses' assistant, she is now actively studying to earn a credential as a certified surgical technician.  While straddling these two entirely different worlds, she avers, "I love helping people, not serving people."  Until the days come when her hopes can be realized, she is satisfied while being the"Mom of the Bar".  When it comes to resolving disuputes which occasionally erupt, she is the terminator; reasoning rightly that guys respond more readily to a woman in authority in those situations.  Moms seemingly always have the last word.

                The co-owners agree that the most satisfying aspect of this new vocation is the support of the clientele.  Bit by bit, and little by little, the base of patronage has been restored to the point where Mike can now look longingly at a second establishment.
                 The downside, for the both of them has been the constant effort to retain good, reliable help; especially on the grill-side of the operation.  At present, they are looking for another replacement in a very transient profession.
                  Meanwhile, both remain quite optimistic about their own futures, and that of the Not-So-Boring Bar & Grill.  That's something we can all drink to.  Cheers!
                                      

Bullet Points - Part II

        This month's issue of the View features the second of two interviews with former law enforcement personnel.  The topic once again is gun-control legislation in the United States.  The subject of this interview is "Terri".  The questions she will be asked are the same that were asked of "Mark" in last month's issue.
         Terri was involved in law enforcement for close to twenty years, serving first as a patrolman, then as a detective.  Prior to that, she was in the Oregon Army National Guard for nine and a half years; leaving with the rank of Sergeant.

The View: What is your overall attitude towards current proposed national legislation regarding gun-control, ie: background checks, assault weapons, limited capacity clips, etc.?

Terri: I think they are a good idea, but like all things that the government is involved in, there will be too many loop holes and exceptions.  Currently, we do background checks for buying a new gun, but allow anyone to buy at a gun show.  The laws have to be very black and white.  I don't see this happening.

The View:  Many changes have taken place since the days of muskets, militias, and the drafting of the second amendment to the constitution.

Terri: This is true, however, the second amendment is still in effect, and we are obligated to protect and uphold it. I know that is a short answer, but really, as police officers and government officials, we take an oath.  So, until that changes, we have to stand by it.

The View: Do you believe that all "qualified" citizens are still obliged to bear arms for the sake of self-protection?

Terri: Absolutely! If I were a bad guy, I would think twice about burglarizing or robbing someone who could "potentially" have a gun.  We would be in a world of hurt if only the "dirt bags" had the guns.  It is kind of like saying, "The guy with the most gold makes the rules."  I take some comfort in knowing that my neighbors and friends, and family have guns.

The View: Do arms-bearing citizens help or hinder the cause of law enforcement?

Terri: Help. There are not enough cops out there to take care of everyone and every situation.  We need to police ourselves more and more.  I have never had a problem with an armed citizen.  (Only bad guys)  I worked swing-shift on Mt. Hood by myself for 7 years.  I had a good relationship with all the local truck drivers, and I know that a few of them carried guns.  I also know that they would cover my back if the (expletive) hit the fans.

The View: Can you conceive of a justifiable reason for anyone not employed by the military or law enforcement to own an AR-15, AK-47, or any other type of assault weapon?

Terri: Well, yes.  I think all guns are the same.  It is the person holding it that makes the difference.  I can inflict as much, if not more damage with a shot-gun.  The magazines for most guns can be altered and jerry rigged
to hold a lot of bullets.  I can take my Glock 40, which is a semi-automatic, the same as an AR-15, and rig the magazine to hold 30 bullets.  So it is now what is referred to as an assault weapon.  It really is just a label.

(Ed. note: The opinions expressed in this interview are not necessarily those held by the editorial staff of The View.  HLR)

Bullet Points

Prologue: With this post, The View will take a two-month hiatus from its usual form and substance to address a serious topic.  Aside from matters of government finance, there is no more controversial or divisive issue in the United States today than gun control legislation.  The View has invited two former law enforcement officers to express their opinions on five identical questions relating to the subject.  The first interview with "Mark" will be posted this month.  The second, with "Terri" will follow in the April posting.  Now, the disclaimer: The opinions expressed therein are not necessarily those of this editorial staff.
                  Mark was a sworn police officer for 33 years; serving as a patrolman, detective, court enforcement (civil law). and state certified crime prevention specialist.  He also spent twenty-seven years in the US Army and National Guard as a Military Police officer and Investigator.

View: What is your overall attitude towards current proposed national legislation regarding gun-control, ie: background checks, assault weapons, limited capacity clips, etc.?

Mark: I believe that any legislation that makes it harder for convicted criminals and the mentally ill to get guns is a huge step forward.  Combine that with mandatory gun safety classes before gun ownership, and education efforts regarding the effect of entertainment violence, and we'd be on our way.  This would also include a little talked about part of the federal legislation that would make it a federal felony crime to "traffic"in both legal and illegal weapons and sales.  This impacts people stealing guns, and selling/trading them for drugs or cash.  Also, it should be a crime to leave a weapon unsecured, and a felony if it falls into the hands of a child.  Gun owners need to be held accountable.  Last, we cut off the flow of illegal gun sales at "gun shows" - everyone gets a background check, and applicable waiting periods.

View: Many changes in weaponry have taken place since the days of muskets, militias, and the drafting of the second ammendment to the constitution.

Mark: Militias are organized groups established to protect citizens and the country.  Our US military forces and state National Guards are examples of organized militias.  Militias protect people from other people that threaten them with realistic ability to kill.  In today's world, there are weapons of mass destruction that exceed even the wildest imaginaiton.  When England's first protestant king passed a law to disarm the civilian populace in 1698, he was not well received, and it is still as issue there.  That laid the groundwork for many folks who fled England for the New World.
              The U.S. Supreme Court does its best to interpret the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, according to the original intent, but tempered against current mores.  It does not have an obligation to protect the US.  That falls to the Executive Branch (of government).  The last major decision by the Supreme Court was in 2008. when it ruled that the states must follow the same guidance regarding gun ownership as the federal government. We saw the restrictions on concealed handgun licensing in Oregon, for example, cut back to allow any citizen with a clean record to get one.

View: Do you believe that all "qualified" citizens are still obliged to bear arms for the sake of self-protection?

Mark: Yes, with a good definition of "qualified" (as previously talked about).  I honestly believe that the rest of the world is totally terrified of the concept of invading our country, mostly because of our constitutional right to own guns - and a lot of Hollywood!  They can pinpoint where our military strengths and weaknesses are, but our entire population being armed is a huge deterrent.  An invading force would have extensive supply lines, and a challenge to replace losses in its ranks.  If every American had the ability to get a gun, and shoot one invader, attrition would decide the conflict in our favor.  Sadly, I think that if some country feels that it is strong enough to take us on, we won't have a chance to use our guns in the face of a nuclear war.  Also, remember that in today's wars, you can win by destroying the economic ability of a nation to care for itself.   That's one of the reasons that the World Trade Center (09.11.2001) was specifically attacked. 

View: Do arms-bearing citizens help or hinder the cause of law-enforcement?

Mark: This is a tough one.  Guns have only one purpose - to take life - human or animal.  Target shooters and gun collectors take issue with that, saying they are for fun and hobby. That's crap. A gun is a gun is a gun. Because of their lethality, guns can dissuade others from hurting someone, but they are still guns. I've talked to true "bad guys" who are terrified of being shot during a home burglary.  Not many burglars do get shot during a home break-in, but the chance they might, I believe, does cause a lot of bad guys to find less dangerous ways to get property or money for drugs.

View: Can you conceive of a justifiable reason for anyone not employed by the military or law-enforcement to own an AR-15, AK-47, or any other type of assault weapon?

Mark: Yes, it they are sane, and undergo proper gun-safety classes and background checks, and go to jail on a federal charge if they sell or give the gun to someone else without the same background checks.  Magazines (clips) should be limited to whatever is the standard issue for that weapon.  Even the military does not use magazines with huge amounts of bullets, for many reasons.  The shooter at Clackamas Town Center (12.11.2012). and others who had illegally purchased high capacity magazines, had a serious weapons-jam because that type of gun and magazine are not designed for shooting large amounts of bullets.
         In the same way that I've said "a gun is a gun is a gun", I apply that to assault weapons, as well.  Yes, citizens should be entitled to own an "assault weapon", but the magazines should be restricted to no more than eight (8) rounds, which is less than many semi-auto handguns, and the same as most pump shotguns.
                                              ~         ~         ~        ~       ~


                        

Cosmic Questions

Premise:  At some time in our lives, each of us has posed at least one question for which we have never received a satisfactory reply.  Typically, the answers have been: a) inadequate, b) oblique, or c) totally non-existent.  Choice c) likely is due to the fact that it would be a waste of breath to pose the question to anyone in the first place.  So, we press on with our lives, abiding with a mild form of frustration, for want of finding that which has to be out there....somewhere in the cosmos.   A litany of the most hackneyed, or threadbare of questions would begin with offerings such as, "Why do bad things happen to good people?" Conversely, "Why do good things happen to bad people?"  Then, there is always the elementary school standby, "How high is up?"

            What follows are the contributions to this pursuit of the unanswered; as offered by our steadfast, loyal readership.  Last names have been withheld to protect the innocent.

            If the pen is mightier than the sword,  then why do actions speak louder than words?               
                                                        ~ Ben, Portland ~

            Why are Americans so obsessed with dying healthy?
                                                        ~ Peter, The Netherlands ~

            Is this all there is?
                                                        ~ Gary, Hood River, OR ~

            Why, if I am standing in the store, and change checkout lines, does it always take longer than if I had never moved?

                              ~ Tyler, Battle Ground, WA ~

             Will we ever see the transcripts?
                              ~Ben, Springfield, MO

             Why are we, as a human race, improving on obtaining and dispersing information, yet failing to meaningfully translate it into "knowledge", let alone consistently discern amid it all, truth vs. falsehood?
                                                        ~Alice, Richmond, VA ~

             When is dinner?
                                                        ~ Rees, Portland ~

             If simplifying the tax structure would save huge amounts of money, hassle, and mean reduced monitoring of the government in our lives, then why can't we have a simple flat tax?
                                                        ~ Ken, Portland ~

             Is it only a coincidence that the cars which are crowding my tailpipe, or which pass on the right at slightly under the speed of light, that such cars are red?
                                                       ~ Susan H., Portland ~

           What is Atlas kneeling on when he lifts the world?
                                                       ~ Margaret, Danville, CA ~

Do all husbands leave small change in every room of the house?
                            ~ Sarah, Fort Collins, CO ~

Astronomically speaking, what happens to missing matter?
                                                       ~ Larry, Reno NV ~

Vye is it der is so many more horses aziz in da vorld den der is horses?
                                                       ~ Al, Boise, ID ~

How did the ancient mariners know that one nautical mile would exactly equal one minute of a degree?
                                                       ~ Gaylord, Spokane, WA ~

As a train passes cows standing in a field, why are the cows always facing the train?
                                                       ~ Chuck, Portland ~

What's the big deal about thumb-sucking, anway?

                                                       ~ Cyndi, Portland ~   

Why is it that no one likes any governement except when they want something?
                                                        ~Joe, Surrey, ME ~

Now what do I do?
                                                       ~ Pat, Portland ~       

Is there life after birth?
                                                        ~ Charles, Columbia, MD


      
   

The Music of our Laughter

        Every teacher who spent as many years in front of a chalkboard as your scribe has a wealth a stories to tell; some triumphal, some tinged with sadness, and some downright laughable.  What follows is a smattering of the last.  Joy has a way of embracing laughter, and even if it can't always be that way,  joy is what life should be about.

                        "Dune Buggy", whose real-life name bears the same initials, was the designated pistol of the classroom.  It's a  given that every teacher is provided at least one; that's the administrator's solemn duty.  D.B. was a street-smart kid, knew how to play the angles,  yet likeable, in his own mischievous way.  This son of a preacher man saved most of his talent as a rabble-rouser for basketball practice.

                    During one such session, he couldn't resist baiting a lesser-talented kid, even though he himself was on the scrub-roster.  The "baitee" would blow a layup from here to eternity, and there D.B. would be, to ape and laugh at the poor kid.  His coach, namely moi, warned him not once, but twice to leave the victim of his scorn alone.  Twice he ignored.  Following his third "performance", he was banished from the court, and told to shower-down, and head for home.

                          Shortly after D.B. departed the premesis, yours truly visited the locker room,  only to discover that all the floors were dry;  not a trace of water anywhere.  It didn't take a forensic scientist to determine that the guilty party had violated a cardinal coaching rule, to wit: you practice, you play,  you must then shower!

                         The next day, before the start of class, I pulled the boy-buffoon aside, and inquired of him, "David, did you take a shower after practice last night?"  Without a waver or a blink, he looked unhasitatingly at me and said, "Yes, coach."   Hmmm.  "Then why was it that when I came in the locker room a few minutes after you left that I didn't see water anywhere, not even wet footprints?"  His reply was the most incredible of defenses: "I didn't wash my feet".  The kid, who dared to go walking on water one better, then spent a few noon hours on the gym bleachers;  pondering certain physical improbabilities.

..............................................................................................................

                  "Back to school" was something that was greeted with mixed feelings.  There was the excitement and anticipation of a fresh start, a new batch of students, and the eternal promise of a year that could be the one to top all years previous.  But, for most male teachers at the elementary level, there is a definite downside. It has to do with classroom decor.  Most guys in the profession look like total klutzes next to their female counterparts, especially when it comes to matters of bulletin board-design.   The square feet of cork , demanding to be dressed up, seems like miles of daunting and taunting for those of us who are....shall we say....artistically challenged.

              One year, I made the decision to "reduce the field of play", by purchasing some posters;  huge posters, that were big enough to cover closet doors.  There were photo-stills of sports celebrities in action that I knew would appeal to the athletes in the room.  Also purchased was a nice woodsy, environmentally-themed poster.  But the coups de grace was the portrait of a classic, maternal type; similar to Whistler's Mother, captioned with what I perceived to be words to the wise: "Express Thyself".  How could one miss with that?!

            Two days before school was to begin, a former student happend by to say "Hi", and have a look about the room.  As he was finishing his grand tour, he paused, and studied the matronly figure in the rocker.  "Coach, are you sure you want this poster?" In a Clackamas County heartbeat came the response: "Of course, I do!  It has just the right message for a caption, don't you think?!"  Billy shuffled in his shoes, and replied, "Well, I'm just not all that sure you really want that poster."  Shortly following, we parted company, and I resumed work on the finishing touches that would welcome all my kids to Mighty Room 5.
           The following day was the final prep day before summer vacation's last big weekend, and its last hurrah.  Traditionally that is  the day when the building principal passes in review of all the classrooms for a round of inspection.  Teachers aren't required to salute or stand at attention, but we'd jolly-well better be ready!
          "Dean" gave everything in my room the thorough once-over, before he, too, stopped and looked critically at the rocking madonna.  "This poster has to come down, Hal".  "Why, Dean?" was all that came to mind while being caught totally off-guard.  "It is just a picture of a lady seated in a chair with what is a very appropriate (most important term in "educationese") caption encouraging expression.  "Take another look at the woman's hands", the principal directed. 
             There, the lady pensively sat; hands resting on her lap, one atop the other.  The top-most hand was nestled open-faced, with the middle finger...... fully extended..... and.... pointing skyward.  In no more time than it took to say the verbal equivalent of "OMG", the offending poster was dispatched; never again to see the light of day.
            Came Tuesday and the first day of school, and along with all the other observances, the school secretary hand-delivered the morning bulletin.  At the bottom of the page was the following declaration by the principal: "From now on, all posters must pass an inspection by the poster inspection committee before being displayed in any classroom.  I am that committee."  The notice generated laughs, as intended,  but the edge to it was only too obvious to at least one of the faculty.
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               The first day of April is not a day teachers generally look forward to, and with good reason.  It is the day for mentors to play the victim of playful pranks, perpetrated by those who have absorbed seven months of savvy.  Savvy that goes into figuring out the behavioral patterns of the guy (or gal) behind that big desk in the front of the classroom. 

               Yours truly has been the recipient of salt and pepper-spiked molasses cookies, and whoopee cushions*; skillfully hidden on my '48 model swivel chair.   Though when it comes to out-foxing the teacher, kids tend to forget that we were once students ourselves.

               7:30 of an April 1st marked my arrival at school; as was my custom.  "Teach" wanted to get there early enough to prepare, have a cup of coffee with the colleagues, and catch up on any building gossip that was circulating.  This was THE fatal flaw in my students', "The Mighty Room 5 Rhinos", planning for my April Fool's come-uppance.  While they could peg when I would leave the building, they hadn't figured out when I'd make my return.  No student, in his right mind, ever willingly comes to school at the un-Godly hour their teacher did.

                      Waiting for my 4:00 pm exit on the thirty-first of March, they must have hovered around in stealth for the critical moment.  Then, they pulled their ploy.

                     What yours truly beheld upon his return to Room 5 on that first day of  April was a setting, totally absent  any furnishing:  student desks, teacher's desk, overhead projector and cart, paperback book rack, couch and carpet; the whole enchilada was gone.  I could almost hear my gasp, echoing in the void.

                     Footsteps were quickly retraced to the entrance, then to an empty classroom at the end of our wing.  There, the stash was discovered, every last piece the kids had "relocated" after I had left the afternoon before.  The lead custodian at our school feigned ignorance of the caper, but obligingly helped me return all the goods to their rightful place;  just as they were when the boss left the building the afternoon before.          
                    As my Rhinos filed into the classroom, the look of disbelief in their eyes was unmistakable.  It was like someone had just told them that they would all have to repeat 6th grade the following year.  Even at that age, girls can pretty well mask their feelings,  and boys of any age are as easy to read as giant billboards, but all of the kiddies were absolutely stunned.
                   Of course, their mention of any skullduggery afoot would have been an admission of collusion, at best.  One and all remained mute.  After the pledge to the flag,  the whole herd sat down in their desks, more or less meek as mice.  They were denied their April Fool's joke, and the laughing satisfaction of "a good one, well-played" on Mr. R.
                   But to carry off an academy award winning performance of my own, I had to press on with the agenda of the day as if nothing...absolutely nothing had happened that was out of the ordinary.  Not a hint of a "ha-ha", nor a smidgeon of a smirk could betray the "blissful ignorance" of my behavior.  Arugably, it was the best acting job in my entire teaching career.
                    It wasn't until I had driven off  the parking lot at the end of the day that I luxuriated in the last laugh,  a window-rattling guffaw.  From that spring day until the close of school for the summer, not a word was spoken by anyone about that April Fool's fiasco.  The kids got their "just desserts", and I had mine.

                    (*Ed note to our readership from distant lands: This prankish device functions like a bellows,  producing a sound generally associated with the W.C.) 

                   

The Little Church That Could

           Almost everyone has memories of their childhood which embrace books and those who once read them to us.  Oft times I still think of my father, seated with me at the kitchen table in the early evening, reading from one of a collection of "Oz" books.  Doubtless, there were things he could have engaged in after a hard days work that would have been a more pleasurable diversion for him.  Yet for the better part of an hour, and for several times each week, he chose to read to me, as I followed along, the exploits of Dorothy, the Scarecrow, Tick-Tock, and Ozma.  We must have waded through at least a dozen of L. Frank Baum's works before it was mutually agreed to move on, and leave those sessions as a marker of the life we shared.

              Precious as those memories still are, it wasn't the Oz books that occupy the top wrung on the best-ever list.  That very lofty spot belongs to "The Little Engine That Could"; a story originally published in 1930 by Arnold Munk, who for some weird reason, adopted the pen name of "Watty Piper". Such a really big deal it was that the three '78 rpm record album of that story was parked under the family Christmas tree for your scribe in one of his more tender years. (Please bear in mind that one side of a ten-inch '78 could only hold about four minutes-worth of recording) Whether or not it was the first book anyone ever read for themselves is unimportant.  What does matter is the impact it has had on the way three generations of its young readers tend look at life.
               In a nutshell, here is the storyline:
                         ~A long train must be pulled over a high mountain.  Larger engines are asked to pull the train; for various reasons they refuse.  The biggest locomotive in the roundhouse declines, allowing that it would be too much of a haul for him. The request is sent to a small, blue, yard-switcher, who agrees to give it a try.  The engine succeeds in pulling the train over the mountain while repeating its mantra, to the same cadence heard  with a load-pulling steam locomotive, "I-think-I-Can-I-think-I-Can".  Little Blue ultimately triumphs over the impossible.~
                      There is a real-life counterpart to Pratt's tale, found in Oregon's Clackamas County hinterlands.  Once upon a time it was called just plain "Holy Cross Church". While it was still a fledgling parish and renting space every Sunday from the local Adventists, it was given the gift of land; deeded by its wealthiest benefactor.   The area surrounding the plot was and is rural,  and very agricultural in character.  The state highway which once fronted the property was relocated long before the church came into being.  There are neither housing developments nor shopping centers, either east or west, for a good five miles.   This is exactly the kind of place that would prompt anybody with even a novice's understanding of demographics to offer the following advice: "Don't go there!"

                       Yet go there, they did.  While standing in their own field of dreams, the faithful decided to "build it, and they will come".  So it was done, with only the bare minimum of professional contracting expertise, and a whole lot of volunteer labor that was long on willingness, but short on skill.  To the casual observer, the church design looks like nothing so much as a double-wide manufactured home.  For practical purposes, that's what it is, but with a few essential and strategic refinements.
                     "They" did come for awhile, but sadly priests have a way of coming and going.  Each seems to reel in many upon arriving, and pull  away some upon leaving.  Still, everything was in a way, comfortably constant, until one certain Sunday.  Then, during his Penetcost homily the good father admonished the congregation, "The choice is yours.  Do you wish to retain a country club image; have a cup of coffee with friends after mass, and go home for another week........ or, do you wish to get involved in this community, and do the work of a mission?"  Since he was fluent in Spanish, "Father Tom" had his own notion of Plan B. 

            Every other Episcopal church in the area considered a combined liturgy too heavy a load to pull.  Undaunted, the plan was implimented.  It meant "bringing in the sheaves" of migrant laborers from the neighboring nurseries and fields. To go out to meet them at their level, their workplaces. To roll out the Spanish-speaking carpet, listen to their needs, and give them a spiritual place to call their own.  The effort yielded what our priest had hoped for.  Holy Cross became Holy Cross/Santa Cruz.  The changeover seemed like a divine stroke of genius.  Initially, every Sunday saw a packed house.
                      Sadly, a bi-lingual service is a liturgical cup of tea that has very limited appeal in the traditional anglo-Episcopal scheme of things.  The hands which once raised the building and turned on the lights dwindled to a precious few.  English-only visitors treated the church entrance like a revolving door.  Some thirty-five years later, the flock at Holy Cross/Santa Cruz is made up of scores of young Latino bucks, does,  and a few old goats.  It is largely a parish of vagabonds; those who not only must live from one paycheck to the next, but many must also keep a wary eye on the rear-view mirror for that flashing blue light....a light which could signal a rapid, one-way trip back across the border.  Without doubt, when it comes to involvement in the parish, they are committed to the "can-do" and "want to", but the "time to" is a whole different ball game. 
                          Every Sunday produces a slightly different cast of characters lining the pews; each harboring a different set of issues and  pressing needs for the following six days.  Yet they love their spiritual home because it provides a place to have their "Primera Comunions" (first communions for their young children), "Quinceaneras" (a rite of passage for fifteen-year old girls), "Bodas" (weddings), and of course "bautismos" (baptisms). 
Most importantly, it is a place where they are comfortable in the certainty they will be treated as brothers and sisters in every aspect of corporate and social life. 
             As of the last treasurer's report, there aren't all that many pledging pistons to drive the HC/SC locomotive,  making the grade all the more difficult to climb.  Only five of the faithful have the capacity to write a check, and cover expenses each month.  The rest drop in a loose bill or two whenever possible.  But everyone stands shoulder-to-shoulder in fueling the argument for survival.  They are not about to concede defeat while the wheels are still turning, no matter the steepness of the roadbed.

               Will this church be around after the next critical analysis, when pencils of diocesan officers are sharpened, and grim projections of future  realities are detailed?  Only You-Know-Who has the answer, at present.  However, if there are those inclined to wager, don't bet against the Little Church That Could! 
     


             

For Want of a Flash Drive

     While easing into life's mid-winter, it's become obvious that there are certain realities of life that by-pass other age groups, which can't be totally ignored by ours.  Let's take the daily observance of lunch, for example.  The sandwich, a handful of chips, and a low-cal gatorade are this writer's standard bill-of-fare.  This dining experience invariably plays out to the accompaniment of the noon tv news.  Therein lies the rub.

Marketers choose that time to launch their colon, catheter, and feminine hygiene commercials.  Why do they subject the viewing public to this kind of insidious torment?  It's because: 1) they know they can; that renaissance geezers, such as this writer, are creatures of habit, holding fast to the notion that twelve chimes signifies chow time.  Twenty-seven years of teaching in the classroom helped to reinforce that behavior. 2) We fit the demographic for the products these fiends are trying to sell.  That leaves the seasoned-citizen-diner with the alternatives of either banging repeatedly on the remote control mute button, or else, staring at a ham and cheese on rye that looks less and less appealing with every passing "pitch".

              Next, the following senior-scenario is inevitably played out:  In an airport, or a sidewalk in town, or a hallway in a building, the call rings out from behind you...."Hey, Hal!", or "Hey, Mr. R.!", or "Hey, Coach!" All of the foregoing are most often suffixed by, "Do you remember me?"  Of course I/we do!  Everything, that is, except for one minor detail, their name.

                  What ensues is a dialogue, immersed in a frantic, yet hopefully furtive ("frantive"?) search for the nearest mens' room, or the nearest broom closet, or any safe haven that would provide refuge from the one holding the name-hammer over your head.

                  However....a restroom or closet isn't always that accessible, especially when one finds oneself out on a hiking trail, miles from either, while completing one's two-mile morning constitutional.  Ultimately, as it becomes obvious with every passing exchange, one must say to that fellow hiker, "I'm sorry, could you give me your name again, please?" (Thank heaven you remember that she is a cross-country airline flight attendant, for which she appreciates your "powers of recollection".)

                "Of course", she says, "It's Diana.  You remember you'd given me the title of  Lady Di for future reference?!"  The Lady Di had unwittingly skewered this wintry acquaintance of hers, and made irrelevant all kinds of accolades and kudos that powers of recollection had granted him before.

                All of which bring us to the gift(?) of digitized memory retrieval, also known as the "Flash Drive".  Depending on the price you are willing to pay, these devices can store data from the capacity of a generously-sized biography (footnotes, family tree and illustrations, included) to the Complete Works of Plato, Gray's Anatomy, Tollstoy's "War and Peace", the New York City telphone directory, and for good measure, the full, unedited film version of "Gone With the Wind".

                 They are very handy, USB plug-in tools, and known affectionately by some as "thumb drives" given that they are scarcely the size of an adult thumb.  But their size, meaning critically, their portability, can also be their liability...if placed in the wrong hands, such as those belonging to a forgetful septuagenarian.

                  Our little "beastie" travelled with us this year, down the spine of Sweden, from Stockholm to Malmo.  From there, across the fjords of Norway, the canals of Belgium, and the streets of Paris.  Not only that, it was a constant companion on flights to and from ports-of-call.  It was a safety net for daily journal entries of our travels, along with a huge hunk of gigabyte for digital photos.  So tight was our bond, that it came close to receiving a nickname normally reserved for house pets.  "Ysidro" comes to mind.

                 Some time between our return and a fortnight later, the flash drive went "a.w.o.l.", as in "Absent without leave", a phrase generally associated with desertion in military circles.  However, we acknowledge that this is misdirecting blame that is rightfully ours.  "Ysidro" didn't desert moi.  Moi deserted Ysidro.

                To this day, the "Y-search" continues.  The investigation (read that "obsession") falls something short of magnificent.  Our house, and all manner of possessions have been repeatedly given an examination befitting TSA airport security; all to no avail.  IN the interim, there have been a host of rationalizations that have been conjured to soothe the wounds of this aging ego.  

             Albert Einstein would walk off to teach his physics classes at Princeton University without first slipping on his socks.  On the other end of the age spectrum, grandsons have repeatedly lost jackets...even a tee-shirt with the prized nom d'plume of "HoneyBear".  But all of this is small comfort to a guy who's wondering where all this absent-mindedness is leading.

              The missing electronic companion retails for a mere $5.99.  Everything on it is safely stowed on a laptop hard drive.  Why then, oh why, is this "Y" allowed so much space on the backshelf of this writer's mind? It is another in a rash of itches that cannot be scratched, and shares the shelf with other little irritants.

                 For example, why is it increasingly difficult to grab a wink of sleep after five o'clock in the morning, and why do people mumble their words now, more than they ever did before?  These queries come by tip-toe, unbidden, into the mind of a muse with far too much discretionary time.

                Not to worry. Now that the answer to the ultimate question of the meaning of life, the universe, and everything has been found (our readership knows it as the number "5"), your scribe can at least partially devote his attention to the Hereafter, while posing yet another question:  What am I here....after?

               Kindly excuse me while I meditate..........