a walk among timber

He parks the car, exits and immediately heads toward an open area, a large field between 100+ year old buildings. I notice that he is  walking at an unusually, for him anyway, brisk pace. He scans the grounds, seeking out any tree that is both visible to his eye and that also has an adjacent, identifying placard. The placards are placed on 3-foot posts and most contain the common and scientific names of the corresponding tree.

Amused, I say, “Silly, stop and observe."

He continues, not unlike a curious child, hop, skipping and jumping, or so it seems to me, from one tree to the next.

“My dear, you are missing the point” I call out through laughter. “At least take a moment or two to observe the tree and not just its name. Look at its shape. Look at its trunk. Look at its seed pods. Look at its leaves. It has a personality, so it's best not to snub it.”

He listens to me for a moment, then defiantly dashes away. Again he reminds me of a child, “I want to find the chestnut trees!”

Okay, fine, go. I lose myself in the timber. I become aware of each tree I pass, from any visible roots to the highest point on its canopy. I stand back to take in the basic shape of the tree. I move in to look at the texture of the trunk, the style of leaves or needles. I discern the flowers, fruit, nuts or seeds it distributes to begin its reproduction process. Then, I look at its name. Sometimes I already know the genus, like oak, but often I do not know the species, such as post oak or bur oak.

I introduce myself.

Within minutes I am drinking and breathing them into my very being, or they are drinking and breathing me into them. I never know which. I forget the rest of the world.

Any ache, hurt or even itch disappears from my physical body. I move fluidly and effortlessly about, like a ghost. I hear what the trees have to say, although no words are spoken.

I spot a tree that has the shape of a woman who has put her arm up to push a lock of hair into place. “Yes, you are beautiful,” I wordlessly tell her. “So lovely that I want to take your photograph, but I oughtn’t.” “Oh do,” she urges.

Some time later I happen upon my male companion. I’d forgotten that we’d even come here together. We've been wandering about the acreage, each in our own world. And now we've stumbled upon each other again. Oh yeah, you. I’d almost forgotten, although we are happy to have reconnected as we realize we have been bounced back to planet earth.

And now, we have somehow managed to accidentally stumble across the three American Chestnut trees and the reason we are here. These true survivors are adjacent to the empty maintenance building. Some being, most likely a human, has pried away the identifying placard and thus a useless 3-foot post stands in front of the triplet trees. Do they not want people to know?

“Are you sure these are American Chestnut trees?” he asks. “Yes, dear, look at the seed pod. Look at the leaves.” He bends to pick up a seed pod that had fallen near his feet, “Ouch!” he says as his bare fingers reflexively let it drop. “Yes,” I chuckle, “That is an American Chestnut seed pod.”

***

like little children they pull me in,

“come, play”

I wander

making new friends

amidst dilapidation I hear,

“look, look”

“look at me!"

“see how I've thrived."

do they miss the youthful energy?

students?

fervent minds?

yes, adaptation

I continue my stroll, finding peace

aware

life prevails

life is precious

---

More than a century ago, nearly 4 billion American chestnut trees were growing in the eastern U.S. They were among the largest, tallest, and fastest-growing trees. The wood was rot-resistant, straight-grained, and suitable for furniture, fencing, and building. The nuts fed billions of birds and animals. It was almost a perfect tree, that is, until a blight fungus killed it more than a century ago. The chestnut blight has been called the greatest ecological disaster to strike the world’s forests in all of history.

 -The American Chestnut Foundation

***

“All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no species would survive.”

-Yann Martel, Life of Pi

***

placards

one bad apple

broken concrete... was it once a game court? a parking lot?

having a handsome hide

love found on an abandoned campus

authenticated surviving American Chestnuts trees

survivors of the blight

a maintenance building in need of maintenance

building rotting from inside and outside 

watch that first step, it's a lulu

sculpture aptly named "transitions"

the name says it all

the "v" tree

like lip prints or fingerprints, no two are the same

up & down school staircase

is that gnome mooning me? are they trapped in the crumbling brick building? 

buckeyes

she popped up, just as we were leaving, to wave goodbye

a change of scenery

I’m jotting down some menu thoughts for a brunch I plan to host. And I know that I’m only half-listening as I hear Beloved Husband mention something about the Autumn Blaze tree, the one on the empty lot at the corner, beginning to change color. I hear the school bus race past our house on her morning run, kicking up dust from the edge of our chip and seal roadbeds. She always seems in a rush, as if she is constantly behind schedule. Our running joke is that when she makes her stops, she yanks the children on board in the morning and boots them off with her heel on the afternoon return.

I look up and see Frank golfing, by himself as he does most Mondays through Fridays. He often reaches hole 5 (the view from our backyard) in perfect sync with the school bus. Frank lives in Texas and visits here each summer. He grew up not far from here, still has close family living nearby. Frank is a nice man, a successful lawyer, your typical local boy makes good story. Why, did you know he...

Beloved Husband disturbs my thoughts with a mention that there are five orioles at the jelly feeder. They are not, as usual, bickering or pecking at each other for first dibs. We listen as they whistle and chatter, as if in friendly communication. “Do you think they're discussing arrangements to leave en masse?” “Perhaps, perhaps. I do say, old chap, it would be quite advantageous to establish a friendly bond if one were to be traveling some distance together,” I attempt to speak in a stuffy British tone but break into a laugh before I can finish.

But, how do birds decide that it’s time to move away? Is it an internal longing for a change of scenery or simply an innate response to shortened sunlit hours? If I were a bird, perhaps I would be a cardinal, a chickadee or a downy woodpecker, or some type that is content to stay in one locale.

I step outside with Beloved Husband. The hummingbirds are arching and diving over our heads as we stand on the deck sipping coffee. But one day soon, I know that I'll look out of the window and realize that they have all disappeared. At first I'll notice that not one hummingbird has visited the feeder for days. And yet for a while, I'll have this feeling that I could swear I just saw them. And so I’ll continue to fill the now unused feeder with homemade nectar for another couple of weeks. Because maybe, just maybe one or two hummies will be dawdlers or procrastinators. I know well the feeling...

And I’ll recall one hummingbird in particular, a female hummingbird, who stopped by our back door, where there is no feeder nor is there a nectar-rich planting anywhere nearby. And yet she stopped at this same spot, three years in a row, hovering in place just long enough for us to notice her and her particular markings; and as she wafted in place she was looking directly into our house, where we sat fixated.  She seemed to say, “Good-bye and thanks again, guys. It’s been a great visit, but I’m heading for home.” For we, here in Privatopia, we are merely the temporary change of scenery she sought.

"What do you think, guys? Is it time to head back?"

better fuel up for the trip

their colors are most brilliant at their Spring arrival, methinks, or perhaps they dull their colors to make themselves less visible on their migration route home

stopping for a sip, or two

licks her lips, savoring, as she casts a longing glance towards home, so far, far away

buh-bye

jotting down ideas for brunch, why oh why, did I write banana sushi twice? ;)'

I don't post identifiable photos of our grandchildren, but I do love this photo of our granddaughter's back and her body language, showing her agony, as she watches her brother leave for summer camp "Please don't go!" she might be saying. Much as I might wail at the end of each summer, "Don't leave me!!! Stay or take me with you! But, please, please don't leave me behind!"

***

"There is something deep within us that sobs at endings. Why, God, does everything have to end? Why does all nature grow old? Why do spring and summer have to go?"

- Joe Wheeler 

Vacation Time

We have guests visiting for the next couple of weeks, so I am officially on "vacation." Here is a rerun of a bit of fiction I posted in 2013:


UP NORTH

When my cousins from the country visit us in the city, I usually play with them, even though they’re mostly older than me. Jesse is the oldest and he’s my favorite. He’s sort of the boss of us kids, but not in a mean bossy way. Like, he’ll notice if someone’s getting picked on and he’ll make the teasing stop. Or, if we’re playing a game and someone cheats, Jesse will say, “Come on guys, let’s play fair.” And the funny thing is: everyone always listens to him.

Last year when I saw Jesse, I noticed that he was different. I guess I’d say he was sullen. I’m not exactly sure what it means but, it’s a word my mom uses, when I’m quiet like that.
“Why are you so sullen, Sophie?

“I’m just thinking,” I tell her. Usually I’m thinking about how much I miss my dad.

So this day, since Jesse still seemed "out-of-sorts," that’s another thing my Mom says about me when I am "sullen," I decided not to go off and play with my visiting cousins. And that's why I was sitting on the floor near the card table, playing with my dolls, close to where my mom and her sisters were playing Tripoley for pennies, when I remembered that day last summer.

I like to listen to grownups talk. They use funny expressions. Expression, that’s what my mom called it when I asked her later about something I’d heard. You can tell when grownups are going to say something interesting because their voices get really quiet. Like the time I heard Mom say “Did you hear that Bitsy lost her baby? She and Jim are taking it pretty hard.” And I’m thinking, how the heck does a grownup lose a baby? I was thinking that I just bet Jim is really mad at Bitsy for losing their baby. Maybe someone will find the baby and bring the baby back to the parents. When I asked my mom about it she laughed, “That’s just an expression. Bitsy didn’t really lose a baby. She had a miscarriage.” When I asked her what a miscarriage was, she said, “Never you mind.” It was a whole year before I figured out that miscarriage meant the baby had died before it was even born.

So, I was sitting as near to the grownups as I could without being “under foot,” another one of those grownup expressions, when I remembered that day Mom and I were up North visiting our relatives. Up North is what my mom calls the Indian reservation where she grew up.

That summer I had just finished 2nd grade at the Catholic school here in the city. I used to go to the public school, but one day three nuns came to our apartment. The nuns all wore the exact same clothing, floor-length black gowns with black shawls over black and white caps. Mom called each one Sister.  “Yes, Sister, we’ll see you at Mass on Sunday.” “Yes, thank you, Sister, that would be wonderful.” “Yes, please thank Father for me, Sister.” I tried but couldn’t hear all of what the nuns were saying because they spoke in those special adult whispers  “...the school has special funds set aside” “...don’t think of it as charity” “...will be a better environment for her.” The next year I went to the Catholic school.

That summer was 1959, and Mom and I were up North, and it was very hot. I heard the grownups say it was a “record breaker” and I kept picturing some one breaking a phonograph record. My cousins were all going to the river to cool off, but I didn’t want to go. First of all I didn’t know how to swim, plus I was afraid my cousins might roughhouse, and Jesse might not notice this time because he was starting to be pensive then. That’s another word like sullen that Mom uses when she thinks I’m too quiet and worrying. So, that day I went with my mom to St. Peter’s for bingo instead.

At first I sat with her in the bingo hall, but I got bored. Mom called it restless. She took me outside to buy a bottle of pop from the machine. They had Cream Soda, which was my favorite. But, Mom said I would have to stay outside of the bingo hall until I finished drinking all of it. So, I sat on a bench by myself.

When I finished, I took the empty bottle back to the crate next to the machine. That’s when Father Tony walked by. He’s the only priest at St. Peter’s, which is the only church on the whole Indian reservation. We have four priests at our city church and a church in every neighborhood. Father Tony was wearing a black cassock, which is kind of like the long gown the nuns wear. Jesse once told me that they call it a cassock for priests and a habit for nuns. Father Tony wasn’t Indian. He had blue eyes and light hair.

Father Tony was walking fast and almost walked right past me, when he must have noticed me and stopped. He stopped really fast, kind of like a car when it puts on its brakes too quickly.

He smiled and said that I looked new. I knew that he meant that he’d never seen me before. I told him that my mom and I were visiting our relatives. 

He asked, “And what is your name?” and I told him.
“Sophie, how old are you?”
“I’m seven and a half.”
“Are you Catholic, Sophie?”
“Yes, Father, I go to Resurrection School in the city.”
“Have you made your First Communion?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And do you know your catechism?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good. That’s good. Come, let’s go for a walk in the church. By the way, I'm Father Tony."

He took my hand and led me into the church. We stopped to bless ourselves with holy water near the door of the church, then we walked up the main aisle.

He asked me some easy catechism questions, like “Who is God?” and “What must we do to save our souls?” He smiled at the answers I’d memorized. When we reached the altar he said “Let’s go take a look at the tabernacle.” I had a strange feeling then, because only altar boys, like Jesse, and certainly never girls, were allowed in the area past the communion rail.

I thought maybe it’s different here on the reservation than in the city, so I followed Father Tony. He pointed to the shiny tabernacle and asked if I knew what was inside. I answered him and he smiled again. But, I didn’t like his smile anymore. It didn’t make me feel happy and proud like the smile from my teacher made me feel when I gave her the correct answer at school.

He reached for my hand again, but I put my hands behind me. He noticed and instead put his hand on my back, and said “Let me show you the sacristy,” and gently pushed me in that direction. I knew I should obey Father Tony because he was a priest and priests have special powers, like forgiving our sins and stuff, so I went. Father Tony said the sacristy was the place where the priest and altar boys got ready for Mass. He showed me the closet where they keep the clothing they wear for Mass. I was nervous and I don’t know why but, I told him that my cousin, Jesse, was an altar boy. It just sort of came out of my mouth. He turned quickly to look at me. “Jesse? Jesse Wolf is your cousin?” “Yes, Father.” I wasn’t sure if it was his smile or his eyes that scared me, but I was sorry that I had mentioned Jesse’s name.

He asked me if I knew the name of the clothing he was wearing and pointed to his cassock. I knew what the answer was, but I was tired of his questions. Maybe I needed a nap, I was so tired.

I thought for a minute and decided that if I didn’t actually say any words it wouldn’t be the same as telling a lie. So, instead of saying, “No, Father,” I just shook my head. “It’s called a cassock,” he said, as he unbuttoned it and took it off over his head. I felt tired and sick now, too, and I just wanted to get back to Mom.

Father Tony was now in the t-shirt and slacks that were under his cassock. He didn’t look like a priest anymore, just like a regular man. He reached out and touched my shirt. “That’s a nice shirt you’re wearing, Sophie. I like those stripes.” 

My heart was pounding. I told Father Tony that I was sick and that my mom must be looking for me and I just turned around and ran. I was worried that I’d just told a lie to a priest, which I was pretty sure was a mortal sin. You see, there are big sins and little sins and the big ones are called mortal.  I once looked “mortal” up in the dictionary at school and it means death, which is pretty serious.

I looked over my shoulder to see if he was following me, but he wasn’t. I ran all the way to the bingo hall and found Mom. She didn’t look like she’d been worried about me, but she did say, "You don't look well. I knew I shouldn't have let you have that Cream Soda. Your face is white. It must be the heat. Let’s go put some cold water on your face and get you back to Aunt Edie’s.”

I didn’t go with my mom to Mass the next day even though it was Sunday and it’s a mortal sin to miss Mass on Sunday. I told another lie, too. I told my mom I was sick, just so I wouldn’t have to go to Church with her. She said it was okay, because I probably had “heat sickness.”

We left for home the next day. I never had to see Father Tony again. I’d even made myself forget all about him. Until that day when my cousins were visiting and they were at the park, and I was sitting on the floor near the card table, playing with my dolls, close to where my mom and her sisters were playing Tripoley for pennies, and I heard  their voices get real low, like whispers, and I listened so hard. “...Father Tony...” “...abusing children”  “...and Chevy’s little girl” “...Chevy stabbed him” “...such a shame” “Yes, Jesse, was one of them, too…”

I Am Sick to Death of Politics!!

Handy Husband and I have the whole thing plotted out…

"Echo, set the alarm for 5:30 a.m.”

“Alarm set for 5:30 a.m., tomorrow."

Wednesday morning we will shower, dress and gulp down homemade smoothies before we make an hour-plus drive to the nearest big city, (the third largest in our state with a city-population of 150,000 or metro-area population of 344,000). We must arrive at our destination right on the hour.

Handy Husband pulls our car into the parking lot with only moments to spare. We each grab a couple of tote bags and head straight to our separate predetermined stations…

Wait! Did I ever tell you that Handy Husband and I have this bad habit of secretly nicknaming people we meet on life’s path? No? Well, it's confession time, then. I’ll give you a couple of examples: There is a woman from our area that we run into on occasion as she walks her dog. This lady is a verbose fast-talker, the kind that spews out words quickly and in an excited manner, as if her audience will vaporize before she has finished her say. I find myself looking at her mouth to see just how she forms words so rapidly. Anyway, her name is Patricia and we’ve renamed her Chatty-Patty. Another acquaintance from this area is a man with a genial, effervescent wife, but he’s kind of a pill, always with his arms folded across his chest and a sour look on his face, so that they are quite the contrast. We refer to her by her given name. We refer to him as "Grumpy Cat." (Note: Names and nicknames have been changed to protect the innocent.)

We usually never nickname the people with whom we eventually become friends. Maybe we instinctively sense their potential as future pals. They call that “chemistry,” right? Like Rick and Cheryl, for example. We met them shortly after we made the permanent move here. From day one they have been simply, “Rick and Cheryl.” Nobody would ever nickname a friend, would they!? But every once in a while… Someone we referred to as “Spike” later became our pal with the real first and last name of… Well, I'd better not say, as I think perhaps Spike may read my blog. Anyway Spike is no longer Spike.

The problem with our moniker-markers is that we are getting older and our brains are not as sharp. Handy Husband walks in the house after running an errand and says, “Okay, we gotta quit this nicknaming business. I ran into Nan at the store and for the life of me all I could think of was “Ethel.” (We’d renamed Nan because she was a dead-ringer for Big Ethel in the original Archie comics with her big-boned frame and untamable hair).

So anyway, back to Handy Husband and I at the Farmer’s Market. Had you guessed that was where we were headed that early morning with our tote bags? We have been suckers for farmer’s markets forever, it seems. We made weekly trips to the Evanston market when we resided in Chicago. The funny thing is out here, in a rural agricultural county with a population density of 35 humans per square mile, and even though we are surrounded by farms, a good farmer’s market (the pivotal word being “good”) is hard to find. There is a fair farmer’s market about 20 miles away that we visit weekly and a couple of poor ones even closer. But the farmer’s market in the big city? Well, it is definitely worth a twice-monthly visit. 

There are over 2 dozens vendors at the big city market, 75 percent of which are what I consider "legitimate farmers,” meaning they actually own a farm and grow the goods they sell. The name and location of their farm is proudly displayed. You can look them up on online and see photographs of their farms. The fruits and vegetables they sell match the growing season, so that they are not selling ripened tomatoes (supposedly grown in zone 5) ready for market in the month of May. Most FM’s have a couple of illegitimate vendors who buy bulk vegetables and resell them as “farm fresh.” But my trained eye and a couple of questions can quickly expose them ;) 

The reason we arrive at the opening bell of this FM is that much of what I want sells out quickly. It’s not worth a 100+ mile round trip commute to find that what you’re looking for is gone. So Handy Husband and I split up for the first round, he heads to the egg lady to purchase my duck eggs. (Many bakers and cooks feel that duck eggs are superior to chicken eggs for baking and custards. Perhaps it’s the slightly different albumen that duck eggs have, or the extra protein and fat found in duck eggs. At any rate, I’m a believer.) Meanwhile I will have gone straight to Chestnut Cliff Farms to pour over their myriad assortment of organic, heirloom vegetables and their wild mushrooms. Then I head quickly across the way to “The Sloth.” 

The Sloth is our nickname for the bread vendor. Even though at this point we are still only minutes into the opening of the market, The Sloth has a long line formed at his booth. He has brought his wares from another 73 miles further away. Hands down, he sells the best bread I have ever eaten. It is baked with organic heirloom wheat, unadulterated by preservatives, additives or chemicals, simply wheat, water, salt and yeast. The delicious flavor of this bread comes from a 36 hour fermentation. The Sloth also sells amazing croissants, such as you would purchase in Paris, France as well as outstanding specialty breads, like raisin-walnut or herbed focaccia. Part of the reason there is always a long line at his booth is that his products are just that good. The other part is that he moves in slow motion and you simply cannot make him move any faster than is in his DNA, apparently. Have you seen Disney Studio’s Zootopia? The movie has this brilliant part where Nick takes Judy to Zootopia’s Dept. of Motor Vehicles to aid her in running a license tag. The DMV is staffed entirely by sloths. Hysterical!! 

Our sloth moves and speaks in a manner similar to the cartoon sloths. As he looks you directly in the eye, he repeats your order/question/statement; so if I were to say, “And one chocolate-almond croissant, please.” He would reply, “You (pause) also (pause) want (pause) one (pause) chocolate (pause) almond (pause) croissant?” (There is nothing wrong with the man, he has no disability of any kind, he is just a man who prefers to live in the moment and be a part of a bread process that takes days not hours to complete.) He will slowly turn and judiciously ponder the chocolate almond croissants, before selecting one for you. Then, languidly wrap it in a parchment and in his unhurried manner carefully bag it with the bread(s) you've also requested. He will then turn slowly back to face you, look you in the eye and thank you as he softly hands you your purchase. (I’d love to witness The Sloth and Chatty Patty in a conversation.)

As I wait in the bread line I watch The Sloth as he cares for customers ahead in line, anxiously awaiting my turn. I have a crush-like fascination with him. If after this life I return as another creature I would wish it to be a sloth.

Meanwhile Handy Husband has a mental list of vegetables and fruits in which I am interested. Duck eggs clutched in hand, Handy Husband checks out the rest of the vendors, comparing prices and occasionally reporting back, “The "So&So" Farm has golden beets a dollar cheaper than the “OtherRandom” Farm. If something looks like it’s moving fast, he'll report and I’ll dispatch Handy Husband to purchase it.

I am next in the bread line, so Handy Husband sweeps off to get two cups of coffee for us from a nearby breakfast shop. “Is (pause) he (pause) with (pause) you?” asks The Sloth, with the slowest and slightest tilt of his head in Handy Husband's direction. “Yes.” “Well, (pause) then (pause) you (pause) will (pause) need (pause) two (pause) chocolate (pause) almond (pause) croissants. (pause) *smile* (pause) *wink* 

Handy Husband and I split the generous croissant and walk about, casually this time, as we do our second round of the Farmer’s Market, sipping coffee, eating our shared croissant, taking in the sights and sites.

I buy a quart of real strawberries (as different from the bloated white-in-the-middle strawberries sold at supermarkets as a homegrown tomato is from the flavorless supermarket tomato). The strawberry vendor informs me it is his last week of strawberries, as his season ends in June. I then purchase golden, white and red beets, English peas, sugar snap peas, new turnips, and kohlrabi. Handy Husband has bought some radishes and raw honey.

The sugar-snap-pea-guy tells me of another, out-of-state market he sells at on Saturdays. It’s 75 miles away from his farm. This FM features 150+ vendors! I look it up online and see that it is listed in a Washington Post article as one of the top ten farmer’s markets in the nation, ranking number six. Pretty impressive, however it will take some planning as this market opens at 6:30 a.m., sharp and it will be an 170+ mile round-trip for us. 

“Echo, set the alarm for 4:00 a.m.”... 

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” -J.R.R. Tolkien

kohlrabi, white, red and golden beets

tri-color beets, so pretty when cooked together

can you see the richer colored, larger yolk on the duck egg on the left?  also a whiter, clearer albumen.  contrast the two chicken eggs on the right which have (pardon my language) "piss-yellow" albumen

real strawberries

red all the way through (soon to be strawberry ice cream)

smoothies gulped down for quick energy on the run

summer salad :)

beets ready for roasting

English peas

I'd eaten most of my chocolate almond croissant before I remembered to take a photo

best bread in the world!!!

Part Three: The Rule Relating to or Consisting of Gold

I don’t want to say that lately I’ve been obsessed with the Russian government’s doings, but whenever there is a “glitch” (be it an electrical power outage or an interruption to our internet service) I jokingly call out to Trusting Husband, “It’s Putin! Putin’s at it again!”

A year or so ago I noticed an uptick in visits to my blog, hundreds in a single day, all from Russia. Putin’s Department-in-Charge-of-the-Takeover-of-the-World had stumbled upon my blog (just as they'd found billions of other bloggers, twitterers, Instagram and FaceBook users…). I “googled” the matter and found that the views were actually momentary visits from “bots.” So following the Blogger site’s advice I was able to block most of the traffic from Russian sites.

As much of the world now knows, it was all part of Putin’s cyber tactics used to influence public opinion across the globe.

***

One day a friend texts me a copy of a FB posting from a fellow school teacher. For anonymity’s sake we’ll call the teacher by her initials, “KW.” My friend's text reads: “Warm fuzzy thoughts from KW.” Above my friend’s comment is a divisive and bitter-filled diatribe that left me wondering how this grammar school teacher could conscientiously instruct children in a diverse urban public school setting. Apparently I wasn’t the only one with this thought as someone quickly called KW on her actions: KW, I am shocked at the caustic virulence of your posting. If I were a parent of a muslim child, I would be quite concerned that you would be able to teach my child without bias and in a meaningful, non-discriminatory manner…

KW quickly blocked her original message:

The following message, although not as vitriolic, is typical of KW’s postings: 

KW pens such dispatches on a regular basis. I know KW from her childhood and am quite shocked at her adult mordancy. It’s a change from the young, pleasant Roman Catholic school girl I thought I knew back then. I wonder if it’s because she has fallen victim to Russian bot-swaying, or if she is spoon-fed this rancorous discord by the constant watching of Fox News.

***

Did I tell you about the young father I encountered some time back at a local Chicago park?

When visiting the city, I often take my youngest grandson to this particular park and one day, as we play together, a young father and his son join us. The boys are both about 18 months, just beginning to talk. The father and I chat as the two boys examine the little toy trucks they’d each brought along. The young father asks my grandson his name and he pronounces it, with the r sounding rather like a w. I, in return, ask his son, “And what is your name?” The boy says something and the father quickly becomes agitated. He casts me an incredulous look, “Did you- did you hear that!?! Did you hear what he said?!”

“No, I didn’t quite get it.”

“He said, ‘Obama!’ I swear to- and ooh, aargh! ...and it’s because my father, my father has Fox News on all the time! Obama this, Obama that. It’s all negative junk and it’s poisoning my father’s brain! Dad used to be such a sweet guy -aaarrgh! I will not let him poison my son!”

Normally decent people who follow this kind of (excuse my language here) crap, dished out by Russian bots and Fox News, are kept at a fever pitch by each blast of hatred, “Yes! Yes! That’s how I feel, too!” Like a junkie, they crave more and more to feed their hate-habit. I wonder if the jolt is like a "high" for them.

***

As I write this I look out at my current gardening project in the yard. There’s no need to fuel a weed as weeds adapt to make the most of any condition. There is no need to amplify hatred, yet there is a multitude of internet bots making sure that fertilizer is abundantly applied to enhance the growth of malevolence.

And I think of the adult male from France that I viewed on the internet last week… I hope you saw it, too, because it was quite moving. He spoke at his police officer husband’s funeral in Paris. His husband having lost his life to a terrorist attack. In his eulogy, he borrowed a quote from a man who’d also mourned the loss of his wife to a terrorist attack: “You will not have my hatred.”

Follows the original quote:

“On Friday evening you stole the life of an exceptional person, the love of my life, the mother of my son, but you will not have my hatred…
So no, I will not give you the satisfaction of hating you. You want it, but to respond to hatred with anger would be to give in to the same ignorance that made you what you are.”

So no, bots, you cannot make me form an opinion of another human based on anything but my own personal experience with that person. You cannot have my hate, either.

***

There is a blissful inner freedom that comes from love, acceptance and forgiveness. At least that is my experience. But, it doesn’t just pop up all on its own, it takes some work. In my garden I pull out the weeds; some of which, like wild parsnip, dandelion and purple clover have very deep-reaching roots. Like an iceberg, the tip of the plant that shows above is small in comparison to length of the root. And unless I remove every inch of the original root they come back with a pervading tenacity that always surprises me.

But you work and you practice, like a child doing their piano scales over and over. You cannot become a musician without repetition, you know. You can cast seed randomly into the wind and I guess something or other will grow, but a garden takes cultivating.

What makes me feel good? What makes me feel bad? What brings me joy? What brings pain? I ask my young grandson, “How do you feel when you are mean or selfish? How do you feel when you are kind or nice?” Piano scales improve a child’s musical ear, finger agility and strength, the same way discernment improves compassion, humility, peace and a child or adult’s overall well being.

***

This is the closing of my three-part series on “The Rule Relating to or Consisting of Gold”

There is some form of the “golden rule” in most major religions/philosophies/belief-systems: Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Confucianism, Buddhism, etc. My favorite interpretation of it is:

“Treat others only as you would consent to be treated in the same situation.”

-Fr. Harry Gensler, S.J. (This might not be a verbatim quote but it’s as I remember it.)

So my final thought is based on the Judeo-Christianity taught me as a young child: If we are “made in God’s image,” (Genesis 1:27) how can people not then look upon the beauty of God’s spectrum of humanity and not celebrate the diversity given us, the diversity of beliefs, the diversity of hair, eye and skin tones, the diversity of the physical body, the diversity of personality, the diversity of lifestyles, the diversity of locale, the diversity of economic background… to do otherwise is an insult to our creator that I absolutely cannot comprehend.

***

Only when the last tree has been cut down; Only when the last river has been poisoned; Only when the last fish has been caught; Only then will you find that money cannot be eaten.

- Native American on the greed of white America

(or me on the current GOP who've attempted to sell the U.S.A. to the Russian government )