Category: Commentary

Choosing My Religion

Religion is one of those things I think about a great deal. At times I obsess over it. Now, I’m not talking about faith. Faith is something I don’t worry about. I’ve got faith in spades, up the wazoo, coming out my ears. Religion, though, seems much more subjective.

As a kid I was exposed to opposing experiences in Christianity. Through my paternal grandparents I was introduced to the Pentecostal Church. Faith healers, speaking in tongues, arms raised in praise and dancing in the aisles to an exuberantly played piano, were de rigueur in Sunday services. Every time I visited I left a bit worried I’d be left behind in the Rapture that they assured me was coming any day. That’s a scary thought for a little kid. I had nightmares for years and flat refused to read that once popular Left Behind series.

https://www.facebook.com/JungleVT/videos/2455207547954406/

In my maternal grandparents’ Primitive Baptist Church, services were much more restrained. There was no instrumental music, and every line of every hymn was intoned with what seemed a lack of enthusiasm. The sermons seemed interminable, as well, but I wasn’t allowed to complain or squirm–my great grandfather was the minister. And while there was some hellfire and brimstone preaching it was done more in lesson form, for the promise and security of predestination were deeply ingrained in all the members. I left church each time fervently hoping that I had more Primitive Baptist blood in me than Pentecostal, even if their services were much less interesting.

That’s the New Salem Primitive Baptist Church of Floydada, Texas, below, where I spent many Sundays.

To confuse matters further, my parents raised my brothers and me in southern Baptist Churches where services were much less somber than those of the Primitive Baptists, but a good deal more sedate than those at the Pentecostal meetings. In the Southern Baptist churches we had to get saved to go to heaven, and the Book of Revelation was mentioned quite often, but no one made me think that I’d be forgotten on the day the trumpets sounded. The organ and/or piano accompanied hymns were better, too. And instead of having to sing every verse, we generally only sang the first, second and fourth verses.

The carousel of religious choices in my life was often confusing. Why did parishioners in one church have to sing a cappella? How come we could celebrate in the aisles in one service, but would be frowned upon if we did it in another? Did God care how we worshipped? Was I truly going to be left behind or could I relax in knowing that my name had been written in the Book of Life from my birth?

As an adult I seldom go to church, but when I do I attend a progressive Methodist service. And, I love going to Catholic mass with my mother-in-law when we visit her in Texas. In both cases there’s a steadiness to the worship that calms and reassures me.

If you’ve lasted this long in reading this you might wonder what prompted my post. Well, on Monday afternoon I was driving home from Tallahassee as a thunderstorm threatened. Towering cumulonimbus clouds promised one heck of a storm, but there was a break in the clouds through which a golden column of sun shone through. My thoughts instantly went back to the days when I was pretty sure everyone around me was going to be gathered up and raptured into the heavens leaving me behind. I guess some lessons, especially those invoking fear, never die.

I’m still here. Are you?

(By the way, I found the amazing cloud photos on Pinterest.)

Peace, people!

Hell on Wheels

After Studly Doright and I finished watching the western tv series, Godless, I suggested we start the Handmaid’s Tale. It seemed like a nice change of pace to go from the wild west to a peek at a bleak future. After one episode, though, I could tell Studly wasn’t into the whole “Blessed be the fruit” and “May the Lord open” dialogue.

I’ve read Margaret Atwood’s novel more than once, and tried to coax Studly into giving the Hulu series another chance, but he wasn’t feeling it. I figured I could watch it alone so I tasked him with finding us another series. Apparently he didn’t get enough western fare, because he borrowed five seasons of the series Hell on Wheels from a colleague at work, and we’ve been semi-binge watching for the past week.

Set in the post-Civil War era, Hell on Wheels follows the adventures and misadventures of the men and women who built the railroads across the American wilderness. Hell on Wheels is the name of the moving town that accompanies the workers. Basically, this series is a soap opera set in the Nebraska territory.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s fun to watch, but if you dressed the cast of the Young and the Restless in hoop skirts and put six shooters on their hips you would barely be able to tell one series from the other. There’s adultery, back stabbing, murder, racial tension, substance abuse, uncertain parentage, and all the other stuff one expects from a good modern soap opera, just with muddy streets and horses thrown in to separate one era from another.

The cast is pretty, though, especially Mr. Bohannon played by Anson Mount and Elam Ferguson, played by Common. Whoa!

Okay, I’ve got to go. Studly has the first disc of season four queued up. I’d hate to miss out. It’s time to see who’s conspiring against the railroad and who’s causing a ruckus. Blessed be the fruit, y’all.

Peace, people.

Snapshot #220

I enjoyed shopping in Thomasville, Georgia, on Friday even though I didn’t find what I was looking for. Instead, I found this guy hanging around outside a taxidermy shop.

I think I’ll call this one, “Oh Deer!” I wanted to call it, “Moose on the Loose,” but Studly stopped me from making that mistake. A good editor is priceless.

Peace, people!

Snapshot #219

On Friday I drove to Thomasville, Georgia, just under an hour north of Doright Manor. I didn’t think to take any photos until I came across this car.

I think it’s a Packard, but didn’t get close enough to tell. Here’s a closeup of the front end. Maybe someone can help identify the make and model.

I’m calling this “Immaculate Beauty!”

Wanted: Dead or Alive

I am currently sporting two spider bites. One’s on my right ankle and gets little notice, but the other bite is in the bend of my right arm. I think the lady at the post office today thought I might be a heroin user. She certainly asked me a bunch of suspicious sounding questions about the package I was mailing: “Does this parcel contain anything fragile, liquid, perishable, or potentially hazardous, including lithium batteries and perfume?”

Okay, so they ask that about every package mailed in the U.S. these days, still I thought she might be looking at me with an odd mix of pity and fear, thinking, “Poor old biddy, hope she doesn’t rob me for drug money.”

And while I have but the two bites, poor Studly Doright has six: five on his stomach and two on his arm. Everywhere he goes he wafts the scent of calamine lotion. It’s not sexy.

We figure we must’ve been bitten while working in the yard on Monday. Neither of us took precautions against spider bites, such as wearing double thick armor and sealing up any chinks in the metal with a combination of duct tape and bailing wire. Indeed, we worked bare armed with loose clothing just begging for a spider to come inside. We tempted fate and fate won.

Now, though, I’m convinced that our home is infested with the little critters. I’ve sprayed every nook and cranny with the scent of peppermint, and I dressed for bed last night in long johns and a hoodie.

Seriously, I had a horrifying experience with a spider when we lived in Kansas. I dreamt that I was eating a salad. The lettuce was crisp and crunchy. When my alarm went off I could still hear the crunching of the lettuce, but it was coming from inside my head. I thought, “oh hell, I’ve lost my mind!”

I began tossing my head and slapping at my ears as I stumbled to the bathroom. Miraculously, the crunching stopped, and I looked down to see a tiny spider on the bathroom floor. I killed him. No hesitation. The whole experience made me wonder if there are people sitting in insane asylums who just need their ears checked for spiders.

May the Fluff be with Me

In the past couple of weeks I’ve seen two fluffy movies: Crazy Rich Asians and Mamma Mia!Here We Go Again. In case you hadn’t guessed, fluffy movies are those one can watch without having to think too much, and I knew in advance what I was getting into.

I enjoyed both films, though. Fluff can be good for the soul, you know. Crazy Rich Asians made me want to visit Singapore, but only if I could travel in style, while the Mamma Mia! sequel made me yearn for a simple life on a Greek island. If someone, perhaps my fairy godmother, offered me the choice of living one of the lifestyles portrayed in these films I wouldn’t hesitate. It would be Mamma Mia! all the way.

Imagine me, dressed in denim overalls, singing ABBA songs and dancing my way over cypress dotted hills and down to a sparking blue harbor to meet the ferry, never knowing who might step off the boat that day. I’d fit in much better there than with the über wealthy crowd in Crazy Rich Asians, never knowing which gown to wear or which fork to use.

The point is moot, though, since not even a fairy godmother could convince Studly to leave Doright Manor for long. And where he goes, I go. And that’s no fluff.

Peace, (and dancing) people.

https://youtu.be/xFrGuyw1V8s

Fakery

Several days ago I posted a pledge to abstain from using political memes as a way of communicating my opinions on social media. It seemed an easy pledge to follow, right? Just don’t hit the “share” button when confronted with a political meme. But these things are literally everywhere on Facebook and Twitter, and some don’t seem all that political at first glance.

Indeed, sometimes groups that post such memes begin by drawing people in with innocuous images. Then, when they have one’s attention they gradually build to ideas that seek to sway opinions one way or the other. And guess what? Often they really don’t care which side one chooses, they merely seek to divide.

I’m adding a link that will allow readers to test their abilities to winnow the legitimate memes from those put forward by influence campaigns, usually posted by foreign bots. I did fairly well–just missed one, but all it takes is one fake story to go viral and negatively influence thousands of people. Keeping my fingers crossed that the link works. Readers might need to open the link in another browser, or however that works. Technology and I aren’t always on speaking terms.

https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2018/09/04/technology/facebook-influence-campaigns-quiz.html

An irrelevant photo of my cat. She has no opinion on memes.

Checking on the Faeries

A couple of years ago Studly Doright and I helped our visiting grandkids build a faerie house. We carefully placed the house on a small tree stump, and then waited to see if any wee folk would move in.

At first I checked the fairy house on a daily basis with no luck, then a wise friend suggested that perhaps we should give them a little time and some space, lest we scare any potential residents away. Finally our patience was rewarded.

If you look closely in the photo above you might see a tiny winged creature to the right of the ladder.

Over time we learned to give the faerie folk privacy. Honestly, until our grandkids came for a visit in early August I hadn’t given the little guys and gals much thought. They went about their business and Studly and I went about ours. Yesterday, though, as we were working in the yard I went over to take a peek.

I didn’t see a single faerie anywhere, but just look at how much the tree has grown up around the house! Someday, after Studly and I are dead and gone, the new owners of Doright Manor may discover this little abode tucked away in the woods. I just hope they’ll give the faeries their space. Maybe I should leave a note for them, just in case.

Peace, people.

A Real Fungi

Monday is Labor Day here in the states, and Studly Doright has the day off work. Since he’d played golf on both Saturday and Sunday, Studly decided to do yard work on his holiday. I was drafted to assist. Oh joy.

My job was to drive the lawn mower around the yard and load fallen branches into the trailer while Studly used his manly skills to chop branches that were too big for me to lift. We’ve had two fairly severe thunderstorms this past week, so I filled my little trailer multiple times.

Once I’d finished my part I handed over the reins of the mower to Studly who insists that he’s better at the job than I am. Hey, I only almost backed over his foot twice today. That’s a real improvement over previous performances.

Doright Manor sits in the middle of a forest on a small lake. I grew up in the Texas panhandle where trees are few and far between, so I never get tired of exploring our woods. Today, while Studly was mowing I found this little party animal:

Yep, they tell me he’s a real fungi.

Peace, people!

An Accomplished Woman

If you’ve read my blog for more than a week you’ll immediately know that I am not the woman for whom this post was titled. I’m easily astonished, somewhat apprehensive, occasionally argumentative, and often admonished, but never accomplished.

As seems to be the case more often than not Studly Doright and I will go months without seeing friends socially only to have two or more invitations for the exact same day. On Friday evening we were invited to a 60th birthday party for Studly’s best golf buddy, and I’d made plans to meet friends who were passing through Tallahassee on their way to their new home in Melbourne, Florida.

I had already committed to meeting the traveling couple and Studly rsvp’d to the birthday party without consulting me. I mean why would he? He knows I have almost no social life. So we took separate cars to the party, and I kept an eye on my phone for my friends’ call.

The birthday party was at the home of a couple we’d met once at a Tallahassee restaurant’s trivia night; although, I had to be reminded of that. I swear, I wouldn’t remember Studly’s name if I didn’t insist that he wear a name tag at all times.

Their home was lovely and set up for entertaining. I asked the hostess, we’ll call her “Perfect, but not in a bad way” or just “PBNIABW” for short, if I could lend a hand in the kitchen.

“Well, not really,” PBNIABW said. “The birthday boy requested chicken fried steaks, and I’ve never made them before, so pour yourself a glass of wine and relax.”

Those are the kinds of directions at which I excel, and I followed them to the letter. I’m a great follower. As other guests arrived I mingled fairly well. I’m a follower, after all, and not much of a mingler. What I learned from my mingling was that not only is PBNIAW something of a gourmet cook, but she is also a damned good artist and an accomplished seamstress. Her beautiful artwork adorned almost every wall in the house, and her sewing room gave testament to her skills in that area.

When my friends called to say they had checked into their hotel, I said my good-byes to everyone and cornered Studly for a goodbye kiss.

“Hey,” I said. “Don’t forget you have an incredibly average wife who loves you.”

I’m not sure he was listening, though. He was too busy watching a variety of sports on the three, yes three, big screen televisions in the den with the host and other male guests. Damn. PBNIABW’s husband was perfect, too.

Peace, people.