Category Archives: Memories

History Changes the Past

35  bar steady 30.04 2mph WSW dewpoint 26 Spring

              Waning Gibbous Moon of Winds

History changes the past.  Comic books were bad, bad, bad when I was a kid.  I knew this because my mother told me so.  I could read Tarzan and a couple of others I can’t recall, but never Batman, Superman, or any of the darker comic fare.  Like many kids I hid the Superman and others inside my stacks of Tarzans.  Also, like many in those days, when Marvel comics came out I was a teen-ager and Mom was no longer a taste-maker in my world.  The Fantastic Four, the Incredible Hulk, the Silver Surfer and my personal favorite, Dr. Strange became staples in my library alongside War and Peace, Crime and Punishment.

Only in the past couple of months have I learned why comics were bad.  Fredric Wertham, a German born immigrant and psychiatrist, saw Superman and the superhero ilk as sub rosa evocations of the Übermensch, Nietzsche’s man who transcended morality and who Nazi’s believed justified their crimes. 

Well, all I can say is, that Fredric must not have read a Superman comic.  Superman fought for Truth, Justice and the American Way.  Any kid who watched the TV program could tell you that.  Batman was too troubled to be an ubermensch or an undermensch. 

This history has changed my past.  I always thought it was just a pacifist quirk of Mom’s that she restricted my comic reading, after all I learned from her to carry bugs outside in a kleenex and liberate them.  But no, it was another parenting influence, like Dr. Spock, only this one was a psychiatrist who probably believed Freud had it right after all.  It helps me see Mom as a parent, a person searching for advice on how to raise her children, how to keep them from harmful influences. 

Boy, when I think of the fifties I realize how few really harmful influences seemed available, at least in Alexandria, Indiana.  No  rap.  Few drugs.  They weren’t on our radar.  An STD might have been an additive for gasoline.

I began watching horror and science fiction movies as soon as I could scrape $.25 together to spend on my own.  I don’t know why Mom never stopped me from seeing those.  Or, maybe I didn’t tell her.  I can’t recall and she died when I was 17 so I never got a chance to ask her.

Cheesy Sci-Fi Movies

21  bar steady  1mph W dewpoint 15   Spring (yeah, right!)

              Full Moon of Winds

Spent this afternoon and evening watching NCAA basketball and movies.  Watched a medium bad Sci-Fi movie about a blackhole created in a lab in St. Louis.  It’s bad in part because of the acting.  Cheesy sci-fi movies only seem to have enough budget for one take.  It’s also bad because I read the hard sci-fi book from which the concept came and this movie bore no relationship to the very good book at all.  Which is a shame since that book had real science behind it and would have made a good movie.  This one had a beast that came out of the black hole and ate energy.  Hmmm.  So much wrong with that premise, you’d think I’d stop watching, but, no.  I have a low threshold for quality when I want entertainment.

Been kicking around the idea, for a few years, of writing some original theology/atheology, a ge-ology, or something.  The woman who complimented my learning this morning, Lois Hamilton, got me thinking about all this again.  I’ve spent since 1965 getting seriously educated.  In a lot of fields.  I’ve had interesting real world experience in politics, the church, development and working with developmentally delayed adults.  I’ve traveled some, read a lot and learned a good deal about gardening and art.  Maybe I don’t need to anything, but I feel like a bad steward of the work I’ve done and the knowledge I’ve gained if I can’t set it down in some form for others.

Not sure what I want to do, or if I want/need to do anything.  Just pondering, for now.

Are You Still Waiting for Your Special Purpose?

26 bar steep rise  30.39 2mph ENE windchill 26

         Waxing Gibbous Moon of Winds

“Exaggerated sensitiveness is an expression of the feeling of inferiority.” – Alfred Adler

Adler was one of the big three:  Jung, Freud, and Adler, though his name does not ring a bell in the larger public mind anymore.  If Freud was about sex and death, Jung about archetypes and the collective unconscious, Adler was about power.  He was a birth order guy and believed that how power dynamics worked out in relationships and within our own psyche determined our mental health. 

Just checked up on my knowledge about  Adler and discovered a fascinating twist to his point of view.  He believed that each of develops a more or less submerged final goal, a goal that creates significance for us.  This goal compensates for feeling of inferiority.  Don’t know about you, but the feeling I was here for something special, nurtured by mom and dad and reinforced by teachers and friends has cost me big time in life’s journey.  Like alcoholism this striving wastes time and pushes us away from the Tao.  

At this point I am a recovering alcoholic and I feel good about my now 32 years of sobriety, though not overconfident. It’s still a day at a time in reality.  I have stripped away most of the vestiges of fame seeking, break through idea hopes and now seem to have little left in the way of the old drivers that Adler names.  Not none, it’s difficult to let go of the vague, perhaps magical idea that someday, somewhere things will change, but I try to put it context if it arises and then to let it go.

Note from Mary that she’s working away on the revision of her dissertation.  Her advisor is on her case, she says.  Oh, boy, am I glad I’m not doing that.

Kate and I went through our calendar through July.  Next month will be busy for me.

An Indiana Farm on Kauai

                             9  bar rises 30.24  1mph NNW windchill 5

                                                    New Moon

                                   roosteranddoves300.jpg

When I was a boy, say 12 and under, each summer I would visit my Uncle Riley and Aunt Virginia for a couple of weeks or so.  They lived on the farm my grandfather had put together.  It was a couple hundred acres of corn, a few cows, a pig or two, harness-racing horses and chickens, Bantams with the Banty roosters and their mile-high attitude and morning curdling cock-a-doodle-doo.  These memories have a particular smell, a mixture of gravel dust, hay and cow manure.  They also have an increasingly antique feel as they recede further and further from the present day.

Imagine my surprise when these memories came alive all day, every day while we were on Kauai and all because of Hurrican I’niki.  In 1992, just before we first visited Kauai, it was struck by a rare and devastating hurricane.  This hurricane eliminated many resorts, including the famous Coco Palms where Elvis shot his movie, Blue Hawai’i.  Many homes blew away, trees and plants got pushed over and beaches changed their shapes. 

I’niki also opened up all of the many chicken coops on the island.  Once free, the chickens never again came home to roost, but instead have now made the entire island their home.  They are, like the feral pig, wild animals, freed to roam wherever they like in a paradise of bugs and small worms.

The result is that often throughout the day the sound of a Banty rooster crowing reverberates whether you’re on the beach, in the forests, up a mountain or near a river.  The chickens come around pic-nic tables and wait patiently for food.  Local children pick up the roosters and carry them like puppies down to the beach.  As a result, Uncle Riley and his farm came to mind day after day on the most isolated islands in the world, in the midst of the Pacific Ocean. 

Now that was unexpected.

Back on Central Standard Time

23  bar falls 29.90 2mph  NNE windchill21

     Last Quarter of the Snow Moon

Gonna get the weather changed back to Andover tomorrow.  Still a little fuzzy.  I stayed up all day to reset my biological clock and it feels like its worked.   I’ll be ready for bed around my usual time.

This was 6:30PM on Hawai’ian Standard Time.  Time to hunt for dinner and begin to wind down from a day of hiking or visiting gardens or beach combing.  It’s always strange, at least to me, that when we return from a place like Hawai’i that it continues, in the same rhythms, after we leave. 

Most of the year I don’t hold the distinct memories of two places in my mind as I do right after I return from vacation, but for now and the next few weeks Hawai’i will be as clear as if it were a short drive away.  This is partly a function of jet travel.  We walk down a jet way on Kauai, wander around a few mostly similar airports, walk down a couple more jetways, then we’re home again.  No landscape passes by as we travel.  There are only vague indications of cultural change.  OK, the banks of slot machines in the Las Vegas airport were not subtle, but you know what I mean.  No changes in cuisine, no different towns, license plates, grocery stores, just the world air travel culture and its modest inflections as we pass from one gate to another.

Getting to bed time here on good ol’ CST.

Contentment? Really?

And, once again, Sunny, Blue, Clear, Gentle Breezes.

“The heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of.” – Blaise Pascal

A strange feeling crept up on me this morning.  Contentment.  This is not a feeling with which I have much acquaintance, so when he comes along, it is notable.  The Pascal quote is perfect here.  Reason still finds ambitions or reasons for ambitions, reason still finds competition or reasons for competition, reason finds problems to solve or reason to solve problems, but the heart, my heart, my Valentine heart says, enough.  Enough.  And, good enough.

In that spirit I spent two hours this morning wandering around, sitting down for a while and writing poetry, then over to a sunglass shop to buy a case for my sunglasses to replace the one lost in transit.  Strolling away from Whaler’s Village, I headed toward the surfers portion of Ka’anapali to watch.

Several years ago Kate and I were in Mexico City in September.  I went to the bullfight.  It was an odd experience, but the thing I want to draw attention to here is that September is when the novice bull-fighters try to prove their skill so they can move up in the ranks, to the better fights later in the season.   Watching the surfers here, on the west side of Maui, means watching the novice surfers trying to catch waves, stay on their boards, ready themselves for the 15-20 foot waves now crashing against the northern shore.

One young woman, on a blue surfboard with a white strip near the tip, tried, then tried again, and once again mounted a wave, only, each time, to have the board flop out from underneath her.  I came to admire her tenacity.  No sulking.  No quitting.  She’ll make it someday soon, I’m sure.

Now I’m back in the hotel, during what would be nap time at home and feeling just a wee bit tired.  Hope I’m not getting sick.  That would be a bummer.

Cisco Kid, Ramar of the Jungle and Sargent Preston of the Yukon

22  71%  26%  3mph N bar29.99 falls windchill19 Imbolc

               Waning Crescent of the Winter Moon

 A late night.  Every time I stay up late watching election returns, as I have tonight, I recall the Stevenson/Eisenhower race.  Dad and I sat up until 3 in the morning watching election returns.  It was a magical time for me.  I got to stay up late; Dad stayed up with me.  We shared an interest in the political realm, even though I was only 5 years old.  You may think that’s odd, but at the age of 6 I proved the point.

Mr. Gross had picked me up at church to drive me to a meeting with some friends.  As we drove out in the country, he asked me, “Charlie, are you a Democrat or a Republican?”  I said, “Democrat.”  He said, “Well, I don’t allow Democrats to ride in my car.” 

“Stop the car, Mr. Gross,” I said, “I’ll get out and walk.”     

We had one of the first televisions in our little Indiana town because Bob Feemster, a Wall Street Journal executive who own the Times-Tribune, the paper my Dad edited, thought the newspaper editor needed to keep up with the new technology.

Most of the time I found the Cisco Kid, Ramar of the Jungle, Captain Midnight and Sargent Preston of the Yukon much more to my taste, but around elections, I watched right along with Dad.  Very soon after that I became a poll watcher, which meant I stationed myself at one of Alexandria’s precincts and when the vote count finished I called in the results to the paper. 

Tonight I can’t tell what the numbers mean quite yet, though I did hear an amazing number if it’s true.  Hillary Clinton wins voters making 50,000 and below, while Obama wins with voters making more than 50,000.  If these are accurate numbers, it’s an interesting story and one to ponder.

This is the best election I can remember, ever.  Issues.  Candidates.  Momentous decisions.  Perhaps a turning point in American history.  I hope.

The Moratorium Years Didn’t Work Out so Well for Me

29  90%  26%  5mph NNE bara29.84  falls windchill25 Imbolc

                 Waning Crescent of the Winter Moon

In spite of the fact that this is Minnesota, how soon we forget, I had REI all to myself this morning.  Monday morning shoppers scared back into their easy chairs by, gasp, SNOW.  OK, I did think about turning around and heading back, then “I am a Minnesotan and I am not afraid,” soared through my mind and on I drove.  Slippin’ and slidin’ to the mall.  Just like when I was a kid and we had to walk four blocks all the way downtown to buy a pair of shoes.

Anyhow, a helpful young lady, blond and cheerful, quite normal except for the hoop through the right nostril, which, I suppose, makes her normal in that world formerly inhabited by adults now over 60, guided me through the hiking/walking show selection process.  The first pair pretty much fit me, though they were a little snug.  Then, “Oh.  These are a women’s 8!”  Wouldn’t you know?  Still we did find an appropriately masculine pair of Keens, “They started out making water shoes so they know slick rock.”  One of the problems in hiking Hawai’i is water slicked rock;  I’ve learned this with bruised ankles more than once.

Nearer to  home at the Anoka Co-op I went searching for Minnesota cheese (Bongards, in this case) and Minnesota bread (oddly, Holy Land Pocket Bread, made in Minneapolis) for my presentation at the Woolly retreat.  Then, sliding my way back home.

All the while I listened to Tom Wolfe’s  I Am Charlotte Simmons.   Anyone who encountered college after academic stardom in a small-town high school, like me for instance, can identify all the over place with Charlotte Simmons, the little mountain girl from Sparta, North Carolina and a Presidential Scholarship.  Well, I never had a Presidential Scholarship, but there’s some connection, anyhow.  Wolfe has made a living out of closely observed novels of manners of our time, a sort of Dickensian project in hip, post-modern tongue in cheek prose.  This one may not be great literature, but it’s a great time-machine back to those magic years when everything seemed possible, if only you could figure anything out. 

Those moratorium years didn’t work out so well for me.  Instead of sticking to my guns or buckling down with heroic intention fortified by small town common sense and parental support, I got drunk, wasted, started smoking and wandered without purpose for so many years I don’t even know when I stopped.  Sigh.  Oh, I did fine academically, but not as well as I might have without the marijuana and hash–yes, I inhaled–the LSD, mescaline, psilocybin, beer, 151 rum, cognac and single-malt scotch.  I floated out of college and stayed afloat all through seminary and well into my first years in the ministry. 

Treatment.  Second divorce.  Flounder around.  Discover writing and Kate in the same year.  Now, in my final third of life, I’ve picked up steam and gotten the ole head and heart straightened out.  Thank Mother Earth.  Still, it is really better late than never.  I’m living proof.

Bloggin with Palm Trees

18  89%  28%  0mph NNE  bar 30.12 steady windchill17  Imbolc

              Waning Crescent of the Winter Moon

Opened up my e-mail program today and had 29 messages.  A big morning for me is 5 or 6.  What the hell? 

Another lesson in the cyber world.  There are bots that crawl the web seeking out certain words or phrases, then link their source to another web page.  In some instances that’s google and can help others find your website if the title words you use resonate.  In most instances and certainly the most annoying instances the links go back to such intriguing locations as Addiction Levitra, Texas Facts Auto Insurance, Mexico Amoxil and HCL Dosing Tramadol.  Each one linked by some $%#@! algorithim to the words I had inadvertently used as the title for a post:  damn it!   A month or so ago I had a post that had the words body and flesh in it.  This was about the earth and her products.  You can imagine the links I got then.  Cyber world folks call these ping backs. 

I have had three ping backs out of hundreds that I kept, that is didn’t delete as spam.  One came in from a website for the Teaching Company from whom I buy the occasional lecture course, another from the NFL website and a recent one from Paul Douglas, the WCCO weather guy and his Climate Change website.  It’s a good thing wordpress has a straightforward, if not quick, way of eliminating ping backs.

In case you missed it–like you live in Singapore or Bangkok for instance–today is Super Bowl Sunday.  I tried to find out much beer we consume on Super Bowl Sunday but according to the Beer Institute (I know, but there really is one.) it’s not possible to track single day consumption.  A spokesman did say, “the Super Bowl is a good event in the ‘off season’ (cold months) to drive volume”

Each year I wonder why I watch football, yet, somehow, I’ve developed an interest and now have enough years watching to have a sense of historical perspective.  That makes it, for me, much more interesting. So, yes, I’ll be there in my seat, though sans beer, sans snacks and sans favorite, though I lean toward the Giants just because they’re the underdogs.

 Allison wondered if I plan to blog while in Hawai’i.  Yep.  Like football I’ve developed an interest in blogging, though this interest predates my football jones by quite a few years.  I have three bookshelves of journals of various types and sizes.  I imagine this habit came with mother’s milk, or should I say father’s ink and lead.  Dad wrote a weekly column for the Alexandria Times-Tribune, Smalltown USA, for many, many years. 

There is something about being able to read the breadcrumbs of your life, sprinkled out at various ages and stages.  In some instances it’s revelatory, in others it’s “Oh, my god.  What was I thinking?”  I suppose its a similar feeling artists get from paintings and sketches made over many years.  Or photo albums and all those home movies.

Is It a Time to Advance or Retreat?

27  66%  18%  1mph ENE bar29.95 falls windchill26  Imbolc

            Waning Crescent of the Winter Moon

A strange, sometimes troubling struggle has broken out in the responsible section of my Self.  The sometimes subtle, sometimes hammer blow obvious skirmishes have me puzzled about what actions to take, if any.  The formal study of Daoism I began a couple of weeks ago has begun to push me in a way that I hope will resolve this matter, or at least give me a way to handle it.

The struggle is over politics.  As I’ve written elsewhere politics defined my life during my late teens, 20’s, 30’s and early 40’s.  That is to say, by my junior year in high school I was a political animal, a politician and an activist.  President of my high school class for my freshman, junior and senior years, a favorite teacher pushed the Little United Nations Assembly of Indiana to accept me as the presiding officer for the 1965 Little United Nations.  The year before I represented the Republic of Chad.  In the fall of 1965 we protested the CIA recruiters on the campus of Wabash and I never looked back. 

Draft eligible and permanently active from that point forward I got involved in civil rights, student rights and anti-war politics. I was a student senator for three years at Ball State, then ran an unsuccessful campaign for president of the student body.  I helped organize and lead anti-draft and anti-war rallies, marches and teach-ins. 

In seminary I pushed the seminary on anti-war politics, became an early feminist and began a ten year involvement with anti-racism training.

While working at Community Involvement Programs as their janitor and weekend counselor, I lived in the Stevens Square Neighborhood.  There I got involved in neighborhood level politics, leading an effort to push General Mills out of the community and organizing the Stevens Square Neighborhood Association.  Made a lot of friends and few enemies.  It was fun.  This was the 1970’s. 

In 1978 the Presbytery of the Twin Cities Area hired me to work on the West Bank as a community minister.  I got involved in community based economic development, building affordable housing, organizing against unemployment and for broader community involvement in the management of philanthropy. 

In 1984 I left the West Bank and took over urban missions for the Presbytery which expanded the arena of action.  In various ways I was still at it when I met Kate in 1988. 

Over all this time I had a very active hand in DFL politics working at the precinct, congressional and state levels.  Then I left the Presbytery in  1991.  Not long after that Kate and I moved to Andover.

Since then my political work has shrunk to near nothing.  I send the occasional e-mail, make a phone call, show up (sometimes) at the precinct caucus, but I’m part of no ongoing, organized effort to make or change policy.  The whole climate change issue is fraught with political issues of real import, many of them.  I’m interested, especially in water related issues and Lake Superior.   Yet I do almost nothing.

The 1960’s was a “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.” era.  My political superego came into maturity in those times and this notion became a benchmark for my own assessment of responsible behavior. 

Thus, the struggle.  I wonder, sometimes, where this guy went, this political guy. It’s like he crawled under a rock, but that’s not so.  No, this is a struggle that has moved back and forth in my mind since the move to Andover.

Now the Daoist studies I’ve engaged propose a way of addressing it.  Daoism suggests that there are times to retreat and times to advance, times which call for more yang, times which call for more yin.  The wise man, Daoism says, adjusts his inner life to what it calls the temporary conditions, the way the Tao manifests itself.  This area of Daoist studies has my attention right now.  I’ll keep you informed because this struggle is not productive and it’s not over.