A CHIP OFF THE OLD PLYMOUTH ROCK

If you delve into genealogy or even read obituaries, you may run across references to someone as a “Mayflower descendant.” The assumption is that at least one of their ancestors arrived (and survived) the 1620 voyage to Plymouth Bay. Their lines have been carefully detailed.

More broadly, though, you’ll come across those who consider all Plymouth arrivals of the first decade as Mayflower ancestors, not that I’m finding that online at the moment. So I’ll leave it as a hearsay argument. Still, after all, the Mayflower itself made a second crossing in 1629 – one of 10 vessels to arrive there in that period – and this is where things can get confusing.

Add to that many others landing to the north in this period – at Salem, especially, and then Boston, plus a scattering at other New England ports. The region was quickly filled with settlers, including the Hiltons at Dover, where I live in New Hampshire.

These can all be long lines, some much better recorded than others.

MAYBE IT STILL COMES DOWN TO MEANS VERSUS ENDS

In the aftermath of the recent national elections, trying to make sense of the American scene today is, well, downright scary. The fact we have one party so willing to risk constitutional crisis rather than work cooperatively on solutions to common problems strikes at the very heart of democracy. And that’s before we get to the divisions revealed geographically, demographically, and economically.

Several of the phrases floating around the campaigns continue to ring in my ears. Describing one party, we have an “echo chamber” of “misfits,” which begins to look far larger than would be healthy for any society. And for the other party, the race came down to a “technocrat” versus “activist,” in itself suggesting a division between an appeal to the brain versus the heart.

Much of this situation, I’ll contend, springs from a lingering state of denial involving the encounters of those of us who came of age during the 1960s and ’70s. Coming across a summary of William Clark Roof’s 1993 A Generation of Seekers: The Spiritual Journeys of the Baby Boom Generation, I had to sit up and take notice when he noted that a low level of community involvement accompanied our search for personal meaning. It’s something that’s certainly happened across American society over recent decades, although I’d say increasing demands on our careers and suburban family lifestyles have taken their toll, too.

As Douglas Gwyn comments in Seekers Found: Atonement in Early Quaker Experience:

Roof’s study confirms many impressions of baby boomers in the ’60s, but adds a new perspective. Many tried drugs, were sexually active, and went to rock concerts and political protests. But many did not. Half of those surveyed say they did not try drugs; a third never attended a rock concert; and 80% were not politically active in that period. On the whole, Roof finds boomers to be nearly evenly divided between traditionalist and countercultural affinities.

A conventional view might look at this split along the lines of the Vietnam war issue, with the traditionalists joining the military and the hippie side in full opposition. But Roof’s criteria turn the angle: more than a few servicemen experimented with pot and other drugs in ‘Nam, along with free love, and moved easily into hippie circles on their return. Meanwhile, I sense more than a few hippies never did drugs, out-of-wedlock sex, or political protests. For them, maybe it was all about the music?

As Gwyn continues his reflections on Roof’s study, he prophetically notes:

But in subsequent decades, with a tightening of the American economy, the assumption of abundance often turned from utopian to belligerent, as Americans vented their frustration over lowered or failed expectations. Given their expanded subjective and expressive registers, boomers are already more likely to consider themselves wounded by defects in their religious upbringing. When religious institutions or leaders fail their expectations today, boomers are all the more likely to feel cheated, wounded, or even victimized.

It’s not just religion, let’s be honest. This cuts across the entire society.

Gwyn makes one other argument that lingers, one that involves the kind of association each seeker is drawn to. One is process driven, and the ways we can become captive to the mechanics of a particular system. (He names capitalist democracy as an example.) Here, the procedures outweigh results. I love his observation, “If civility is too strongly identified with democratic processes, then true seeking and conversation to one’s neighbor will tend to be subverted. Caucus politics or the contest of interests may usurp the conversation.”

The alternative, goal driven identity, can override the process altogether, in which the ends justify any means of getting there.

The vital tension Gwyn encourages “requires a disciplined and sustained dialogue between seriously considered and passionately held positions,” a “drama of faith, which is played out upon a level civic stage of public concern.”

Quite simply, where is that dialogue today? And where is the open exchange in questioning and refining the factual essence of the positions? An “echo chamber,” on either side, simply cannot do the job.

~*~

More of my own reflections on alternative Christianity are found at Religion Turned Upside Down.

SO MUCH FOR THAT PICTURESQUE IMPRESSION

Looking at all of the old red-brick mills remaining along the waterways of New England, you’re likely to see them as strong, serious, silent enterprises in their day. Something like a library, perchance.

The reality is something quite different. They were beehives, for one thing, where workers were subject to wide fluctuations in hot and cold (no heat, which could spark fires, along with some brutal summers) – in addition to cotton lung, like the black lung suffered by miners.

As for the quiet? Forget it. These factories were powered by leather belts that ran in relays from the groaning, splashing waterwheel to squeaky overhead rollers on each floor which in turn led to all kinds of clacking machinery. The whole building shook.

Not all of them wove cotton, either, but the mechanics were the same.

The leather belts, by the way, would wear out and break. They alone led to a unique art of construction and maintenance. The city where I live had tanneries to supply the mills, unlike the next city downstream, which was involved largely in shipping.

As the ditty went:

“Portsmouth by the sea,
Dover by the smell.”

As I was saying about that initial impression? These were the nitty-gritty realities.

ONE COUNTER GIRL TO THE OTHER

“here’s the guy
you called a moron
the other day”

“that’s Mormon,
not moron!”

vital differences
in the distinctives
add up, I trust

~*~

came home the other day and found
my apartment door unlocked, apparently from when
the maintenance crew came in to leave a form saying
my rent’s going up next month

so much for living an hour from Boston

at least nobody tried the door in the meantime

~*~

in the circling, a return, or maybe
everybody’s coming down with colds or the flu

a repressed desire for children
driving from one town to another

interrupted by an “emergency” message from the operator
even when it wasn’t an emergency

(just informed I have
with two “personal days” that must be taken before
the year ends)
my bank balance says otherwise

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Copyright 2015

KARMA LAW OFFICE

she was pregnant
but which of the three
brothers was the father

she was all heartbreak
and sorrow

~*~

an acid-tripping Lutheran seminarian
argued “religion is for today”
as he walked in on his roommate
still atop Pia

~*~

the long-haired blonde with the deep voice
had already been had twice

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Copyright 2015

SINGLE ENCOUNTERS

I picked up the receiver

“is your wife around?” pause

“what number did you want”
pause

“I’m sorry . I must have the wrong number”

she sounded so married
I wished there was a wife to answer

~*~

“God-damn idiots, afraid to dirty their hands”
the old woman reiterated
“real work would kill ’em”

~*~

“I want to stop smoking
but I’m a very negative person”

so just recast the proposition
if you really want to stop puffing

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Copyright 2015

OH, BOY, WHAT A MESS

from the heart of the building in the night

“I hate your ass!”
countered by
“do I look like somebody who’d put you away”

and then she just screamed

~*~

behind the scenes at the fancy restaurant

a cook got shot
the maitre d’ was in the hospital with food poisoning
and the chief dishwasher overdosed on something

how many knives went missing

~*~

with all the Freudian potential

“Daddy, I LOVE you!”
drawing the twisted
“I want you out of here”

oh, boy, what a mess

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WITH PRAYERS TO OUR LADY OF THE ASPHALT

In the congregation of pleasure:

Some are fat; some, skinny.
Some cute; a few, beautiful.
They smile, frown, dimple, blink.
Hair short, curled, long and free.
They come from anywhere.

~*~

“Roger was in my room again till five
telling me he didn’t want to sleep alone again,”
she said, glancing at her lover

while he simply smiled, facing away.

~*~

One votive burns
twice as fast
as the other.

Both, invoking
departed honeybees.

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Copyright 2015