You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
As I said at the time …
The ground was so dry the rainfall ran right off. The grass had all browned and turned to thatch.
But then, after a week of storms, the green returned. Mushrooms sprouted everywhere, even in broad sunlight.
~*~
Gee, these days I don’t even remember where that was. But I do know it’s true.
Looking at the lack of traction of any of the candidates in the Republican presidential field, maybe it’s time to suggest returning to a once common strategy, one known as the Favorite Son – or, on today’s scene, Favorite Daughter.
Here’s where the large states like New York or Ohio could wield their clout, throwing their primary election weight behind a candidate from their state who would then negotiate at the national convention. Well, we do have Pataki and Kasich as a fit. Add Rick Santorum, Pennsylvania, and Chris Christy, New Jersey.
Florida becomes more of a problem, split between Bush and Rubio. As for Texas, still Rick Perry?
Could be interesting, if they can muscle their delegations. But California keeps drawing a blank for me. Keep wondering who I’m missing.
Well, why wouldn’t conservatives want to return to the past? Seems a rational option at the moment.
These days, the Greek Orthodox community has much more substance – and influence – in Dover than do the Friends, even though Quakers once formed a third of the population.
Our plumber, our wine retailer, our favorite meat store, the downtown seafood restaurant … the list goes on. Add a daughter’s boyfriend, one-half of his genetic pool. The local congregation’s participation in the ecumenical Thanksgiving service. Or its annual Labor Day weekend festival and traditional food and dancing.
Even so, it’s a largely invisible presence … and quite a legacy, as I’ve been discovering, step by step. Let me add, a very tolerant circle, too, as they’ve welcomed me to the line in dancing. Oh, my, have they!
Five volunteer departments responded, “The whole hill is on fire!” – only to discover a brilliant sunset in the woods. Five, all of the members dropping their daily activities to dash off on an emergency mission.
Now the caller was running for sheriff.
~*~
All these years later, I can’t remember who won.
When I moved to Baltimore, I was surprised to find all of the local pizza parlors were owned by Greeks. Not Italians?
Well, it took time before I discovered the alternatives, beginning in the city’s Little Italy.
But that occurred about the same time I was told most diners were owned by Greeks, too. And I’ve come to love diners, even though I’d been introduced to the real thing way back right after college. They just weren’t fashionable then.
Well, somewhere in-between there had been the Dairy Queen owned by a Greek-American who, though a big error by the Bank of France, wound up instantly nearly seven-figures rich – and took flight to his homeland before the error was discovered. It was a big news story where I was for the next month, before he repented and returned.
So more recently, I ordered a pizza from a local parlor. Wanted to support a young friend who works there. When I picked up the box, there was no gaudy image of a fat smiling chef on the top of the steaming box – a good sign, in my book. And then I noticed the design was mostly white with blue trim, adhering to the national Greek colors. Along with a border of … the signature Greek key pattern. OK, I thought. I get it. Even before I noticed the words gyros and pizza in a little house, side by side.
That does it. I’m definitely going back for a gyro.
And, for the record, the box is distributed from our favorite Italian grocery in Portland, Maine. Has me wondering about the rest of the story.
The New Hampshire Republican Party’s recent reiterations claiming the centrality of integrity have me looking at the party’s record of the past few decades in national elections.
Just where does integrity fit in the win-at-all-costs school of politics manifested by Karl Rove and his kind? And where has it been thrown overboard, especially?
Put another way, and not just with politics: Where do words and actions converge? And just where do they diverge?
Integrity, of course, demands convergence – of the head, hands, and heart, as well. Here’s hoping …
At the left side of the bumper was the sticker
SUPPORT OUR TROOPS.
On the right side
TAX IT ALL
presumably as a protest.
I doubt the driver made the connection – and these two are closely related – that the overwhelming preponderance of federal debt and tax money goes to the military for current and past expenditures. I just wish those who support the first connect it to the second. That awareness would cut through a lot of political rhetoric and posturing and maybe lead to some real reductions.
Think it will ever happen?
Finding adequate terms to define someone in a contemporary family relationship can be elusive.
I don’t mean the euphemistic police blotter application of “live-in girlfriend” to the mother of the suspect’s latest child or its transformation to “his fiancee” after the birth of their second or third.
What I’m thinking would fit situations like “my wife’s ex-father-in-law” when he’s still on very good terms, unlike his son, the ex. While still roundabout, calling him “my kids’ grandfather” turns into the most direct description, though it takes a few seconds to register.
Then there are the extensions. Consider the favorite sister-in-law of a favorite brother-in-law, when she’s part of the active scene you share. Have we ever had terms that fit there? Now try “my ex-brother-in-law’s ex-wife” before twisting it further into “ex-wife’s new husband.”
When families scatter across today’s continent or the world, keeping track of even first-cousins can be vaporous. That’s largely ancient history.
Genealogists have charts to assist in determining third-cousins from fourth- or fifth-, along with the “times removed.” Anyone ready to tackle something similar for today’s all-too-fluid familial connections?
It’s bound to appear, the bumper sticker, at least where I live:
The land was often golden in the bright sunlight. Not green, but a permanent range of yellowish brown only flecked with green in a few weeks of spring passing.
Once I adjusted to its palette and air, I hoped we’d live there forever.
~*~
It’s the background for some of my novels and poetry now appearing at Thistle/Flinch editions. To read more, click here.
Jnana's Red Barn 