Brad Nelson
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עַבְדְּךָ֔ אֶת־ הַתְּשׁוּעָ֥ה הַגְּדֹלָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את
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Post by Brad Nelson on Dec 15, 2019 9:26:00 GMT -8
Yesterday was my mother’s memorial service. She died November 9. She was 88.
We had an informal ceremony — basically we had a “food and fellowship” type of event. Stop by. Get fed. Talk about my mother or just whatever. No one was preached to although the Pastor of the church we “rented” was there and he blessed the food.
Having recently attended my sister’s funeral back in May, I was a bit put off by the highly scripted yuppie-style ceremony with the nice (but sort of creepy-nice) funeral director hosting the event. People got up to speak. Tears were shed. One of my nieces (quite literally) included some man-hate in her testimonial to her mother, recounting (and re-reading) a poem she had written as a child which included some man-hate.
They then had a graveside event which seemed to be a waste of time and money. Finally, her best friend hosted a catered reception at her house (and did a splendid job). It was there that it seemed the most sensible way to honor my sister. A bunch of her friends sitting around sharing stories.
So I was inclined to take the direct-route to the catered reception. And since no else in the family was making an effort, it was pretty much whatever I wanted to make it. I flooded the place with poinsettias which were my mother’s favorite. I laid out a couple tables of photos and photo albums. And at the entrance, I displayed a large (40” x 24” or so) picture (one used in her college yearbook) that I had enlarged. People really liked that. My mother was a stunning beauty. That came as a pleasant surprise to many. It was good to see her like that.
Regarding the food, I had first tried to enlist the services of a professional catering company…one that my sister-in-law works for. But they were booked up. My mother owned the building that houses a church and where my offices are on the ground floor. It seemed a natural place to hold the memorial so I arranged that with the pastor. When mentioning I was still trying to sort out ideas for catering, he jumped right in and said “Why don’t you have Kathy do it?” Kathy does all the food for their monthly food-and-fellowship which I’m always invited to (even if I don’t actually sit through the sermons).
That sounded good. How much money would you need for a budget? I was told “Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of it.” I asked if I could at least make a donation to the church. That was deemed fine and we did a low four-figure amount.
The food was great. Attendance was adequate. The older you get, the fewer there are people to come to your funeral. But I got a chance to catch up with some old friends and family members. The talk was non-stop.
And there was one very large fellow there who I didn’t know. I think he went to my mother’s church. I never did get the story. While he was talking there was some lady seated fairly close by who remained silent. I didn’t know who she was or who she belonged to. But I was astonished at the smile on her face. She looked genuinely happy. In the days of raging feminism, believe me, this is becoming unusual.
She belonged to the big guy I found out. Oh, and I found out from my cousins that my great-grandfather on my mother’s side was a drunk and a political zealot. That was kind of humorous to learn. To say I had to pry out of my cousins (on my mom’s side of the family) this family lore is to say that you tipped over the Hoover Dam to get a drink of water. They love telling these stories and you certainly don’t have to pull them out of them.
And you learn that stories (as they admitted) tend to have several versions. No one knows what the real story is on a lot of this. But look into any family background (especially in the far West like this) and it usually involves a story of running away to somewhere else for some reason or another. I found out that my great grandfather sprang from North Carolina and my great grandmother from Virginia. Both their families at some point moved out West and made their way, often with several intervening stops, to Forks, Washington where my grandmother and grandfather met.
The drunk bible-thumbing great grandfather wasn’t involved in logging industry which would soon boom. My mother's brothers (all four of them) were loggers. I was told that he instead made his living as a trapper. At one point the wife divorced him, married someone else, and at some point it sounds as if they paid this guy off to stay away.
An old friend of my father’s stopped by. He had many fine stories to tell. When I enquired about his son (we were sort of family friends at one time), I was told that he is now “Katherine” and had discovered at about the age of 50 that he was a woman trapped in a man’s body. So he had surgery, and made enough other changes, so that now the pronoun is “she.” I was astonished but polite. What can one really say?
Several of the church members (who may have met my mother once, if that) were at the memorial to help and just to be there. This is a predominantly black church which is neither her nor there. Suffice it to say, I felt more familial affection from them than from many of my own relatives. One of them was obsessed in taking back a photo album which their daughter had given to my mother. She wanted to take it before the ceremony was over. And just for fun (because I knew what the answer would be) I asked how she liked the obituary that I wrote. She found fault, of course. But that was no surprise.
My mother had been living in an assisted living place. It was expensive but nice. Her memory issues became such that about 9 months ago she had to be moved to an memory-care unit. This place, while superficially nice, resembled the hospital seen in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The care was abysmal.
But with my sister’s death, my older brother became legal guardian. We decided to move her to a private group home. Not only would this quite literally be a more homey environment (because it was basically in a residential house), but she would received more personal care. I shan’t tell you all the stories of neglect at the memory-care unit.
Anyway, she started doing better. The nurse there (she and her husband run the place) was able to ween her off of some of the over-medication they had been giving her at the “professional” memory-care unit she had left. She cut her hair, made her look good, and more importantly, made her smile.
So it was surprising to me, even given how nasty this one aunt can be (the one who wanted the photo album back right then and there), when my brother texted me last night and said “Aunt so-and-so told my wife that our sister would be rolling over in her grave because we moved mom from the place that she had initially put her.” Through her other words, apparently she insinuated that we killed her.
My sister actually did place her (with my mother’s consent) in the very nice and expensive assisted living place which we all more or less like. This same assisted living place said that my mother no longer qualified to stay there because of the increased level of care she required. They have an associated memory-care facility just across the parking lot. So that was the logical move and we made the move. But it proved to be just a case of what one friend of my calls “warehousing for the elderly.” My brother (both at the assisted living place and at the memory care unit) was constantly visiting, often putting on concerts for the benefit of all. And they love him. And it was the kind of boost the residents needed but rarely received.
There are lots of superficially smiles, but the care you actually received resembled what my friend has termed “warehousing for the elderly.” But this, of course, apparently was a horrible things for us to do according to my aunt.
You realize, as well, that as family members pass on, the ties to their extended family weaken. This is not always such a bad thing. That drunken bible-thumping great-grandfather isn’t looking too bad at the moment.
But their were blessings galore poured out by other friends and family, especially the members of the church we had rented for the ceremony. They were beyond fantastic. They ran things so well, providing both material and moral support. And it was the kind of personal support than no liberal-town rent-a-funeral-director (no matter how well-meaning) could ever provide. God bless them all.
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Post by timothylane on Dec 15, 2019 10:08:35 GMT -8
That was quite a wait for the service. When my mother died a decade or so ago (I don't remember the exact year) it was several months (from November to May) before we could all get together. My sister cremated her the next day and put the ashes in a cardboard box, which seemed to reflect my mother's desire and was perfectly acceptable to my sister and me. (In fact, that's what I would prefer for myself when the time comes, assuming there's anyone around to see to it. Elizabeth is in better health but is also 12 years older, so who knows?)
I've been through a fair number of funeral services over the years. I suppose the first was my father's, but I remember almost nothing about it. Much the same is true of my maternal grandfather's funeral a few years later. The next one that I recall attending was my paternal grandmother's funeral in the mid-80s. I didn't go to the funeral home, but was at the church service (Sweeden Missionary Baptist Church is within a modest walk of where my grandparents lived, which was across the road from Lane's Store) and the wake (which involved a lot of food for a lot of people).
There were other funerals over the years that I didn't make for one reason or another, but about 20 years ago I did attend the funerals (a year or two apart) of the parents of a friend, Grant McCormick. (We had often had holiday meals together, usually at one or another Holiday Inn, so I knew them personally. My reaction to Iago Carville is influenced by his insulting comments about "trailer park trash". That category included the McCormicks, so I considered his insults a slur on the mother.)
I also attended my other grandmother's funeral, in 2001 I think. Early that year, her nursing home had a large party for her 100th birthday; then near the end we attended her funeral. It was very well attended, many of the attendees being former English students of hers. I also learned that one elderly in-law ("Pop", as my father had always called Robert Mason), which surprised me given that his wife (Aunt Lucille) had died over 20 years ago. (Technically she was a great-aunt, in more ways than one, as I told her once.) He has since died.
One interesting feature of the wake to my mother's funeral was that my sister brought a humongous collection of old family photographs, including what may have been the first ever taken of me -- it was the 3 siblings visiting with Santa, probably when I was a year old. (Needless to say, I have no memory of the visit.) I selected many, but unfortunately they got left behind in the house. Along with so much else.
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Brad Nelson
Administrator
עַבְדְּךָ֔ אֶת־ הַתְּשׁוּעָ֥ה הַגְּדֹלָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את
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Post by Brad Nelson on Dec 15, 2019 11:52:23 GMT -8
Timothy, I’ve been told to that from one to two months is becoming the norm. No doubt that has to do with how spread-out families can be, as was apparently your case. The actual funeral work, if you will, proceeded pronto. She was buried next to my father.
I think I’d prefer cremation as well. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Many Christians seem to think this will spoil their chances for resurrection…as if God couldn’t create life from dust again.
I do think the Irish have a better handle on these things. In my view, funerals and ceremonies have become big business, much like Valentine’s Day.
My father was fairly well known in the area. When he passed, it was a packed house at a pretty good sized place. We had maybe fifty people or so pass through for my mother. I expect when my time comes, I’ll be lucky to draw a dozen. But a 100th birthday is an amazing thing. I went to my Aunt Hazel’s 100th just a couple months ago in Clallam Bay. She is a very spritely 100 and they filled an old school house with at least 200 people.
It would be great to get all these family stories down. When it’s gone it’s gone. And, frankly, I have very little information on my family’s past. Whether it was because some of that past was not so flattering is almost certainly so. But I think it’s more a factor of the marginalization of those who are older by those who go to the theatres and watch those horrible Marvel Comic Book movies that are meant for regressed adolescents. If it isn't CGI, sex, or violence in front of some kind of screen sitting in front of them, it isn't important.
My father’s mother and father would often speak of their life on a farm in North Dakota from which both of them haled. The stories were basic and not too varied. But then life on a farm battling the elements is a very old story that hadn’t really changed much until the big, industrial farms came to be. When you’re father said that the had to walk a mile through waste-deep snow to get to school, perhaps cut the details in half to get at the truth. But they did indeed walk long distances in snow in order to get to school. Can you seriously imagine a seven-year-old doing that today?
My father and his brothers were using dynamite to blow stumps in their early teens, if not earlier than that. One of their favorite stories is when one of them decided they should pack an extra dose under the stump. They lit it off. It went way into the air and came down on their father’s shes. Back in those days, the boys probably got more than just a time-out.
I found out yesterday that my mother’s father was the chairman of the local school board for a while. He lived at least proverbially in a one-horse town. The school back then was basically run by one family. One member owned the place which was used as the school. Another owned the bus. Another might have been janitor. Another was the teacher. Etc. I didn’t get too deep into whether this was good or bad. But one can assume there was some insider trading there, so to speak. One of the first things my grandfather apparently did was put the contract for taking care of the bus (buses?…there might have only been one) out to bid. They apparently saved some money when that happened.
My cousin noted that his graduating class in Clallam Bay was a relatively gargantuan 25. For the football team, they could only muster six players. To facilitate this, apparently other schools would form special six-player squads so that they could play. He noted that his father’s graduating class consisted of all boys with just one girl…and she was a late-season arrival from out of town. I didn’t probe into why there should be so many boys. Maybe something in what they ate around those parts.
My mother’s graduating class was something like twelve student.
Sharing old photos is a wonderful idea for a memorial.
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Post by timothylane on Dec 15, 2019 12:47:14 GMT -8
Ah, the old stories about how far they had to walk . . . my mother had a few of those, too. My first couple of years in Greece, I attended a Catholic school which sent a bus to Kifissia to pick us up. Some of the students would -- maybe once a year -- walk all the way, which was several miles. We once passed one of them on his way. (I never did that myself. Unlike descending that one marble quarry, it wasn't one of those necessary rites of passage.) I did often have to walk home from school (my mother worked as a retail sales clerk, and her hours didn't permit picking me up, though she did drop me off in the morning) in Louisville, which was about a mile with a steep gully on Cannons Lane near Winchester Road (on which we lived).
There's a lot I just don't remember anymore. For example, most of the schools I attended, I have no idea if there was a bus, or I was picked up/dropped off, or walked home. I vaguely waiting for my ride (probably my mother) my first year in Galveston (acorns had fallen from the trees and we were noticing them), when I attended a private school because my birthday was too late to go to first grade that year. (I also had vision problems then and had to wear glasses for a while. I also recall once attending class with my eyes dilated, and thus unable to see for all practical purposes.)
I did a decent amount of walking and bicycling when we lived on Drennan Park in Fort Campbell. This included walking to confirmation classes and bicycling to the library (until the pedal gear broke on me). I also remember walking to the Dads Club. After my father was sent to Vietnam we had to move off-base, though I still attended Fort Campbell High School. That was further from everything, and I didn't do much walking.
At Purdue, I walked to class, and everything else. My dorm was the furthest from campus, though very close to a shopping center that included a bookstore, a couple of eateries (the dorms didn't serve Sunday dinner for some reason), and a few other stores. I did a lot of walking, including crossing streets with cars going by in both directions. My last year I was in a different dorm because McCutcheon Hall went coed an I knew when especially obnoxious student was staying. That was enough reason to leave (though he would still call out mockingly when he saw me walking past on the way to the shopping center). You will understand why I still remember his name and have had occasional revenge fantasies about him.
My paternal grandfather had a farm, and I recall being taken there a couple of times. Once he took a few of us there, shot a pig, and hauled it to the butcher for him to explain what he was doing. I don't recall if we had pork that evening, though I don't think it would have been a problem. On another occasion he took us where they were growing some sort of cane from which they made molasses. I thought it was sugar cane, but presumably this here in Kentucky, in which case sorghum would have been much more likely. More recently I learned that he named it Shady Lane Farm, which apparently was my father's nickname at West Point.
He also ran the local general store, which had the post office in the back. Uncle Bill was the mailman, so when Grandpa Lane got a letter from Rep. William Natcher to "Big E" in Sweeden, there was no difficulty delivering it. (He showed us the envelope. That may have been the same visit when he mentioned a local indecent exposure case in which the prosecutor, told he needed to be specific, mentioned the miscreant going into church and pulling out one "penis, peter, dick, tailwhacker, or gut wrench", among other details. He also told us about an ancestor who deserted the Union Army after Cousin Abe -- who was in my mother's line of ancestry, not my father's -- issued the Emancipation Proclamation. You don't need to tell me about being in a border state.)
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Post by lynda on Dec 15, 2019 14:58:36 GMT -8
Brad, It sounds like you put together a fine and thoughtful memorial for your Mother. I'm sorry for your family's loss.
How wonderful it is, too, that 'your church family' was willing and eager to provide comfort in so many ways.
May your memories of your Mother grow sweeter with each passing day.
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Brad Nelson
Administrator
עַבְדְּךָ֔ אֶת־ הַתְּשׁוּעָ֥ה הַגְּדֹלָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את
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Post by Brad Nelson on Dec 15, 2019 16:59:55 GMT -8
There is absolutely no Snowflake in those place names.  Very rough-and-ready. To tell you the truth, I can’t remember when I walked, when I drove, and when I took a bus. Elementary school was close by, so that was always a walk. Junior High wasn’t really a good walking distance but really not that bad. But I’m pretty sure we took a bus in the morning at the very least. In High School, it was probably usually the bus. At one point I got a car. (And often walking would have been an improvement.) And it seemed to me there was a point (Junior High?) when I was driven to school with my best friend's mother who lived across the street. I don’t ever remember riding my bike. It really wasn’t a good route for a bike. There were far too many streets to cross. I know that when I went to Olympic College for a couple years that I walked quite often. Galveston, oh Galveston, I still her the acorns droppin’
I still see the chipmunks hoppin’
I was in 1st grade when I lived in GalvestonThe once was a McCutcheon Hall It was Purdue’s be-all end-all But then it went coed With a guy who was brain-dead His name, alas, I can recall |
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Post by timothylane on Dec 15, 2019 17:54:07 GMT -8
I do remember that my brother drove when we went to FCHS after moving off the base (to a Clarksville suburb or something called Bel Air). We both went there, which wasn't always a good thing.
There are some songs I like because of the connection. This includes Glen Campbell's "Galveston", Dean Martin's "Goin' Back to Houston", and Elvis Presley's "Kentucky Rain". (There's also a song about Bowling Green, but I don't have that. I did find it once on youtube.) I don't know any songs about Monterey, or Kifissia, or Fort Leavenworth, or Edmonson County (though Bowling Green isn't too far away). "Delta Dawn" does mention Brownsville, but it's probably a different Brownsville. It's quite possible that the Monkees' "Last Train to Clarksville" refers to Clarksville, Tennessee, though.
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Brad Nelson
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עַבְדְּךָ֔ אֶת־ הַתְּשׁוּעָ֥ה הַגְּדֹלָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את
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Post by Brad Nelson on Dec 15, 2019 19:40:42 GMT -8
Place name songs are great. Offhand, I can’t think of one better (when done by these two):
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Brad Nelson
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עַבְדְּךָ֔ אֶת־ הַתְּשׁוּעָ֥ה הַגְּדֹלָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את
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Post by Brad Nelson on Dec 16, 2019 8:30:12 GMT -8
Winco had a good price on poinsettias (I would lose any spelling bee trying to spell that) so, as I had mentioned, I set some up around the church. I also planted a few outside on the front entrance. I had three azaleas go bad. They wasted away and were looking scraggly. So I potted some poinsettias in them instead. I wonder how long they will last. I realize they will not grow there. It’s too cold. But might the cold help to preserve them for a few days? I’ll compare them to the ones I have indoors. All will get a little water so that they don’t dry out.  |
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Brad Nelson
Administrator
עַבְדְּךָ֔ אֶת־ הַתְּשׁוּעָ֥ה הַגְּדֹלָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את
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Post by Brad Nelson on Dec 16, 2019 9:17:27 GMT -8
The funny thing is, Gibbnonymous, there are a lot of mixed emotions.
My aunts and uncles were cordial. But you’d think they were all going to a funeral by the sourpuss faces on many of them. Not all. My cousins were all great, cordial, upbeat, and supportive. But there’s a darkness there amongst some others that I don’t know where it comes from.
I remember my mother constantly inviting me to go to church with her. I always resisted. And I have some mixed feelings about this. The problem was, my mother could be sort of an obnoxious Christian even if she didn’t mean to be. And her invitations to intend her church always felt like I would be a prize for her to capture.
I know the pastor of her church fairly well. And he’s a nice enough guy. I was sitting with him and the other pastor (pastor of the church we were using) at the memorial for a while. And, yeah, in the midst of the conversation I took a shot across the bow of what seemed like a production-minded ceremony at my sister’s funeral in Edmonds. I said something like “Well, I guess it’s about as good as the can do over there.”
And then I was informed by my mother's pastor that Edmonds (an extremely liberal community) had higher church attendance than my own town. Could be. I don’t dispute the numbers. I don’t know the numbers. And we (he) got on the subject of atheists and said he was proud to have six of them in his church.
Of course, I’m thinking “I’m not sure I’d brag about having the kind of church where atheists feel touchy-feely comfortable.” I’ve heard this kind of stuff from him before. And I thought this pastor made a slight social faux pas when he grouped me in with the atheists and agnostics.
That was not the time for a theological discussion (despite that fact that there were two experienced pastors there). But had I gone on with the discussion I would have said something like:
“I don’t reject the idea of God or even Jesus. What I reject, or at least stand a distance from, is establishment religion where color brochures, mega-sound-systems, and watering down the Gospel so that no one is uncomfortable predominates.” And that, I think, describes his kind of church which, frankly, I really want no part of.
But then I never actually attended, so maybe I’m wrong. But I’m not totally unaware of how he has run it as a market-driven enterprise.
So I’m the agnostic because I don’t believe you need a bazillion dollars worth of color copiers, espresso machines, and audio-visual equipment paid for by funds from willing congregants thinking they are somehow doing God’s work. Well, I’m dubious about all that and I think for good reason.
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Post by timothylane on Dec 16, 2019 10:05:12 GMT -8
I wouldn't say I really got to know Elizabeth's pastor well, but we certainly recognized each other. People at her church knew about us and never pressured us on our unmarried status or my religious inactivity. At one choir function, I think for Christmas, in announcing members' names they mentioned me with her. We also for several years hosted a table at their annual Christmas function. (The guests at our table were friends who mostly are as religious as I am, though Lisa Major is a devout Eastern Orthodox and her sister attended at least once with her husband.)
Maybe you relied on a spelling checker (a spell checker is for witches, though I can see where it would be very useful for them), but you did spell poinsettia correctly. The name comes from Joel B. Poinsett, who I believe was an American diplomat.
Grandma Lane's funeral preacher presumably was the usual Sweeden Missionary Baptist minister (I was going to abbreviate until I realized that it's the same as St. Matthews Baptist). I would imagine Grandma Basham's was whoever did services at her nursing home (which she undoubtedly would have attended). On the other hand, my mother obviously no longer had a regular minister. My brother got an Episcopalian pastor from Bowling Green to officiate.
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Brad Nelson
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עַבְדְּךָ֔ אֶת־ הַתְּשׁוּעָ֥ה הַגְּדֹלָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את
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Post by Brad Nelson on Dec 16, 2019 10:38:13 GMT -8
If one wishes to join a church community, this can be a very good thing. Such as community can be the one place in this otherwise hostile world where you can find people (and a place) where the rules are different.
I think church is a place where (in theory, and often in practice) the social posturing, deceit, double-talk, egotism, and all that can be turned off. It’s an agreement that, here, one doesn’t have to be belligerent just to hold fast against the heavy current of worldly culture. You can even be kind without being put at a disadvantage.
And I appreciate that. And that’s nice to experience and take part in when you find that in others. It’s also disturbing to see (or read about) the outer culture (political correctness, Progressivism, Marxism, etc.) taking away the only “safe space” that otherwise decent people have left. When churches go Left, they become polluted by the outer culture instead of a balm for it or a refuge from it.
Why go to a church that is proud of its atheists (and lesbians)? I don’t see the draw. But when you run into good church people, as I have, you realize that it can be quite a special thing to have a church community that is operating under different rules.
And quasi-bystanders such and me and you can feel that vibe even if we’re not an official part of a church. That’s good on them, for sure.
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Post by timothylane on Dec 16, 2019 12:03:34 GMT -8
It does seem odd to have a church boasting that some of its members don't believe its message at all. I was just someone showing up at various social functions, never a member. Now, if the church boasted of all the former atheists who had been converted and joined them, that would be a very different matter. After all, that's one of their goals (at least in theory).
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Brad Nelson
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עַבְדְּךָ֔ אֶת־ הַתְּשׁוּעָ֥ה הַגְּדֹלָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את
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Post by Brad Nelson on Dec 16, 2019 13:52:29 GMT -8
LOL. You know what? When you frame it plainly like that, you’re right.
Nah nah nah nah. Blah blah blah. (Holding fingers in ear.) I’m not hearing you. There’s nothing wrong with a social function. But as to a function in regards to God Almighty, that is something else...something that will almost certainly happen in less showy ways. And it is not a necessarily a function of a social function. But neither is it necessarily contrary to it. There can be plenty of overlap.
Something tells me that God wasn’t interested in crystal palaces when Jesus said, “So that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.” Today’s churches can too easily become an idol. And many have. Social functions can be great. But Jesus didn’t start a church or coffee klatch. He started a revolution in the human mind, soul, and heart that had little to do with four walls and a roof.
Sure. I don’t have all the details. But my feeling is that the Holy Sacrament of “Niceness” is what it’s all about in many places now. But I was listening to the black preacher upstairs yesterday. He was talking about Adam and Eve and the eating of the apple.
He noted that although Eve was the one who had picked the fruit, it was Adam that God first spoke to about this. The pastor asked his partitioners, “Why did he speak to Adam first even though Eve picked the fruit? It was because Adam was responsible.” And then he went on to talk about the shattered lives of many families because the man was not there to be responsible.
There sure as hell was not a lot of the kind of namby-pamby touchy-feely talk that would make atheists or feminists comfortable.
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Brad Nelson
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עַבְדְּךָ֔ אֶת־ הַתְּשׁוּעָ֥ה הַגְּדֹלָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את
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Post by Brad Nelson on Dec 16, 2019 15:09:09 GMT -8
A Wiki article notes some interesting points about the Poinsettia: • Indigenous to Central America • Described as a species in 1834 • Though often stated to be highly toxic, the poinsettia is not dangerous to pets or children. • They were cultivated by the Aztecs for use in traditional medicine. • Bill Clinton never slept with her. |
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Post by timothylane on Dec 16, 2019 15:40:43 GMT -8
I see I slipped up there. It was Joel R. Poinsett, not Joel B. Poinsett, though he was indeed a US diplomat. Mea maxima culpa.
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Post by kungfuzu on Jun 27, 2023 19:14:37 GMT -8
I learned today that a co-worker of my wife was killed in a traffic accident a couple of days back. Dying in a traffic accident is not unusual, but the person and circumstances involved in this one disturbed me more than I might have thought.
The man involved was named William. He must have been in his late 40's or early 50's. I am not sure I would say he was mentally retarded, but he was not normal. It might have been a neural problem of some sort. He was a shy man, but kind. Whenever he saw my wife, he would ask about our son. I am sure those who are not "normal" very often notice others who are also not normal and have a deep sympathy or empathy for them.
Whenever my son and I visited the store, and William saw us, he would say, "Hello Kung Jr." If Kung Jr. was shy that day, as he is most days, I would tell him to say hi back to William. I always said hello to William, whether Jr. was with me or not. This type of thing went on for years.
A couple of days back, William was walking home from work and it seems he was trying to cross a bridge over Central Expressway. This is more than 3 miles from where he works and I believe he would have had to walk, at least, another mile to reach home. This may not seem like much, but in the Texas heat and for a "differently-abled" person as they now say, it was a slog. I didn't know he lived so far away. In fact, the idea never crossed my mind. Perhaps it should have.
It was after midnight, and I don't know if he was disoriented, lost or tried to cross the street when the light was green. It is a somewhat complicated flyover and if one is not paying close attention, one can easily turn into the wrong lane. In any case, he was hit by a car, and then two other cars hit him as well. Apparently, he was so badly mangled that they were only able to identify him by his Tom Thumb tag.
When I heard this I was deeply bothered. It is strange how the death of some people I have known did not effect me much, yet the death someone who I did not know well could bother me so deeply.
Perhaps it is the apparent injustice of it all. Perhaps it was sympathy. Here was a man, who was handicapped and knew it, yet kept trying to live his life and connect with others in his own way. No doubt he struggled, but kept going. A difficult life capped off by being killed, and mangled by cars.
We all know life is not fair. It never has been and never will be. But, especially, at times like this I hope there is a loving God who will take those like William into his hands and bring them home. RIP William.
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Brad Nelson
Administrator
עַבְדְּךָ֔ אֶת־ הַתְּשׁוּעָ֥ה הַגְּדֹלָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את
Posts: 12,261
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Post by Brad Nelson on Jun 29, 2023 7:10:16 GMT -8
That is all very well said.
Let us declare for the sake of clarity that there are victims in this world who are due our sympathy, and it sounds as if William is one of them. But then "victim" has become such a besmirched word. It implies "unearned, even coerced, recognition due to an implied, and often fraudulent, status." We really do need to get in there and update the Merriam-Webster.
William reminds me of a guy I went to school with. His name was Wally and he was a simple and somewhat stringy and geeky person. But we knew each other and were cordial. But he was the exact opposite of the "cool kid" or the quarterback on the team.
I heard about this years after the fact – after we had all graduated from high school. But he was killed by a big Ace Paving truck on the Belfair Highway while riding his bike. That could have been me. This kind of stuff can happen due to no fault of the victim.
In fact, there was a gravel truck from the nearby gravel company that got hit by a train the other day. These are the trains that go to the Bangor military base. When they are traveling through this urban area, they are not going very fast. So how did that happen?
I'll tell you. Truck drivers tend to be in a reckless hurry and think they own the road. Now, certainly at night there are cases where the driver simply doesn't see the victim as he crosses the road. But you wonder.
God does not seem to choose who lives and who dies, for if he did, this world would look much different and probably be much better. That is the essence of faith. When confronted with these contradictions of "a loving God," people choose to believe anyway and assume there is some larger context that all the smaller stuff (big to us, of course) fits into.
Waxing poetic doesn't bring back the lost ones. But, to my mind, it emphasizes just how ugly a country we have become when the word, "victim," is so often used by people who have an abundance of freedom and material goods and yet insist that they are put upon.
William will forever remind us of our shame. And many of us are not fit to even mention his name.
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Post by kungfuzu on Jun 29, 2023 8:02:43 GMT -8
As someone who has been around and interacted with many, many handicapped people, there is no doubt that William had serious problems. Yet he kept going. That alone should be enough for us to appreciate him and hold him in respect. But of course, most people do not notice this type of thing and may even look down on, or disparage someone like William. Such people aren't worthy of polishing the shoes of William and his like.
There are many people in this world who do need support and help from others. I am not talking about people who have both the physical and mental ability to survive, but are too lazy, resentful or dishonest to make use of their abilities. I mean those who truly are unable to get by without help. And I worry that the scumbags who are too lazy, resentful and dishonest to support themselves are bleeding away the resources which are truly needed to help those who have real difficulties. By helping the phonies we are hurting those who really need help. By helping the phonies, taxpayer anger builds against those who actually need help, because people are too often undiscriminating in their resentments.
As you will see from my above comments, I know you are 100% correct. The memory of William still haunts me. I can see him in my mind's eye, about 10-14 days ago, which was the last time I saw him. Kung Jr and I are in a certain part of the store as William walks past my son and me, and says "Hi Kung Jr." I see his small, somewhat stooped body. His sad and, to my mind, somewhat frightened face. Yet I can tell he is pleased?, happy?, somehow appreciates it?, when I notice him and tell Kung Jr. that William said hi and he should say hi to William. In his shy way, Jr. quickly says "hi." We all go our separate ways, never to meet again.
This scene is replayed in my mind several times a day, and and it won't go away. I have the feeling it will be there for some time.
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Post by artraveler on Jun 29, 2023 9:35:09 GMT -8
We all know life is not fair. It never has been and never will be. But, especially, at times like this I hope there is a loving God who will take those like William into his hands and bring them home. RIP William. I have known and employed a number of Williams in my working life. One woman, Wanda, worked for me at Sac State. We hired her out of a pool of disabled to change trash cans during lunch, about 20 hours per week. Wanda was always on time for her shift. An attribute I can not give to our student staff, and she was ready to work. She had a method for her job, worked out on her own, she opened the number of bags needed and stuffed them around her belt in a kind of polyester skirt. I heard a student making fun of her, and to some Wanda presented a comical figure. Out of ear shot of Wanda I told the student that if he put as much dedication into his studies as Wanda in her job then he would graduate with honors. I don't know what happened to the student, if he was contrite or not, and it has been a quarter century since I left CA and Wanda has stuck in my memory. Did Wanda need assistance? Undoubtably, she was doing a worthwhile job at a level where she could feel productive and had the pride of contributing to her own support. In my book she was as successful as the multimillionaire tycoon, perhaps more so as she put her all into a simple task and held her her head with dignity and pride. RIP William. |
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Very rough-and-ready.
