Black Friday Recap

Black Friday has come and gone.  Let me write a blog post to summarize:

--Our Friday after Thanksgiving was not particularly black, although there was a black and white kitten that was determined to get into the house (we persisted--but why would people let their cats roam the neighborhood).  

--There was not much shopping, although I did go to a local grocery store to get mushrooms to stuff later.

--We didn't have much in the way of leftovers, but we did have pie for breakfast.

--As with past Black Fridays, we did play games.  This year, we played round after round of Euchre, a card game beloved by my spouse's side of the family.

--There was not football.  This year's family reunion was in a house full of Memphis Grizzlies fans, so we watched a basketball game in the late afternoon.  Long, long ago, as a teenager, I followed college basketball, back when UVa had a championship team--that last bit tells you how long ago it was.

--I got a draft of Sunday's sermon written--hurrah!  I also got some grading done.

The Morning After Thanksgiving

We had a great Thanksgiving, just the way I love the holiday:  full of cooking and good food.  There were other elements, too, like family members who were happy to be together.  This one feels luckier to me, because I know it's not always this way for many people, and it can be much harder to make the family piece come together.  

My spouse and I got up early to head to his dad and stepmom's house.  We had an apple pie to create and bake, before the cooking of the 20 pound turkey.  My spouse peeled and sliced the apples, and later in the morning, I took over as assistant to the main course cooking.  We got the turkey ready and in the oven.  We created casseroles and pans of dressing.  I made a gravy out of drippings.

Eventually, others came, and we got ready for the feast.  First, we went around the circle to tell what we're grateful for, and the lists were not surprising:  friends, family, good fortune, moving 1000 miles away to escape hurricanes and surviving the one that found us in the North Carolina mountains (O.K., that last one was surprising).  And then, the real surprise:  a marriage proposal!  Our only niece said yes to her significant other who got down on one knee after taking a ring box out of his pocket.

We settled in to enjoy good food and good wishes and even more gratitude.  The clean up was surprisingly easy, and there will be leftovers later today, after pie for breakfast.

It has been an autumn of disruptions, in one way, an autumn of wreckage and ruin.  But there is beauty in this brokenness.  It has been good to have a chance to celebrate this holiday with a different set of family members.  It has been good to remember that if we're lucky, wreckage can prompt resilience.

Having said that, I'm ready for a season that doesn't fall apart, a season that doesn't require a constant shifting of my attitude.

Thanksgiving Morning

We had an easy trip across the mountain yesterday.  I had worried about traffic:  it was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and I 40, the other route across the mountain from North Carolina to Tennessee, remains closed (or more accurately, gone, slid right off the mountain).  We took US 74, a route we had taken back in June, when everything was lush and green.

It was an even easier trip yesterday:  no busses of rafters, no groups of hikers, and surprisingly, very few cars and trucks.  I've heard from other family members going in a variety of directions, and I know we were lucky.

We are staying at a hotel close to my in-laws, and when we got there, we found out that I made the reservation for last week.  Happily, there were rooms available, and at the same rate.  The innkeeper was very kind; it probably helps to be dealing with humans who own the franchise and not the corporate overlords.  I spent a bit of time in self-recrimination, but kept reminding myself that I've had a lot on my plate this fall.  It does make me worry about what I may be forgetting.

We unloaded the car and then headed over to the family gathering, the day before Thanksgiving family gathering.  There was a bit of cooking:  pecan pie bars, along with last night's dinner.  Today there will be more cooking:  an apple pie, the various kinds of dressing and gravies, and of course, the turkey.

Speaking of cooking, let me wrap up this blog post and get ready for the day ahead.  I'll try to remember to take some pictures.

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving has often been my favorite day of the year.  I love the years when we've done the travel on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, we can have mixes of relaxing and getting ready for the Thanksgiving feast.  I have such great memories of Thanksgiving Wednesdays of past years, when I was surrounded by children who are so happy to with the larger family (more people to read the favorite books or play games).

Our Thanksgiving break this year will be different:  different travel plans, different destinations, time with my spouse's family, not my family.  I feel fortunate that I have almost as many years being part of my spouse's family as with my family of origin, so I'm happy to spend time with them.  There's always the melancholy tinge that comes with knowing that we're all getting older.  We don't have unlimited time in the future to be together.

It was always an illusion, though, the idea that we would have countless holidays together.  So in many ways, I welcome the bittersweet insight, the chance to cherish the chance to be together in a way that I haven't always.

This blog post has been interrupted by packing, and now it's time to bring it to a close.  I should go get a walk in before the various activities start.  The weather in the coming days is unsettled, and I'm not sure what our vacation rhythms will be.  But I never regret going for a walk.

Planting Daffodils

Yesterday, I made this Facebook post with the picture below:  "Weather forecast for today and tomorrow predicted gorgeous weather before colder and wetter weather this week. With the help of spouse Carl, a battery powered drill, and a special augur bit, we planted daffodil bulbs along the front yard fence line. Spring Kristin will thank me!"

But there's more to this story of planting daffodils.

Back in the spring, a friend wanted daffodils in her yard.  She's relatively new to homeownership, relatively new to having a yard.  I said, "Well, it's too late for this year, but we could plan for next spring."  We agreed to buy a batch of bulbs together, and we'd put some of them in her yard, some in mine.  Buying in bulk didn't save us money, but it was fun to plan together.

In May, I ordered 35 bulbs which would be shipped in the fall.  By the time the bulbs arrived, my friend was recovering from a medical crisis and would not be planting this year; her situation has added to the variety of grief I've been feeling this fall (hurricanes and changed plans and the changed health of so many around me).

I've been staring at the package for a few weeks now.  It's been part of a list of tasks that I wanted to get done before the cold weather settles in to stay.  I've moved the paint inside; no sense losing hundreds of dollars worth of paint.  I've thought about firewood, but unlike past years, we have enough downed wood that we won't likely need to worry about wood for years.  I've pulled out the winter clothes.

Sunday's forecast was for sunshine and warmth; today will likely be the last day of sunshine and warmth.  So we headed out to plant the daffodil bulbs by the front fence line by the road.  Last year when I first planted bulbs, I got a $6.00 augur bit for the electric drill, which makes planting much easier.  Even so, we were both achy and sore afterward.  My spouse has been nursing injuries since working with a chainsaw back in October, so he laid down on a heating pad after taking some pain relievers.  I stayed up to watch the sunset, but was asleep soon after.

I have always loved daffodils, and I'm so happy to have a chance to plant them.  I do worry a bit about the animals that may dig them up, but it didn't happen last year.  This year, hopefully the squirrels will be more interested in the pumpkins; in fact, I'll leave them at the front fence post for just that very reason.  I put them there as autumnal decoration, but this year, unlike last year, the squirrels took an early interest in them, which is fine with me.

I am thinking about the planting of bulbs as evidence of faith in the future; for me, it's more than just wanting pretty flowers in the spring.  In the spring, bunches of daffodils come up long after the people who planted them have come and gone.  

Hopefully, my daffodils will do the same.

Humdinger of an Autumn

Way back in August, a friend and I discussed the upcoming autumn.  My friend said, "It sounds like you've put a lot more on your plate without taking anything off."  I agreed, and I said that it should be doable, as long as nothing went wrong.

Back then, when I thought of the things that might go wrong, I thought about illness or a death in the family.  I thought about the ways that events might keep me from getting to campus for the online intensive, like illness or car trouble.  I thought that I might get hopelessly behind in my grading and never catch up--truthfully, I have been less worried about this possibility, since I've been teaching for 35 years, and that's never happened.

I did not think about a hurricane making it this far inland and doing so much damage over the mountains of North Carolina.  I did not think that I wouldn't be able to get to the retreat I agreed to help lead, and I did not think that the synod event would be cancelled.  I did not think that my spouse would hurt his back and leg helping with hurricane clean up and need so much help to get through the day, as he did last week.  I did not anticipate that my seminary would have more demand for housing for the onground intensive than they had space. 

So far, though, we have managed to pivot and punt and keep everything going. I am grateful for that.  More than that, our various struggles have revealed strengths.  Our community came together to help each other after the storm--both my neighborhood and the larger western North Carolina community.  My seminary professors were supportive as were my employers, in terms of post-storm internet access difficulties.  My spouse had very good sessions with various parts of the medical community on Friday.  I had to miss a day at Spartanburg Methodist College, which wasn't a problem--how refreshing to work for a school where faculty are treated like professionals, not like troublesome children who need to be punished, and how sad to think about how rare it is to be treated like a professional.

As we shift to Thanksgiving, let me remember all that makes me grateful.  And let me remember to be thankful for how much there is that makes me grateful.

Literary Greats Leaving Us

I was saddened today to learn of the death of Sandra Gilbert, and then I was surprised to find out how old she was when she died (87!).  Don't get me wrong--I'm happy that she had a long life.  But in my head, she's been a young scholar, the way she was when I first read about her and Susan Gubar becoming friends during their first teaching jobs at Indiana University in the early 1970's.

I remember how electrified I was when I first read The Madwoman in the Attic, back when I was first in grad school; I will always be grateful to Gilbert and Gubar for that book, along with their editing of the Norton Anthology of Literature by Women:  The Tradition in English.  I also loved Gilbert's poetry.

And while I'm on the subject of losing literary greats, let me also note the passing of Dorothy Allison, who was 75 when she died.  I was familiar with her work even before Bastard Out of Carolina; I'll always think of her as the young writer, struggling to figure out how to make a way in the world that didn't particularly care about voices like hers:  poor, female, lesbian, Southerner moved to San Francisco. Her voice seemed important for the reason that there hadn't many voices like hers that won awards before she came along.

And even now, there aren't many voices like hers getting published through traditional publishing venues and winning awards.

What Is Government Good For?

In the past weeks since the election, I've been surrounded by news of the incoming administration and all the people who hope to take charge of government, many of them hoping to change it profoundly.  At the same time, I've been seeing so much evidence of how government can work well:

--Last night I went to the public library.  I have lived in a variety of places across the southeast U.S., and the public library is always such a delight.  I have saved a bundle on books I would have otherwise bought, but the public library is so much more than books.  There are meeting spaces and presentations and English language classes happening.  Every so often, there's voting.  There are lots of children, who are so happy to be in the presence of so many books.  There are computers that anyone can use, and there are often people to help those who need to use a computer but don't know how.

--The city of Asheville restored potable water a month before expected.  This happened in part because of local experts who work for city government and also because of the Army Corps of Engineers.  The government experts gave daily briefings to explain what was happening and the progress of restoration.  I now know so much about what it takes to give us safe and clean drinking water, and I am grateful for government water projects that have made it possible.

--The devastation of the water treatment plants is hard to fathom.  It could have been much worse.  At the North River water treatment site, there was a shut off feature that was installed, a shut off feature that didn't rely on a human to hit a switch.  If that hadn't been there or if it had failed, the dam would have failed, and everything and everyone in the thirty miles between Black Mountain and Asheville would have been destroyed by water.  It was the government that approved the money to add that shut off feature.

--I know that it is government agencies that keep our food safe, as well as our water.  I am planning my American Lit survey class, and the Norton Anthology has a selection from Upton Sinclair's The Jungle, which I'll probably assign.  My students need to remember/learn what it was like before we declared food safety as a common good, worthy of regulation. 

--I am thinking of my years of public schooling.  With the announcement of the death of the man who invented the BASIC computer programming language, I thought about my own experience programming a computer in the 7th grade, about the computer that took up a small room, and our delight in learning how to write simple code.  I'm thinking of the shop classes I took and the home ec classrooms that had stoves and refrigerators and equipment of all sorts.  I'm thinking of the pottery studio that had a kiln.  I'm thinking of band rooms and instruments and all sorts of sports.

--Public schools and other public programs keep children fed.  Summer camps run by local governments keep children safe.  I realize how much can go wrong and how much does go wrong.  But so much goes right, in community and community, across the U.S.

I will conclude by saying that I am hopeful, even in the face of a new administration that has vowed to cut government.  Maybe they will get rid of waste, and that can be a good thing.  Maybe they will create new approaches, and that can be a good thing.

I've been alive long enough to know that if an administration tries to get rid of an institution that enough of us value, it won't happen.  Let that continue to be so!

Writing Prompts, Poem Beginnings

In seminary class on Monday night, we did a series of writing prompts to help us think about the final story we are going to write/tell.  We have been exploring "stories of power," the title of the course, stories like Frankenstein (Mary Shelley's 1818 novel, not all the other incarnations), Hesiod's Theogony, Hamilton (the Broadway musical), certain Bible passages, Encanto (the Disney movie), and certain secondary sources that analyze some of the primary sources.   We've looked at these stories as origin/founding stories, stories of belonging, stories that tell where we're going, and stories of authority.

For our final project/paper, we have to write or tell a story that's been powerful in our own lives--taking a story from our life to tell a story.  I immediately thought of many possibilities, but I've been doing this my whole life.  Most of my classmates have not, and some of them have been feeling stymied.

We spent the whole class Monday night doing some free writing, talking about what we wrote, and writing some more.  We wrote in three blocks of time, three prompts per block.  We divided into groups of 3 to discuss, and then we discussed in the whole class.  I found it a valuable exercise, so I thought I'd preserve the prompts here:

Writing Block 1  Founding Stories

-- Where do we come from?

--Here's what we overcame, to be who we are

-- A story about "us" I struggle with is . . .

Writing Block 2  Belonging

-- When Others Ask Me Who We are, I tell them . . .

--Here's what we don't do

--We have made it this far because . . .

Writing Block 3  Mission/Destiny

-- At our best, we would . . .

--The mission that binds us together is . . .

--To fulfill our destiny, the sacrifices that we have to make are . . .

I found the writing that I did for Block 2 to be most evocative--not so much for the final writing I'll do for this class, but in terms of making me feel like a poet again.  Here's what I wrote for the prompt of "When Others Ask Me Who We Are, I Tell Them":

We are a nation of quilters, of people who patch things together out of frayed scraps. We are a nation of people who can take junk parts and make a car or a computer. We are people who don't want to share our scraps or junk parts, even though they're not really worth very much. We are a nation of victory gardens and burning forests. We are a nation that's not smart enough to keep an eye to the east, from where the storms will come. We are full of pockets of people who stretched food by adding starchy bits, who took the parts that no one else wanted to cook and figured out how to make them feed the whole community. We are a nation that doesn't want to share our food, even though it's full of worms and weevils. We are people who have made a way out of no way, but can we keep doing that and make a way?

What We Fight For

One of my friends was reflecting on the past year, and she made a statement that church camps are worth fighting for.  I immediately thought about her words as a framing device, as a question, "Is ______ worth fighting for?"

I thought of how often I don't frame my thoughts this way:  my thoughts about decisions, about paths forward, about relationships, about creative pursuits, about the future.  I am more often asking different questions.  Am I any good at this?  Does this nourish me?  Am I wasting time here?  How impossible is this outcome?  Am I doing the right thing?

If it's a decision about a group, change the I to we.  I'm thinking of larger communities too, like higher ed, like the ELCA (the more inclusive Lutheran expression of church that I have committed to), like the U.S.  I'm thinking of decisions about ideas and ideals too:  democracy, being a poet/artist in the world, education, and yes, summer camp.

If I think about what makes monetary sense, I may make different decisions.  Those may be the right decisions, and I'm not advocating that we throw all of those practical considerations away.  But those questions don't always get at a deeper importance.  

If I come away having kept my bank account intact, but I've lost my soul, what/where is the profit?  

It's a question as old as time, and not one unfamiliar to many of us.  But I like my friend's formulation.  It's worth fighting for--so it's worth continuing, worth the struggle, and worth the joy.

Good News, Bad News Hurricane Recovery

Yesterday was the first day in over 45 days where we didn't get multiple phone calls from the City of Asheville telling us to boil the water that was coming out of our taps.  Yesterday we got the word that the boil water notice is lifted.  I emptied the last of the boiled water into the pitcher, my daily ritual.  Yesterday, I didn't boil more water.  It's been interesting to find out how much water we use for cooking and drinking--about a gallon or two a day, depending on whether or not we're home, whether or not we're cooking.

Some people went online to proclaim their jubilation.  I am tired, and part of me is always waiting for the other shoe to drop.  I try to do the things that help me maintain mental equilibrium.  On Sunday, I went for a walk, up to the chapel, to the outdoor altar where I planned to sit and breathe for a bit.

I saw smoke as I walked up the hill, and I expected to gaze out to see smoke drifting from a distant mountain.  Instead, I saw flames on the other side of the hill where the Quiet Way path would take hikers up to the chapel, flames not too far away from where I stood.  

I called the camp director before I called 911--in retrospect, that was stupid, but I wanted to make sure they weren't doing a controlled burn.  Nope, and he had called for help.  I walked quickly back down the hill, and then went down to a fork in the camp road to make sure to flag the trucks to the fire, should they come in the back entrance.

Happily, the response was quick.  I walked back up to make sure there was nothing more I needed to do.  The very kind fire fighter I chatted with briefly told me that I should never hesitate to call 911, that they often arrived to find fires under control, and those were happy days.

I have been worried about fire since the early days of hurricane recovery--so many trees down, and such a dry October and November.  I am glad the fire was contained, but worried about what would have happened if no one had been around/awake to see the smoke and flames, as several of us did.

I am also worried about the health of my spouse.  A few weeks ago, he did something to his back while helping with the chainsaw to get trees cleared.  It comes and goes, and just when I think we've turned a corner, he has a flare, a sciatica kind of pain.  Yesterday was a very bad flare.  Luckily, he has a doctor's appointment for his annual physical on Friday, so maybe we will discover that there's something that can be done.  

My spouse's experience makes me worry about the future. We do not live in a country that has lots of options for people who need more care than I can give--and with Trump in charge, I don't foresee our nation ever evolving that direction.  The long term outlook might terrify me, if I really let myself think about it.

But I don't have time to think about that now.  I have grading to do and then there will be more grading to do, and I have seminary work that must be done, and then final papers and projects for seminary.  Let me get that work underway before driving down the mountain to teach in person at Spartanburg Methodist College.

Feast Day of Saint Hilda of Whitby

Today is the feast day of Saint Hilda of Whitby (614-680). We know of her primarily through the writings of the Venerable Bede, who said, "her wisdom was so great that even kings and princes sought her counsel," and "all who knew her called her Mother, because of her distinctive piety and grace."

Whitby is on the east coast of England in North Yorkshire. Whitby is famous for many things, but in church history, perhaps most famous for the Synod of Whitby in 664, which ironed out some differences between Celtic and Roman practices in Christianity, including how to figure out the date for Easter. Hilda was a Celtic Christian, and yet, when ordered to do so, she began to adopt Roman ways. She is remembered as a reconciler of the two traditions.

She founded several monasteries and was trained five men who later went on to become bishops. The monasteries that she founded were centers of education and the arts, and through the work done there, the monasteries also preserved knowledge.

For those of us who are English majors, we might be most grateful to Saint Hilda for her encouragement of Caedmon, one of the earliest English poets who makes it into anthologies; some call him the first British poet. Many give her credit for encouraging the stories from the Bible put into song and spoken stories in ordinary language of the people who would hear it.

Hilda is one of the patron saints of learning and culture, including poetry. We remember her as being of key importance in the shift from paganism to Christianity in England.

As with many of these ancient Christians, I am in awe of what they both created and preserved in times that must have been more difficult than ours, in harsh landscapes. With Saint Hilda, there's the added aspect of her gender--she accomplished so much in a time when women weren't given much in the way of opportunity.

And these days, when the U.S. seems so bitterly divided, I find my brain returning to her ability to reconcile and also lead. Modern people might not realize the depth of these church divisions, like the one between Roman Christians and Celtic Christians; indeed, one group left the Synod of Whitby and went to Iona and later Ireland, which at the time would have been even more savage landscapes.

These days, I think about Saint Hilda and remember that it is possible to reconcile huge differences. I remember Saint Hilda and hope that more of us can channel her.

For a more developed essay that has wonderful photos, I recommend this blog post.

Friday Gratitudes Two Weeks Before Thanksgiving

Two weeks from today, Thanksgiving will be over.  I feel that autumn has zoomed by too quickly--I always feel that way, regardless of whether or not we've had a hurricane to disrupt everything (and part of my brain is still reeling at the idea that we've had such a huge amount of storm damage in the mountains of North Carolina).  I have volunteered to bring a vegan main dish casserole to the family gathering, so this week-end, I will test my idea:  a casserole with barley, roasted butternut squash, roasted brussels sprouts, and mushrooms with brussels sprouts frizzles and toasted pecans for the topping.

We are traveling to the other side of the mountain this year to have Thanksgiving with my spouse's side of the family who are gathering at the home of my father-in-law and stepmom-in-law.  As with many families these days, we have several family members who find their diets restricted for a variety of reasons.  I first started experimenting with vegetarianism back in the early 80's.  I love cheese and butter too much to be a vegan, but I understand cooking principles that will make vegan foods taste good without butter and cheese.

I've been training my whole adult life for this moment!

The other night, I had a similar moment in the middle of the night.  I dreamed that Trump had asked me to be in charge of the Department of Education.  In my dream, I thought, I don't have the experience to do that.

I woke up thinking, well, I have been teaching since 1988, so there's that.  And in the days since that dream, as various cabinet candidates have been announced, I've thought of that dream and who has qualifications to lead which parts of our national government.  I still think that I don't have the right kind of qualifications to lead the Department of Education--that person should have K-12 teaching experience.

Of course, I will not be asked to be part of Donald Trump's cabinet, and if I was, I would say no.  I hope to avoid that kind of toxic workplace going forward.  I feel incredibly lucky to be responsible for teaching, not administration, and that's how I want to end my working days.  I am under no illusions that "I alone can fix it."

In fact, in moments of despair, I have doubts that anything can be fixed (see hurricane in North Carolina mountains).  But then, through the magic of technology, I see good theatre, and I am once again inspired to write.

Last night, we watched Arthur Miller's All My Sons, a play I read long ago in high school.  It was the 2019 London production with Sally Field and Bill Pullman, and what a performance!  The play, which was written in 1946, still feels fresh and also timeless. 

It also reminded me that I'm teaching the American survey class next term, and I am so looking forward to that.  In these days where there's so much happening to upset us, let me remember how much joy we can still have:  good literature, good teaching opportunities, good theatre, and vegan creations that give us autumn in a casserole!

A Gift of a Teaching Day

I had a good teaching day yesterday, which happily, is not unusual, but it is unusual for the class in which it happened.  It's a class that has unruly energy, an energy that I can refocus a bit, but not usually for the whole class period, which means I leave the class feeling like a failure.  

Let me stress that I am not actually failing them--their writing has improved.  I persevere in teaching the concepts and having them practice, despite the rolling of the eyes and the overly dramatic heavy sighs.  

Yesterday, I started the last module of the class, which will be one where we look at different ways to approach writing, ways which involve more creativity.  I had them write a description of a pine cone yesterday, and tomorrow, I'll have them sketch the pine cone and then write a description again, to see if there are other ways of training ourselves to see and then describe.

Then I gave them the standard definition of a haiku which irritates those who have mastered the form, the syllable counting form of haiku.  I had them try one of their own.  I modeled for them, counting syllables.  And then I talked about how a haiku could connect an element of nature with something that was happening in society or in one's life, about how linking the two could lead to something even more profound.

Yesterday I pulled up Dave Bonta's marvelous website of haiku, micropoems, and photos.   We talked about a few specific ones--the election one was an easy entry.

One of the students in the small group that has seemed most resistant to the work of the class noticed the poem about seeds and cracks and the light getting in.  He gave an interpretation, which the other members of the small group disparaged, which made him go deeper, which in turn made the other members of the group cheer for him.  I pulled up the Leonard Cohen song which wouldn't play, but then I was able to get the song lyrics at least.

We then talked about the ways that these poems and song lyrics take huge concepts and distill them into something smaller and perhaps pointed and piercing.  The energy in the room was electric, and when it was time to go, several of the students said, "Wait, aren't we gonna read our haiku?" 

These are not students who have clamored to stay in the past.  They are ready to leave from the moment that class begins.  I assured them that we would return to haiku on Thursday, and if they wanted to read, they could.

I had a successful morning class too, where we talked about three different approaches to Suzanne Simard's work on how trees communicate.  We watched her TED talk, looked at her scientific article, and read a newspaper article.  We will create an annotated Works Cited page with those sources, and next week we'll look at other sources.  Students will finish the work of the term by writing a paper which refers to some of these sources and talking about which one inspired the most wonder and trying to analyze why.

It's the rare teaching day when all of the classes go well, when I can see students making connections, or at the very least doing the work.  I usually feel lucky if just one class hums along.  Yesterday was a gift, the kind of day that makes me feel like I'm doing the work I was put on earth to do.  

Theatre Lessons

I am feeling a bit fragmented today--let me gather some fragments into a blog post:

--One of my seminary classes has been studying stories of power:  traditional stories like Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, alongside the stories of power told to us by the Gospels.  Last night we discussed the stage adaptation of Macbeth.  What a great class it's been, both last night's class and the class overall.

--I have really enjoyed talking about all the literature, and as always, I wonder if God is trying to tell me something.

--What would that something be?  Something about teaching vs. pastoring?  Maybe something even more simple:  remember that you love to read.

--My spouse and I watched Macbeth on Sunday evening.  You could watch too, with just a one month subscription.  At 12-ish dollars, it's a heck of a deal.  Go here for more details.   

--We now have a month long subscription to the National Theatre at home, which means we will watch some great theatre.  We will also run out of time.

--Two weeks from today will be the last day of the semester at Spartanburg Methodist College--we get back from Thanksgiving, and students go right into exams.  Since I am giving an essay exam, an essay that they don't need to be in the classroom to write, I won't go back on campus until January.

--Maybe I will have some time to watch some of those plays.  Of course, what I'd most like to see, both halves of Angels in America, takes the longest amount of time.  But maybe that's what God is trying to tell me--why not spend time on stuff that matters, stuff that brings me joy?

Veterans Day 2024

Today is Veterans Day.  Here is a picture of my favorite veteran, my dad:

He's my favorite veteran for obvious reasons, but there are many other veterans who would also be favorites:  my father-in-law, an Army veteran, and my Florida pastor Keith Spencer and his wife, Piper Spencer, Navy veterans, for example.  I think of one of my best friends from high school, Chum Kimsey:

The above picture is from 2014, when she had just been diagnosed with esophageal cancer, which would take her life.  She served in the Army in the late 80's and early 90's.

Yesterday we watched a Veterans Day concert, which made me feel both grateful and teary-eyed.  I thought of our current country, how few people serve in this way, even as many people say they support our military.  The concert contained footage from an Honor Flight event, which made me think of my own experience with my dad and sister on a similar trip.  

It was both a joyful trip and a somber one, being surrounded by living veterans, all older than 65, and the monuments to the wars that they fought.  It was a sobering reminder of the ultimate cost that so many veterans pay/paid.

I am also thinking of all the quilters I know who make quilts for veterans as a way to say thank you:

I'm not at a point yet where I could do that--but this morning, I'm wishing that I could show gratitude in this way, a way that results in a beautiful quilt.  For this morning, though, words will have to do.

A Sermon to Connect Quilt Camp, Widows, and Two Copper Coins

 November 10, 2024

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott

Mark 12:38-44

All week, I’ve been thinking of widows.  I’ve been thinking of the widow in our Old Testament reading who gave her last bit of food and water to Elijah.  I’ve been thinking of the widow in the New Testament who gave two copper coins, all that she had, to pay her temple tax.  It wasn’t until the end of the week that I returned to the New Testament reading and saw the mirror image here, the behavior of the hypocritical scribes, the behavior of the widow.

In our Gospel text for this morning, it’s tempting to focus on the widow who gave all that she had.  After all, we’ve been here before.  Just a few weeks ago, we had the story of the wealthy man who approached Jesus wanting to know what to do to get eternal life.  Do you remember the answer?  Give all earthly wealth to the poor.

And here’s a widow, doing just that, giving up everything, in contrast to the rich who are plunking money into the Temple coffers.  Why, the sermon practically writes itself!

For all of you anticipating a good old-fashioned stewardship sermon, I’m about to disappoint you.  I don’t think that Jesus is telling us that we must give up ALL that we have.  Go back to the text.  He observes the widow’s actions.  He does not say, “Go and do likewise.”

So what is the point?  What are we to learn?  Let’s look at the passage again.  Let’s look at the contrasts.

The first contrast is easiest to see:  rich people giving large sums vs. widow woman giving 2 copper coins.  She’s not tithing.  She’s giving all that she owns.  And for what?  Two copper coins would buy nothing.  She’s not required to give all that she has.  We might build a back story for her.  Maybe she gives all that she has because she believes in the mission of the Temple in a way that the rich people do not.  But we don’t know that—we don’t have that insight into either the rich benefactors or the widow.

Who gets that level of backstory?  It’s the scribes in the beginning of today’s Gospel.  Please note that Jesus is not condemning all scribes or all religious authorities or every member of an elite class.  Jesus condemns the ones who like the attention that they get because they have authority.  They get to wear the robes and eat the food and have the best seats and be treated with respect—and Jesus seems to suggest that they are holding their office for all the wrong reasons, so that they can get the high regard of their society—and so that they can get rich.

And how do they get rich?  By robbing widows.  By taking from the poor, from people on the lowest rungs of society, from those who can least afford to lose what they have.  By taking from the very people that they are supposed to help.  This Gospel is less about giving all that we have and more about hypocrisy, in some ways, and you don’t need me to preach a sermon on the perils of hypocrisy.  Every day’s news cycle offers at least one warning about the perils of hypocrisy.

As I’ve been thinking about the widows in this week’s readings, I’ve been thinking about all the ways that our societal structures put people in danger, particularly people with little political power.  An election season might make us think that we have the power to change things, and sometimes we do.  But Jesus reminds us again and again that the system is rigged.  Our earthly empires, whether it’s the Roman empire of Jesus’ time or various societal systems of our own time—our earthly empires are not looking out for the powerless.  On the contrary, they are getting rich by exploiting those who have so little.

I hear the words of my Preaching professor echoing in my head:  where is the good news in all of this?  The widow in the Old Testament gives us the good news that although we may not be able to reverse earthly empires who prey on the weak, that it is God who is in charge.  The widows in both of our texts for today give all that they have.  Maybe it’s because they have faith in the Temple system or maybe it’s because they were expecting to die anyway.  They give, and God transforms.

Let’s be very clear on this.  With both widows, we don’t know their mental state.  God doesn’t reward them with abundance because of their trust or their faith or their good works.  God gives them abundance because that is what God does.  The proper response to God’s abundance is to share.

I have seen this dynamic in action this week, very far away from the corridors of political power that were playing out across the nation and the airwaves and social media.  I have spent this week not only with Biblical widows but with 21st century widows and older women.  I have seen the Kingdom of God this week, because I have been at Quilt Camp at Lutheridge.

In the three days before Quilt Camp, we got a message from one of the leaders.  Wouldn’t it be great if we brought any extra quilts we have --  we could share them with people in the western NC area, like the Lutheridge staff, people who have suffered so much loss and have still showed up to work.  On the first night, the leader who had sent out the message confided in me that she thought we didn’t have enough quilts even to share with the Lutheridge staff.

But it was early in the retreat, and by the morning, after everyone had a chance to get settled, we had more than enough.  Plus, one of the other leaders went through her own fabric stash and organized it into a pillowcase project for us to do.  We each received a ziplock bag with 3 pieces of fabric cut into the pattern we would use—plus, there were extra bags, just in case.  And by the end of the retreat, we got them all made so that they could be taken to a local quilt fabric shop to be given to community people who had lost their houses.

You might say, “You were making pillowcases for people who have lost everything?  Talk about two copper coins!  What kind of stupid offering is that?”

It is the kind of offering that we have.  We have fabric in abundance, we have time, and we have skills.  And a pillowcase can be used for so many things beyond just protecting a pillow.

As I watched us working on our own projects while also spending time on projects to help others, I thought of what Jesus so often said, “The Kingdom of God is at hand”—or as I so often paraphrase:  “This is what the community of God looks like.”  We had women of various ages and all sorts of backgrounds and out of a wide range of political and religious beliefs.  In a different setting, we might not have much to say to each other.  But at Quilt Camp, where we worked on projects to help others, we connected in a way that was even deeper than it would have been if we had just worked on our own projects.

This is what the Kingdom of God looks like:  giving to those who have less, giving what we have, pledging our allegiance to the vision of community that Jesus tells us is possible.

First Full Day at Quilt Camp

When I go to a quilt retreat, I often get questions about what happens at a quilt retreat.  Yesterday was a fairly typical day at the quilt retreat that Lutheridge offers, so let me make some observations.

--It's held in the main gathering place, the huge Faith Center.  Every quilter gets two tables, which leaves room for quilters to bring other things they might need, like a table for a sewing machine, stackable shelving units, bins of fabrics, and such.  There's a power cord at each work space.  There's lots of wall space and floor space for figuring out patterns.  This photo gives you an idea of the set up.

--The most important aspect of the Lutheridge retreat:  we can make it be what we want it to be.  If we need a nap or a walk, wonderful.  If we want to lose ourselves in a project and be left alone, that's fine.  If we want to walk from table to table and chat, great.  If we need help assembling/figuring out a project, we've got lots of folks who are happy to pitch in.

--We're here for three full days, plus an evening beginning and a morning ending (Wed. afternoon arrival with an evening start through Sunday morning).  It's great to have that much time.  Much of that time is unstructured.

--I have always had online work that had to be done while I was there, and it's fine to sit at my work space with my laptop.  I love doing grading or working on a seminary paper surrounded by my quilt squares and gorgeous fabric.  Sew a little, grade a little, and wow, I can be productive!

--This year, we're taking an afternoon yoga break, a 20 minute session of chair yoga led by a friend of the retreat who is certified.  Wow!  I hope we figure out a way to do this every year.

--Every retreat offers a focused learning opportunity or two.  This retreat, we learned a pillowcase pattern and some techniques for binding.  Some retreats, when there hasn't been a hurricane six weeks ago, we have a local expert come in to lead a workshop.  The learning opportunities are optional.

--We eat our meals in the dining hall.  It's amazing to have camp stuff there to do the cooking and the clean up and to make decisions about the meals and the shopping.  When I'm on a retreat, I realize how much of my time each week goes to food.   Don't get me wrong--I love cooking and shopping and eating.  But it takes more time than I realize until I'm not doing it for a few days.

--Because it's a retreat at a church camp, there are some spiritual aspects.  They are ecumenical, since we come from a variety of faith expressions, and not participating in evening devotion time is an option too.  On the last night, there is a worship service with communion.  To me, it feels very non-proselytizing, and the view of God is an expansive one of a creator full of grace and love for all of creation.  Each quilt retreat has a different Bible passage to focus our devotion and worship time.

--We often do a service project.  This year, we made pillow cases for displaced people, and we brought quilts we had already made.  You can see the quilts in a pile above, and below, spread out across the chairs in our evening space for gathering:

 

--We brought 22 quilts to give away.  We also give money to camp for summer camp scholarships.

--We have show and tell every night, where each quilter is invited to bring a project, either completed or in progress.  At the last night, we have wine, cheese, snacks, and a quilt walk where we display projects at our tables.

--But the most important element of this retreat is the fellowship and support.  In some ways, we are all so different from each other in terms of family, background, career, upbringing, beliefs of all sorts.  But we love fabric and we love quilting and we love each other, even if we've only known each other for a few days.  Many of us return year after year, and it builds a beautiful community--one which leaves me hopeful for the future.

A Quilt Retreat in the Days after a Presidential Election

I thought about writing a longer blog post about the election.  But I'm not really sure I have that much more to say.  I could see the next 4 years going any number of ways, from nuclear mishaps/catastrophes, to more general chaos, to an administration that manages to do some good and some bad.  I expect to be somewhat insulated:  I'm not an outspoken opponent, I'm an older woman which buys me some protection from misogyny, I have economic resources, I live in the mountains, I'm a English teacher which at this point is still a job that people want a human to do.  I will do what I can to help those who are not so lucky.

Do I think that I have voted in my last election?  No.  I think we'll have other elections, but they may not mean much--that has often been the case in my lifetime, so I won't assume that democracy is dead.  Even though I thought about sending an e-mail with a reference to A Handmaid's Tale ("See you in the Colonies!"), I don't think we're headed to that scenario--Trump  doesn't have the kind of focus and self-control that would make that possible. 

While lots of people have been saying lots of things about the election, I've been at the twice-a-year quilt retreat at Lutheridge.  When I plunked down my deposit back in the spring, I didn't realize it would be right after the election, and that wouldn't have made a difference anyway.  I've been grateful to have a place to sit and sew, but then again, I'm always grateful for a place to sit and sew, whether it's a chair in my living room or a work station at a retreat center.

It's been a strange quilting retreat in other ways.  I have a full-time teaching job, which is different from when I left my full-time administrator job to come to quilt camp.  If we hadn't had a hurricane, I might have taken yesterday, the first full day of quilt camp, off, but I decided that I didn't feel good about that.  Happily, I can both teach and come back to quilt camp.

On Wednesday afternoon (the retreat started Wed. at 3 for those of us who could arrive then), I sat at my table for a bit, just feeling discombobulated, discombobulated because I came directly from work, discombobulated because I didn't feel like sewing yet, discombobulated because I was still digesting election results.  Yesterday when I returned from Spartanburg, I expected to need a bit of decompression time.  Because I was expecting it, it didn't last as long.

Two years ago, I first started assembling these log cabin patches:

In these few days at quilt camp, I hope to get them all sewed together into a quilt top.  I am putting squares into 4 square lengths, because they're all slightly different in terms of measurements.  I am paying some attention to colors and patterns, but more attention to measurements at this point.  I'm trying not to worry about what happens when I try to put these 4 square lengths into one quilt top--or to be more accurate, since I am not worried, I am trying not to try to figure out how to assemble them yet.  It will all come together.

I am also hoping that this quilting is a metaphor for what can happen on the national political scene.  It feels like we're in a time of ripping.  It's the ripping sound that gets a lot of coverage.  But far away from the national commentators, small scraps can be assembled into sturdy quilts that will keep us all warm and protected.

The Apocalypse Gal Weighs in on the Election

Now that I've had a bit of time to process these election results, let me make a post.  Here's my overall take away:  we are headed into hard times.  We were always headed into hard times, and while the shape of those hard times may be affected by the Trump presidency (and the outcomes will be), the election of Harris would not have avoided those hard times.

You may say, "Yes, Apocalypse Gal, Kristin, you always think we're headed into hard times."  That's true, and I'm often right in the overall drift to hard times, if not the particulars.  But let me elaborate:

--In the past two weeks, bird flu was found in people who didn't have close connection to farm animals, in two people who lived together, which makes some scientists think it's airborne in ways it hasn't been before.

--In the past two weeks, bird flu was found in pigs.  Pigs are the animal where flus combine and become more transmissible.

--It is unseasonably warm as I write this (60 degrees in mid-November!), and we are on track to have the hottest year of human life on earth so far.

--There are wars and rumors of war.

--Just this morning, I read that the German governing coalition has collapsed.

So, the shape of the hard times coming, as I see it, involves flu and war and climate change.  No one will be able to make those things go away, and we've seen that most humans don't have much capacity for navigating countries to safety.  It was always going to be a rough 4 years, no matter who won.

Let the Republicans see what they can do.  Let the Democrats dream of something different to present to voters in 2028.  Let us see what happens.  Let us get our vaccines; there is a bird flu vaccine already, so that's good news.  Let us figure out how to make our communities more resilient against all the climate change threats that are going to intensify for us and for our children and grandchildren.

Someone needs to keep the longer view in mind.  It might as well be us.

Sylvia Plath's Wisdom

I woke up at 2 a.m. and thought, let me get up and see how the election is going.  I knew I wouldn't be going back to bed.  But I didn't expect the election to be so nearly settled.

I've been scrolling and writing in my offline journal and writing an e-mail here and there.  I thought of my poem "History's Chalkboards."  When I wrote it back in 2016, I didn't think it would continue to be relevant in the way that it has.  As short a time ago as yesterday, I didn't think it would continue to be relevant. 

In 2016,  I couldn't get the Sylvia Plath quote out of my head. Did I read Ray Bradbury's "There Will Come Soft Rains" before I wrote it?  I think I was writing it, and the title came to me, and I looked it up and proceeded to read it.  

The poem scared me a little, but my spouse liked it.  It was accepted for publication more quickly than just about any other poem I've sent out.  Adanna published it in 2017.

This morning, I find the reference to the violence and societal upheaval of the 60's (the fire next time) to be both alarming and comforting.  We have been here before, and a better society emerged out of those ashes.  Perhaps we will be that fortunate again.  Perhaps we will survive the societal winnowing again.


History’s Chalkboards


“Every woman adores a Fascist,  
The boot in the face, the brute  
Brute heart of a brute like you.”
                            “Daddy” by Sylvia Plath


Every woman adores a Fascist.
Turns out men do too.
But we imagine the boot
on someone else’s face,
a face that doesn’t look
like ours, the face that arrives
to take our jobs and steal
our factories, while laughing
at us in a foreign language.

No God but capitalism,
the new religion, fascism disguised
as businessman, always male,
always taking what is not his.

Brute heart, not enough stakes
to keep you dead. 
We thought we had vanquished
your kind permanently last century
or was it the hundred years before?

As our attics crash into our basements,
what soft rains will come now?
The fire next time,
the ashes of incinerated bodies,
the seas rising on a tide
of melted glaciers.

And so we return to history’s chalkboard,
the dust of other lessons in our hair.
We make our calculations.

Non-Partisan Words of Hope on Election Day

I have now voted in many elections.  Some seemed like the most consequential ones in my lifetime--and in later years, I looked back at those oh so consequential elections that no longer loomed as large.  I've voted for a variety of people, and usually, I could assume that the ones I didn't vote for would do their best and wouldn't be that bad.

I've voted for women before; at times I felt hopeful about their chances, and at other times, I was voting for the thrill of voting for a woman.  My first presidential election was in 1984, and I was one of the few people who voted for Walter Mondale and Geraldine Ferraro.  How long ago that seems, when an incumbent candidate was running on a "Morning in America" theme and the opponent offered similar sentiments, if not similar policy proposals.

On election morning of 2016, I made this Facebook post:  "For those of us feeling fretful on this election day, I say, "Be not afraid!" We are a nation of quilters, adept at taking frayed scraps and turning them into comforters. We are a nation of tinkerers, who can take metal scraps and turn them into cars and computers. We will be OK."

Most days, I still believe that.  There are seasons that remind me more forcefully of that truth--like the month after Hurricane Helene where I've been astonished at how many people were out helping each other.  There are other seasons that lead me to despair.  Most seasons are a fairly even mix of hope and despair.

Here's a look at my office door, with sentiments that we need today and every day:

I take a long view; even when it's bleak, I think that there have been much bleaker times, in both U.S. history and world history.   I'm thinking of eastern Europe--that wall that came down suddenly in 1989. I'm thinking about Nelson Mandela released from jail and shortly thereafter, to become the first freely elected president of South Africa and a nation transformed--that outcome was so impossible that few of us dared to hope for it. Somewhere in my photo albums, I have a fading picture of a friend wearing his "Free Mandela" t-shirt. He'd been in jail for our whole lives, and we expected he would die there, t-shirts or no t-shirts.

I think it's important to remember how strong the forces of evil seemed then. But we built our shantytowns on the lawn, we helped Central Americans get to Canadian safety, we demanded changes in U.S. policy which were ignored or dismissed. We bought our protest albums and went to concerts. Elders sneered and warned us about the necessity of establishing anti-communist bulwarks, even if they were staffed by genocidal maniacs, as much of Latin America was in the 1980's.

Now those seem like very different times--but perhaps they are not so very different.  Now we wait, and in the coming days, we'll have a better sense of the work that will need to be done.  Now would be a good time to pray and to visualize and to hope.

If you came here hoping for prayers, I wrote some non-partisan prayers for election day and put them in this blog post.

Soup for All the Saints

I had a fairly easy trip across the mountains yesterday, much easier than last week.  I was able to take I 26 the whole way, and much of the landscape was relatively undamaged.  Along the Nolichucky River in Tennessee, however, the damage was astonishing--the pictures just don't prepare me for the changed land.

We had a good All Saints Sunday at Faith Lutheran.  I was very happy with my youth sermon (go to this blog post for details about how to connect saints and gourds and braided bread) and my adult sermon was fine, but not as creative.  

I headed home to my spouse who's struggling with a back injury after too much time with a chainsaw.  I'm trying not to worry, but I'm worried.  I do wonder if I would worry as much if he hadn't had the horrible back issue that led to successful surgery in 2013.

I got some seminary writing done while my soup was warming.  I ate several bowls of broccoli cheddar cheese soup and wondered why I don't make this soup more often.  In part, because the clean up is annoying, in part because the blending is annoying, in part because I don't make soup as often as I once did.

Why was I making soup?  To be part of this:

Our neighborhood had an All Saints Soup gathering in the late afternoon, so I went up the hill to help set up.  It was a beautiful event, and even though some part of me is bone tired all the time once we get to November, there's still enough of the non-tired part of me to take joy in these kinds of gatherings.

I am taking over the position of being the person who plans these events in the coming year.  Happily, I won't be reinventing the wheel.

It was good to be with my neighbors, many of whom are also good friends.  It was nourishing to catch up, and I felt better knowing that I was not the only one wondering where October went, feeling sad because one of my favorite months just slipped away from me.

Clean up went fairly quickly, and soon we were home, waiting for football to be over, waiting to watch The Simpsons.  It was the Halloween special, the Tree House of Horror, and as with most years, I found myself comparing it to past years:  not as brilliant, but still better than much pop culture.

I was sad this morning to hear about the death of Quincy Jones--what a life he had!  I knew that he had done amazing things, but reading about them all, in one article, really made me appreciate him further. 

 

And it makes me even more strengthened in my resolve to appreciate my own life.  October may be gone, but November has its own autumnal beauty, especially this year, when we're having very mild days.  Let me remember to appreciate it all.

First Morning, Eastern Standard Time Returns

My body has no idea what time it is, but that's often the case.  I've been up for hours, in part because of the time change, in part because I'm often awake very early in the morning.  My normal wake up time is between 3 and 4.

I've been working on seminary papers, working on sermon revisions (the minor kind), getting ready to drive across the mountain to Bristol, Tennessee to preach and preside at Faith Lutheran.  I'm told that a lane each way on I 26 is now open, but even if it's not, the detour through the town of Erwin is not bad. The other routes are in much worse shape.

Yesterday I felt a bit sad and grumbly.  I didn't want to write my seminary essay that's due today, and I didn't want to write my sermon.  What a difference a day makes!

I went for a walk in the mid-afternoon.   Lutheridge was busier than I expected, and I made this Facebook post:  "Although we're surrounded by giant piles of dead trees, a group of YMCA youth plays football and a coach says, "Hustle up." And just like that my sad mood lifts a bit."

It occurs to me that even though I'm keeping track of time and expecting a normal-ish trip, that I shouldn't linger here on this writing.  Let me close and get ready.  It will be nice to leave in the not-pitch-black darkness.

Days of Dwindling Light and Lingering Exhaustion

It's been a strange week, full of attempts to vote (and finally casting our votes) and gathering gloom.  In some ways, it hasn't been gloomy but unseasonably warm.  Still, for the last couple of days, I've just given up and gone to bed between 7 and 7:30.  I've had this deep exhaustion, and it's an exhaustion that sweeps in periodically throughout the day.

It may be a post-hurricane exhaustion, or it may be the tiredness that I often experience in November--the exhilaration of early autumn has worn off, but there's still a ways to go before the semester is over.

Tonight we set our clocks back, which will probably mean that I go to bed between 5 and 6 p.m. for a week or two; I'll resist, but there will be a night or two for these first weeks of November where I give in and go to sleep even before toddlers do--that's what happened last year.

That said, I'll be very glad to get the extra hour of daylight in the morning.  My MWF commute down the mountain to Spartanburg has felt very harrowing in the past week or two, especially when it's been drizzling.  It will feel less harrowing when it's not pitch black.  Let me be honest--it's also harrowing because of the road being a bit more broken up after the hurricane. In the light, I can see the new potholes and seams that are coming apart.

Let me record one last thing, and then I need to turn my attention to seminary writing and sermon writing.  Yesterday on my way home from Spartanburg, I stopped and got the ingredients for a sensible dinner:  salmon and salad fixings.  But as I drove home with the groceries, I decided that I really wanted pizza, so we ordered pizza, which we ate while we watched a Muppet movie on Disney+.  It felt both like a special occasion and evidence of exhaustion.

Hurricane Debris and Early Voting on Halloween

We had a quiet Halloween last night--but that's not unusual for us.  We live in a quiet neighborhood that's not really safe for kids walking in the dark, because we have very few streetlights and no sidewalks.  It's not really safe this year, with all the remains of downed trees.  We have very few families with children who live in this tiny residential section of Lutheridge, the church camp.

Before our quiet evening, we headed to Fairview to vote, which I thought would be an easier polling place, once we finally got there.  It was much easier, once we finally got there.  There was exactly one person in line ahead of us.  The polling place was well run, and we were in and out in fifteen minutes.

The town of Fairview had more severe damage from Hurricane Helene, including the library.  The library itself wasn't open, but voting happened in the small meeting room.  I'm not sure what the damage was, because everything looked to be normal.  I didn't see a tarp on the roof, for example.  There wasn't mud that indicated flooding had happened.

We took Cane Creek Road, and there was plenty of mud along Cane Creek Road.  Cane Creek runs beside the road, and it had overrun its banks during Hurricane Helene.  The damage was staggering, with stacks of debris all along the way.  I cannot imagine where all this debris will end up, debris from all across the mountain.

It was a gorgeous day, another sleeveless shirt kind of day.  On our way back, we stopped at Turgua Brewery; I wasn't sure it would be open, since it was so close to the creek.  I knew if it was open, they could probably use our business, but more than that, I wanted a place to sit outside in the sun with my sun-starved spouse.

The brewery was open, and although the outdoor space had a few picnic tables, so we got ourselves settled.  The beers were tasty, and the sun was glorious.  I felt relief at getting voting done early, along with happiness that so many people are voting.  I always get a bit emotional thinking about what the ancestors did to get more voting rights for all, and I'm always happy when people are voting.

I am also amazed at the pace of hurricane recovery, at the presence of disaster assistance folks from the federal government to private groups.  We went through several hurricanes, under several different administrations, in South Florida, and never had this level of help.  Is it because Hurricane Helene was more severe?  Is it because it's an election year?  Do people care more about the mountains than South Florida?  Is it because the mountains are closer to assistance than the tip of the Florida peninsula?  It seems like any or all of those things could be true.

We ended our Halloween by watching the original Halloween movie, the 1978 John Carpenter film.  I'd seen bits and pieces, but never the whole thing.  It's about as scary as I can stand, and it's not as scary, because I had seen the ending, so I knew that one babysitter would survive.  I'd still have preserved something lighter, but if those shows exist in our streaming services, we couldn't find them.

I feel like I should end by saying something pithy about the survival instincts of virginal babysitters and the value of a good coathanger in a closet and our modern time, but I'll just close by remembering one of the best compliments I've ever gotten, on Nov. 1 of 1983 when one of my male friends said that I reminded him of the character in Halloween who survived, because I would be able to stay cool in an emergency or any kind of crisis.  

May it continue to be so.