When I was a child, racial tension in my small hometown did not exist.  There was no them, only us.  Everybody was white.  The caste system was in effect, to be sure, from the apex of the Caucasian ladder to the depths of the pale trash heap; but all of us were white.  The [...]]]>

When I was a child, racial tension in my small hometown did not exist.  There was no them, only us.  Everybody was white.  The caste system was in effect, to be sure, from the apex of the Caucasian ladder to the depths of the pale trash heap; but all of us were white.  The only American-Indian I was familiar with was riding the range on a horse named Scout with Clayton Moore.  The Cisco Kid represented the Mexican contingent, and, because the only TV channel we got did not carry Amos n’ Andy, black people remained absent.  If there was an African-American living in town, he would have been blonde, from Johannesburg, and named Günter.  Racial diversity did not exist.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  One summer we had a lifeguard at the lake who was Hawaiian.  He was pretty dark.  A lot of us kids marveled at the depth of his tan and the sometimes strange way he talked, but the real marvel was his total relaxed ability in the water.

A young woman and I were visiting the other day and she confessed to me that she was a Catholic.  While I subscribe to no particular religion myself, I certainly begrudge no one else his or her faith, but she seemed apologetic at her confession, saying that she wasn’t even sure if she [...]]]>

Playing God

A young woman and I were visiting the other day and she confessed to me that she was a Catholic.  While I subscribe to no particular religion myself, I certainly begrudge no one else his or her faith, but she seemed apologetic at her confession, saying that she wasn’t even sure if she believed in God.  Her face showed some uncertainty, as if she thought I would think less of her.

To “believe” in God, it seems to me, indicates that in some way God requires our belief to be validated.  I find that ridiculous, as ridiculous as I find a god who would demand my worship to make himself feel good, or would adopt a set of rules and regulations so complicated and stringent that only a few of us could ever qualify for the team.  In an effort to help her understand, I told the young woman about fish.

About 10 years ago, for the first time in quite a while, I went home for Christmas.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  Home is where my wife and I live.  I returned to where I spent my childhood, where I walked the river, hunted pheasants, stalked the elusive catfish, sledded on snow, skated on [...]]]>

About 10 years ago, for the first time in quite a while, I went home for Christmas.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  Home is where my wife and I live.  I returned to where I spent my childhood, where I walked the river, hunted pheasants, stalked the elusive catfish, sledded on snow, skated on ice, horsed around with my friends, and spent time with my grandfather.  At the time, I had not lived in that area for over 25 years, and I found the memories of it more pleasing from a distance than recalled at close range.  Still, I went.

Her name is Bethany and she is the niece of a friend.  I first met the young woman when she was about 8 years old – a loud, angular, elbowy girl.  She was below average in looks, not superior in intellect, and seemed to have trouble relating to adults.  She and I were not significant [...]]]>

Her name is Bethany and she is the niece of a friend.  I first met the young woman when she was about 8 years old – a loud, angular, elbowy girl.  She was below average in looks, not superior in intellect, and seemed to have trouble relating to adults.  She and I were not significant members of each other’s world, and I had little reason and even less opportunity to pay attention to the child, so I didn’t – but I do recall thinking that she took up too much room for a child her age and size.  I would see her every year or so, out there on the periphery of my universe, and as I watched her get older, I watched her get larger and heard her get louder.  In retrospect, I see it as a cry for love and attention.  At the time, however, she was just annoying.

Ah, yes – the holiday season.  Most retailers and some consumers believe it starts in mid-September and continues through January 15. We are besieged by The Great Pumpkin, regaled with stories of The Pilgrims, who were, incidentally, not The Pilgrims but only pilgrims, beaten over the head by the Jolly Old Elf in such [...]]]>

Ah, yes – the holiday season.  Most retailers and some consumers believe it starts in mid-September and continues through January 15. We are besieged by The Great Pumpkin, regaled with stories of The Pilgrims, who were, incidentally, not The Pilgrims but only pilgrims, beaten over the head by the Jolly Old Elf in such a perverted evolution of greed that the real Saint Nicholas is a lathe in his grave, and ushered into an uncertain future by an old man carrying a scythe eager to be reduced to an infant in diapers.

Bitter?  Not me.  I think the whole thing is a hoot.  It is the time of year when the overriding constant throughout the season of celebration was only recently released from prison.  Yes, Virginia, there is a Martha Stewart.

Amos Beals was an immense man, at least to my little kid eyes.  Distantly related to my grandfather, Amos lived out in the country on a hardscrabble farm and was perpetually clothed in a railroad engineer’s cap, bib overalls – or “biblicals” as he called them – and brogan shoes.  A shirt was optional, [...]]]>

Amos Beals was an immense man, at least to my little kid eyes.  Distantly related to my grandfather, Amos lived out in the country on a hardscrabble farm and was perpetually clothed in a railroad engineer’s cap, bib overalls – or “biblicals” as he called them – and brogan shoes.  A shirt was optional, depending on the weather.  He had hands the size of my baseball glove, a sudden roaring laugh, and a speech impediment that sometimes made him difficult to understand.  He had three sons, all significantly older than I.  His eldest was Max, who I hardly knew because he was off in school at the University of Illinois learning about animals and husbands, or something like that.  Bobby, the middle son, was a quiet and thoughtful young man with quick dark eyes and a gentle way about him.  He was a genius with horses – a horse whisperer long before the term was coined – who taught me to ride when I was very young.  Dale, the third in line, was a raucous blonde-headed fireplug – reckless, fearless, hard-charging, and my favorite.  He burned brightly and died at only 31 in an altercation between his motorcycle and an immoveable object.  The prospect of going to Amos’ place on a Sunday afternoon made suffering through church even more painful.  An hour is a very long time in the life of a child.

Amos and the boys were country to the bone.  They kept hens for eggs and fried chicken, cows for milk, butter, and cream, cattle and hogs to butcher for meat, an orchard for fruit, and a garden for veggies.  They fished in the summer, trapped in the winter, and hunted all year long.  Between the house and the barn was a low shed with fenced pens on two sides.  The north side housed the bird dogs, the south side was where the ‘coon hounds stayed, and the beagles ran loose.  Such was their country life until Amos ran afoul of prosperity.  Success sneaked up on Amos Beals, a man who was fully ready to work from dawn ‘til done just to get by.  When his eldest son, Max, announced his intention to marry, Amos went down the road a ways, cleared an acre or so of cornfield next to the road and, with the help of Bobby and Dale, began to build Max a three bedroom house with an attached garage.  As they were pouring the driveway, a fella from the city drove by, stopped, and offered Amos about three times what the house cost him to build.  Amos took the money, went down the road a little farther, and began building Max a four bedroom house with a basement.  He sold that manse at a very handsome profit as he and Dale were planting a maple tree in what was soon to be the front yard.