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It was one of those things I couldn't quite wrap my brain around as a young child being indoctrinated into the church. Granted, my brain wasn't fully formed and open to all types of different influences and suggestions, and when you're a kid, it doesn't cross your mind--well, at least it didn't cross my mind (different things could be said for the other four)--that I could ask questions. Be that as it may, while I was being scared at the mind set of a certain blogger under this blog post, I was reminded of how close-mindedly obstinate I was back when I was a fundamentalist. I mean, when you say things like:- "What I am saying is that God has the right and prerogative to put any sinner to death at any time, b/c sin's penalty is death.";
- "I dispute that human suffering is obviously a moral evil."
- "Theoretically, God could (I'm not sure how, but I'm sure He could think of something) reveal that everyone is obligated to kill homosexuals now, and it would be morally right."
... Words defy this mind set--even knowing that I used to think like this (shudder, shudder) is scary, but to hear it now, from the other side, having realized just how mind-bogglingly arrogant, self-righteous, and prickish I was...!
Ugh. Anyway, no matter how abhorrent I find this mind set to be these days (and pride myself on the fact that I only made one comment on that thread, otherwise I do fear I would have brought down the tone of the entire conversation out of sheer frustration in response to the brick wall...), it DID inspire me to draw up a few new comics, which I will be entitling Near the Beginning. I do hope you enjoy. I think I'll be putting up a comic per week until I run dry--or, at least until the asteroid hits... And, as always, clicking on the picture will open it up in a larger window for your visual pleasure...
Near the Beginning: In the Beginning...
It's like a slow moving death-knell... The sun sets just a little bit sooner; the trees are just a tad yellow around the edges; the air just a teeny bit cooler in the evening...
Can you feel it? The impending doom? Winter?
I grip my cup of coffee a bit tighter as I sit on the deck and look over my 3/4 of an acre. Hawthorne lays at my feet, tongue lolling, tail lazily wagging every time my eyes happen to drift his direction.
The deck needs a good staining. The vegetable gardening could use another weeding or two before the summer's end. Still need to move those rocks out from under the maple and place them in a more orderly fashion around a flower bed...
But the days are getting shorter. My knees have been sore for three days in a row now, feeling the subconscious signals from my brain to prepare for the cold... My hand drifts down to meet the soft tan-and-white fur of my friend. Beaux meows piteously from the kitchen window as a bird lands upon the feeder, the evening show beginning from his front-row screened-in seat.
A leaf falls from the mystery tree in the center of the yard to land on the grass/dandelion mixture that passes for a lawn. An owl hoots from the deeper shadows as the sun dips lower, spreading a fire-like glow behind the mountains. As the north star makes its nightly appearance directly overhead and the bats begin to pirouette on the evening breeze, I once again reflect that, probably sooner than I would like, the house will be for sale and we will begin the process of migrating south.
I wonder if the sun sets will be as spectacular without a mountain to fall behind? Will the nighttime sounds of my childhood (tree frogs; crickets) and nighttime sights (lightning bugs) also reside in the so-called Sunshine State? Will they sing their symphony in the same rhythms and harmonies? Will my knees ache less? Will I drink less coffee?
The sun disappears, although its glow remains a while longer, the long shadows covering the entire yard. The bats blend in almost seamlessly now, shadows riding shadows. Hawthorne stretches, yawns, and clicks over toward the screen door, ready to lay on the couch as is his nightly routine. I put out my cigarette and glance once more at the almost-black yard, glad for the chores being hidden, but unhappy that tomorrow's light will bring them to the fore of my mind once more and remind me again of how little time remains before the grave-blanket of snow covers the sins of a lazily-spent summer...
THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...
Me: (whispering) Hey! Hey, wake up! Did you hear that?
Rich: Hmm...? Wha...? Huh...?
Me: Did you hear that!?
Rich: No...
Me: Shh!
Goose bumps dance up and down my arms. I glance around quickly, spotting Hawthorne at the foot of the bed and Beaux sound asleep in his house (Yes, oddly enough, my cat is crate trained...)
THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...
Me: There it was again! Did you hear it?
Rich: Huh? Wha...?
Me: Did you hear it that time? What was that?
Rich: Will you stop waking me up!
Me: But--
Rich: I am never watching a horror movie with you again!
Me: I told you, but--
Rich: Go. To. Sleep!
I give his back a disdainful glance. On some levels, I know he is right. Horror movies get the subconscious started in ways Alfred Hitchcock would die for, but that's neither here nor there at 3 a.m. on a dark and stormy night! Well, maybe not stormy. That was over before we even hit the hay. But still...!
THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...
I stop myself from slapping Rich on the back--after all, that was getting me nowhere faster than a snail on the Audubon. I peek over the edge of the bed into the semi-darkness. Neither of the animals have stirred, giving me hope that there's at least nothing in the bedroom! Slowly, ever so slowly I lower my feet to the floor, the cold (cold like the dead!) hardwood floors. I gently reach over and grab a book from the nightstand, the only not-a-weapon-but-could-be-a-weapon-in-desperate-times thing within reach, hard cover, of course. I see in the dim light of the alarm clock that Hawthorne has raised his head with irritated interest, as if to say "Dude! Even I don't get up at this time of night! What gives?"
I motion for him to stay, but then think better of that--after all, what's the purpose of having a dog if I don't use him to scare the intruder/monster/creature from the Black Lagoon away?
THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...
I freeze. Hawthorne whips his head around and stares out into the blacker than black hallway. Feeling slightly vindicated but still not convinced this is anything to fear (Remember the great Tea-Kettle Demon of West Bowmans incident? I haven't...), I pull the curtain aside that keeps the air conditioning within and the heat and humidity without...
THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...
Definitely louder than it was... Hawthorne hops onto the bed where I had just been lying, ever the faithful grave-hopper ("Don't say 'grave'!" my Subconscious shouts) and joins Rich in a symphony of snores and warbles. I roll my eyes (a waste of energy in the darkness when no one is around to witness it) and turn my attentions back toward the hallway. If Hawthorne's not worried, I really shouldn't be either, I suppose...
THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...
("Sounds like a dead body being kicked around," Subconscious whispers in my ear...) I stretch, stretch and take three steps to switch on the hall light and am instantly surrounded by the dim glow of it's full-strength 25 watts (Note to self: Buy 60-watt bulbs tomorrow) and am instantly reminded of the sickly glow usually reserved for death wards in hospitals and prisoners on death row. Steeling myself while simultaneously silencing Subconscious, I inch my way around the corner and peer into the dark dining room...
THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...
I whip around and stare at the spare bedroom door--this is where the noise is coming from, behind the wooden bedroom door. ("This is how people die," the back of my mind whispers. "They open doors like these in the dead of the night..." "SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!" I scream back into its recesses) I start to reach for the door knob, but pause. After all, Subconscious does have a point. I can almost hear the audience in the theater screaming at me, "Don't open it! Run for your life now! Why do they never run!" ("Famous last words," Subconscious whispers.)
I steal my nerves and grip the knob. I take a deep breath before turning it, sure that one of two things is about to happen:- I am about to die, or
- I'm about to feel very foolish.
I'm pretty sure it's number two, but if it does turn out it's number one? I'll feel foolish lying there in my own pool of blood...
Either way, it seems feeling foolish is inevitable... (I love irony!)
Once the door creaks open to about two inches wide, I slip my hand in and switch on the light, bathing the room in a slightly brighter, slightly less sickly glow. (I really do need to stop purchasing generic light bulbs...) After I pull my hand back out and count the digits (You always hear about how razor sharp teeth aren't felt until it's too late!) I push the door open the rest of the way, listening to it complain about its need for WD-40...
THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...
It seems so loud that I jump and emit a sound not too different from that which would come from a little school girl. I squint in my new found light at the various corners of the room, also making it a point to look up! (Another thing people in the movies never do... Which is why they die...)
THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...
I jump again, minus the prepubescent noises and focus in on the open window. ("It's in the HOUSE! It's in the HOUSE!" Subconscious screams.) Conscious notes that we have left them open to air out the room. ("RUN! RUN!" Subconscious screams, nearly hysterical.) I step past the dusty treadmill, around the piles of yet-to-be-sold yard sale items, and make my way toward the window...
THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...
A branch. Specifically, the branch from my butterfly bush. The wind was causing it to thump against the window frame and then rub its leaves along the screen...
Somewhat regularly, I might add...
THUMP! Shhhh.... Shhh...
More than just a tad relieved, I lift up the screen and break off the offending branch. I listen. I feel slightly foolish.
But better. Mostly because I'm not dead, but partially because I have once again conquered Subconscious (the bastard...). I close the screen ("One day I'll save your life, ingrate," Subconscious replies in a sulk) and toss the branch, covered in pretty purple blooms, into the trash can by the door.
After kicking Hawthorne out of my grave ("There's that word again!") I snuggle back deep in the sheets, a light breeze from the air conditioner brushing my cheek.
Rich: Huh? Wha? Go to sleep!
Me: Yes, dear.
'Twas Brillig in the Slithy Toves indeed... (FYI, don't watch A Haunting in Connecticut if you're anything like me... Or Subconscious...)
... more controversial than Oolon Colluphid's trilogy of philosophical blockbusters, Where God Went Wrong, Some More of God's Greatest Mistakes, and Who is This God Person Anyway?...
One of the best--and I do mean THE BEST--things about being an uncle on a family vacation is scaring the beJesus out of your plethora of nieces and nephews with stories about Chief Nighthawk, the ghost who lives in the woods and eats bad little boys and girls... Between Olivia's and Henry's scared glances out into the darkness and Sylvia mouthing "I hate you!" over their heads toward me, it was just one of the pleasant memories of yet another glorious summer vacation at Clemmark (okay, maybe not for the aforementioned nieces and nephs, but still all in all very pleasant...) 
We went on a hay ride, took a tour of a restored mansion, shopped in a cute little town named Wellsborough, played games, ate great food, and laughed til the cows came home... (And they literally did come home!) A few of the more adventurous little cows and bulls (Go ahead, ask me how you can tell the difference!) even managed to find new ways of escaping their fenced-in pasture to take day trips through the back yard of the lodge! (Sylvia briefly tried out a career as a bull fighter but lost her nerve as the young bull stamped at the ground nervously! I'm left wondering why...?)
I managed to lose at hearts twice before managing a spectacular recovery with as winning score of -18 (Take that, Dad!) and even though most of the family made it this year, there was a turnstile at the end of the driveway. Some had to leave early due to unforseen circumstances (to which our hearts go out) while others couldn't make it until later--and need we mention that some didn't bother to show up at all? Granted, their plate is REALLY full which is a shame because they were greatly missed...
All in all, however, one thing about the lodge remains true--the longer you stay there, the lazier you get, and reintegrating into the real world on a Monday morning was very difficult to say the least!
But I wouldn't trade it for the world! The beauty of the nearly uninhabited countryside, surrounded by the mooing of cows and neighing of horses and the occasional scream of a banshee from the 
darkness as the ghost of Chief Nighthawk claimed yet another unfortunate child all conspired for another magical weekend, a chance to reclaim the peace we find so little of in daily life as we navigate the plenitude of tasks and errands that plague us in the real world...
It's amazing how four short days can reinvigorate you for another 361 days...
Just another 358 to go before we return...
As I entered my home that sad Sunday afternoon having left the lodge, greeted in the most fantastic manner by Beaux and Hawthorne (one might even think they missed us!), I can once again look forward to the days next summer, when every day lasts forever, every night is filled with laughter, and the 70s decor remains a stagnant, unchanging mark of the past... (I must say, it is the strangest sensation in the world, waking up and staring at that teal sink surrounded by light green walls and a brown mosaic floor in the bathroom which makes you want to scream up to the heavens, 
"Why, God? Why would you allow such ugliness!?!?)
One wonders how we will ever find the time to fill the days? (I'd recommend bull fighting lessons for Sylvia, but she may have other things in mind until we return...)
It isn't easy growing up surrounded by siblings so close to your own age. Granted, you always have someone to play with, but you also have very many to fight with as well...
And sharing? It takes on a whole new meaning when there's a tribe...
Having always felt inferior to my older brother, Tom (only one year and two weeks older than myself...), he was always the first to do this, better at that, quicker at this, allowed to do that... Even worse was the fact that, while only a year and two weeks younger, by the time I was three, I was much taller than he. Hence, everyone thought I was older... And expected me to act like it!
So I did. Much to the chagrin of our next brother, Mike, who was two years and six months younger than myself, as well as our two youngest sisters, the first of which (Sylvia) who followed two weeks less than a year after Mike, with Cynthia bringing up the rear only a year and three months after Sylvia (Yes, my mother had five kids within six years... With NO twins... I do believe for a few years there she was certifiably insane!). Not only was I constantly riding Mike to act this way, not do that (resulting in much hand-to-hand-to-rock-to-baseball bat-to-phone-to-fists-to-whatever-else-happened-to-be-lying-around combat...), but there was the added insult of "Why can't you be more like your brother?"
I think we both cringed whenever that phrase was spoken, whether by parent, teacher, AWANA leader, or whatever other authority figure happened to be watching the five of us all at once... While I knew all too well my own personal failings as a human being (beaten into our five little skulls by the wonderful Christians at Chapel Christian Academy during our youth...), but Mike's personal failings were now magnified by my seemingly non-existent ones for all the world to judge...
To this day, I try very hard never to tell any of my nieces and nephews to be "more like" this person, or "less like" that person...
Unfortunately, however, life is always reduced back to a popularity contest, no matter how hard we try to extricate ourselves from such notions. Once again, I have been placed in someone else's office and told to "make them more like me." Not only that, but they've been told to "be more like Jason." Never mind that this person is damn good at their job, albeit a bit slower at completing their projects... But suddenly, not only am I being praised for being good at my work making little green things under ridiculous time constraints, I've been made that golden idol which I not only don't deserve, I never asked for, and never tried to be...
We were always taught to just "do our best." This is one of the driving forces behind all of our work ethics. I know each and every one of my siblings also strive to to their very best when given a task to perform, even when we don't want to do it! We give it our all, and while we each have our own strengths and weaknesses, we've learned to embrace that which we can do while continuing to work on that which we don't do so well at--and always be there for one another without the competition, but with all the good-natured ribbing still intact...
It's odd, however, to be placed once again in the role of "golden boy." Much as I take a certain pride in my work, knowing I've done a good job, when it's been turned into a weapon with which to make others feel inferior, even "bad" or "expendable," I just want to run away and shun the responsibility. I want to be "Dottie's Sister," not Dottie... (If you've ever seen A League of Their Own, you'll know what I'm talking about...) Most times I do feel like Dottie. I have most of the things I want in life, I'm happy and content just doing what I need to do to be able to go home and relax, or garden, or whatever else strikes my fancy. I don't need, and don't want to be the star. I don't want to be so good that others are shamed into thinking they're no good!
But then I'd stop being me at the expense of others, something else I promised myself I'd never do again either...
Life is full of these quandaries, isn't it? "Damned if you do, damned if you don't"-type scenarios...
It's taken me a lot of years to learn not to be jealous of Tom and his accomplishments, almost as many years as its taken for me to stop being as hard on Mike as I am on myself! While I know these types of things will come and go no matter where I happen to end up working (after all, it always seems to!), I'm still left just as bewildered as before on how to best navigate these waters that feel like the minefields my brothers and I created between ourselves...
How do I keep this co-worker from resenting me? How do I keep from resenting my boss over this? How do I help them be the Dottie that they are, so that I can once again just be one of the many sisters?
Ernie Capadino: [to a salesman] You know, if I had your job, I'd kill myself! Wait here, I'll see if I can dig up a pistol.
Sorry, but I couldn't resist. Yes, it probably just burst the hell out of that little bubble you call Your World.
It had to be done... Trust me.
You. Will. Die. Well, there's this little thing called "taxes" to worry about in the mean time, a lovely way to fill 30 to 90 years, give or take a decade.
Life truly is the only thing you're never going to live through... It's a bit sobering until you learn not to take it so seriously all the time!
Sure, people like going on about this and that, "eternity" and such as if anyone can truly fathom what eternity entails. Like they were talking about going down the street to the local pub. "Oh, yeah, right, eternity with the big G, you know? Have you thought about it?" (Obviously you haven't...)
"Don't Be Afraid.... Arthur Dent..."
The screen goes blank.
"BE VERY VERY FRIGHTENED!"
Very large and not-so-friendly letters, are they? (I also prefer "Don't Panic!" Much more reassuring...)
Be that as it may, it is a happy thought. Indeed, you aren't going to make it out alive--none of us are.
So don't take it so seriously, yeah? Lighten up a little! Enjoy yourself a bit! Laugh out loud...
(Just don't quit your day job... Taxes, you know...)
It was the first weekend in what seems like forever since I didn't have to be anywhere or do anything...
So I started on The List.
You see, The List is a two-sided, two-columned sheet of notebook paper filled with the things we need to accomplish around here before I feel that we can list our house and proceed with The Move. At the top of my list, of course, was to ultimately and permanently solve the problem of The Basemantic Ocean. It's been three years since this dirty, unnatural wonder appeared in our home, and through various "make-do" solutions and various jerry-rigging of pumps, buckets, and bins, this needs to Be Solved. Today. Now or never...
I put it off for about three hours. Three Years, Three Months, and Three Hours, to be exact. I fiddled with this, thought about that, slept in until Beaux and Hawthorne couldn't stand it anymore... You know, "procrastination" is a very under-appreciated gift...
Knowing that this is going to be a dirty, smelly, disgusting job, I wrap four plastic bags around each sneaker. Two sets of plastic gloves on each hand. Three differing sizes of pipe cap, pipe cement. One can of gunky sealant.
And the will of a god. A procrastinating god, mind you, but just as all-powerful when it comes to destroying Pipenagra Falls. All-powerful and just as ignorant as to what I was actually going to do...
I took the flashlight and peered deeply into the Dark Cave of Eternal Dripping. I stared at the mountain of duct tape connecting the old rusted pipe to the black plastic pipe which ran up to a tub, which in turn led to a sump pump, which in turn led to another small pipe, which led out the basement window, down underground and eventually reunited with the septic pipes outside which led to our drainfield. This last brainstorm of a fix had lasted the previous two years, working wonderfully to keep our basement relatively dry and free from various bodily waste and shower drippings from the floor above. But now surgery had to be performed. Sump pumps unplugged, pipes removed, duct tape ripped asunder, and a brand new shiny steel pipe cap was to be placed in all its pristine glory upon the rusted, 1940s pipe which ran along the floor with all the grace and beauty of an elephants ass.
I propped the flashlight on an up-side-down bucket and proceeded. I started by first turning on the pump and emptying the bin entirely, then removed it to the relative safety of the backyard. I grabbed my knife ("You call that a knife? This--this is a knife!") and proceeded to cut away at the duct tape. The Dark Cave of Eternal Dripping proceeded to drip in a more steady fashion. I steeled my nerve and continued with the operation. Sweat poured from my forehead as I held my body in the strange configuration that was required--slightly crouched, upper body thrust forward under the plastic sink, one hand holding the knife while the other wrapped around one of the sinks legs to around the side to the other end of Duct Tape Mountain, the light from the flashlight just peeking above my left shoulder casting my shadow upon most of the areas I needed to see...
Fun-fun-fun!
I could barely hear my Toad the Wet Sprocket album from the other end of the house on the first floor where it blasted at full volume (makes for happy neighbors!) and grasped the knife more tightly in my right hand, determined to complete my task. I could hear Hawthorne pacing back and forth in the bedroom above my head, wondering where I was, wondering why he couldn't be at my side. Getting frustrated, I reached down and grabbed the black plastic pipe and yanked!!
And landed on my ass, the pipe still intact...
Fun-fun-fun!
A steady stream now ran from the Dark Cave of Eternal Dripping, once again forming that in-door pool that is decidedly not in most people's fantasies...
With renewed determination, I attacked! I thrust the knife left-right-left, the water gushed faster. I stabbed, parried, jabbed and thrust! Water spurted out like the wound of a dying beast! I Zoro'd across the last bit of duct tape, landing a killing blow! The black pipe separated and fell to the floor, and the steel pipe... gave one little spurt of water and fell silent.
Victoriously elated, I went to stand up and celebrate my victory--and slammed my head against the top of the sink...
Feeling a bit more humble, I grab the gooey stuff, fill the cavity, lay down some pipe glue, place the cap in place, screw the collar tight...
And wait...
I went up and turned on the shower, then ran downstairs again to stare at the sutured wound...
And wait...
I run up and, with the shower still running, flush the toilet. I race back down the stairs, flash light in hand...
And wait...
Still no leakage.
I go back up, and with the shower still running, flush the toilet again, turn on the bathroom faucet, rush out, turn on the kitchen faucet, clutter back down the stairs...
And wait...
For a half an hour, smoking a cigarette to fill the empty silence in the darkness, waiting for something to happen...
Nothing was happening... (How often does that make for a happy ending? "And they lived happily ever after, with nothing happening...")
Feeling victorious once again, I go back up, turn off all the water sources except for the shower, and step under its flowing drops, free in the knowledge that I had just accomplished numero uno on my list...
Only seventy-two more things to go. And while that one was by far the biggest thing on The List and only took four hours to accomplish, I'm hoping it doesn't take another Three Years, Three Months, and Three Hours to get it all done... Otherwise, we may never see the sandy beaches of the Sunshine State...
Of course, procrastination may be under appreciated, but it does have a down side... Mostly consisting of a list that now only has seventy-two more things to do... And a lot less time to do it in...
It was one of those things I couldn't quite wrap my brain around as a young child being indoctrinated into the church. Granted, my brain wasn't fully formed and open to all types of different influences and suggestions, and when you're a kid, it doesn't cross your mind--well, at least it didn't cross my mind (different things could be said for the other four)--that I could ask questions. Be that as it may, while I was being scared at the mind set of a certain blogger under this blog post, I was reminded of how close-mindedly obstinate I was back when I was a fundamentalist. I mean, when you say things like:
