Telegram

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
Friday, December 31st

Wheel




I am taking out my new calendars and putting away the old, putting away the old year with them. Should I look back at the year represented therein? It was my first full year at writing here, and I can't say I'm any better or any worse at it. Health, wealth, and wisdom: as far as I am able to perceive, no better, but no worse. I buried somebody for every book I read, more or less, and some of them were very dear to me, and some of them were strangers. I was out in the cold and the heat, the rain and the sun and the snow, and I was angry and frustrated, and happy and carefree, exhausted at night and groggy in the morning. People have been very good to me when I least expected it. I haven't given up. Love? I have reason to hope. The year ends much as it began, in most things, and the sun sets on its last day. Things will be different tomorrow.


David on 12.31.04 @ 04:54 PM CST [link]


Thursday, December 30th

Mr. Creakle


Yesterday I saw Mr. Creakle, the funeral man, at the post office. He has the look of a prosperous small-town businessman and that is what he is; his face is flushed, his figure stout, his manner irritable. Dark-suited, visitant, he pauses, and tells of this week's deaths. A young man fell through the ice and drowned. A childhood friend came to a natural, but no happier or less permanent, end. Creakle grew up here and inherited the family business, and his adult son works with him now. There are almost no other family businesses any more, but in every town there is a family that specializes in death. The funeral home is impeccably maintained, a fine house from the nineteenth century, with white siding, bright green lawn, and flowers abed in the spring. The coffins they keep in an old barn out back, a saltbox-style remnant. Last week I went to a viewing there. Greeting the cars were the professional ushers, three old men who look like praying mantises, Creakle the younger, and his wife. Inside it was dim and smelled funny. I went into the room where he lay, the same room where I last saw the face of my mother. I glanced at him and gestured toward the corpse as I spoke to the widow. She kept thinking, I'll have to tell that to him, she said, not remembering he was gone. I left as soon as I could, waved to the mantises, got in the car. I turned the key and the stereo came on. Anita O'Day.


David on 12.30.04 @ 05:45 PM CST [link]


Wednesday, December 29th

Laugh Riot In Cell Block 7



I am an amusing fellow. Dear Reader, I am a very amusing fellow. I realize, though, that it takes an enormous leap of faith on your part for you to believe this; nevertheless, believe me: it is true. And I have a very elevated sense of humor. I do not undertake the pratfall in my efforts to amuse. Every fall I take is sincerely and spontaneously performed. I don't tell riddles; I eschew puns; I sneer at Spoonerisms; not a word I say is malapropos. I practice the highest of wit. I rub shoulders with Aristophanes, Moliere, and Jack Benny, all of whom were very funny fellows. They aren't so funny any more, being dead, but they used to be hilarious. I can tell funny stories, not really jokes, but funny -- jokes have punch lines, you see, and I can never remember those, or if I do, I remember them first, and then backload the story in to demystify the listener. One of them goes, "It warn't his handwriting!", which is self-evidently amusing, containing, as it does, dialect and an exclamation point. That story is a little off-color, I'm ashamed to admit, so I won't retell it here. I have only the highest respect for the sensibilities of my readers: I seek to amuse, as I say, not to offend. It is difficult to maintain the high standards of humor I have set for myself, and still get the clods and lowlifes I associate with to see the point. Quite often I have to encourage them by starting the laughter, myself, at the appropriate time. If that doesn't work, a little physical contact, say a dig in the ribs or a slap on the knee, may lubricate the sluggish mind. Or I may say, "Get it?", and repeat the relevant passages. I have livened up many a funeral reception, I assure you. Want to hear one? No? Maybe later, then.


David on 12.29.04 @ 03:03 PM CST [link]


Tuesday, December 28th

Twenty-five minutes



There was a light dusting of snow while I was over taking care of the cats. The one has been shy and stands in back of the armrest of the sofa whenever I appear. He opens his eyes wide and watches me. The bolder one is almost entirely white, and follows me around. I lay on the floor and he sniffed my eyebrows. Today I took a book along and read a chapter, sitting on the sofa by the safe armrest. When I looked up the shy one had come out to the center of the room and was grooming himself. I got out his favorite toy and he chased it a little; I kept the other confused by a laser pointer. I went upstairs to serve them their dinner. They followed me but only the bold one came in. His meal goes in a bowl on the floor. The shy one get his dinner loose on the table; he stood in the hall and looked at me. He went back downstairs when I left the room; I could see him behind the couch. The bold one had finished his dinner and helped me put on my shoes. I found the key and stepped outside. I locked the door behind me. The snow had stopped; there was still barely enough daylight for me to make my way home.


David on 12.28.04 @ 05:30 PM CST [link]


Monday, December 27th

Far and Wide



Lord, your world is so big and this life is so small. I stopped the paper; I never turned on the television; I didn't look at the RSS feeds. I forgot there was a world beyond the horizon, and the horizon got closer and closer the more I got involved in the little jobs in front of me. But the world was out there, and just because I stoped paying attention, it didn't stop turning. And just because those countless lives were ended, or upended; reduced to nothingness or left with nothing; not much changes for me except that now I know a little about it and feel bad and put a comfortable amount of money in a plate headed for Asia. That's what I'm going to do, and it's a good thing to do. The world may be big but each one of those lives is small enough to be helped.


David on 12.27.04 @ 01:15 PM CST [link]


Sunday, December 26th

Embraces



I am a hug slut. My life is an open book and on each page hugs are liberally dispensed and promiscuously received. Most of them are as innocent as a child's prayer; affectionate but not at all sensual. Some are expressions of deep concern, or solidarity,or acts of burden-sharing. Some are greetings to the prodigal, and some are just greetings. With a few, the outward contact carries within it a hidden meaning, a more private summons. At Christmas midnight I received -- but who is the giver, who the taker, of a hug or a kiss? -- a hug that was, to all appearances as holiday wish, but then it held for a moment, and took on more meaning, became a question, then an invitation. Family-friendly as far as the public was concerned, but undoubtedly with adult content.


David on 12.26.04 @ 06:17 PM CST [link]


Saturday, December 25th

Peaceful Was The Night



It really was silent, the way it rarely gets in this day and age. The last worship service ended shortly after midnight, and the congregation dispersed surprisingly fast. And after that I was invited by two of the ushers to come visiting, and I sat in the first home for more than an hour, walked to the next, and passed the time there until three. I went for my own sake more than for that of the family; they looked like they could carry on until dawn. And I walked back to my car, down a street lined with luminaria, under a sky illuminated by a full moon, and there wasn't a sound but the sound of my footsteps. I got in the car, and slammed the door. I shivered.


David on 12.25.04 @ 09:38 AM CST [link]


Friday, December 24th

Christmas Present


It is 9:21 AM, local time, on December 24, 2004. It is 30.9 degrees Fahrenheit outside this room, and 70.3 degrees inside. I am alone, at home, looking at an old Impression 5 monitor attached to an IBM NetVista computer. I walked to the grocery store this morning, bought four items, and walked home. I did not wear gloves, and my hands got a bit cold. I have a few presents sitting by the eight-inch tree downstairs, but I probably won't open them till tomorrow. I will be reporting for work today about eleven, and except for the time I take to feed the cats for Vanessa, I will be there until at least one in the morning. Right now I am rather anxious about the whole thing; two family services, two candlelight services, the carol sing. My sister-in-law was in the hospital for two days this week and I am anxious on her behalf. I am wearing corduroy pants, a burgundy sweater over a green turtleneck, and sneakers. I'll change to brown shoes and add a tweed jacket when I go to work. I had two cups of coffee this morning. Vanessa's dad just called to ask me to make sure they closed the garage door when they left for the airport. The baby will be five days old today. This is a day about the promise of new birth. It is 9:34 AM.


David on 12.24.04 @ 09:37 AM CST [link]


Thursday, December 23rd

Christmas Past


I remember sitting at the top of the stairs with my brothers, well before my parents were up, craning my neck to see through the door into the living room, though the tree and all the presents were hidden behind the near wall. I remember the glass of milk I left for Santa, freshly drained on the mantel, traces still running down the side. I remember going out on Christmas Eve and bargaining for a tree at the Methodist lot. I remember my mother, sitting in her recliner, directing us on the distribution of tinsel, as the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sang. I remember my brother insisting on playing John Coltrane's version of "Greensleeves". I remember the Metaxa he gave me every year; she gave me The Farmer's Almanac. I remember hangovers and the hair of the dog on Christmas Day. I remember the year she came down the steps and saw the new recliner we'd bought for her, brought in after she was asleep, and gift-wrapped. I remember how, after the stroke, she took ever more delight in its trappings, reading catalogs, wrapping gifts, the music and lights. I remember her in her wheelchair, trying to get the paper of with the one hand that worked, and my helping her. I remembeer the year she died, when we went to another home, in another state. I remember the first year I worked at the church. Christmas sexton, and how exciting and new and exhausting it all was. I remember the Christmas dinners I've had at friends' houses, barely able to hold my head up at the table. I remember letting Gordon ring the churchbell last year as the carol sing on the town green ended. I remember hugs all around, after the midnight service was over, and everyone left for home. I remember getting out of bed on Christmas Day, and no one there to greet me. I remember how a rose e'er blooming stands by the back door this year.


David on 12.23.04 @ 06:03 PM CST [link]


Wednesday, December 22nd

B-A-B-Y



You are born, I hear. About the time I was squirming at the Bell Choir Christmas party, nervous about getting to the church on time, you made your appearance. I am also a Sunday child, and it is not a good day for sneezing or cutting your nails, but it's a fair day to be born on. I don't know if you have sneezed yet; babies have sneezes as tiny as their fingernails. I'll tell you one thing: don't judge this world by how cold and how dark it has been since you arrived. It'll start getting brighter and warmer soon enough. I imagine you've learned a lot these three days, and yet a lot to learn. You've met the family; the one with the red hair who's been making faces at you, she's my favorite, but they're all worth knowing. By the way, colors on people aren't the same as colors everywhere else. if an apple was the color of your aunt's hair it'd be an orange. I'd offer you advice if I had any. Nobody's as good or as bad as they seem. Cover your mouth when you cough. Don't mix wine and whisky. I hope to see you soon.


David on 12.22.04 @ 04:56 PM CST [link]


Tuesday, December 21st

Passing



I look at these entries and they all seem the same to me. Is my life reallyas uniform as all that? It certainly seems like there is plenty of variety in the actual living of it. Sure, it is full of repeated themes, motifs, but it's just as full of surprises. It's the turning of it from a life lived into a story narrated that homogenizes it; I wish there were a better teller to tell my tale. Or at least a new one. Agnes passed by today in the passenger seat again, and I stepped out in the street long enough to hand her her Christmas present through the window. "How did you know you were going to see me?," I think she was calling as they receded. I know the series of causes that brought me to that place, at that time, with a gift-wrapped item in my pocket for her; but I have no idea what she was doing there at the same time. And what would she say about that moment? Unwrap it, Agnes, and tell me how you like it.


David on 12.21.04 @ 07:38 PM CST [link]


Monday, December 20th

Cold Cold Ground



There was a death in the night. I knew him, and I know his wife and son quite well. By mid-morning it was clear that we were going to have a funeral before Christmas, with a burial in the churchyard. Simon and I went out to locate and mark the grave for the gravedigger. It was twelve degrees and the wind was coming out of the north and west at a steady twenty miles an hour.

The cemetery is divided up into 120 numbered lots that measure twenty feet by eighteen. Each lot contains eight graves, ten feet long and four and a half wide. The lot number is indicated on a marble marker in the northeast corner; when the cemetery was surveyed these were flush with the ground but now they are overgrown or sunken. The ones nearest the driveway were marked a few weeks ago so we can orient ourselves when there is snow on the ground. After we found the first one of the appropriate rank, we reeled off twenty feet of measuring tape, poked around in the ground with a pitchfork until it hit something solid, and dug to see if it was the marker. And so on: eighty-seven, eighty-six, eighty-five. We were close to the corner and eighty-four was gone. We marked the spot where it should be, and veered off eighteen feet south and found the marker for the next row in that direction. Confident of our corner, we were able to find the appropriate grave, and set up flags at the corners. Then we went back to decorating the church for Christmas.


David on 12.20.04 @ 05:27 PM CST [link]


Sunday, December 19th

Ding-dong



The fourth Sunday in Advent. I got to the church at six-thirty this morning, when it was too dark to see my key to open the door, and I finally got home at something-past-six in the evening. In between, I prepared the sanctuary for worship, made the coffee, unlocked the doors, joked with the ushers, tested the microphones, started the tapes, salted the sidewalk, rang the churchbell, operated the lights, found the red tablecloth, held the baby, made more coffee, listened to complaints, emptied the trash, put away the silver, and locked the doors.

Then, I helped the bell choir move their bells, tables, cloths, music, stands, mallets and Santa Claus hats to the assisted-living complex, where they played a concert. I photographed the concert and went, briefly, to their Christmas party. I left after twenty minutes to goback to the church for the ecumenical Walk to Bethlehem. I unlocked the doors, lit the candles, calmed the pastor, got boxes for the songbooks, turned up the heat, kept a lookout for the pony, went next door to the Methodists to swipe a bulletin, let in the crowds, blew out the candles, talked to the lady in charge of costumes and crooks, locked the doors, put away the silver, had pizza with the youth bell-choir, and went home. Not to my home, but to the house-sit, where I fed the cats and went Home home. I feel like I've been beaten with cold, wet shoots of bamboo.


David on 12.19.04 @ 07:19 PM CST [link]


Saturday, December 18th

Wipe Out



None of it is really getting done. I have mailed Christmas cards to thirty-five strangers (well, mostly strangers) but I haven't sent any to my analog friends and relatives. I may have gotten some rummage to give away as gifts, but I'm not sure who is getting any of it or how I'm getting it to them. I'm managing to write some nonsense here every day, but the stuff I'm saying isn't always proofread, ("moke"?). It occurs to me two days later that when she asked me, I should have told her I was there to see her, which was closer to the truth than the excuse I was giving. Christmas will be mostly over in a week. I'm not ready. And I really don't care that much. I tell people these looming, scary events are like big sets for surfers: the waves are coming, they're taking you with them. You can either resist, panic, and be destroyed; or assent, cooperate, and enjoy the ride. And be destroyed.

I guess it's time to start paddling.


David on 12.18.04 @ 03:26 PM CST [link]


Friday, December 17th

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes



Mr. Murdstone saw a sculpture of a Santa smoking a pipe and made a passing remark, semi-regretfully, about his own days as a smoker. It was a little jarring to think of him as ever having been a smoker, though of course, based on demographic data, it would be likely that he had been one -- he is of the right age and background. I am also an ex-smoker, though it seems like so remote a part of my past that it might as well be true of a distant ancestor as of me. I used the devil's weed in my late teens and early twenties. Primarily I used cigarettes, no more than five or six or eight a day, and when I didn't want them or didn't want to spend the money, I went without. I smoked Camels, mostly, but for a change of pace I would try Newports for a week. My brother smoked Marlboros, which were awful, but I would bum them. Sometimes I would moke a pipe for a season, because it looked so professorial -- I remember you, Howard Comfort -- but it went out a lot or discharged foul juices. I could blow smoke rings, quite well. I held the cigarette with thumb below and two fingers on top, like Humphrey Bogart did. When I had no money I rolled my own. One day I stopped, and I never missed it. Except: The Balkan Sobranie. That was a fine smoke.
David on 12.17.04 @ 04:05 PM CST [link]


Thursday, December 16th

Peppermint



I called Lucy first thing this morning at the VNA office. I wanted to bring my camera by and download some pictures I took at the Cookie Walk last weekend. Privately, I wanted to see Agnes. She told me to drop by and I stopped at the store on the way over and bought some candy canes. I gave one to the receptionist who paged Lucy. Lucy came downstairs after a few minutes and we tried to get the pictures on her computer. It recognized the hardware but the software refused to sneak up the cable to find the files. I didn't feel it would be polite to hijack her computer to troubleshoot the problem, so I promised to make a CD and bring it back. I gave her a candy cane.

I told her I wanted to give one to Agnes Wickfield. I went back to the desk to ask if she was in, and was sent up the stairs, around a couple of corners to her niche. What followed, innocent as it was, will not be revealed. I gave her a candy cane.

I went on to my appointment with Vanessa. She had never hired a pet-sitter before, and I had never been hired by someone who had never hired one before. I met the cats, learned their routine with the bowls and the box, and the little bits of individual lore that Vanessa thought were significant: the runny eye, the favorite toy, the door into summer. We didn't know where to go from there. I gave her my contact information, tried to reassure her, and stepped out the door. She was barefoot, telling me one last bit of information throught the open door. I didn't give her a candy cane. It didn't seem appropriate.
David on 12.16.04 @ 03:22 PM CST [link]


Wednesday, December 15th

Sound Check



It was the first morning it was really cold all winter, cold like it means it. The sky doesn't start to brighten until I've been up quite a while, and it feels like a vigil, waiting for the light to appear and any little trace of warmth to follow. I stayed in the house quite a while before I went out for the paper. I saw that the pond was covered with ice; it had never been frozen before when I was staying here. I threw a piece of gravel over to see if it was just a crust: no, it bounced across, making a tremulous, bell-like sound as it went across. There isn't much to hear at that time of day, in winter. I thought then that it would be nice to pay attention to the sounds I hear during the day and report them here, and I wish I had. But I grew occupied, distracted by tasks and conversation and thoughts and all the random debris the day throws at you, and I forgot. Now, for the record, I hear my fingers on these keys, the squeaks and farts of my leather jacket as I move my arms, the hum of the monitor, and distant engine rumbles. I liked the pebble on the ice better.


David on 12.15.04 @ 03:51 PM CST [link]


Tuesday, December 14th

I'm Movin' On



The main thing I need to remember is my toothbrush. And toothpaste, I never find any there. Five miles is a long way to travel when you want to brush your teeth. I'll throw some clothes in a bag, take my checkbook and unpaid bills. I can do Christmas cards over there if I get a chance so I'll take those. Books. Sketchbook. I'll fill a bag out of the refrigerator, food and beer, don't forget the coffee, an extra pair of shoes. Anything else? I should have made a list. I wonder if it'll rain tomorrow. It's actually cold enough to snow. I have no idea what's likely to go on at work tomorrow. They all went off to their Christmas party without leaving a clue. No computer over there; I'll have to come back here to update. I should've written ahead. Anyway. If all I remember is the toothbrush, I'll be okay. And toothpaste. And PDA.


David on 12.14.04 @ 05:07 PM CST [link]


Monday, December 13th

Oughtta



About two weeks ago I was talking to a friend -- I was at work and she was at church and we were at the same place -- and I felt compelled to break off the conversation. It had been raining heavily that morning and I said I ought to check the place in the basement where the water pours in sometimes. She looked at me and said, "It seems like you have an awful lot of 'oughttas' in your life." This was one of those stunningly brilliant observations that other people can make about your life, that you have no chance of ever seeing for yourself. I am a dog and a sense of obligation is my leash. I may think I'm going where I want to go, but it's usually where the pressure around my neck is minimized. And it's one of the paradoxes of life; I wear the chains I forged in life. I am imprisoned by the consequences of my own free will. I have chosen to honor these obligations, and for the most part I think I chose rightly. But I have a lot of oughttas in my life right now, and if they aren't really wannas too, I oughtta...I oughtta set myself free of them.


David on 12.13.04 @ 05:10 PM CST [link]


Sunday, December 12th

Progress



There is something inherently troubling about a house that can hold a hundred people without being exceptionally crowded. I went to one last night for appetizers, and it was hard to imagine that this was a house that a family chose to live in, this house with its looming spaces, distant ceilings, expensive appointments and decorative landscaping. Every thing was selected to be on display. Like the books: recognized classics, in matching bindings, but plainly never opened or bought to be read.

That part of the evening encapsulated everything I loathe about our church: social climbing, status seeking, voyeuristic. Appearances took precedence over practicalities, and frantic activity overrode quiet depth. But then we moved on to dinner, somewhere else, and I saw what is good in our church. The dinner hosts were new to the area, and the house they had bought was an eighteenth-century farmhouse, a vestige of history in the middle of tract housing. We didn't all know each other well but we all had something to share, and we became comfortable with each other. Some of us were grieving, some in poor health, none of us were perfect and all of us were born unto trouble, but we managed to extend the hand of friendship across the divide, and the sparks flew upward.


David on 12.12.04 @ 03:24 PM CST [link]


Saturday, December 11th

New Look



Diana had a haircut yesterday, It's been about two years since she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She took a leave of absence from her job in the nursery school and for months I didn't see her. She came back in September of 2003, and I have no clue what she went through. She looked awful. Somehow she made it through every day. When she came back to school this fall her hair had come back in, curlier than before, and it was getting long enough that she could tie it back. She looks good. Yesterday she had her first haircut as a survivor. I'm glad her hair is growing and she had to cut it. It means she's alive.


David on 12.11.04 @ 06:03 AM CST [link]


Friday, December 10th

Festival of Trees


I had no particular place to go, so I decided to check out the Festival of Trees at the Environmental Center. It is a little strange to go over there and spend all my time in the building without setting foot on the trails. There were some ladies at the door who took my donation and handed me a brochure with information about the sixty-odd trees on display. They were decorated by a variety of local organizations; it seemed an unusually popular project for Girl Scouts and Brownies. I was especially interest in seeing the trees decorated by SCEEP and SHADC (Reader, they are pronounced the way they are spelled). There was an elderly gentleman playing a guitar, accompanied by a laptop computer. A group of small children arrived with their caregivers to sing Christmas songs with him. I went into the next room to look at the trees there, and ran into Ann the crossing-guard. A toddler wandered off from the group and looked at us, pointing to the ceiling with a pleading look. Ann picked her up and handed her back to the teacher. The computer fooled the kids by repeating the A section of "Feliz Navidad" too many times before going to the bridge. I took some pictures of the SHADC tree, decorated with pink and red hearts, in accordance with its theme, "All Hearts Come Home At Christmas". SCEEP had made little birds nests out of twigs, cotton fluff and other oddments. I see a theme emerging: the old guitarist, the young singers; the crafts done by the senior citizens,and the children; the crossing-guard, the baby. The clock is a circle and the hours farthest apart are also closest together.


David on 12.10.04 @ 07:07 AM CST [link]


Thursday, December 9th

Ascent



In this part of New Jersey the topography is like a gently rumpled blanket on the bed. The ridges start rising fifty and a hundred feet above the plain, and get steeper and deeper as you proceed to the north and west, into the hardscrabble country of Warren County, approaching the Water Gap. The afternoon was mild and I had nothing special to do so I went over to the Audubon. The trail starts off in the hollow with a moderately challenging uphill climb of a few hundred feet. My blood was circulating properly and I was breathing deep when I got to the top. If I was hoping the exercise and natural beauty would put me into a calm state I was mistaken. The motion seemed to shake all the thoughts in my head loose and they rattled around at random. The trees were bare; I could see past the next rise to the basin of the Great Swamp. I argued in my head with invisible adversaries, and the arguments went my way, not surprisingly since I was arguing for them as well as for myself, rewinding, recapitulating, rephrasing. As I went down the other side the sun went behind the ridge. The tree trunks before me were blue with shade, the opposite hill orange where the sun hit the leaf litter. Blue sky with white and yellow puffs of cloud. That which was present before me captured my attention, and my absent occupation faded. I got down to the bottom of the valley, the clear, sparkling waters: the headwaters of the Passaic. I was warm and sweaty. The little pools in the banks of sediment were clear and calm. The earth was soft; dormant, not frozen. It was very quiet.
David on 12.09.04 @ 01:49 PM CST [link]


Wednesday, December 8th

Office Topic


Mrs. Fibbitson, the church secretary, was vomited on by her granddaughter last Friday. This was not such a delight as one might suppose. But it was, in a way, the highlight of her weekend, and we ended up talking puke for a while yesterday. Her daughter, the baby's mother, claims that she had never thrown up in her whole life until she got morning sickness. Is this a likely claim, I ask. Digestion, I thought, was a highly uncertain endeavor for everyone, especially in early childhood. No, she insists, says Mrs. F. She was raising four and can't keep straight any more who was puking and who wasn't. I admit that I had always found the experience unpleasant, but that I underwent the ordeal, periodically, throughout my childhood, youth, and young adulthood. In those later years, the subsequent experience generally followed a prior behavioral choice. Eventually, I had a realization: if you don't like puking, maybe you should drink less. College education.
David on 12.08.04 @ 07:26 AM CST [link]


Tuesday, December 7th

Early


I am awake before dawn. I open my eyes and can see faint ambient light coming through the windows from the night sky. There is the distant rumble of an airplane. I turn on the light, attend to the reason I woke, and make coffee.

I will not hear a human voice for an hour or two. I live alone and will not use the radio or TV this time of day. This may sound bleak, but it's also full of possibilities. That voice might belong to one of the clerks at the grocery store, or one of the other customers. If I choose to walk, it may be the crossing guard, whose name is Ann. She had a birthday last week. The CD player in the car is waiting to tell me about the history of American Religion -- the lecturer has an English accent, and his may be the first voice I hear. After I drive for five or ten minutes, I'll be at work. I'm usually the first there. If I'm unlucky the first voice I hear will be that of Simon Girty, the sexton, who always starts a conversation with complaints and fault-finding. I try to avoid him, first thing, and go over to the nursery school to say good morning to the teachers who open it up for the early drop-offs. These are the probabilities and I can't even imagine what other beginnings are possible: once a month I have a truly unlikely eary-morning meeting with someone I never expected to see. It is still dark out; I hear another jet. The only human sounds I hear are the sounds of my body.
David on 12.07.04 @ 06:15 AM CST [link]


Monday, December 6th

Oratorio Sunday



Sunday was a very long day. I got to the church about seven in the morning, and it was well after nine in the evening when I got home. In between, two worship services, a luncheon for the visiting choir from Princeton Theological Seminary, making the setup for the luncheon disappear so the room could be used for the reception after the two musical services featuring the Oratorio choir. Increasing tension as the first performance approaches. Bell choir rehearsal, arrival of professional musicians. I help the harpist with her instrument cover and hand truck; she has a sick baby and a recording session in the morning. I go out the church door and step up to the curb as a van approaches. I look through the windshield and see an unguarded look on her face as she smiles and waves. The church is filled to capacity and the peformance is excellent. I talk to my dad and his wife after. The choir eat all the sandwiches. The second performance; I get to hold a tiny baby in the narthex. The congregation is much smaller,and the reception winds up quickly. I help the harpist get her instrument to the door. I turn off the last light. I liked that look. I liked that baby.



David on 12.06.04 @ 05:15 PM CST [link]


Saturday, December 4th

Alto



I return to Hamlet, Revenge! for the name I am giving to the person I will talk about today. Elizabeth Crispin has been my friend since I joined the church six years ago. We might have been friends far longer if we had only known one another; she is just enough younger than me that we missed being in school together, and her family lived, during those years, down the block from my mother's best friend. Her mother, Anne, now lives just up the street from Agnes and her family in Bernardsville; she taught Latin and worked at the town hall. She was crippled a few years ago when she was run over by her own car but is cheerful and active in the church choirs and fellowship events. Elizabeth sings in the choir, teaches Sunday School, serves on the Children's Education committee, and handled the cash registers at the Mission Market. She has a husband no one ever sees and a daughter I have seen grow up, from a babe in arms to a bright, active, mischievous, dramatic child of six. I'll all her Stella. I wish I could show Elizabeth to the people who think all Christians are the same: joyless, meddlesome, judgmental, scary. she has sparkling blue eyes, a wicked and irreverant sense of humor, an open and inquisitive mind, an easy and comfortable manner with others, and a healthy sense of her own ridiculousness. Every year about this time our paths converge, and I am sure that as others see us continually in one another's company, our intuitive comradeship, our familiarity, they may wonder. Wonder no more: we are yokefellows, pulling in the same direction, leaving the possibility of new growth behind.



David on 12.04.04 @ 05:17 PM CST [link]


Friday, December 3rd

Roses In December


I remember the roses of times past. In September, I went with seven roses and put them in a boot. In November, I went with four roses and put them beside a white stone. I have plucked the thorn from the lion's paw, and been devoured. I took the petals and put them in a tea bowl. In the spring, I took a small bush and dug a hole. I dropped it in, and I pressed the dirt around. It did not wither, it grew and it bloomed. And the flowers faded and the sun set and the days grew cold and short and brutish. the blossoms were gon and I found only thorns. And then, today, the frigid plant upheld before my eyes one last pink rosebud.


David on 12.03.04 @ 06:00 PM CST [link]


Thursday, December 2nd

I



Hamlet, Revenge!, by Michael Innes. I have been working on this book, off and on, for a couple of months now; I chewed at it like a dog with a bone, and finally got to the marrow. It could never wholly capture my interest, but never entirely lost it either. The body of the book contains matter interesting in itself but, finally, irrelevant to the mystery as it is resolved. Although it is a classic British mystery with a host of clues and suspects, no special attention to detail is needed to appreciate the solution. The quality of the writing is variable, the local color good, the pacing, too often, slow.
David on 12.02.04 @ 05:45 PM CST [link]


Wednesday, December 1st

Hush


The silence has been eerie. It was more than a week ago that my colleague, my friend, announced her intention to resign at the end of the month. Those of us who are close to her have spoken about it almost every day, among ourselves; but no one else has brought the subject up to me. Or to the others. The birthday party yesterday was even more of a sham than usual under the shadow of this situation. We need openness, decisiveness, courage: we are getting secrecy, passivity, cowardice. The leadership is saying, in more than one way: Let them eat cake.


David on 12.01.04 @ 06:53 PM CST [link]




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