Wordless Wednesday: Tree Sculpture

Tree sculpture
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Wordless Wednesday: Mesquite

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The House o’ Nuts

(Note: this is not my family’s home movie, although my brother is in possession of the footage my father took, possibly on our second trip to Florida; I don’t remember. Anyhow, this does capture something of the feel of the vacation in question.)

A while back I posted a memory from my childhood, one I’d totally forgotten for decades. Old scenes are making their way back into my mind.

Recently I remembered another one, also long-forgotten.

The first family vacation I can remember happened around 1959. We drove from our home in New Jersey to Miami Beach, Florida. I’m guessing it was during Easter vacation (what is now Spring Break). I would have been 6 or 7. My dad did all the driving. My mom rode shotgun. The back seat was my realm. I had my blanket and my dolls, and my mother was afraid I might get bored, so she actually bought me a few new things to keep me occupied. The only gift I really remember was a Captain Kangaroo cut-out book which with I constructed a replica Treasure House with artifacts like Grandfather Clock. (Old timers, do you remember Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Green Jeans and Grandfather Clock?) There was also a cardboard box on the floor of the back seat with canned juice, cereal, bread, snacks, and a picnic lunch for the road.

We stopped for gas at a place called the House o’ Nuts. In addition to the gas pump, there was a gift shop that sold nuts. After the attendant filled our gas tank, he explained that they also offered a chance to win some money. My mother’s ears perked up. She wanted to play.

I don’t remember the exact mechanics of this little gambling operation–I can’t recall if there was a wheel, or cards, or mathematics puzzles to solve–but at the end of it, my parents were down $25. Now, this was the late 50s. I don’t think my dad earned $100 a week at his full-time job.

As we drove away, my father bemoaned the loss, feeling cheated. This would prevent us from doing some of the things he’d planned to do on the vacation.

A little while later, he saw a traffic cop and flagged him down. Dad related the story of how he had lost $25 at the House o’ Nuts. Mind you, my dad had a strong German accent, which might have motivated the gas attendant to lure them into gambling in the first place. Not everyone was very nice to Germans, especially this soon after WWII. Gambling was illegal in (Georgia? I can’t remember), as the policeman told my father. But for some reason he decided to help.

He followed us back to the House o’ Nuts, and went inside while we waited outside in the car. A few minutes later, the gas attendant came out with my dad’s $25 and a box of chocolate-covered nuts, and explained he wasn’t trying to cheat him, he’d just given him a chance to win some money. My dad said thank you, waved to the police officer, and skedaddled out of there, greatly relieved.

We stayed at a beachside motel in Miami Beach. I remember walking along palm tree-lined streets with the wind fluttering the palm branches and coconuts clonking to the ground. When I heard the wind in the palm trees in Arizona 30 years later, it launched me back in time to that trip (although I didn’t remember the House o’ Nuts until much later).

We saw the mermaids at Weeki Wachee, visited a shell museum, swam in the ocean and in the motel pool, and I’m sure we did all the typical touristy things that northerners do on vacation in Florida. And when we got home and friends asked how our vacation was, Dad regaled them with the story of the incident at the House o’ Nuts.

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Quote of the Day

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Both Sides–Joni Mitchell, Then and Now

Roberta Joan “Joni” Anderson was born in Alberta, Canada, on November 7, 1943. She is almost exactly 9 years older than me, and her music was a soundtrack of my high school and college years. Her light, incredibly high soprano voice was always impeccably in tune, though she wasn’t afraid to bend a note when she wanted to. She didn’t need scores of musicians backing her up; on many of her songs, she accompanied herself on guitar or piano–that’s it, so simple, so lush, so perfect. She was a gifted songwriter from an early age, and other major performers recorded her songs before she became a star in her own right.

At age nine, Joni contracted polio and was hospitalized for several weeks. The polio permanently weakened the muscles in her left hand. (A few years later, when she taught herself how to play guitar, she compensated for her fingering challenges by using alternate tunings for the strings. These tunings contributed to untraditional harmonies in her compositions.)

Chelsea Morning, recorded live at Carnegie Hall, NYC, February 1, 1969:

In school, Joni struggled with academics. She was more interested in art. (After high school, she went to art school for one year and didn’t really like the focus on technical skill, abstraction, and commercial art. Though she dropped out, painting has always been a major part of her life. She did the artwork for many or all of her album covers.)

By the time she was eleven, she loved singing and dancing and writing poetry, and thought maybe she could be a performer. In October, 1962, just before she turned 19, she started performing folk music in small clubs and coffeehouses.

Big Yellow Taxi:

In 1964, she discovered she was pregnant. Her boyfriend bailed on her, and after she gave birth to her daughter, she placed her in an adoption, because she didn’t have the financial resources to raise her. She needed to go back to performing. (Joni reunited with her daughter in 1997.)

In 1965, Joni met the American folk singer Chuck Mitchell, and they began performing together. They went on tour in the US, and soon married; Joni Anderson officially became Joni Mitchell. The marriage only lasted a couple of years. In 1982, she married bassist Larry Klein. They divorced in 1994.

Help Me:

The Circle Game:

Joni has always had a lot of support from other musicians. Her friendships are a veritable Who’s Who of the folk, rock, pop, and jazz artists from the 1960s through today. She was linked romantically with the likes of Leonard Cohen, David Crosby, Graham Nash, James Taylor, and Jackson Brown, among others.

Woodstock:

River:

Around 2000, Joni’s voice began to deepen. Although she was a smoker all her life (she started when she was 9), she believes that the loss of the top of her range is due to nodules on her vocal cords, changes in her larynx, and lingering effects of polio.

Coyote, recorded live at Gordon Lightfoot’s house, with Bob Dylan and Roger McGuinn:

Below is an interview from 2013. It is worth your time to watch. One thing she says that really got to me is, “If you listen to that music and you see me, you’re not getting anything out of it. If you listen to that music and you see yourself, it’ll probably make you cry, and you’ll learn something about yourself, and now you’re getting something out of it.” I can’t tell you how many times in my life I’ve listened to Joni Mitchell’s music with tears streaming down my cheeks. The combination of her pure voice, simple accompaniment, and poignant lyrics touches me deeply. These days, when I listen to her, I long for the bright, vivacious young woman she was (and for the bright, vivacious young woman I was).

In 2015, Joni suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm. Her injury caused a great deal of damage, and she worked very hard at her physical therapy to regain her mobility.

When Joni Mitchell was celebrated at the Kennedy Center Honors in 2021, I was heartbroken to see how frail she was, and I wondered if she’d ever perform again.

But you can’t keep Joni down. She appeared at the Newport Folk Festival with Brandy Carlile in 2022.

Both Sides Now, 2022 Newport Folk Festival:

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Scripture Break #49

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Miss Goody-Two-Shoes No More

For most of my life, whenever I remembered my childhood, especially my elementary school years, I remembered myself as angelically abiding by the rules.

But now that I’m well into the last decades of my life, long-forgotten incidents are emerging from my memory that contradict my early self-image.

I am a child of German immigrants, and I attended parochial school from kindergarten through eighth grade. My parents were careful to speak to my brother and me in English, so that we would grow up with English as our first language. But my mother also taught us a little bit of German, including a prayer.

There were 67 students in my first grade class. Amazing, right? Impossible. But this was during the baby boom. There had been two kindergarten classes, and when we were promoted to first grade, the school had a teacher shortage, and only one teacher for first grade, so they combined us. Our teacher, Sister Gracita, struggled to keep this vast community of six-year-olds under control, and apparently, I was one of her major challenges. She was constantly telling my mother I was “too talkative.” Moi?

I recall one time she took me outside the door of our classroom and told me there were “66 other students in our classroom who are trying to learn” and I was preventing them from doing so. My mind immediately went to arithmetic: 66 students + me = 67, and I lived at 67 Park Avenue! What a coincidence! I wanted to tell Sister, but I sensed she wasn’t interested.

Later that year, we had a visitor to our classroom, another nun. She must have been a supervisor from the diocese, there to observe the teacher, because Sister Gracita had been prepping us on our lessons and our behavior. Toward the end of the visit, Sister said, “And Andrea knows a prayer in German! Andrea, can you please say your German prayer?”

What? All year Sister had been on my case for talking too much, and now she wanted me to perform like a one-trick pony? “No.”

Sister asked again, and I refused again. She asked why, and I said, “I don’t want to.” Sister changed the subject, but later she called my mother and told her I embarrassed her in front of the bigwig. Of course, my mother was mortified, but I didn’t see her point.

Now, 53 years later, I get it, but I’m amazed that I stood my ground when I was six. I really thought I had a healthy respect for authority figures when I was little. Now I’m realizing I was a little rebel.

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Wordless Wednesday: Thicket

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Review of Rethinking Life: Embracing the Sacredness of Every Person by Shane Claiborne

What does it mean to be truly pro-life?

Being anti-abortion does not go far enough.

Claiborne, a Christian activist, provides an in-depth examination of all the elements of a “consistent ethic of life.” Throughout the book, he asks the question, “What does love require of us?”

Every person is sacred, Claiborne says, because God created humanity in His image. “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them (Genesis 1:27 NIV).” That means everyone. Brown and black and yellow and white. Mother Teresa and Adolf Hitler. Donald Trump and Joe Biden. Brain surgeons and sanitation workers and female impersonators. All are stamped with God’s likeness. Even people we don’t particularly like.

Claiborne includes chapters on the early Christian movement and how it changed when Constantine granted it legitimacy; how Christians have contributed to violence worldwide throughout history; anti-Semitism and genocide; eugenics, racism, slavery, and the death penalty; American exceptionalism; and a chapter on abortion that is one of the clearest analyses I’ve ever read.

For Claiborne, the ultimate authority on life and love is Jesus Christ. He quotes a pastor friend: “We believe in the authoritative, inerrant, infallible Word of God. His name is Jesus.” Claiborne says, “Ultimately, the word Christian means ‘Christlike.’ If something doesn’t smell like Jesus, sound like Jesus, and love like Jesus, it is not Christianity.” A lot of what I hear from people who profess to be Christians does not pass this test.

Pro-life goes beyond opposing abortion. Claiborne quotes a sermon given by the Reverend Doctor Otis Moss III: “I’m pro-life. I’m pro-education. I’m pro-healthcare. Pro-accountability. . . Pro-love. Pro-faith. Pro-equality. Pro-grace. Pro-redemption. Pro-peace. Pro-family, whatever combination that family may be.”

Being pro-life means making sure all people have access to what is necessary for life. Pro-life means insisting on a living wage, free public education, affordable housing, affordable childcare, affordable medical care and prescriptions, food, water and clothing for all. And the list goes on. There is much work to be done. What does love require of us?

Claiborne asks other questions too, and calls us to action. We all can help to bring justice and life to the world:

Jesus taught us to seek first the kingdom of God, and that means asking ourselves some prophetic questions. What would it look like for God’s dream to come on earth as it is in heaven? What would it look like for God’s dream to come to my block, my neighborhood, my city? . . . God’s dream is for us to welcome immigrants as if they are our own flesh and blood (Lev. 19:34). God’s dream is for mercy to triumph over judgment. God’s dream is for us to transform our swords into plows and our guns into garden tools. God’s dream is not for more than one hundred lives to be lost to guns every day in America. . . How can we participate in announcing and ushering in God’s dream? . . . Let us pray that our hearts would be broken by the things that break the heart of God.

Rethinking Life is one of the best books I’ve read this year. I can’t stop thinking about it.

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Wordless Wednesday/Flower of the Day: Water Lily

More Flower of the Day.

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