Iron Mountain ski jump

Iron Mountain ski jump

Monday, November 28, 2011

The Missing Piece--An After-Thanksgiving Poem

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…

THE MISSING PIECE—An after-Thanksgiving poem

It is two days after Thanksgiving
And I am still thankful
For turkey and dressing and cranberry salad
And pie
Especially pie
But not potatoes
They were not on the menu this year
And for the jigsaw puzzle
We worked together
[An old-fashioned winter scene]
One piece at a time
Until it was complete
Except one piece was missing
My wife said it might be someone at the factory
Playing a cruel joke
[I suspect the cat]
My wife said it would not be so bad
If it were just a plain piece
Just blue sky
With one innie and two outies
Or just white snow
With innies and outies alternating
As they sometimes do
But the hole
Was right in the middle of the puzzle

JRMcF

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!

You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.

{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}

(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)








Friday, November 18, 2011

The Sound of Memory

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter for the Years of Winter…

THE SOUND OF MEMORY

We picked up Grandson Joe home from school yesterday. He was grinning as he got into our "Inferno Red" PT Cruiser. He is in 6th grade and has just become a member of the band. He got his new clarinet yesterday. He already plays mandolin and ukulele, but those are not band instruments, even though he thinks they should be. He says he chose the clarinet for band just because he likes the sound, which is a very sound reason for choosing an instrument.

When we got to his house, I helped him assemble the clarinet. I knew how to do it, for I, too, was a 6th grade clarinetist. We heard the first sound he made on it. We liked the sound.

I’m not sure I even knew what a clarinet sounded like when I was in 6th grade. I just knew I wanted to be in the band; I wanted to belong. Also, there was something in me that wanted to be a part of making music with others.

I could sing, and did, especially with my older sister, Mary Virginia, as we washed the dishes together. "Down In the Valley" was a favorite. But I wanted to be in the band, too.

We lived on a farm and did not have a car. Starting in 7th grade, I walked and hitch-hiked back and forth to town, but in 6th grade I couldn’t do anything that required staying after school. Transportation was school bus in and school bus out. But band had its own period in the school day. I could be in the band and still ride the bus home and do evening chores. I could be a part of something, like the other kids. I could make music.

But my parents said "no band." They were reluctant to say it, but they had no choice. We didn’t have money for an instrument. I can remember standing out in our back yard, trying to hold back tears. I knew that we lived in poverty, but that was the first time I really understood that my life would be limited by it.

Mary V. came out to talk with me, as she always did when I was unhappy, from the time I was five and she was nine and she talked me out of running away from home. “Let’s see what we can figure out,” she said.

I had a war bond, a gift from Grandma Mac, I suspect, that I could cash in for $20, and a nickel and a dime at a time, we came up with another $5. I became a clarinetist not by choice but simply because one of our teachers, Mr. Grubb, had a used one for sale for $25. It was metal.

It was the only silver-colored clarinet in the band. All the others were black, wood or ebonite. My metal clarinet stuck out, not only for its looks but for its sound.

Thousands of metal clarinets were produced in the first third of the 20th century. They had two good qualities: 1] They were not damaged by weather and so could be used outdoors in marching bands. 2] They could be easily and cheaply mass produced.

The second quality was their downfall. Professional quality metal clarinets had as good a sound as wooden instruments, but the market was flooded with cheap clarinets designed primarily for students. Those did not produce a very good sound, so metal clarinets in general developed a bad reputation. As soon as World War II was over, metal clarinets were over, too. Except for mine.

Together we produced some very strange sounds, that metal clarinet and I. After a year or so, the band director said the clarinet needed a makeover, new pads and such, or it could not remain in the band. It just didn’t sound right. The makeover would cost more than we had paid for it.

But, he said, we need a second bassoonist.

Bassoons and tubas were so expensive that no one could buy one personally. [1] The school furnished them. I could play bassoon and the only cost would be the double reeds, available at Troutman’s Drug Store. I became a bassoonist. Because I was the poorest kid in the band, I played the most expensive instrument.

I like the notes that come from Joe’s new black clarinet, but to this day, when I hear a band or orchestra, I listen for the bassoons. I like that sound.

JRMcF

1] Wikipedia says current prices are $8,000 to $25,000.

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!

You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.

{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}

(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)


Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Sugar Deficit of the Soul

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…

I have never been trick-or-treating. I did not realize that until Helen asked me about it on our way home last night.

We had gone to the grandchild house to do our usual duty, handing out candy to princesses and monsters and even a deep-sea diver, while Katie and Patrick walked a discreet distance behind Brigid and Joe as they rang doorbells at other houses to collect enough candy to last at least until Christmas candy canes and chocolate oranges replaced it.

This year, though, was different. Joe, dressed as an evil chef, and his friend, Zach, a gorilla, went out on their own, with no need or desire for trailing parents, and Brigid, a sophisticated high schooler now, did candy handouts along with her parents. Nothing for Helen and me to do except sit on the sofa and admonish the dog for barking whenever the door bell rang.

I have been trick-or-treating with our children, of course, doing the trailing-parent thing, standing out in the street chatting with other young fathers while Cinderella and Daniel Boone and Spiderman went from door to door. But I have never myself rung a doorbell and threatened mayhem if I were not bought off with a Milky Way or a Jesus tract.

Halloween was not a big thing from 1941-1947, the years when I was a kid in Indianapolis. Those were war years, and no material was available for costumes, no sugar for candy. All celebrations were muted, at best. When I was ten we moved to the country and didn’t have a car, so trick-or-treating wasn’t even a possibility.

Now I wonder if the absence of trick-or-treating as a child might be the source of all my problems—the inability to beg or threaten or disguise myself or walk at night without stumbling, a sugar deficit of the soul. It explains a lot about my inadequacies.

On the other hand, it might explain why I am not afraid of ghosts or goblins, of zombies or vampires, of skeletons or monsters. Or death.

JRMcF

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!

You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.

{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}

(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)