BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—HONEYMOON AT GRANDMA’S [F, 5-31-24]

 BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—HONEYMOON AT GRANDMA’S [F, 5-31-24]

When Helen and I married, 65 years ago today, naturally I wanted to spend our honeymoon at my grandma’s house. Grandma had been the most important woman in my life. I thought she should meet the woman who was replacing her in that role.

 

It was just an extra added benefit that we got to go to a Reds double-header at Crosley Field. When people ask the secret to our 65-year marriage, I say that you just have to know what will please your wife most. [1]

Also, Helen now knows that there is a special bond between a grandma and an only grandson. [Grandma eventually had ten grandsons, but I was the only one for ten years.] It’s not that grandmas don’t love granddaughters just as much, or are willing to do anything necessary to care for them. Grandma Mac proved that many times, including raising Genevieve, a niece who was thrown out at age four by a stepmother who didn’t want her. Helen has proved that special grandma love for granddaughters many times with Brigid.

But grandmas know that nothing can ever separate a granddaughter. Not true with boys. Grandmas know that some little girl will come along and take that little boy away. I wanted to prove to Grandma Mac that she had nothing to fear from Helen, so it was necessary for us to spend our honeymoon at her house. [It was also the least expensive honeymoon ever. As our financial advisor once said, “If all my clients were as frugal as you people, I’d be a genius.”]

I started my life and spent my first four years at Grandma Mac’s house, a big old farm house, replete with barn, on the edge of Oxford, Ohio. My mother named it Cedar Crest. It was Great Depression days, and whenever my father didn’t have a job, we would move to Cedar Crest, Daddy and Mother and my older sister, Mary V, and me.

We weren’t the only ones. The young bachelor brothers, Bob and Randall and Mike, couldn’t get jobs, so they couldn’t marry. They lived on the side porch. Genevieve lived at Cedar Crest until she graduated high school and went into nurses training. So with Grandma and Grandpa’s only daughter, Helen. Whenever her husband, Harvey, didn’t have a job, they would move in, with their daughter, Elizabeth Ann, whom I called Zibby Ahn. The same with oldest son Glen, and his wife, Mable, and their daughters, Joann and Patty. Mary V remembers that someone slept in a hall on a cot that was packed up and put away during the day. It was not unusual to have fifteen or sixteen of us there at the same time. I thought it was wonderful.

Grandma and Grandpa McFarland [Arthur Harrison and Henrietta Ann] supported us all. They had jobs at Western College for Women, now part of Miami University. Grandpa was the stationary engineer, and Grandma was a maid and salad cook. We kids would get into Grandma’s room while she was at work and take her stuff to the barn, where we set up a store. Grandma would buy her stuff back when she got home from work.

Grandma and Grandpa had moved from Oxford to Hamilton by the time Helen and I married, to 909 Main Street, another house big enough to hold any number of grandkids, even though all their fathers had jobs by then. Grandpa died at age 72. I was a sixteen-year-old pall-bearer for him, the first funeral I ever attended. Grandma, all five feet and 85 pounds of her, lived on to 96.

When I graduated high school, my mother was embarrassed by Grandma. “Why did you have to get so many awards? Every time you got an award, your grandma clapped and cheered like a crazy woman. It was embarrassing.”

No, it was a grandma with an only grandson. To a grandma, every grandson is an “only.” So that is why we spent our honeymoon at 909 Main Street in Hamilton, Ohio.

John Robert McFarland

1] After all, it was from Grandma Mac that I got my love of the Reds. She listened to every game on the radio. On Ladies Days, she and Aunt Nellie, Grandpa’s maiden sister, would ride the bus from Hamilton, OH to Cincinnati to see the Reds play. Grandpa was once seeing them off at the bus and said, “Now be careful down there. You know what kinds of people go to ball games.”

Grandma was one of the world’s great Chinese Checkers players. So was Helen, although I did not know that when I first introduced them. In Grandma’s declining years, she would become confused and make amazing multi-jump moves. The problem was, they were usually with Helen’s marbles. Poor Helen was discombobulated. What do you do with a beloved grandma when she’s not playing fair but doesn’t know it?

When I was 3, I got my head stuck between a wall and something. Everybody in the house came to try to help. Uncle Randall, my main babysitter, tried to calm everyone, without much success, as all and sundry shouted suggestions. Of course, my mother just grabbed me and yanked me out, which may account for the slanted way my brain works. Grandma, though, all five feet and 85 pounds of her, was trying to pull the wall away from me! She was willing to bring the house down to save her grandson!

 

 

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—BEING FULLY KNOWN [Sun, 5-26-24]

 

As host of TV’s The Late Show, Stephen Colbert gives to celebrity guests “The Colbert Questionnaire.” As you answer the questions, you become “fully known.” The questions are things like “Which is the best sandwich?” and “Apples or Oranges?” And… “What happens to us when we die?” That one gets some interesting answers.

As folks answer the questions, I do, too, just so I’ll be prepared in case I’m ever on the show to push my latest movie, which is the reason most people are invited onto The Late Show. So…

Best sandwich? Peanut butter and Velveeta on whole grain bread.

Cats or dogs? Dogs.

Apples or oranges? Oranges.

Favorite action movie? Hombre.

Only one song for the rest of your life? Pachelbel’s Canon.

Favorite smell? Lilacs.

Least favorite smell? Billionaires.

What happens when we die? I really trust God for that. As John Wesley summed up all his years of activity on his death bed, “The best thing is, God is with us.” What that means, doesn’t matter.

If there is a heaven where we meet old friends and dogs, I’ll be okay with that.

If I am simply subsumed into the stardust from which we all came, I’ll be okay with that, too, for it is the fulfillment of God’s presence. The best thing is, God is with us.

Okay, now you know me fully.

John Robert McFarland

REMEMBERING JAMES BURCH [5-22-24]

BEYOND WINTER: Personal Musings of An Old Man—REMEMBERING JAMES BURCH [5-22-24]

[In my schedule of remembering, Wednesday is Friends Day. I have had so many good friends. Most of them are no longer available in person, so I set aside Wednesday as Friends Day to be sure they receive proper appreciation in my memories and hopes.]

 

James Dallas Burch cut ties with our hometown when he went off to college. He was one of my best friends in high school. But after our commencement, I never saw him again. Neither did anyone else from Oakland City. Even though our class had reunions every five years. Even though classmates sought for an address for him so invitations could be sent.

We knew that he went to Purdue U. We knew that he was valedictorian of his class there, just as he had been in high school. That was all.

Until I discovered his obituary online. He died in 2020. As he apparently wanted, he was known only by the present, not from the past. His obit was my first contact with him in 67 years.

I would not have recognized him from his obit picture, above. I recognized him spiritually, though. He looks very wise.

I did not realize it then, but I was his only friend in high school. Oh, he was cordial to everyone, but he did not participate in anything in school except academics. No band, sports, newspaper, whatever. Not only did he not participate, he did not attend.

I thought we were friends because of three things: First, we sat across the aisle from each other in homeroom, and at breaks, he would listen to me talk. I didn’t realize I was the only one he “talked” to, and that it was primarily because of proximity, and that he was checking me out, since others considered me to be his academic competition.

Second, in our senior year, when even James could not resist the lure of a car, we would drive together to the Dog N Suds in Ft. Branch, where the girls were 17 miles prettier. Jim’s idea of a pickup line was, “Hey, baby, want to hear me spell antidisestablishmentarianism?” He never actually used it. We just ended up drinking root beer. 

Third, he saw me as an academic equal, almost. Not a competitor, because I was more interested in the extracurriculars, and didn’t try to compete academically, but also because he knew, without arrogance, that he had no equals.

At the end of our first semester in high school, our class sponsors read out the list of those who did not have to take final exams in particular subjects. I was smug. I knew I was on that list. So was James.

There were 3 grading periods each semester. If you got an A in every one, you didn’t have to take the final. I knew I was secure in the courses that required only words and thinking. Those like algebra, that required real study, were iffy for me. Not for James. He was exempt from every final. Every semester. He never got a grade below A in anything. Anytime.

That continued throughout high school. James was exempt from every final. I was not. As courses got harder, and I was more involved in extracurriculars, I took more and more finals.

As I got more and more involved in extra stuff, my grades got worse and worse, but everyone thought I was still smart, because James and I hung out together, and he proved that he was smart, at the end of every semester when Mr. Cato and Miss Robb, our class sponsors, read out the list of those who did not have to take finals. I was smart by association.

When we learned that the Potter & Brumfield electrical relays factory in Princeton, the county seat, 12 miles away, would hire you at 18 even if you hadn’t graduated yet, I took the entrance exam. I set the all-time record high on it, missing only one question. That is, it was the all-time high until James took the test the next week. He got them all correct, of course.

At the end of senior year, we took comprehensive exams. All day. Over everything we had studied for four years. I set the all-time record on those, too. Until James turned in his test thirty minutes later.

Even then, we were not academic rivals, because I learned that first semester, when he did not take a single final exam, that there was no competition possible. He was in a class by himself.

Was that the reason he left Oakland City and never looked back? As best I can learn, he never had any contact with anyone from our home town again. He graduated from Purdue, went to South Bend, as far away from Oakland City as you can get and still be in Indiana. He worked as an aerospace engineer until his retirement at age 75.

I started this some time ago, as a Christ In Winter column, but I couldn’t figure out how to make it fit there. In CIW, I always tried to say something that would be useful to the reader. Now that I’m just writing for myself, I realize how little I knew my friend, James. And how much I miss him.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

 

STRAIGHT & NARROW—a poem [Sun, 5-19-24]

BEYOND WINTER: Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—STRAIGHT & NARROW—a poem [Sun, 5-19-24]

straight and narrow

sounded so dull

but it turned out

to be

the most exciting

way

of all

 

that Jesus

really knew what

he was

talking about

 

John Robert McFarland

If you’re looking for the column on The New Middle, you need to scroll down.

 BEYOND WINTER: Musings of An Old Man—THE NEW MIDDLE {T, 5-14-23]

 [Warning: If you’re not interested in sex, or in reading 1100 words, do not continue…]

 

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.

The blood-dimmed tide is loose, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned.;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Those are the 3^rd through 6^th lines of W.B. Yeats’ famous 1919 poem, “The Second Coming,” penned in response to WWI and the beginning of The Irish War of Independence. It ends with the oft-appropriated “slouching toward Bethlehem” line.

Those lines might have been written today, about the United States. Or maybe, specifically, The United Methodist Church [UMC].

The UMC has been much in the news the last couple of years, as anti-gay congregations have “disaffiliated” for fear the UMC would accept gays as full members, and specifically the last couple of weeks, while its General Conference, with delegates from all over the world, has been meeting to deal with its most recent crisis of inclusion.

It’s important to remember that “United” in UMC does not refer to theology or society. It’s a denominational name, not a descriptive name. “United” was part of the name of The Evangelical United Brethren denomination. When the EUBs merged with The Methodist Church denomination in 1968, one word was selected from each of the two former names to provide the name for the new church.

I do think, though, that unofficially, we always thought of “United” as a theological hope. As Peter Schultheis wrote in his hymn, “They’ll Know We are Christians by our Love:” We are one in the spirit, we are one in the Lord, and we pray that all unity may one day be restored…”

Robert Schuller--of The Crystal Cathedral, pretty much the opposite of a connectional denomination like Methodism--said a number of years ago that “…if the UMC did not exist, it would be necessary to invent it.”

He meant that the UMC occupied the broad middle of the denominational spectrum, a place where right and left could meet.

As the middle, the UMC too often tried to please everyone, theologically and socially. That was good, because we wanted to include everyone. It was bad, because it represented Yeats’ “…the best lack all conviction.”

It’s very difficult to include excluders, of either right or left, because they do not want to be included, not if they have to be in there with “the others.”

The most recent crisis of inclusion revolves around homosexuality, but it is certainly not the first. John Wesley’s life spanned almost the entire 18^th century, and during that time, his “people called Methodist,” had to deal with the social gospel [dealing with folks who said that the church should leave society alone and deal only with “the life hereafter], predestination [eternal division], democracy [against those who want a class/caste system], and slavery.

As Methodism came to America, slavery took front and center, and continued for… well, forever… as Civil War, reconstruction, segregation, civil rights, voting rights… well, race “relations,” including “some of my best friends are, but would you want your daughter to marry one?”

In fact, Methodism divided over slavery then, just as it is now over homosexuality. In 1844, the southern Methodist churches “disaffiliated” from The Methodist Episcopal Church and formed The Methodist Episcopal Church South. [Episcopal here has nothing to do with The Episcopal Church. It simply means a church with bishops, as distinct from The Methodist Protestant Church [MP], which did not have bishops.] Less than 100 years later, in 1939, folks began to realize that was neither Christian nor logical and so The MP, ME, and ME South churches merged into The Methodist Church.]

The same thing will happen with the churches that have divided over homosexuality, but it will probably take only 50 years, maybe fewer, because the issue of homosexuality has already been decided in society, especially with young people. The church just hasn’t caught up.

God is too smart to work only through the church. As the great church historian, Albert Outler, said, “The church has never done the right thing until pressured to do so by  the world.”

Of course, by the time we all acknowledge that this homophobic division is neither smart nor Christian, there may be no churches at all, if present trends continue. People are getting fed up with Christians who can’t get along with one another.

The problem with being the middle now is that no one wants a middle. In fact, the middle is hated by folks from all sides of it. Its very existence reminds them that they are frightened little kids who can’t stand for anything to be different from what they feel comfortable with.

How did we lose the middle? Well, because we had a black president. Thanks, Obama!

We thought the exact opposite when he was first elected. We thought the election of a black president showed that we were united, that we did not need our divisions anymore. But losing the divisions scared the pants off scaredy-pants people.

That was personified in Donald Trump. If you’ve always had privilege--as white people, especially straight white men, have always had--then equality makes you think you’re a victim. Donald Trump was the perfect model of someone who had everything, without working for it, and thought he was discriminated against because a black man got something better than he had, by working for it.

As Saul Alinsky said, “If you want to know where the action is, look for the reaction.” The action was in the middle. The reaction was everywhere else.

When I was ten years old, a boy on my school bus proclaimed, “My father says that the worst white man is still better than the best black man.” It made no sense even then, but most of the folks on the bus agreed. A lot still do. Fear and hate are not rational.

The fear and hate in the UMC is expressed not just in disaffiliation but in the attempt to destroy the UMC, so that there is no chance of a religious middle at all. That includes The Institute for Religion and Democracy, started by my friend and fellow UM pastor, Ira Galloway. I grieved for him then, and I mourn for him now.

The disaffiliations mean that The UMC is about 30% smaller than it was. But there is a new spirit in the UMC, not just of social change, but spiritual renewal, because with those anti-gay churches gone, the UMC’s General Conference just ended its strictures on gay folks. No more wishy-washy middling “Homosexuals are people of sacred worth but homosexuality is not in keeping with the Christian lifestyle.” In other words, no more “You gays are bad people.” No more bans on gays being preachers, or on preachers marrying gay couples. Total inclusion.

You know what that is? That’s the middle. It holds.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

When Will They Ever Learn? [T, 5-7-24]

BEYOND WINTER: Musings of an Old Man for his Own Purposes— When Will They Ever Learn? [T, 5-7-24]

 

I thought about going over to the Indiana University campus to join the demonstrations. There were 2 problems, though.

The first is physical. I would have to park so far away from Dunn Meadow that I probably could not walk there. And once there, I probably could not stand up without falling over, at which point the heavily militarized state cops—machine guns, and all—would think I should be arrested for impeding their movements. I have drunk jail coffee, and I don’t want to do it again.

The second was the demonstrations themselves. Some were pro-Gaza. Some were anti-war. Some were pro-Palestinian. Some were pro-Israel. Some were anti-antisemitism. Some were anti-Hamas. It was just confusing. I would fit into any of those camps, but then I’d be on the wrong side of everybody else.

I was in plenty of demonstrations in my campus ministry days—school segregation, civil rights, voting rights, Viet Nam, apartheid… Those demonstrations were successful in the context of my campuses—Indiana State [Terre Haute] and Illinois State [Normal-Bloomington] because they were not violent, and we always left a way out for the authorities to back off without losing face.

That’s a tricky thing when dealing with young hotheads. They don’t want to let anyone save face. They want to push the faces of their opponents into the mud and grind them down into it. That is happening on a lot of campuses right. Their methods are counter-productive. So are the face-grinding counter methods of university administrators and police.

The state of Indiana is currently ruled [that’s the right word] by a secretive cabal of billionaires and state legislators. The Indiana University Trustees are chosen either from their own ranks, or they choose people who are beholden to them, so that they can control them. So it is that IU has a president pulled from the lower ranks of the administration of a second-rate university. None of the stake holders--such as faculty and students--were involved in choosing her. They didn’t even know about her until she was hired. She and the Trustees have chosen to take authoritarian stances on all matters, and to do no communication about them, before or after. That is not how a university is supposed to operate. This is certainly not the university of Herman B Wells. That is not a university at all.

Maybe I’ll go over there after all…

John Robert McFarland

BEYOND WINTER [R, 5-2-24]

[I think I posted this here before, but I just came across this version in an
old journal.]

THE LADY IN RED

 

A newspaper girl in the 1940s was an odd sight.  I watched for her. When she came on to our street, Oakland Ave, at the New York Ave. end, I would meet her. She would give me the papers for my side of the street. Then we went down the street together, she delivering on the other side, I delivering on the side where I lived. When we got to the end of the block, at Washington Street, her route was over. Sometimes the circulation manager miscounted and gave her the wrong number of papers. She would have a paper or two left. She gave them to me as payment for helping her deliver.

I would cross Washington Street to the Mallory manufacturing plant and stand at the gate as the workers streamed out at the end of the day shift. I was too shy and frightened to call out “Newspapers for sale,” or even hold one aloft. I just waited and hoped someone would notice me and offer to buy a paper.

An office lady in a red coat did. She didn’t say anything, just handed me a nickel and took my only copy of  “The Indianapolis News,” the evening competitor of “The Indianapolis Star.” If I had only one paper on a particular evening, I would hide it behind my back until I saw her coming, so that no one else could buy it.

“The Star” had several boys who stood at the Mallory gates and shouted out the availability of their papers. Lesser people than the lady in the red coat bought them.

Once, as I stood there with my lone paper, the “Star” boys came to me as a group and told me that their boss, who was standing back on the sidewalk, by his van, watching, said it was illegal for me to stand there and I had to leave. I was scared, but I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t leave. I was not going to disappoint the lady in the red coat. The boys realized they were losing sales while they were trying to run me off so went back to their huckstering.

On days when the papers came out right for the route, and there were no extras, I felt bad. The lady in the red coat would get no paper.

In a cold and dark winter, the one when I turned ten but no one remembered my birthday, it was a relationship I counted on.

John Robert McFarland