Iron Mountain ski jump

Iron Mountain ski jump

Monday, July 31, 2017

OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF NOW-a poem 7-31-17

There are certain afternoons
on sunlit days
when time is not for sale
and pains hide low
beyond a line of murmuring pines
when yearning seems so long ago
and even memory is not required
to hold the hard and brittle
crusts of bitterness
outside the walls of now

JRMcF


I tweet as yooper1721

Sunday, July 30, 2017

WORTH EVERY CENT 7-30-17

I walked this morning in one of my folding “slouch” hats. They don’t have hard brims. I can fold or roll them and stick them in a pocket if I’m in the shade, pull them out again when I need to.

This one I got at the Reds spring training in Sarasota almost 20 years ago. We were coming out of Jack Smith Stadium after a game, the first one where we saw a grounds crew drop their equipment as they rolled the infield after the 5th inning to do all the motions to the YMCA song. It was great. We were in a good mood. We saw these really neat little roll hats with the Reds emblem. You couldn’t buy them, though. You got one by applying for a particular credit card. I really wanted that hat.

Three months later, when she cancelled the credit card, the guy on the phone asked Helen why we were cancelling. Were we dissatisfied with the card? “Oh, no, we just got the card to get the hat.” He said, “I’ve never had anyone admit that before.”

The one I like most, though, was the one I got at a dime store sale before we went to Europe. We were on a bus from Rothenberg early, very early, one morning. There was no sound on the bus. It was full, but everyone was sleeping or trying to. Then came a still small voice, singing the ABC song. We all perked up to listen. Her mother tried to shush her. “People are sleeping.” We protested. “No, please, let her sing.” There is nothing as peace-making as the sweet singing voice of a little child.

So we became friends for a day with her and her parents and brother and sister, the way you do when traveling in a distant land, going to tourist sites and lunch and such, sticking together until differing travel plans pull you apart.

Her father noticed my hat. “I got that for thirty-nine cents” I said proudly. He looked sad. “You got cheated, didn’t you?” he said.

The best things in all of nature are trees and the singing voices of little children. I still have that hat. I wear it when I feel blue. It was worth every cent.

JRMcF

My book, NOW THAT I HAVE CANCER I AM WHOLE: Reflections on Life and Healing for Cancer Patients and Those Who Love Them, is published by AndrewsMcMeel. It is available from Barnes & Noble, Amazon, etc. in hardback, paperback, audio, Japanese, and Czech.


Saturday, July 29, 2017

TALKER’S REMORSE 7-29-17



I end up with “talker’s remorse” every time I open my mouth. I’m not sure it is a recognized psychological phenomenon, the way “buyer’s remorse” is, but if not, it should be.

Don’t get me wrong. There are many times I could say something and I don’t. Then I get “closed mouth remorse,” because I don’t get any credit for keeping my mouth shut, since nobody knows I might have said something but did not.

It’s a forked tongue problem. If I say something, I regret it. If I don’t say anything, I regret it.

Most people get talker’s remorse only if they say something stupid. Of course, there are others who say stupid stuff all the time and never regret it either because they don’t know that what they say is stupid, or they don’t care how others see them. I’m the only person I know who gets talker’s remorse every time, whether what I have said is stupid or not. Even if what I said was okay, I’m sure there was a better way to say it, so I shouldn’t have said what I did.

So I avoid people as much as possible. If I never have contact with people, I can’t say anything. I don’t even talk to myself. If I do, I criticize what I said. I don’t like that. Or else I do. The whole subject of talker’s remorse when you’re talking to yourself is very confusing.

Some people think I’m the wise strong silent type. I figure the best way to make them keep thinking that is to keep my mouth shut. So don’t ask me anything, or I’ll regret answering you.

JRMcF
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

I tweet as yooper1721.

Following the critical and marketing success of her first Young Adult novel, daughter Katie Kennedy’s Learning to Swear in America, is What Goes Up, a July 18, 2017 release. She is published by Bloomsbury, which also publishes lesser known but promising young authors, like JK Rowling.

Friday, July 28, 2017

ALL-a poem 7-28-17


The days are different now, all
the days have empty spaces
filling all the places
that my friends filled
all their laughter and tears
all mine

JRMcF

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

Thursday, July 27, 2017

SITTING AND ACCEPTING 7-27-17


CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter… ©

 Sometimes I’m tired, and so I just sit and do nothing. That’s very hard for me. As a child, I was taught that I should always be doing something, something to make a contribution. I learned that lesson well.

I grew up on a hardscrabble farm. There was basic electricity in the house, but not in the barn. There we had to use a kerosene lamp on short winter days to milk and feed both morning and evening. That meant installing and trimming the wick and keeping the kerosene reservoir filled.

We had no indoor plumbing of any kind, so we had to carry in cistern water for washing and well water for drinking and cooking. When the well went dry, as it usually did in the summer, I walked the quarter-mile to and from Homer and Hazel Heathman’s well, a bucket in each hand. When water had been used, it had to be carried back out again, in different buckets than those used for carrying it in.

We cooked and heated with wood and coal, which meant splitting logs and kindling into different piles, carrying in wood and coal, different buckets for small coal for the kitchen range and big lumps for the Warm Morning heating stove. Of course, there was shaking down the ashes and carrying them out, and cleaning stove pipes and taking them down in the spring and putting them back up again in the fall.

There was milking and feeding and birthing and weaning and gathering and plowing and haying and planting and hoeing and picking and shucking and grinding and canning and butchering and churning and laundering.

Oh, and carrying the night pot to the outhouse. As the oldest boy in the family, I was expected always to use the outhouse directly, rain or shine, night or day, hot or cold, but I had to carry out the pot the women and children used. That really galled!

There was not a single moment to rest. There was so much to do, you knew that there was always another job right after whatever you were doing. Regardless of how tired you were, there was always something else to do.

Then I dropped out of high school and worked in a factory. There was a foreman and a line leader and an efficiency engineer. Their job was to remind me that I was always supposed to be doing something.

Nobody at university looked over my shoulder, but I learned that if I did not keep busy all the time, I would not make it. I worked and went to college at the same time. If there were a ten minute break in the schedule, I grabbed a text book and read. You had to use every minute.

I recall seeing photographs of young Negroes, as African-Americans were called then, doing a sit-in. I knew they were college students, because as they sat there, waiting for the police to come and bash in their heads and arrest them, they were reading the same books that I was reading. As a student, you could never afford to drop behind in your class-work, even as you tried to confront evil in its own back yard.

Then we had children! And jobs. There was never a break. If you weren’t doing something, you at least had to be thinking about doing something. If you got tired, so what? You had to keep on keeping on.

Now, though, if I get tired, I just sit and do nothing. I don’t think anything, either. I look. I listen. I wait. The tiredness will pass after a while. Then I’ll do something. Right now, though, I’ll just sit here. That’s okay.

It’s sort of like the grace that Paul Tillich talked about in his famous sermon on acceptance. Right now, all you have to do is accept God’s acceptance. If later God asks something of you, do it. Right now, though, just accept that you are accepted.

JRMcF
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

Following the critical and marketing success of her first Young Adult novel, daughter Katie Kennedy’s Learning to Swear in America, is What Goes Up, a July 18, 2017 release. She is published by Bloomsbury, which also publishes lesser known but promising young authors, like JK Rowling.

Speaking of writing, my most recent book, VETS, about four homeless and handicapped Iraqistan veterans, is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, BOKO, Powell’s, etc. It’s published by Black Opal Books.


Monday, July 24, 2017

JARVIS, THE ONE BOY WELCOME WAGON 7-24-17


 We are going down state today to “pay our respects,” as we say in Gibson County, to Jarvis Reed. I hope I paid enough respect to Jarvis in life that he knew how much I respected him.

Jarvis was not the first kid I met when we moved to the little hard-scrabble farm near Oakland City when I was ten years old. It was in March. School was going on, so the first day after Daddy and Uncle Johnny and I unloaded our furniture from Uncle Johnny’s lumber company truck, I walked the half mile down our dead-end gravel road to the “big” gravel road to get on Jimmy Bigham’s school bus. There were kids on the bus, but none from my class.

Jarvis was the first kid from my class that I met. I suppose Embree Green, the principal, escorted me through the halls to Mrs. May Mason’s classroom. [I was convinced that she was ancient, because she had also taught my father.] Jarvis was in the hallway outside the classroom. When he found out he had a new classmate, he acted like it was the greatest thing that had happened in the history of Oakland City. He grabbed me by the arm, dragged me into the classroom, took me all around the room, introduced me to every kid with, “We’ve got a new classmate! His name is John!” From that day on, that was my “gang.” I belonged.

In retirement, when she came to class reunions, Miss Grace Robb, who taught us Latin in high school and was our class sponsor, along with basketball coach Alva Cato, said in all her years of teaching, she had never seen a class that was as involved with one another emotionally as the class of ’55. That involvement with one another, care for and concern about one another, has gone on for 70 years of my life. I think a lot of that was due to Jarvis, what he did to meld us clear back in grade school, to be sure even the new kid was included.

In many ways, Jarvis was the quintessential jolly fat boy who wanted to be liked. A lot of jolly fat boys are either the class clown or the one everyone makes fun of. That was never true of Jarvis. Everybody liked Jarvis not because he was different or outstanding but because he wasn’t. He was just a nice guy.

Our class had reunions every five years. We often lived a long way off geographically, but we always tried to get there. Helen has often said, “If you ask me where I went to high school, I’ll probably say ‘Oakland City, class of ‘55’ because they have taken me in so completely at the reunions it feels like I have always belonged.” [1] At those reunions, Jarvis acted just like he had the first time I met him, that when I walked in, that was the best thing that ever happened.

I feel at home in this great big universe in large part because Jarvis Reed made me feel at home in one small town.

JRMcF
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

1] Helen [NMN] Karr was actually valedictorian of the Gary, IN Tolleston HS Class of 1956, a class about 3 times larger than our 62 graduates. She moved from Monon, IN to Gary when she was ten years old, the same age as I when we moved, but she never felt at home there.

Two problems with writing a blog for old people: an ever smaller # of available people, who can’t remember to click on the blog link.


Sunday, July 23, 2017

MY PROFESSIONAL XN FAST 7-23-17

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter… ©

 When the big birthday came, I realized I had been a professional Christian, not a real Christian, all my life, from the age of fourteen. Everything I did and thought was forwarded to help others grow in relationship to God, not to help me grow in relationship to God. A more cynical way to look at it was that everything I did and thought was used to advance my professional career in the church. Either way, I have always been a professional Xn. [The abbreviation religion scholars use in making notes, for speed.]

I decided on a year-long professional fast. I would not think, read, listen, or write professionally, as a preacher, as a theologian. I knew the 40 days of Lent, the usual time for such fasts, was not nearly long enough to counter 66 years.

I thought I could continue to write CIW, in a non-professional way. That was a no-go. Writing CIW was mostly a temptation to break the fast. So on March 21, 2017, I wrote in this blog that I would “write no more forever.” It was time to give up my professional life, the life that had defined me since I was only fourteen years old, when I told God if “He” would save my sister’s life, I would be a preacher. By June 1, less than three months on the wagon, I realized that I could not stop writing.

But I still needed to see if I could be a real Christian, not just a professional Xn. So I decided I would write CIW only for myself. I would tell no one that I was writing CIW again, for to do so was to invite them to read what I wrote, and that meant I had to consider what they might think, how they would respond. That would be professional.

Previously I wrote Christ In Winter as a professional, for others. I kept a careful index so I would not bore readers with repeats. Now I just write whatever comes to mind, and if I repeat, I apologize. I also apologize to former faithful readers of CIW for not informing them that I am writing CIW again, but telling people I am writing is asking them to read my thoughts, and that is professional. I have told no one, not even my wife, that I am writing again. So if you stumble onto CIW, new reader or old, welcome. I’m glad you’re here. But you’re reading an amateur, not a professional. Well, maybe I don’t need to point that out…

JRMcF
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

I tweet as yooper1721.

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula [The UP], where life is defined by winter even in the summer! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.] We no longer live in the land of perpetual winter, but I am in the winter of my years, so I think it’s okay to use that phrase. I don’t know why I put that © on; it’s hardly necessary.

Following the critical and marketing success of her first Young Adult novel, daughter Katie Kennedy’s Learning to Swear in America, is What Goes Up, a July 18, 2017 release. She is published by Bloomsbury, which also publishes lesser known but promising young authors, like JK Rowling. Today she is starting her book signing tour for What Goes Up at Barnes & Noble right here in Bloomington, Indiana, where her mother and I were wed 58 years ago.

Speaking of writing, the full story of how God tricked me into becoming a professional Xn is in my book, The Strange Calling, published by Smyth&Helwys.

It’s neat; in writing circles, Katie is no longer known as my daughter. Now I am known as her father.