Incessant Divagation

“I WROTE THIS NEXT WEEK”

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

Time travel isn't just the stuff of science fiction. With today's scientific theories making the universe seem much more complicated than we used to think, many scientists are taking the concept of time travel seriously. The latest “consensus” is that energy, but not matter, could be transmitted through time. This would suggest that you could somehow send your younger self the names of the winners in the next five Superbowls or presidential races, and you could bet on these sure things and make a fortune . . . unfortunately, it's also generally agreed that time travel is possible only into the future, not the past. Which means you could do nothing more exciting than send yourself reminders that your library books are due.

The good news is that so much “science” these days is pure speculation, subject to drastic change. When I went to high school, we were taught that mankind first appeared just under 1 million years ago and the brontosaurus lived in swamps because their legs could not support their massive bodies. By the time I finished college, mankind's beginning was pushed back to 1.3 million year ago and the brontosaurus could stand on its hind legs. Today, our alleged ancestors are said to be about 2 million years old, and we are told that many dinosaurs had feathers. And each time, we were taught that science had spoken definitively and should not be questioned. So don't rule out physical time travel.

In a sense, you know thousands of time travellers. In fact, you are one! Here's why:

Think back to yesterday at about this same time. Since then, you have travelled one full day into the future. The only reason it doesn't seem remarkable to you is that it took approximately 24 hours to do it. Travelling into the future is so easy, even an infant can do it! Of course, in a couple of years he wouldn't be an infant any more.

But what about travel to the past? Is there any evidence that anyone has travelled to our time from the future?

Let's make the following suppositions: [1] Time travel is a complicated and expensive endeavor; [2] people from the future wold know much about us, but not all the minor details; [3] Greed is a constant factor in human history, and [4] The erosion of common decency is an observable social trend. So if beings from the future are here today, we should expect to see people who spout crude nonsense and speak only in uninformed generalities, but use their greed-inspired knowledge of contemporary financial trends to become wealthy and influential in spite of their bizarre behavior.

Hmm . . . Maybe time travellers are among us. Uninformed, wealthy, crude, speaking in bizarre generalities . . . It sounds like I've identified Donald Trump!

The Donald: visitor from another time. That could explain so much. Including the hair style.

Maybe we ought to be examining his birth certificate. Not for where he was born,but when. His legal age might make him too young to be president!

Incessant Divagation

“TODAY, SPELLCHECK. TOMORROW, THE WORLD!”

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

I had planned to write this week about visitors to our culture from the future. But I have been distracted by time travellers.

More accurately, I became distracted from what I planned to write, because of my computer's response when I wrote the words “time travellers”. The spellcheck program alerted me that “travellers” is incorrect. I'm sure it will recommend “travelers”, one “l”. I prefer the double “l” spelling, which is still an acceptable though lesser used version of the word. General Robert E. Lee named his favorite horse “Traveller” – two “l”s – and as a transplanted Southern Boy, it's a nod to my Rebel roots that I don't bow to the whims of some high-falutin' technogeek from New York City or Silicon Valley. Take that, spellcheck, I wrote HIGH-FALUTIN' TECHNOGEEK! Deal with it!

Well . . . Spellcheck actually dealt with it, and suggested “highfalutin' techno-geek” when I thought it wouldn't recognize either term. I swear that program is getting smarter. There is so much about computers and the internet that seems designed to confuse and frustrate me that I think about the Terminator movies. My conclusion is that the SkyNet plan to eliminate mankind is in effect right now – but it's not what you think.

The “geniuses” who touted the wonders of THE COMPUTER AGE are not our friends. They are, in fact, Terminators. They are led by Al Gore, who came from the future to invent the Internet. Instead of sending cyborg assassins back in time to kill the Connor family and temporarily rule California, SkyNet has infiltrated our banks, homes, grocery stores and vehicles with microchips and internet connections. Now we're bombarded, not with nuclear warheads, but with fluctuating bank balances, automated 2:00 AM phone calls, declined credit cards, and warning lights that say your car is due for an oil change just 200 miles after the last oil change. Five minutes before the end of your favorite show, the TV goes black. Five miles before your destination, you get new directions. You know you saved an all-important file on your computer, but where is it now? And you've been using that password for years, it CAN'T be wrong . . .

Civilization's destruction is here: not from robot armies and a rain of missiles, but through the sharp rise in stressed-out mankind's collective blood pressure.

And most people do not see the end coming, having been distracted by fantasy football leagues, “Five Amazing Facts About” articles and a legion of new “cute cat” videos. They sit in front of that glowing screen for hours, minds growing numb, bodies growing flabbier . . .

Today, spellcheck. Tomorrow, the world!

Next week [assuming that SkyNet doesn't terminate me before then] I'll explain why time travel is actually more common than most people think, and tell you how to spot a visitor from the future. So be sure to check in . . . unless, of course, you are a time traveller, in which case you've probably already read next week's ramblings.

Incessant Divagation

“ THE GARDEN OF EATIN' ”

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

Businesses need a way to stand out from the crowd. Some restaurant owners make a bid for attention by choosing very clever names for their businesses, and I thought it would be fun to share with you some of those names.

I'm skipping all the vulgar jokes based on the similarities between common Asian words and crude American slang. But that doesn't eliminate Asian take-out places, like Wok and Roll, Thai Tanic, and Seoul Food. Other restaurants with “imported” cuisine include Jamaican Me Hungry and a Greek eatery, Aesop's Tables. The origin of pizza is debated [Italy? Greece? Egypt? China?], but it's sold in restaurants named Pizza My Heart and Pizza D'Action, as well as Sergeant Pepperoni's.

Another food facility moniker inspired by music is Franks for the Memories, a good way to segue to American food: the hot dog. The frankfurter may have been created in Frankfurt-am-Main, Germany [a claim disputed by residents of Coburg and Vienna], but the term “hot dog” originated in the U.S.A. – New Jersey and New York argue over which area can claim the appellation. Many Germans will tell you that what Americans call “hot dogs” are a poor imitation of true frankfurters. Not that any of that matters here, since the names I want to mention are based on another word for the food product: The Weiner's Circle and Award Weiners.

Over to seafood: my runners-up in this category were Prawn Brokers and Fishcoteque. The best was the film pun title, Frying Nemo. Certainly memorable, but it might be traumatic for the kids.

Other film / book tie-ins: Grillers in the Mist, Life of Pie, Lord of the Fries, and Tequila Mockingbird..

Mentioning movies reminds me: many years ago, I had heard of Lettuce Entertain You, and until I researched the name for this article, I had assumed it was a dinner theatre in Chicago. Visiting their website, I learned that LEY Enterprises, founded in 1971, has grown to be involved with scores of restaurants in several states. After looking through a list of 100 restaurants, I called them to verify my discovery: not one of the locations is named Lettuce Entertain You!

There is a coffee house that encourages impromptu musical performance called Espresso Yourself . Java joints have a wide range of pun-based names, like Pony Espresso, Common Grounds, Uncommon Grounds, Brews Brothers, and Brewed Awakenings. Several establishments are known by the Star Trek inspired “Bean Me Up”. There are many coffee houses run by Christians who refer to their faith with names like Sacred Grounds, Higher Grounds, and He Brews.

Austin, Texas is famous for the “heavenly”, pork-based menu of Lard Have Mercy. After looking over an online menu of food they describe as “deep-fried and dee-lish”, I hope someday I get to taste some of it. But I think their logo, a pig wearing an apron and probably cooking pork, is rather disturbing. Eat and ask no questions.

Lois told me that this article would not be complete if I did not include a truckstop restaurant that she and I drove past many times on Highway 31 in Indiana. We never did stop to find out if it was “truth in advertising”, but it's certainly hard to forget:

. . . and let's give a tip of the tall white non-Canadian toque to the Wisconsin restaurant with the name that I used as the tile of this article.

Disclaimer: I have received no products or any other consideration from any of these establishments for my mention of them in this column. But they should be aware that any tokens of appreciation will be gratefully accepted by a hungry columnist.

Except for prawns. Just not my thing.

Incessant Divagation

“YOU SAY YOU WANT A RESOLUTION”

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

It's time to have a chat about your New Year's Resolutions.

I know, your first thought is, “Wouldn't it have been more appropriate to bring that up in December?”

No. Allow me to explain.

In December, we're told that it's time to look back, look forward, and decide to make the coming year better than the one which soon will pass. Traditionally, we try to accomplish that through a resolution, a declaration of intent to make a change that will result in self-improvement. It's a time of optimism and hope. That's not when I want to discuss resolutions, because my point of view is that the whole tradition is a waste of time, and probably does more harm than good.

The best time for spreading this message is the end of January, when at least 80% of New Year's Resolutions [NYRs] have already been broken. The top two resolutions are to lose weight, and to quit smoking. Consumer spending in early January is not affected by NYRs because cigarette sales decrease while gym membership sign-ups increase.

For most smokers, the result of their efforts is a miserable month of irritability and “the shakes”. They make themselves, their friends and their families miserable until they give up and start puffing like the little engine that could to replenish their bodies' supply of carcinogens.

For the fitness newbies, there's the January journey into clinical depression. The fitness club seems encouraging at first, but the thrill begins to fade when one realizes that weights are heavy, exercise involves more sweat than you thought, workout clothes are much less comfortable once you sweat in them, and twenty-five reps of anything are not nearly as refreshing and easy as five. Each session makes you more and more aware of your poor condition. For many resolvers, this is an annual event. Albert Einstein observed that repeating the same behavior while hoping for a different outcome is a mark of insanity.

The sense of futility is amplified in the showers. You see the truly fit, with bodies that make you ashamed to display your own. Worse, you see the out of shape patrons whose forms disgust you . . . then you realize that they are thinking the same about you. Many people also feel perpetually weary. It's a subconscious reaction to the fact that you're using so much Bengay and Tiger Balm that you smell like you're living in a nursing home.

Why are successful NYRs about as rare as snow in Hawaii? Because they aren't actualy resolutions – they are not motivated by determination, by true purposefulness. They are motivated by a vague loyalty to an annual tradition. That's not enough to sustain an ongoing effort. Thomas Edison, who conducted thousands of experiments to invent the light bulb, observed, “Our greatest weakness is in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time”. The strength to carry out that advice does not come from a “resolution” based on a ritual – especially a ritual that includes a presumption of probable failure within a month.

My personal solution for the resolution blues, ironically, involved a NYR. Many years ago, I resolved to never again make another New Year's resolution.

[Just as there are a few NYRs that are effective, I do know that it actually does snow every year in Hawaii, but most of the snow melts away in just a few days . . . disappearing just like most New Year's Resolutions.]

Incessant Divagation

“MOURNING MY MORNING”

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

I hate making tough decisions in the morning. For instance:

I awakened this morning from an awful dream. It featured me at a young age, first day at an “entry-level” job, with a supervisor who got his job because he's the owner's nephew. He knows little about how to do his job, or mine, and knows even less about personal hygiene. He does knows a plethora of obscenities, and uses at least three of them in every sentence as he expresses his displeasure concerning a mistake which [1] I didn't make and [2] cost the company about $1.25, which is less than the amount I'll be paid for the time I spend listening to his onion-breath-saturated tirade.

Suddenly, I hear the lunch buzzer. It sounds suspiciously like my alarm clock. I wake up sweating, tense, and frustrated by the fact that I didn't get to tell off the supervisor before the dream ended.

I open an eye. I'm not sure which one, but it hurts, even though the room seems darker than it should. Opening the other eye doesn't help. That probably means an overcast day, with a storm on the way. Great.

After determining, with difficulty, which direction is up, I untangle my feet from the sheet and swing into a sitting position. My foot hits the floor, which feels damp. Did I forget to take the dog out before going to bed? No time to think about it – my bladder operates on a gravity switch, and transitioning from a horizontal position to sitting triggers the “gung-ho to GO” function, which includes a timer based on seconds, not minutes. I leap up and, taxing my memory, vaguely recall the location of the bathroom.

Why can't my sense of balance kick in as quickly as my bladder? Lurching across the dark bedroom allows the little toe on my right foot to demonstrate its purpose in the grand scheme of the universe: locating chair legs in the dark. That's one toenail I won't have to trim today, since I think it was torn off in the collision. The little toe now throbs like it's ballooning to the size of the big toe. I grumble, “Znnumfumviljk”, quoting a character I saw in a movie -- a zombie just after its jaw was blown off by a shotgun.

But I'm not walking like the undead; I take two hops to the left, which gives my knee a chance to steal the spotlight from the toe by presenting a reenactment of a car being rammed by a freight train, starring itself and the knob of a dresser drawer. The room is no longer dark I see flashes of light caused by the pain. “Kjlivmufmunnz”, I groan, quoting no one, but expressing a thought that I really shouldn't translate into English.

I am tempted to collapse, but my bladder urges me on, its timer counting rapidly toward the moment when “tick tick tick” will switch to “drip drip drip”. I continue my trek, reeling like a drunken sailor on a warped deck during a typhoon. As I reach the bathroom, I feel a moment of envy for the zombie's lack of tactile sensation.

Whoa! That's cold! Still, I utter a prayer of gratitude for the toilet seat, which takes the weight off of my knee and foot. As I lessen the weight in my bladder, I count my toes to be sure the toenail was all I lost. Then I clean the dog's morning gift from my foot with a wet cloth. Whoa! That's cold!

Now, I'm truly awake. I look at the clock in the bathroom and realize that it's not dark because the sky is overcast. It's dark because the noise I thought came from the alarm clock was actually just a noise in the dream. I woke up two hours before the alarm is set to sound!

So now I have to choose. Do I stay up and face the day with significantly less sleep than I usually get? Or do I go to bed and risk going through all of this again in two hours?

I hate making tough decisions in the morning.

Incessant Divagation

“GEORGE'S RELOCATION TO VIRGINIA”

By Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

Being the first elected executive of the United States of America was a huge responsibility for George Washington, because every time he did something new he set a presidential precedent.

Washington served two terms as president and refused to run for a third, though he could have won easily. His contribution to this nation led the United States Congress, in 1879, to declare Washington's birthday, February 22^nd, a federal holiday, one of ten that exist today. In 1968 the Monday Holiday Law set the observance of Washington's birthday for the third Monday of February, which guarantees a three-day weekend, but also means that the observance will never actually fall on the anniversary of Washington's birth. This year the event falls on February 15^th.

And call it what you wish, but the federal government has never changed the holiday from Washington's Birthday to Presidents Day.

Many legends have grown around the figure of our first president. Did he have wooden teeth? Did he father children with a slave? Did he throw a silver dollar across the Potomac River? [For insight into the last matter, see last year's article for July 10^th]. One of the generally accepted myths about Washington is that he was born in Virginia. While that was the first state of which he was a legal resident, George Washington was actually born in the territory of Texas, which did not achieve statehood until 1845.

Augustine Washington, George's father, had never envisioned his son's military career, although he did want his child involved in politics. He even dared write in his journal about the possibility of George becoming the first president of the longed-for Republic of Texas. But that dream was dashed in 1738, when the child was just six years old.

It was a tomahawk, not a hatchet, that George was given for his 6^th birthday. One day soon after, Augustine returned home to find, not a cherry tree, but his favorite saguaro cactus destroyed, chopped down in the side yard. He began to scream about vandalism by non-citizens, and muttered something about building a wall on the border with Mexico.

But when he questioned his son as a possible witness to the deed, young George answered, “Father, 'twas I who chopped down that saguaro cactus with my tomahawk.”

“But, George,” Augustine wondered, “Why did you tell me this when I did not suspect you?” To this, the young boy who would one day become the first president of the United States of America replied, “I cannot tell a lie, Pa.”

His father just shook his head, imagining the tongue lashing he would get from his wife for giving a six year old boy a tomahawk as a birthday present. Then he shrugged his shoulders, and told his son, “Pack your things. I'm relocating our family to Virginia.”

“Why, Pa? Has my disgraceful action shamed you before your peers?”

“No, George,” was the reply. But if you cannot tell a lie, you'll never amount to anything in Texas politics.”

Incessant Divagation

“GEORGE'S RELOCATION”

By Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

Punctuation is important. I don't always get it right. I've forgotten some of the rules, some have changed since my long-ago school days, and some I simply choose to ignore. I consider the “rules” of grammar and punctuation to be more like “guidelines”. So it may be slightly hypocritical of me to get irritated when I spot the incorrect usage of “its” and “it's”; “who” and “whom”; “to”, “too”, and “two”. [This would be a good spot for Groucho Marx, a master of “pun”ishment, to make a comment about using a tutu incorrectly – but since he's dead, that would be more startling than amusing]. Speaking of puns, which I wasn't, since I'm writing, not talking, did you hear about the firefly that backed into a fan? He wasn't upset, he was de-lighted! If the Invisible Masn had a child, would that make him a trans-parent?

I enjoy playing with the English language. There are nonsensical phrases that somehow express a thought better than anything rational [example: Stephen Peacock's “He flung himself from the room, flung himself upon his horse and rode madly off in all directions”]. And “proper” English which makes fun of the “rules” – like Winston Churchill's remark, “Ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I will not put.”

Even nothing can mean a great deal. A space. A bit of nothing. But there's a huge difference between “God is nowhere” and “God is now here”. A comma can certainly change the meaning of a phrase. I worked with a radio sports announcer who ended his broadcasts with the eco-friendly sign-off, “. . . and remember, recycle, everybody!”. Once, before resuming the regular format, I joked, “That reminds me of the movie 'Soylent Green', where they really did [SPOILER ALERT] 'recycle everybody'”. I was never again on his Christmas card list. And if you don't get the joke, go find a copy of the movie. It's worth watching, and if you really get caught up in it, the closing credits are profoundly disturbing.

This all came to mind while I was writing last week's article about our George collection. I was also thinking of the history lesson I planned for next month to commemorate George Washington's birthday. I realized that I could call last week's article “Georges: Relocation” and this week's article “George's Relocation”. I thought the idea was so funny that I wrote this article a month early so the two could appear back-to-back.

Except that instead of the history article, I dished up a plate of humorous uses of punctuation with side orders of puns and homonyms. Which means that you should drop by next Friday to learn about the boyhood of our nation's first president, when I present “George's Relocation Two”. Or maybe “George's Relocation, Too”. And since I'll tell you where he went, I could call it “George's Relocation To . . .”

Did I mention that like playing with the English language? I blame this in part on the high school teacher who displayed a plaque on her desk which read “QWYTCHURBELYAKIN”. Most students wouldn't spend the time necessary to decypher it, but a few of us got it: it can be sounded out to say “Quit your bellyaching”. But just to be contrary [a hallmark attutude of my hgh svhool days], I always told her it said “Quite cherub eel yacking”and had no idea what it meant. And bellyached about displaying a nonsense plaque in a place where she was supposed to help us make sense of things.

Incessant Divagation

“GEORGES: RELOCATION”

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

When I recently wrote about Christmas traditions, I left out one that is probably unique to our household: The Relocation of the Georges.

Decorating our living room for Christmas requires us to move items in order to make room for the manger scene, the trees [at least three, including the “before” version of the tree from the Charlie Brown Christmas TV special], wreaths, and more, This year we relocated our collection of Georges to the bedroom.

The Georges are toy animals. I don't know which one we acquired first. When I was researching this article [i.e. talking to Lois about it] we realized that neither of us recall why we named multiple stuffed animals “George”. She has other stuffed animals, some with other names, some unnamed; neither of us have a special connection to the name “George”. But there they sit, a half dozen creatures ranging from 2 feet tall to less than an inch, with little in common other than their shared name.

Before I introduce the Georges, I want to point out, as a man who grew up admiring John Wayne and Charles Bronson, that I don't personally own stuffed animals, except for Max, the canine companion of The Grinch. And The Creature from the Black Lagoon, part of my Universal Monsters Plush Collectibles set. Okay, that muight not sound so manly, but I also admired Boris Karloff. Anyway, the Gill-Man can't automatically be considered an animal, since there is a novel which presents him as the descendent of alien space travellers who were stranded on Earth . . . oh, never mind. I don't have the space to explain the time travel part. Back to the Georges.

The busiest [and tallest] of them is George the Hippo. A friend of Lois liberated him from a thrift store while we were visiting southwestern New York, gave him to Lois, and we buckled him in the back seat for the ride home. He was not impressed with Ohio. Several people who passed us honked their horns to acknowledge the hippopotamus watching them from our vehicle. One year I thought it would be funny to include him in the decorations for a church Christmas party. Along with stuffed snowmen, we displayed our hippo with a Santa hat. Not willing to settle for subtlety, I introduced him as George the Christmas Hippo. People were okay with that, but the next year, during our November Food Collection for the community food pantry, some folks were startled to find George greeting them in the foyer. He was holding a promotional sign in one hand, a large spoon-shaped ladle in the other, wearing a black pilgrim-style hat with a silver buckle. I introduced him as George the Hungry Hippo. He turned up again from time to time, usually stylin' with his sunglasses, and some members of Goodold Baptist Church seemed to think I had crossed a line of piety or propriety somewhere. Maybe it's because George had never been baptized, but I really didn't think presenting a sopping wet George the Repentant Hippo would settle matters.

I don't know much about the other members of The George Gang. They don't confide in me much these days [it's been that way ever since my medications were adjusted]. They find a more sympathetic ear with Lois, but she keeps strict confidence; and they've not been ministry partners with me like G. t. Hippo [I suspect that a couple of them are Buddhists because of the way they can sit contentedly, almost trance-like, all day].

They are:

George the Lamb: Gets upset when I accidentally call him “George the Sheep.”

George the Mouse: Enjoys sitting contentedly all day. Contrary to the stereotype, has no desire to steal cheese.

George the Tree Frog: I didn't want to put him in the bedroom. I don't like the way he stares when I'm dressing.

George the snail: Vertically challenged, he's sensitive about the whole “size matters” issue. We avoid the terms “tiny” and “small” around him. The shy one, he's the behind-the-scenes sound man when they go on tour as “G Crew”.

Wilfred the Pig: Why Wilfred? The world may never know, because Lois and I sure don't! We're pretty sure she named him, but she doesn't know anyone named Wilfred. It's neither a variation on “Wilbur” from Green Acres, nor a nod to actor Wilford Brimley. Sometimes I mistakenly call him “Wilmer”, even though the only person I know with that name is a character in “The Maltese Falcon”. Fortunately, my faux pas does not offend him; he just sits contentedly, almost trance-like. If you think it's strange to have a Wilfred in the George Gang, I should explain that his real name is “Wilfred G. Pig”. And no, there is not a prize for the first reader to guess what the “G” stands for.

The George Gang

“G CREW RULES !”

They're really good at posing for a group photo.

Incessant Divagation

“OFFER DECLINED”

by Hugh Henry Brackenridge

I'm taking a break between Christmas and New Year's Eve, so this special Tuesday edition of Incessant Divagation reprints something written several years ago by Hugh Brackenridge. He could hardly refuse to fill in for me – not because he owes me any favors, but for the simple reason that he's been dead for a couple of centuries.

Hugh Henry Brackenridge, who was born in Scotland in 1748, came to the American Colony of Pennsylvania with his parents at the age of 5, and had several occupations in his life: teacher, army chaplain, playwright, lawyer, politician, and justice of the United States Supreme Court. He also wrote a popular fiction book series concerning “the adventures of Captain John Farrago”. In this excerpt, Farrago responds to a formal challenge to a duel.

Major Valentine Jacko

US Army

Sir,--

I have two objections to this duel matter.

The one is, lest I should hurt you; and the other is, lest you should hurt me.

I do not see any good it would do me to put a bullet through any part of your body. I could make no use of you when you are dead for any culinary purpose as I would a rabbit or a turkey. I am no cannibal to feed on the flesh of men. Why, then, shoot down a human creature of which I could make no use? A buffalo would be better meat. For though your flesh may be delicate and tender, it wants that firmness and consistency which takes and retains salt. At any rate, it would not be fit for long sea voyages. You might make a good barbecue, it is true, being of the nature of a raccoon or an opossum, but people are not in the habit of barbecuing anything human now. As to your hide, it is not worth taking off, being little better than that of a year-old colt.

It seems to be a strange thing to shoot at a man who would stand still to be shot at, inasmuch as I have heretofore been used to shooting at things flying or running or jumping. Were you in a tree now like a squirrel, endeavoring to hide yourself in the branches, or like a raccoon that after much eying and spying I observe at length in the crotch of a tall oak with boughs and leaves intervening, so that I could just get a sight of his hinderparts, I should think it pleasurable enough to take a shot at you. But, as it is, there is no skill or judgment requisite to discover or take you down.

As to myself, I do not too much like to stand in the way of anything harmful. I am under apprehension that you might hit me. That being the case, I think it most advisable to stay at a distance. If you want to try your pistols, take some object, a tree or a barn door, about my dimensions. If you hit, that, send me word and I shall acknowledge that if I had been in the same place, you might also have hit me.

John Farrago

Late Captain, Pennsylvania Militia

Thanks for reading, and have a Merry Christmas.

To those of you who object to the word “Christmas”, I say, “Oh, quit your griping and have a Merry Christmas”.

Incessant Divagation

“THE MEANING OF CHRISTMAS” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Pastor's Wife 

with gratitude to Drs. Luke and Seuss, and Charles Schulz

I'm taking a break from the silly side of things this Christmas day. Today's article is based on a devotional lesson I presented at a recent church Christmas party. The usual silliness will resume Tuesday, December 29th, with a guest writer, and I have resolved to return to my duties on Friday, January 1st.

Television provides plenty of Christmas-themed fare, including enough adaptations of “A Christmas Carol” to fill an entire day. Many people have a favorite show, one which must be viewed annually for the holiday to seem complete. Tied for the top spot for me are the Charlie Brown Christmas special, which has just reached its 50th anniversary, and Dr Seuss's “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” cartoon, which debuted a year after the Peanuts gang's show, in 1966.

Both stories deal with the essence of Christmas.

The Grinch ultimately fails [SPOILER ALERT] because of his belief that at the heart of the holiday was presents, decorations, and food. Having removed these items from Whoville, he was certain that the Whos would mourn with great weeping. Instead, he heard them “singing – without any presents at all.” The Whos rejected the Grinchy analysis shared by many people in our society today. Material goods were incidental; more valued were relationships: “Christmastime is in our grasp / As long as we have hands to clasp. Christmastime will always be / Just as long as we have we.” The heart of the matter, we are taught, is a matter of the heart: appreciation of family and friends.

That sentiment, pure and potent, [SPOILER ALERT] works its transforming power on the heart of the Grinch. But it's just not true.

People who trade materialistic hedonism [boxes and bags, tinsel and toys] for neighborly love [“we have we”] have turned from the bad to the good. But if friends and fellowship are how they define the essence of Christmas, they have, in embracing the good, lost sight of the best.

Charlie Brown knows this. His Christmas experience begins where the Grinch's ends. The Peanuts gang have camaraderie already, which was amply demonstrated for thirteen years before the Christmas special. But that didn't define Christmas well enough for Charlie Brown, who is frustrated in his quest for the meaning of the holiday until Linus van Pelt literally takes center stage and quotes seven verses from The Gospel According to Luke [Luke 2:8-14]:

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

He adds just one simple comment: “That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

Gifts are a nice part of our Christmas traditions. Good times with loved ones are better. But the birth of Christ is not only best, it is essential, for it is truly what Christmas is all about. And while we usually cite Matthew and Luke concerning the birth of the Messiah, there's a very familiar verse from John's Gospel which brings together Jesus and gift-giving and love:

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. [John 3:16]

Jesus is truly the Reason for the season which is commonly celebrated by manifesting love through giving.

Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable gift. [II Corinthians 9:15]

Merry Christmas.

Incessant Divagation

“CHRISTMAS TRADITIONS” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

It's like the Beatles said: “Christmas time again is here – ain't been 'round since late last year”. And with this holiday comes unique annual traditions. Sometimes the joyful holiday spirit is preserved only because the word”traditions” exists. Otherwise, I'd call these events “hassles”, “complications”, and “hindrances”. For example:

The Hauling of the Holiday Tubs: Lois has accumulated enough Christmas decorations to adorn three trees and two homes. These items are stored in a shed in eight large plastic tubs, each weighing as much as Santa's reindeer, Donner. And Donner is the chubby one. Every tub must be brought from the shed into the house, which also means rearranging other tubs containing decorations for other seasonal events. This is followed by the Detouring Around the Christmas Tubs ritual during the decorating process. I'm sure there is a good reason for the varying locations of the tubs, but it always seems to be related to where I plan to walk next. And since we can't have all those ugly tubs cluttering the house during the holiday season, there's the Returning of the Tubs to the Shed Knowing Full Well They'll Be Hauled Out Again in About a Month. Which is why there's another tradition:
The Cursing of the Tubs

The Festooning of the Hand Rails: Garland and bows are necessary for this tradition, which half-covers the hand rails of the outside steps during a season in which the steps are often icy. This makes entering and leaving the home much more exciting, and gives our guests who may have less than Olympic-class agility something festive to look at as they speed-dial their lawyers while lying at the base of the steps. Closely related is The Cursing of the Garland, observed at least twice a day during the season, as I use the outside steps.

The Cursing of the Lights: A nearly universal Christmas tradition observed by people who have used an old-fashioned strand of lights – the kind that had 100 light bulbs, none of which would shine if just one went bad. So we had to take a spare bulb and switch it with each light in the strand, seeking the bad one, which was usually about five spaces from whichever end one did not start with. Ironically, this cursing was accompanied by a prayer: “Dear Lord, have mercy. Please grant that only one bulb has gone bad. I further beseech Thee that the spare bulb I'm using to test this strand is not itself burned out.”

And, until we switched to an artificial tree, we observed the ABCs of Christmas trees.

A: The Acquisition of the Tree: After locating the bungee cords and saw in our unheated garage while my hands froze, we drove to a tree farm where we walked the rows while my feet froze, and debated which tree to buy while my face froze. Then I had to crawl under the tree and saw through the trunk while my hands, feet, and face froze a bit more. Then I secured the tree to the roof of the car to slowly and nervously drive home. Acquisition also involves getting the tree into the living room. As it was squeezed through the doorway, so many pine needles flew off that I was sure the tree would be bare by the time we set it up, but no, it had plenty more, which would fall on a daily basis.

B: The Balancing of the Tree: That expensive tree stand never seemed as stable as advertised, and it was my duty to produce a straight-standing tree by crawling beneath the tree among the incredibly sharp pine needles and positioning thin boards under one portion or another of the stand, being sure to hide them under the tree skirt. I then had to anchor the tree with thick string to the base of the window frame to keep it from falling. This was a necessity when we had [1] a big dog which could shift furniture with a swipe of its tail and/or [2] a curious cat that knew how to climb trees and was attracted by shiny objects. And if the cat had been declawed, it didn't matter – it would just take a running start, and leap.

C: Then, thinking of the “fun” I've already had with the tree, and “looking forward” to the adventure of getting that tree out of the house on New Year's Day, at which time every pine needle left would do its best to hurl itself into unseen locations, to venture forth and afflict my feet for months to come, there was the “C” – yes, you guessed it, The Cursing of the Tree.

The Filching of the Cookies: This one was actually enjoyable for me, but a pain for Lois. She doesn't mind me eating and appreciating a sizeable number of the exponentially larger number of cookies she bakes. But I have the uncanny ability to eat whichever kind of cookie she had planned to take to a dinner or pack up as a gift. Unfortunately, the onset of diabetes has forced me to cut back on this tradition substantially. This has led to a more recent tradition: The Very Sad Looking at and Longing for Christmas Cookies.

Incessant Divagation

“A LONG TIME AGO, IN A THEATER THIRTY-FIVE MILES AWAY” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

I have a bad memory. I'm pretty sure this problem started when I was a teenager, but I really can't recall. Sometimes it's actually a blessing, because it's harder to hold grudges against people if you don't remember what they did to you – or, for that matter, who they are.

I have a bad memory. Oh, wait, I told you that already, didn't I? But I do recall where I was on the afternoon of May 25, 1977. A buddy and me had driven to a theater 35 miles away to see a movie on its opening day. A film called “Star Wars”. I already knew the first half of the story. Marvel Comics had released the first three issues of their six issue adaptation of the movie before the premiere. If I had known how popular Star Wars would be, I'd still have those comics, and they'd be worth about $350 – not a bad payoff for the less than $2 cover price of all six together.

Star Wars has succeeded beyond even the dreams of its creator, George Lucas. And it started off with some loyal fans. The guy behind me in the ticket line said it was an excellent film. He'd seen it at a midnight show in Indianapolis, and was taking a break to see it again during his drive to Michigan. Then he'd finish his trip and join up with friends to watch it again that evening.

Italicized Divergence #1: Even though I have relocated several times since 1977, the town I now live in, like the one I lived in as a teen, is 35 miles from the theater where I first saw Star Wars.

Even though Star Wars premiered on May 25, many of its fans celebrate the Star Wars phenomenon three weeks earlier. Why? Just say out loud, “May the fourth”. Now say the Star Wars benediction, “May the Force be with you”. Now say, “May the fourth be with you”. As Jeff Foxworthy might put it, “if you can say that without feeling silly, you might be a Star Wars fan”.

Italicized Divergence #2: Another movie considered to be a science fiction classic, “Alien”, premiered exactly two years later, on May 25, 1979. And the first installment of another popular sci-fi movie franchise, “Terminator”, premiered on May 25, 1981

 Our sons [“our” refers to Lois and me, not me and Jeff Foxworthy] are Star Wars fans. After watching a trailer for the newest Star Wars movie, in theaters soon, I joked with one of them, “Couldn't they get Harrison Ford for the film? There's some old guy playing Han Solo”. Actually, it is Harrison Ford. He was only 36 years old when the first film was made, and the years have taken their toll. The difference is even more apparent with Mark Hamill, who was just 25 when he first played Luke Skywalker. These actors are 73 and 64 years old now.

Italicized Divergence #3: Actually, “Terminator” opened in theaters on October 26, 1984, but it sounded more amazing to say three blockbuster beginnings of science fiction movie series premiered in exact two-year intervals. And since the Terminator series involves shifting timelines, I can claim I was referring to a different history in which the movie came out around 3 ½ years earlier.

Then I realized that Star Wars has been around longer than either of our boys! I was 18 when I saw the movie, and now I'm able to order from the senior menu when I go to Denny's! That realization made me feel very, very old. But thanks to the enduring Star Wars phenomenon, I realized something that takes the edge off of my depression. If dudes like Han Solo and Luke Skywalker can get old – and look old -- but still have some adventure left in them, maybe I'm not washed up yet. As one of the Terminators says in this year's “Terminator: Genisys”, “Old, but not obsolete”. Still, the years have taken their toll, and I am quite jealous of Chewbacca the Wookie. He doesn't look like he's aged a day, much less 38 years . . . and unlike the rest of us guys, he still has all his hair. I hope he gets fleas.

Italicized Divergence #4: While Terminator, Star Wars, and Alien are all popularly classified as science fiction, only the first belongs solidly in that genre. Alien is a horror film which happens to be set in a space ship, and Star Wars was originally described by its makers as a “space fantasy” which happened “a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away”, an obvious variation of “Long ago, in a far away land . . .”.

Incessant Divagation

“LOADING . . . LOADING . . . LOADING . . .” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

Someone recently asked me why there was no new edition of this column on a particular Friday. Since I know all my loyal readers [both of them] depend on this weakly [oops, that's “weekly”] dose of humorous insight to guide them into the weekend, I offer this explanation.

It's not because I missed a deadline, or because I don't care. It's due to THE COMPUTER AGE. You know, that portion of mankind's journey in which science [or Al Gore, it depends on who you listen to] gave us a marvelous tool – the Internet – to expand our capabilities, create massive amounts of free time, and make every task a breeze.

That's what the brochure said when they sold us this trip, anyway. But the information superhighway keeps veering into some rather unsavory neighborhoods, no one seems to know where all that free time went, and the breeze often becomes a whirlwind.

I don't know how many times Lois has planned to post my article at midnight, the last of four Thursday night projects, only to encounter enough roadblocks on the information superhighway to leave her staggering to bed at 3:30 AM, only two of the four projects completed, and my article forgotten. A few days ago she planned to hit the sack early, but had to post one last review, which required the transfer of one last photo. That's when she discovered that the site she uses for this task was “upgrading” and not immediately accessible. There had been no warning given for this inconvenience, which made it sort of like rounding a curve at night and having your headlights reveal that a bridge is out. Her deadline? Four hours. Their estimated time of completion? Four weeks. She had to find another site, learn how to use it [tutorials: always a joy], learn how it REALLY worked, then try to complete her task. That's when our internet service provider suddenly developed technical problems that led to our download speed varying from 75 whatsits per whatever down to 23.36 somethingorothers per someothersomething.

Hope I didn't get too technical for you there.

I don't know much about computer terminology. In fact, I'm so blog-unsavvy that I don't even know what the internet term for blog-unsavvy really is [maybe unblog-savvy, or something equally unsavory]. Lois has to post these words. She has to do everything connected with this column except write it. I do know that there is an inverse relationship between KBS and BP. That is, when the download speed gets lower, Lois's blood pressure gets higher.

I've also learned about the three simple short-term coping mechanisms Lois relies on:
[1] Chocolate.
[2] More Chocolate.
[3] [used only if chocolate supply is depleted] Cake, ice cream, pie, strawberries, Nutty Bars, cookies. Anything that can be justified by the insight that “stressed” spelled backward is “desserts”.

Incessant Divagation

“It's Snow Way to End November” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

November is my favorite month of the year. I enjoy the temperatures, the relative heaviness of cloud cover, the relative lack of rain, and the the month includes my favorite holiday of all, Thanksgiving. It has several other fun, but less well known days of celebration, like Plan Your Epitaph Day [Nov 2, see my column for Nov 3], International Tongue Twister Day [Nov 7, a high point for all females marketing seashells by the ocean's edge], Clean Out Your Refrigerator Day [Nov 15 – and I can recall some bachelors who did this only once a year], World Toilet Day [Nov 19 -- I have no idea what traditions are connected with this one; frankly, I don't want to find out]. And no, I did not make up any of these!

One day I plan to stay at home is Black Friday. I know the stores are full of bargains, but they are also full of incredibly rude and aggressive shoppers. I think they're so surly because they got up early, sacrificing sleep to gain more shopping time. Many of them also saved time by neglecting to shower. I'll just look through the cookbooks at home, for recipes which can be adapted for leftover turkey. No one has ever explained to me how a 17 pound bird can yield a full meal on Thanksgiving, and still result in another 17 pounds of leftovers.

Other than Black Friday, there is one event that often happens in November which lessens the month's appeal.

Last Saturday we had our first snow of the season.

I don't like snow. My dislike is on the level of Scrooge detesting orphans, the Grinch detesting the Whos down in Whoville, and sane people detesting disco music. The odds of me changing my mind on this are much less likely than the conversions of the characters created by Dickens and Seuss. 

When I was very young, I liked snow. But one day my dad handed me a shovel and said “Go to it”. It took about five minutes of snow relocation to send me down the path of snow detestation. Cold hands. Cold feet. Cold nose, followed by a cold in the nose. Now, with the aging of my circulatory system, five minutes of walking in the snow results in my feet feeling frozen for at least a week. 

People marvel that no two snowflakes are alike. Actually, you can't really prove that claim. Seriously. Have you checked each one? But here's what every snowflake has in common: NOAA [the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration] states: “A snowflake begins to form when an extremely cold water droplet freezes onto a pollen or dust particle in the sky” – which means that every one of those “pure clean fresh” snowflakes is a bit of dirty ice . . . in disguise.

Just thinking about the recent snow, harbinger of snowstorms to come, gets me feeling down. But that mood won't last very long. Because Saturday, November 28th is Annual Red Planet Day, when the planet Mars is the focus of celebrations all over the world – and, according to some people, celebrations beyond this world as well. So, for stay-at-home folks like me, it's a day to pop some corn and watch “Total Recall”, “War of the Worlds”, or, if you want to combine holidays, “Santa Claus Conquers the Martians”. For more riotous revelers, it's a night to go out and paint the town . . . Red.

Incessant Divagation

“YES, I WANT PIE WITH THAT” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

When it comes to Thanksgiving dinner, Lois and I have a traditional division of duties. Lois does most of the food preparation. I do most of the food consumption.

Of course, she also eats. So it seems fair that I also help fix the meal. We make our own stuffing, which means that I get to chop up the bread, celery, and onions. We used to get a 24 pound turkey, but now that our household has less folks in it, Lois has [with regrets] scaled back to a 17 pound bird. But she still prepares as much stuffing as she used to, which means that we have plenty of stuffing plus lots of leftover dressing. The difference between stuffing and dressing, by the way, is that stuffing was actually stuffed into the turkey, and dressing was cooked separately. I don't know if any real chefs agree with that definition, but it's our kitchen, our rules.

Other than chopping stuff for stuffing, opening cans, and lifting the bird into and out of the oven, I don't get to help much. The food turns out better that way. My mother taught me to cook a few basic dishes, but they are very basic. Whenever I try to get creative, it leads to comments like “What did you put in this?”, “Does this food have a name?”, and “How can something be raw on the outside but burned on the inside?”. Our boys once wrote up a recipe card for me which had just four lines:

 “Quick and Easy Pizza”

www.dominos.com

www.papajohns.com

www.pizzahut.com

I have one recipe which results in a mixture of ground beef, canned corn, canned peas, and instant potatoes. Some people call it “shepherd's pie”, but I think that might be an insult to shepherds. We call it “That Stuff”. The first time I served it, the boys were raising the usual objections. I hadn't thought of a name for it yet, so I raised my voice and said, “Just pipe down and EAT THAT STUFF!”

“That stuff” is not on our Thanksgiving menu. We have real whipped potatoes [that's my other job: peeling potatoes] with lots and lots of gravy.

There's more to the menu, but suffice it to say that the post-Thanksgiving challenge is to finish all the leftovers before December begins. It's not an easy task, but every year I volunteer to lead by example.
I also observe the post-Thanksgiving tradition called “pretend that the bathroom scale does not exist”.

I do like watching football on Thanksgiving, but we leave the TV off during the main meal. This year, that definitely won't be a hardship. I've looked at the match-ups scheduled for the day, and at least four of the six teams involved are playing like a bunch of turkeys.

Incessant Divagation

“SOON WE'LL BE GOBBLING THE GOBBLER” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

I feel a bit hypocritical mentioning the word “Christmas” in this article. It's not because some folks consider it a politically incorrect term – freedom of speech, despite the squawking of the Thought Police, basically means that I have the right to say what I want to say, not that they have the right to hear only what they want to hear. And freedom of religion doesn't guarantee freedom from hearing about religion.

But I have a general policy of not focusing attention on Christmas until after Thanksgiving is done. I'm bothered by Christmas-themed commercials appearing at the beginning of November. These days, two signs that Thanksgiving is approaching are [1] Christmas merchandise floods the stores and [2] Halloween candy is on sale at 75% off. I used to like that second sign, but that was before I became diabetic. And it may be one reason why I became diabetic. When I was a kid, I didn't go trick-or-treating with a little plastic pumpkin-shaped pail. I used a big paper grocery sack, and stayed out until it was about 2/3 filled. If necessary, I'd go back home and set out again in a second costume. Later that night I observed the “fall asleep while eating candy from the bag by my bed” tradition. That was followed by the “wake up thinking I'm going to throw up” tradition the following morning, at which time I swore to myself that I'd never indulge in such gluttony again. And. I always kept that promise . . . until the following October . . .

I also remember Thanksgiving Day parades where the very last float featured jolly old Saint Nicholas, who was enough of a gentleman to give Tom Turkey and the Pilgrims time to shine before making an appearance. Now, he invades the scene so quickly you can barely find a pumpkin pie for all the candy cane displays. The Great Pumpkin and Santa Claus are warring like Coke and Pepsi; Tom Turkey gets trampled in the frenzy.

The Cola Wars are a fitting analogy for the Thanksgiving situation. I don't care for Halloween any more, so it's Pepsi. I like Christmas, and it's still the more popular holiday of the two, so it's Coke. But Thanksgiving is like a third brand, let's say Royal Crown [better known as “RC”]: It can't garner as much shelf space, but I prefer it to the “big boys”.

There is a quality to Thanksgiving that isn't emphasized in the other two holidays. All three talk about receiving great bounty – that is, getting stuff. All three feature food – that is, getting stuffed. And none of them give more than a token nod to eating responsibly [which is why I hate seeing the scale at the doctor's office in January]. But Thanksgiving, well, it still has the emphasis on GIVING THANKS. On viewing bounty as a blessing, not an entitlement. On expressing not only gladness, but gratitude. On acknowledging the Giver, not just the gifts. So far, that hasn't been lost in all the “extras” attached to the day. We've all heard the fuss about whether or not to say “Merry Christmas” or “Season's Greetings”, but I am bothered when people refer to Thanksgiving as “Turkey Day” – 

Not that I aggressively campaign to keep Thanksgiving “pure”. I enjoy watching football while going back for thirds [or fourths] on turkey – and I'm thankful that our Founding Fathers didn't ratify Ben Franklin's suggestion that our national bird should be the turkey instead of the bald eagle. Then turkeys may have become a protected species and eating them would be illegal. It does seem a bit ironic that in the United States we can kill and eat all the turkeys we want to, and there are plenty if them. But the bald eagle, with official protection from the federal government, was close to dying out in the continental U. S. in the 1950s. Not that the Pilgrims ate much turkey. The first-hand accounts of early Thanksgiving meals include menu items like roasted carrier pigeon and smoked eel. I think I prefer the holiday mascot being Tom Turkey rather than Edgar Eel.

Incessant Divagation

“DRIVING THE CLOWN CAR” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

I get nervous when I see one of those cars with a sign that says “Student Driver”. It doesn't have to exhibit dangerous actions for me to start trembling; just seeing it triggers the memory of what I was like behind the wheel during one long-ago high school summer.

Farmers' kids learn to drive early. Their parents train them first on tractors, then pickup trucks, so they can help out with the family business. The only reason they take the Driver's Ed class is to get better insurance rates. This segment of the young population gives rural communities generally safe roads. It also makes the driving instrustors' job easier.

But I was not a farmboy.

My driving instructor was Mr. Neider, who mainly taught physical education [a fancy term for “gym class”] and coached various sports teams. He was usually friendly and sometimes patient, but like many teachers, he had a poorly developed sense of humor and wasn't pleased with students who were “class clowns”. I believe he genuinely cared about the well-being of his students and wanted them to succeed in life. That might be why he accepted the thankless task of teaching Health, which mostly involved warning adolescents away from sex, marijuana, and beer. [“Beer,” he said, “tastes like it came from the hind end of a horse.” I was tempted to ask him how he knew what both substances tasted like, but I wasn't dumb enough to say that to a man who could make me spend all of the next gym period running laps and doing push-ups.]

When the Driver's Ed teams were assigned to their cars, one of Mr. Neider's teams was Doug, whose dad worked in a factory; Wes, who was a pastor's son; and me, whose father was a railroad man. Not a farmer's kid in the bunch, so although we'd all driven [let us ignore the matter of parental consent], our teacher had a lot of training to do.

The odds were stacked against him. We were from various backgounds, but we all had one trait in common: the reputation of being “class clowns”. When Mr Neider saw the three of us standing by that car, he pulled out a box of Tic Tacs and popped a couple in his mouth – a nervous habit that all three of us immediately noticed. Without speaking, we each, simultaneously, made it a goal to “drive” our teacher to consume the supply of Tic Tacs in the entire county.

I suppose you're expecting me to reveal the various pranks we pulled that summer. And it would be fun to relate tales involving lost keys, allergies, and a pre-“Dukes of Hazzard” jump at a railroad crossing. But without getting permission from Doug and Wes, I can't justify jeopardizing all three of our drivers' licenses. It also might upset our instructor, who was, looking back on it all, a pretty decent guy, who, by the end of the summer, had remarkably fresh breath.

Besides, when Mr. Neider retired, he took up hunting. I think he still wanders the woods at night, popping Tic Tacs and muttering, “Class clowns are always in season”.

Incessant Divagation

“Memorable Memorial Messages” 

by the late Rick Jones

November is usually known for two holidays. There's Thanksgiving, of course, which is my favorite holiday of all, and Veteran's Day, which I heartily endorse. But I had planned to write an article about various lesser-known days of commemoration and celebration in this month, like those those set aside to honor tongue twisters, toilets, Mars [the planet, not the candy bar], and two of my favorite people in history.

I decided to focus on just one “holiday” because I discovered NATIONAL PLAN YOUR EPITAPH DAY. An epitaph is written in memory of someone who has died and I want to share a few with you that are said to actually appear on headstones. If you want to know why you should plan your own epitaph, one good reason is that otherwise, your “friends” may mark your grave with something like this:

Here lies Ezekiel Aikle 

Age 102 

The Good Die Young 

Anna Wallace 

The children of Israel wanted bread 

And the Lord sent them manna; 

Old Clerk Wallace wanted a wife, 

And the Devil sent him Anna.

Here lies Lester Moore

Four slugs from a .44 

No Les, no Moore

Here's one that marks the passing of a man who left several creditors unpaid. One of them “generously” donated a grave marker, which seemed rather charitable until the wording was revealed:

Owen Moore, gone away,

Owin' more than he could pay

A woman who recognized that tragedy can be used as opportunity commissioned this inscription:

Sacred to the memory of my husband, John Barnes

who died January 3, 1803.

His comely young widow, age 23,

has many qualifications of a good wife,

and yearns to be comforted. 

The organizers of National Plan Your Epitaph Day give this counsel: “a forgettable gravestone is a fate worse than death”. But given a choice, many of these departed souls would probably rather have their markers be forgotten.

Still, wouldn't it be better to leave a message you composed yourself? Several people who were accused of being hypochondriacs have marked their graves with the question:

NOW will you believe I was sick?

One man decided that if anyone got to make a pun with his name, it would be him:

Here lies Johnny Yeast

Pardon me for not rising

And a fellow who apparently valued his privacy took steps to assure that his name would not be remembered, but his grave would:

I was somebody.

Who, is no business of yours.

I think it's appropriate for this article to be posted on Tuesday, November 3, 2015. This year's National Plan Your Epitaph Day was scheduled for Monday, November 2. Since I'm a day behind, I can claim to be an expert on my subject: an article on epitaphs by “the late” Rick Jones. One day late.
Here's just one more epitaph, which I would imagine has often broken a somber mood and produced guilty laughter in a cemetery in Albany, New York:

Harry Edsel Born 1903 – Died 1942

Looked up the elevator shaft

to see if the car was on the way down.

It was.