Incessant Divigation

“CLINT EASTWOOD, THE GREAT UNIFIER” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

I'm not known for “high brow” tastes. When Lois and I married, she brought to our new home a massive hardbound volume of The Complete Works of Shakespeare. I had an oversized paperback edition of The Annotated Dracula. And at least six dozen Perry Mason mysteries. The closest thing to “classic literature” I owned was probably A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. And I hadn't opened it, I just owned a copy.

Our film preferences weren't exactly compatible, either. It wasn't just the usual “chick flick vs. guy stuff” scenario. Almost every year, our anniversary activities include going to a movie. Our anniversary is next week [WA-HOO! THIRTY-ONE YEARS]. The “which movie” discussion has been going on since July 2nd and is still not resolved.

The argument – I mean, discussion – never gets heated, though, because we're used to it. We go through the same process at home over television shows every week. She likes several British comedies on PBS, mysteries with Jane Marple and Hercules Poirot, Midsomer Murders, and can barely wait for the next season of Downton Abbey. The only British TV series I really enjoy are some of the Sherlock Holmes shows and Monty Python's Flying Circus.

So, you're wondering [if you read the title for this article], how does Clint Eastwood fit into the picture?

One thing we always agreed on watching were Clint Eastwood movies. If I'd suggest something with Charles Bronson or Boris Karloff, Lois's first response would be a grimace. But Eastwood films were fine. I thought it meant there was a glimmer of hope that she would one day appreciate the finer points of John Wayne westerns and Abbott and Costello comedies.

Years later, Lois “confessed” that she'd had a teen-age crush on Clint Eastwood. She used to dream that some day she would marry someone who resembled one of Clint's movie characters. My reaction was, “So, I guess that goes to show that sometimes, dreams do come true.”

She didn't seem amused. She probably spent the rest of that day wondering if I knew the difference between Clint Eastwood and Jerry Lewis.

 * * * 

* LOIS: * 

* HAPPY 31st ANNIVERSARY! * 

* * *

[Readers, if you reply to this article, feel free to mention that Marvel's Ant Man movie sounds incredibly romantic.]

Incessant Divigation ~ Special Tuesday Edition

“THE STORY YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

A few weeks ago I mentioned a joke I told in my first sermon as a full-time pastor. When I sat down to write about it [an article I have yet to complete], I started thinking about aspects of writing humor based on personal history. How much should be disguised for the sake of other people? How much can I exaggerate?

I tend to avoid clearly identifying people, places and institutions. I don't have a set of hard and fast rules to guide the process. Sometimes I follow the example of the old FBI TV program: “Names have been changed [or more often, just omitted] to protect the innocent”. Other times, details have been altered to protect the guilty. It's also prudent to avoid identifying people who may be prone to violence or litigation. Most often, though, I just don't want to embarrass anyone. Which means that I don't bother altering details concerning the exploits my brother, who is nearly shame-proof. He has a “colorful” past, and since nothing he's done ever seems to embarrass him, nothing I say can, either. [Which doesn't stop me from trying occasionally]

It's true that sometimes I've “embellished” a story a bit for comedic effect. I did actually stagger into a hospital's emergency room, Lois steadying me with one hand while carrying a wastepaper basket in the other hand in case I threw up; I didn't actually vomit in front of everyone there, nor did I really hear a child sing “Weebles wobble but they don't fall down”. These articles, after all, are intended as amusement; they're not my memoirs. In fact, my memory is poor enough that if I wrote strictly from recall, my stories would have enough blank spots to look like redacted government files about Area 51. So I have no qualms about altering details until the content is about as reliable as a batch of emails released to a senate investigatory committee.

In other words, what you're reading is more like an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond than Sixty Minutes.

I've decided that when I tell tales about my pastoring days, I'm going to think of my place of service as Goodold Baptist Church, of Smalltown, Indiana. A few of you know its real name, but since a heaping helping of that exaggeration and embellishment I mentioned will probably be involved, I think this is for the best. Not that anyone there is prone to violence or litigation.

Incessant Divigation

“ARCHIE AND THE GANG” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

I am divagating far afield this Friday. News from the world of comic books brings a mixed wave of nostalgia, fear, and hope.

Archie Comics has launched a “makeover” of Archie and the gang from Riverdale High. My fear is that changes will ruin the beloved, iconic characters; my hope is that they'll be more popular for a new generation. And nostalgia . . . most Americans have fond memories of Archie, Jughead, Betty, and Veronica, even if they don't care about any other comic books. Horror novelist Stephen King recalls Riverdale as “a great place where I took many welcome vacations from reality.”

Since his first appearance [December 1941] Archie Andrews has literally become world famous -- he's “Archi” in Mexico, “Acke Andersson” in Sweden. In special “crossover” projects, Archie has met The Punisher [from Marvel Comics], the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the rock group KISS, and this month, there's Archie vs Sharknado – no, I'm NOT kidding – written by the director of Syfy channel's Sharknado trilogy.

A couple of years ago, a homosexual teen, Kevin Keller, transferred to Riverdale High. This was shocking news to readers – but not as shocking as it was to Veronica, who couldn't figure out why the new kid in town wasn't responding to her flirtation. But when Sabrina, the Teenage Witch debuted in 1962, it wasn't to promote the occult; Josie and the Pussycats, an all-girl band, wasn't designed to teach about gender equality or rock music; and when black band member Valerie Smith began dating Archie, it did not trigger heavy-handed lectures on interracial relations. Through all the changes, the stories still centered on Archie's mishaps, Jughead's sarcasm, rivalries, confusion, and camaraderie. I hope they remain so. Riverdale should be a place for a short vacation, not overt social commentary. 

Hopefully, the company learned that lesson from their 1984 revelation that “Big Moose” Mason, high school sports hero and all-around dumbbell, was not actually stupid – he had dyslexia. Unfortunately, all the stories before and after that one didn't help people understand the challenges of dyslexia; they unintentionally suggested that dyslexics were dumb, like Big Moose. In 1995, I spoke to an editor at Archie Comics who said that he'd heard of the story, but never saw it, and that it was pretty much forgotten at their headquarters . . . implying that he hoped the readers had also forgotten it.

I hope so too, because while I'm not sold on the idea of using comic books to teach young readers about “heavy” issues, I think something very valuable can be learned if we skip the “revised Moose” story.

Big Moose is dumb. Really, really dumb. He's lucky his feet are so big, because his IQ is smaller than his shoe size. Any dumber and he'd die, because he'd forget to breathe. The teens of Riverdale often have to deal with the complications caused by the overwhelming, no excuses, just plain dumbness of Big Moose.

But he's part of the gang. His best friend is Dilton Doiley, a geeky teen super-genius. Archie, and the rest of Moose's pals, wouldn't dream of excluding Moose just because his intellectual abilities don't match theirs. Because, regardless of any other factors, he's still part of the gang – and you don't bail on your friends.

Now, there's a socially relevant lesson worth learning.

Incessant Divigation

“WASHINGTON CROSSING THE DELAWARE” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

I hope you had a good time celebrating Independence Day with the five “F”s: Food, Freedom, Fireworks, Flags, and Food. Yeah, I always go back for seconds.

During all the celebration, it's easy to forget what the Colonials went through to gain independence. I'd like to remind you of George Washington crossing the Delaware River.

There are some popular misconceptions about the event. It didn't happen on Christmas Eve [December 24]. The crossing actually took place on the night of December 25 – 26, 1776. Also, the famous 1851 painting includes a flag which was not in use until the autumn of 1777. Many people, thinking of the E. G. Leutze painting, joke that obviously General Washington led an army, because a naval officer would know better than to stand up in a rowboat! The real error here is the artist's. The actual boats used featured high sides, and in winter, everyone would be standing: to see, to row [or pole] the craft, and to avoid the cold water that often accumulated in the boats.

But the best-kept secret of this event [which I shall reveal to you now] is that George Washington did not use a boat to cross the Delaware!

Now, you may recall the legend of Washington throwing a silver dollar across the Potomac River. It was actually the Delaware River. He was trying to give a rousing speech to the demoralized troops, hungry and cold on Christmas Day. Many in the ranks were distracted by one soldier who kept flipping and catching a coin during the remarks. Washington got angry and snatched the dollar from the air. He said, “You want to see a coin toss? I'll show you a coin toss!” and pitched the silver dollar across the river.

No one has ever duplicated the feat. It may be because the river has widened over the years. Or perhaps the old adage is true: money went a lot farther in the old days.

Anyway, Washington tried to cheer up the troops with this announcement: “Men, since it's Christmas, I asked the Continental Congress to authorize a change of underwear for all of you!”

After the approving roar died down, he said, “Since this is a government sponsored program, the following instructions will apply. Tom, you change with Jeff; Bob, you change with Phillip; Sam . . .”
At this point, the brave men of the Continental Army advanced upon their leader, and threw George Washington across the Delaware River.

Incessant Divigation

“JOYFEST” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

For about 10 years, I was part of a group of ministers who organized a weekend event called JoyFest as part of the community Independence Day festivities. Local bands, church “praise and worship” teams and solo artists would perform with an amazing range of musical styles. Another feature of JoyFest was the food: people would bring in a variety of dishes and local organizations donated generously – hundreds of packages of brats and buns, dozens of watermelons, coolers of lemonade and cases of bottled water. Volunteers cooked and served the food. Everyone, whether they brought food or not, enjoyed the free meal and good conversation.

One pastor would rent and operate a cotton candy machine. He'd let me help because he figured that since I'm diabetic, I wouldn't eat much of the product. He was far too trusting.

I enjoyed bringing in books. Over the course of a year I would slowly accumulate a substantial amount of Christian literature, and display it with a sign: “Free Books Etc” [the “Etc” included magazines, DVDs and music]. I liked to watch people look through the variety and pick a title or two, and even saw people reading while eating.

But I usually watched from a distance and stayed away from the display except when restocking it, because every year that I stood near the books there would be at least one person who would look at the sign, look through what was available, then engage me in basically the same conversation: 

“What's this?”
“Free books.”
“Oh . . . how much are they?”
“They're free.”
“Okay. But what do they cost?”
“Like the sign says, they're free.”
“Oh . . . cool! Umm . . . how much do you want for them?”

By that point, I started thinking things like, “Why does this guy want a book when he can't even read and comprehend a three-word sign?” and “I could be eating watermelon and bratwurst right now,” which is wasn't very Christian, and neither joyful nor festive.

Not exactly the mood we were trying to encourage.

Fortunately, at JoyFest it was easy to improve my attitude through three simple steps:
1. Pray for patience;
2. Count – and share – my blessings;
3. Consume bratwurst.

By the way, since last Friday's article had a serious tone, I wrote an extra, more lighthearted piece which we posted on Tuesday. Look for it under “Special Tuesday Edition.”

Incessant Divigation ~ Special Tuesday Edition

“SPECIAL TUESDAY EDITION” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife

Last Friday I broke from the usual humorous tone of my column and made some serious remarks about employing humor when facing troubles. I suppose I can do whatever I want when I write, but I felt a little guilty because I know that's not what readers expect. So here's my plan: once in a while, I'll veer into something serious. If I limit this to 10 articles or less a year, that'll be less than 20% of what I write.

That should take care of my guilt. But it doesn't. Being a good Baptist, I live by the rule that guilt is much like jello: no matter what else you have on your plate, there's always room for jello. No matter what else is happening in life, I always have a way to fit in a little guilt.

Lois was happy with the rose I brought home – but wouldn't three roses have been nicer? I preached a good sermon – but maybe it would have been better if I'd quoted Martin Luther instead of Steve Martin. I won the 100 yard dash – but couldn't I have run a little faster? Okay, that example is from waaay back when I could still actually run. But it just goes to show how long guilt can hang around. 

So I revised my plan: whenever I devote a Friday to a serious topic, I'll write a “bonus article” for the next Tuesday. This is my first one.

Before any pagans, Wiccans, or New Agers write to tell me how nothing productive ever comes from feelings of guilt, consider this: because of my guilt feelings, you'll get up to ten additional articles from me each year! Hmmm . . . depending on how you like what you read, I suppose that could actually help your argument.

It may surprise you to learn that I don't feel at all guilty about possibly offending pagans with that remark. Wiccans and New Agers, maybe, but I've found that pagans can be some of the most loyal and understanding of friends. After all, they worship the ground you walk on.

Incessant Divigation

“MAKING LIGHT OF THE DARK” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of the Minister's Wife 

 How can I joke about an amputation?

That's a fair question. I've been through a rough experience, and even though losing one toe is relatively minor, that doesn't make it funny. I'd like to share my serious answer to the question, even though serious musings are not really what this column is about. I'm not going to justify this change of tone any further, because [1] it would take up too much space, and [2] anyone who has read much of what I've written in the past should expect me to wander from the general path – as I've mentioned before, it's perfectly fine for a hunting dog to leave its original quarry by chasing a rabbit, provided the rabbit has enough meat on it.

Humans are complex beings with many interacting facets. What you eat affects your mood. Moods affect thoughts. Thoughts affect moods. Moods can affect what you choose to eat. Sometimes we let these interactions go unmonitored and that usually leads to trouble. But we have choices. This is obvious when it comes to food choices or whether or not you brush your teeth, but it's also true of thoughts.

I've faced my share of downers in life, and I don't see any value in making bad times worse by focusing on the negative. Proverbs 17:22 says, “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine; but a broken spirit drieth the bones.” For years, Reader's Digest has published a popular section called “Laughter, the Best Medicine.” Laughing about calamity isn't denial of the situation, but it helps keep things in perspective. What better way to fight the dark times than by making light of them?

This concept is important to me because I have a ongoing struggle with depression. The problem isn't solved by just one response, be it pills, prayer, or prune juice. Medication, religious disciplines, diet, entertainment, friendships and sleep patterns all affect my moods. And that's pretty much true for every person on the planet.

The same applies to how we choose to think about and respond to situations. I don't try to minimize the troubles that come along, but I don't want to magnify them, either. Bad news is part of life, so living in denial of the bad is bad. It puts you out of sync with the universe, never a good situation. But bad things are only part, not all, of life. One way I choose to keep things in perspective is to laugh – not laugh all the time, but to be sure to include humor in my thinking.

Some folks call this a “coping mechanism.” But that label doesn't make it any less valid. You can call sleep a coping mechanism for exhaustion, food a coping mechanism for hunger, umbrellas a coping mechanism for rain. So I joke about an amputated toe . . . and walk away chuckling. If that makes a few people think I'm a bit mentally skewed, so be it. I'll reply with the Waylon Jennings lyric: “I've always been crazy, but it's kept me from going insane.”

Actually, I feel a little sorry for people who “don't get it” when it comes to making light of the darkness. I think they just don't appreciate the value of laughter. Maybe at some point in life they had a humorectomy – that is, their funny bone was surgically removed. I'd rather part with a toe any day.

Incessant Divigation

“FOOT FAQS” 

by Rick Jones, Husband of Minister's Wife 

Humor can be tricky business. It's so easy to cross the boundary line of good taste and offend someone unintentionally. My first sermon as a full-time pastor . . . no, I'll save that story for another day. This is about my toe amputation.

Amputation isn't ordinarily a funny topic, and I realize it can be a traumatic, tragic event. Some readers may think it's in poor taste to joke about it. But my subject is my amputation. Answering questions about it has proven to be amusing to myself and others.

 Foot FAQs: Fairly Annoying Questions about what's left of my left foot

1. Why did you have your toe cut off?
   I was field testing my scheme to become the winner of next season's TV competition, The Biggest Loser.

2. Seriously, how did you lose your toe?
   I didn't lose it, they took it from me!

3. How does your toe feel now?
   How would I know? If you really have to know, call the surgeon – he had it last.

4. Where there any complications to the surgery?
   I'm experiencing a “role reversal” effect between my proboscis and my pedal extremities. In layman's terms, that means my nose runs and my feet smell.

5. Why didn't you keep the severed toe?
   Short answer: Lois said “no.” More accurate answer: Lois said “NO!” Long answer: Lois said “NO!” because I said I wanted to preserve the toe in brine in a small bottle and wear that on a chain around my neck. Then I could go to biker bars with my brother. I figured it would give me instant street cred as long as no one learned that it was actually my own toe. Lois also rejected my second plan, which was to sell the toe on eBay.

6. How can you joke about having your toe removed?
   There's a serious answer to that question, which I'll share next week. This week's answer is, insomnia and pharmaceuticals. Because of pain from the toe infection and the added complication of food poisoning, I hadn't slept for more than an hour at a time for two days. At the hospital, I received morphine and an anesthetic. Your perspective on just about anything can be positive and downright whimsical when you're eight miles high and can have more morphine on request.