Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Have I Got News for You!

This is all you need…more news commentary from a thoroughly unauthenticated source. Horror and humor lie buried beneath everything you see, read or hear. The trick is to ruthlessly rip it to shreds. The real news crouches in some dark corner.

Good news is a slow seller and hides somewhere out there. It’s difficult to discern. Use your imagination, or talk to your spouse. They have comments you can’t contemplate. It’s the salacious, disgusting and gruesome stuff that sates our starving appetites. Admit it, blood and sex sell!

Some things don’t make the news. Yesterday, I watched from the window as a garter snake stalked a sex-starved lizard. Male lizards attract mates by showing the color of their ‘money.’ Sorta like Donald, the GOP presidential hopeful. The snake soon swallowed the double-luckless lizard. He lost his money and his honey. Maybe we’ll be as lucky with Donald.

A cardinal couple seems to have balanced sex with work. They’ve constructed a nest with nature’s castoffs. It’s nestled among the fragrant jasmine vines outside the screen porch. Two eggs have hatched. With equal fervor the cardinals nurture, feed and teach their offspring good habits. We’ll be sad to see them go.

It’s now illegal for humans to feed bottlenose dolphins. Environmentalists say feeding them creates dependency, makes ‘em beggars and thieves who steal from fishermen. They teach bad habits to others. Sounds a little bit like a welfare system, huh? There’s a bright side to this…fisherman can no longer use the excuse for coming home with beer breath and barren coolers.

My wife’s a Libra. She loves justice. We read in yesterday’s WSJ that a mortgage executive “got what he deserved.” He was tried for fraud, convicted and awaits a jail cell. Said he was a ‘small fish.’ The ‘big fish’ got away. Don’t they always? Maybe they’re fishermen.

Moving on. The Brunswick News reports that some folks were swimming in a pond when their feet touched something strange. Turned out to be a stolen jeep. As a youth, I’ve dipped my naked body into many dark ponds, but never let my feet touch bottom. Nothing good lives in muck and slime. Sorta like the fear of putting your feet off the bed at night…what’s under there to grab you? Anyway, I remembered Biblical warnings that all sins will someday be revealed. I’ll be more cautious where I put my feet.

A study reported that humans, God’s crowning achievement according to some, have assumed they possessed 100,000 genes. Come to find out they only have about 30,000, about the same as rats. Think of where this tidbit will lead the imagination. Darwin, rest in peace…you have been affirmed!

My wife reads the obits. She observes there’s little creativity in the announcements of the departed. Says they’re boring… “He died. She passed on. He went to meet his maker.” She says I should run for political office or start preaching. Said she’d then discover all my secrets. I squirm. After inspecting the knives, and checking on the pistol, I give her some obit suggestions.

Try these... “He died as he lived---broke.” Or, “He settled all his debts today, but one.” How about, “He ended his short visit here.” She rolls her eyes. “His loan was called,” I say. She shakes her head. “Real estate did him in.” Better. She smiles. It’s good to have one’s wife smiling early in the morning. I continue. “He departed as he came---naked.” Stupid, she says. I remembered a fellow once jumped from a tall building. His obit read, “He jumped to a hasty conclusion.”

Have you ever wondered who owns a dead body? First, the state. Then the morgue owns it. Possession is then passed to the funeral home. Then they sell the body back to the family. Finally, the body belongs to the dust. What a ride!

We live longer these days. Soon 100-year olds will be common. Speculation is that half of all girls born today will live past 100. Without men, who’ll support ‘em? Just a thought.

As I leave I shout to my wife, telling her to write in my obit, “He Finally Got What He Deserved.” I still hear her laughing.

Bud Hearn
April 28, 2011

Thursday, April 21, 2011

The Tombs

Then the eleven disciples went away into Galilee, unto a mountain where Jesus had appointed them. And when they saw Him, they worshiped Him…but some doubted.” Matthew 28:16




Easter is almost here. Nature is alive again in full bloom. Holy Week church services prepare us for the drama and pageantry of Easter.

Perhaps no greater mystery exists than that of the resurrection of Jesus. The disciples doubted. We do, too. How can we not? Finite minds can’t grasp the reality of resurrection. We try. But, like a phantom, it eludes our efforts.

We’re enraptured by the pomp of Palm Sunday. We prepare for the passion of betrayal. We suffer vicariously the humiliating defeat of The Cross. Easter culminates with The Resurrection. The day concludes, dominated by family dinners and visits by the Easter Bunny. So much for another Resurrection Sunday.

Monday comes. We move on. Easter’s fervor fades into the details of living. Nothing seems to have changed. We want more. We want to touch, to feel the power of the resurrection. But how?

During His ministry Jesus crossed into the land of the Gerasenes. It was a land of renegade Gentile tribes. Moreover, they were pig farmers.

Jesus and his disciples disembark from their small boat. Nearby, an ancient cemetery hangs from the craggy hillside. Legion lives here. He runs maniacally among the tombs, wild, erratic and naked. Iron fetters dangle from his flailing arms. Shackled to his ankles are remnants of rusted manacles, broken asunder by the strength of this demon-possessed man. The sun flings his elongated shadow across the ghastly landscape.

Legion is a dead man. Well, sort of. Ostracized by family, friends and community, he’s as good as dead. An outcast, feared and ridiculed, he’s been abandoned and relegated to a solitary existence.

There are degrees of dead. Life continues, long after the thrill of living is gone. People suffer. They hate, become angry and bitter. Their hearts turn to stone. They wear frowns. They become isolated, rejected, insane. They die inside a little more each day. They are the tomb dwellers of the world.

In Scripture the Greek word for ‘tombs’ is mneme. Its translation means ‘memories.’ Metaphorically, a case could be made that Legion lived among the dead memories of life. He needed a healing of the memories, a resurrection from the ruins of his life.

He sees Jesus. Somehow he knows Him. Runs to meet him, falling at His feet, pleading not to be tortured. Jesus doesn’t move. Then He asks, “What’s your name?” The man answers, “Legion, for we are many” (Roman legions had over 3,000 soldiers).

You know the rest of the story, how Jesus sends the demons into the herd of pigs. They plunge violently into the sea. The herdsmen get hot and assemble a gang of the town vigilantes. They want compensation for the loss of the pigs, their cash crop. But they’re shocked when they approach Jesus.

There sits Legion at His feet, calm, clothed, and in his right mind. He’s been resurrected, a new man with a new nature. The mob fears such power and implores Jesus to depart from their shores. As He leaves, Legion asks to go with Him. Jesus says, “Go home to your friends, and tell them what great things the Lord has done for you…” It’s there where his witness is…among those who know him best.

The Apostle Paul writes, “If any person is in Christ, he is a new creation. Old things are passed away, behold, all things are become new. And all things are of God who has reconciled us to Himself in Christ Jesus.” This is the mystery and the reality of resurrection.

The Lord’s words sum up the mystery: “I am the resurrection, and the life; he that believes in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever lives and believes in me shall never die.” John 11:25, 26.

Perhaps on Easter Sunday we can return to our homes and friends and show them what great things the Lord has done for us…and sing with the Heavenly choir the words of Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus, “He is risen, indeed!”



Bud Hearn
April 21, 2011

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Escape Hatches

The cell rang early today. Problems always ring early or late. My assistant’s shrill voice blasts in my ear, “There’s an accident on the causeway, traffic is hung up, kids are late for school. I need an escape before I explode.” Wow! Wonder how many other frustrated carpoolers have uttered this.

Have you ever thought of the many ‘escape hatches’ we have available?

I remembered a lesson learned in the old days. I was young then, a self-proclaimed real estate tycoon. Tycoon is a superlative title for one long on conceit but short on talent and ability. Anyway, we’d purchased some land in North Georgia, the home of Deliverance and white whiskey. The surveyors had not been paid. We were tight for cash, but eventually paid the bills… later than sooner.

About mid-morning, the secretary came running back to my high-rise, glassed-in office. It’s from these pinnacles that over-inflated egos can survey the world as their oyster and contemplate grandiose plans of wealth. She blurted, “Two bib overalls just walked in. Daryl and his brother Daryl. They look like trouble.”

What do they want? Are they lost?” I asked. She answered, “Said they’d come to get their money.” Trouble always finds a home when one’s short of cash. “I told them you weren’t here. Said they weren’t leaving ‘til they got their money. By the way, your new investor clients just fled,” she added. She quickly vanished to the ladies room.

I thought of fading the heat, but then remembered there was no back door, no escape. Except jumping from the 20th floor, I couldn’t get past these boys without strokin’ a check. The better part of wisdom is to pay the bill. I did. Since then, my offices have had multiple escape routes as a stark reminder of that day.

The Almighty has a grab bag of lessons for people like me. I remember once thinking Sunday was a good day to speed through Buena Vista, Georgia. I did. Apparently that day the police weren’t dining on drumsticks on the lawn of the local Baptist church. Flashing red lights in a rear view mirror ain’t Colonel Sanders!

The children were mortified. I was humbled, following the patrol car to jail. It was a low, stone building, gray and imposing. The children and I shuffled behind the portly sheriff into the jail to pay my $50 fine. (There’s a bill one can’t avoid without dire consequences. Washing dishes is not an option!) I had the bright idea this would be a learning experience for the children. Dumb people come up with dumb ideas.

I asked the sheriff to take the children into the jail to see what happens to criminals. He did. They walked down a long, dark corridor, cells on either side. A lone, naked light hung from the ceiling and cast an eerie shadow. Arms exploded from the bars, and voices mumbled warnings. “Y’all don’t be breaking the law, y’heah, or you gonna get locked up, and they ain’t no way outta here.” The children’s eyes bulged, and their bodies became as rigid as the steel bars that incarcerated the prisoners. There seemed to be no way to escape.

I paid the fine and loaded the children back into the car, fifty bucks poorer but hopefully richer for the experience. We were silent for a few miles. I asked, “What did you learn?” I received an answer I didn’t expect. My son, about 7 at the time, said, “Well, dad, you can get out if you have enough money. Right?” So much for instructive lessons on Sunday morning at the jail! They’d been better off at church singing “Jesus Loves Me.”

Things always get around to money. It’s a marvelous escape option. But it’s not alone. We’ve developed things like Blackberries and caller ID. Earplugs dangle from everyone’s ears, escaping the ‘now’ of life. There’s shopping, reading, alcohol, drugs and you-name-it for escape routes. Of them all, lies are the most pernicious and destructive…ultimately incarcerating us without bail in impenetrable prisons.

I think I’ve found ways out of most things…but escaping a stuck elevator still eludes me. What has you trapped?

Bud Hearn
April 14, 2011

Friday, April 8, 2011

The Voice of an Island

“But O, for…the sound of a voice that is still!” Tennyson

It’s early summer, and the Island Choir is tuning up. “Get out, get out,” it sings.

Movement is everywhere. It mingles with morning walkers, joggers and bikers. The beach teems with teenagers, small children and exhausted parents. The sun and the water offer them relief from the past pressures of life. Colorful umbrellas—green, blue, rainbow, yellow—dot the seascape. Activities abound. Voices blend into a Beach Choir, crooning a united but indistinguishable song.

The island has a voice and a language all its own. It’s alive. It sings through a cacophony of sounds. Listen quietly. You will also hear its chorus.

The Island Voices are diverse…the wind, the ocean, the sands, the stars, the mossy oak trees, and the Pavarotti of them all, the still, quiet voice of The Marshes. Who has not heard The Marshes’ refrain while driving across the causeway, “Come home, come home?” With such a synthesis of voices, it’s difficult to hear the individuality, only the collective unity of a Single Choir.

I know something about choirs. In the small town of my youth, the United Methodist Church ruled most Sundays. I can still see the faces of some choir members there, gazing from their lofty perch above the pulpit. Their eyes seemed to bore into my very soul, saying, “Repent, you worthless sinner,” especially as they sang Rock of Ages.

One Sunday years ago my guilty conscious and I visited the church. And, O, my God, there they were, The Choir, singing away, like nothing had changed. Among them, mixed in with the new members, were still some of the old, familiar faces. For a moment I thought I’d been Raptured in the Second Coming, as they sang with one voice the old Wesley favorites, like Standing on the Promises. With the exception of one octogenarian, who still sang a half-note off key, their individual voices were indiscernible.

Would you like to hear The Voice of an Island, and to feel its pulse? Then stop in mid-motion and absorb the sounds. Here are two ways I’m able to isolate the voices.

Shaded by mossy oaks, the island’s ‘farmers market’ sings under a tent on a dusty patch of sand by the airport. Kathy is the conductor. She’s easily recognized by her trademark pink cap and blonde ponytail. Quick with a smile and a hello, her enthusiasm is contagious.

Rows of boxes are filled with fresh produce. Alive and colorful, the fruit and vegetables, like an assembled choir, sings collectively. They sing of memories of family dinners, past and present. And they sing of the possibilities of more family gatherings to come.

I once asked her where the produce came from. She said it came from mostly small farms in South Georgia. She said it’s a way for the farmers to supplement their income and, at the same time, feel a sense of connectedness to a community larger than their own. She added that it represented a microcosm of the region, because under her tent the hands of people come together, one way or another…growers, harvesters, deliverers and purchasers. She concluded by saying that we’re all part of a larger community.

I’ve also heard the Voice of an Island while strolling on the beach. In some strange way the beach draws from us the anxieties of life. Its rhythm slowly restores our balance. A simple beach walk touches all of our physical senses by the action of the sand, the sea, the sky, the sun and the wind. Our ears open to hear the singing of nature.

What exactly is The Voice of an Island anyway? Is it not each of us who join to sing a part? Perhaps it’s only a small part, and maybe we often sing a half-note off key. But in the larger sense we’re members of a huge choir. Though we sing with individual voices, we echo The Voice of an Island every day.

Yes, there are new faces, and voices, in The Island Choir each year. They mingle with the old, familiar ones. But collectively we all sing the familiar tune of Amazing Grace… which is perhaps the reason why we’re all here!

Bud Hearn
April 8, 2011

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Polygamy is Popular Again

Only the intrepid would dare touch the subject of polygamy. Just to utter the word in mixed company chills the atmosphere.

Scattered on our kitchen table are days of unread newspapers. They lie there because I have good intentions of reading every word…sooner or later. Yes, you’re right…my wife is away, leaving only the dogs and me, neither of whom are particularly concerned with table clutter.

She returns today, so I scan the newsprint for content worthy of reading. The headlines are grim: Government Shutdown Imminent; Jet Skin Rips Apart in Flight; Japan Cleans Up; Portugal Pleads for Rescue; and, NFL Lockout—Pro Football Season in Question. OMG, who needs to read that at the start of a day. Then, an article on Polygamy grabs me…ah, now there’s a subject that will galvanize a man’s attention.

Actually, the article’s not very interesting. It leaves off interviews with participants involved in such aberrant behavior. All that readers really want is to chew on the juicy tidbits of the deviant life-styles of others. It’s a human condition, this dumpster diving into the degenerate details of people’s lives.

A question pops up…Why would anyone with a gnat’s brain commit to a polygamist relationship? I toss the newspaper aside and crank up the computer. Who needs the judgment of some unknown journalist on the subject? I have my own opinions, which will surely pollute your mind.

First, why would any man suppose it’s humanly possible to ‘satisfy’ one woman, much less several? Men are just not that smart! I pick up the phone, call a female friend and pose the question. Her answer reveals her revulsion as the venom seeps through the wireless. But she answers, “As strange as it may sound, it makes perfect sense.”

Intrigued by such a reply of a staunch Baptist, I ask why she thinks this. “Simple, you fool,” she says. “Think about it…a household bulging at the seams with women, every man’s dream. Of course, they would all have to be mute and beautiful, brainless troglodytes with bleached blonde hair and Bodies by Barbie. After all, isn’t that what most men want in a woman?” I refuse to take her bait and withhold my comments, a wise choice.

She continues, “A man could have a wife for every chore imaginable, like one for cooking, one for cleaning, one for parties, one for yard maintenance, five or six for romance, one for this and that and everything else.” I thank her for the opinion and end the call before things turn nasty.

Her comment about ‘brainless’ captured me. It doesn’t take long for any man to conclude that there is barely enough money in his pocket to maintain one woman. Women can burn through bank accounts like Sherman’s march through Georgia. Just imagine the constant complaints and costs of supporting twenty or so wives. Horrors! There are the issues of clothes, jewelry, botox, cars, houses, children, food, vacations and everything else required to keep wives satisfied. Where’s the money coming from, a job at Wal-Mart? Who else would hire a man so dumb!

In spite of this, the journalist opines that polygamy is popular and growing in Muslim tribes and North African enclaves, hoards of whom are now migrating to the US. Apparently our laws encourage such polygamist behavior by rewarding stipends for multiple children. Childbirth seems to be a growth industry among polygamists.

My mind moves on. Why would a woman want multiple husbands? I can find no reason. Who would want a house full of snoring men, always hungry, watching TV sports, listening to Glenn Beck, sucking down beers, stinky clothes everywhere, wet towels on the floor, toilet lids always up, dirty dishes in the sink, constant complaints and procrastinations, and, yes, unread newspapers scattered on kitchen tables.

Friends, there’s not a woman yet born that’s dumb enough to make such a mammoth mistake as marrying multiple men.

The article concludes, saying that one polygamist from a Mormon sect has set up shop in British Columbia, since Canadian law permits polygamy. Can you guess the name of the town he founded? That’s right…Bountiful, BC.

Medical science is still working to isolate the gene that causes polygamy. Perhaps they should study the root cause … Stupidity!

Bud Hearn
April 7, 2011