The Pilgrims of Leyden

Scripture records in Hebrews 11:4 that Able offered to God a more excellent sacrifice than Cain. By faith he had respect unto the recompense of the reward of grace. The closing words, “…and by it he being dead yet speaketh,” serve to remind us that we are inheritors of the sacrifices of others.

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The year was 1620. Winter. Dutch Pilgrims sailed from Delfshaven across the turbulent, unpredictable Atlantic seeking a new home. Hope and fear were their companions. Clues of what lay ahead were scarce. They only knew what lay behind. In faith they replaced what was for the greater hope of what might be.

William Bradford of Plymouth Colony recorded in sparse, but profound detail the essence of this journey. The fair land so hoped for was in fact a desolate wasteland, teeming with wild men and beasts. Reality must have been a shock.

What would their anxious eyes have said to their expectant hearts as they gazed upon miles of rocky coastal escarpments? Certainly nothing like their mental pictures of a land flowing with milk and honey.

Perhaps they pictured the lands as a palm-tree paradise. Imagine their shock in the frosty chill while standing upon the deck of that schooner. Surely backward glances were made.

From the courage, perseverance and survival instincts of these and other hearty strangers, America was carved from this wilderness. Their voices still speak and define the tradition of Thanksgiving.

Some wonder if the tradition of Thanksgiving is losing its meaning. Is it becoming a mundane ‘must-do’ annual pilgrimage, a holiday for entertainment and shopping extravaganzas? Has the ease of life replaced the risks and perils that crafted the occasion? There’s more to Thanksgiving than this.

The mystical and eternal spirit of connectedness is at the core of Thanksgiving. It nurtures a short respite from the harsh realities and vicissitudes of life. We reconnect as we revisit homeplaces, mingle with family and friends and remember the Source of all blessings.

John is a friend. He’s recovering from drug and alcohol addiction. He has embarked from his own bleak land of darkness into a world of hope and the promise of a better life. John is, in a sense, a pilgrim. He’s committed to the cost of obtaining and maintaining a new life.

Recently he decided to plant an organic garden. We surveyed the barren backyard and chose a sunny spot. It was a 10 foot square of hardpan soil, strewn with weeds. It had grown fallow from non-use. Not big, but big enough to begin a new life. It lit a spark in John’s eyes.

He worked the ground faithfully. He tilled, raked, ashed, composted, fertilized and watered that small plot of sorry soil. He built raised rows and planted kale, celery, cabbage and winter lettuce. About ten days later he sent me a picture. Emerging from that once worthless plot of dirt were abundant green shoots of new life.

We consecrated that patch of ground, John’s Garden. It reminds me that the richness of America is not born totally from our country’s bountiful resources, but in the men and women who have taken the abundance from it through hard work, struggle and sacrifice.

We join with the pilgrims of Leyden, standing on the edge of tomorrow and nurturing our hopes and dreams. Though huge risks have been quantified, often eliminated, the world remains a violent and unforgiving frontier. As it is with all pilgrims, so must we be resolute in our goals for a better life…for a mightier hope abolishes despair.

Life always comes calling. It lays things in our lap to see what we’ll do with them. Sooner or later it returns to check on our progress. Will it find us faithfully tending the gardens we have been given?

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On October 3, 1863, Abraham Lincoln established Thanksgiving as a national holiday:

“The year that is drawing towards its close, has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the Source from which they come….”

What sacrifices are we making that future generations could say, “…and by them they being dead yet speak?”

May God continue to bless America on this Thanksgiving, 2013.

Bud Hearn
November 26, 2013

Illustration courtesy of Leslie Hearn

The Toothpick

Dinner parties are usually small, often exquisite. The guest lists typically include only the socially elite, an odd assortment of discriminating gourmands, upper crust oenophiles and learned world travelers. Bob probably wondered why he was invited.

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The invitation was engraved. The embossing might have reminded Bob of some bath towels he once bought from Sears. He must have asked himself, Why me? Hack journalists don’t hobnob with the highbrow upper crust crowd. He apparently shook off the inhibition and showed up.

A lovely evening, guests always say. The word gets a prolific workout from the wellborn. Perfect for all events. It means everything in general, but nothing in particular. It seems to be the disguise of choice. It mingles with departing hugs, sideways, of course, air kisses and back pats. Dinner parties can be strange. They swirl in rarified air.

All lovely dinners demand a formal thank you note. It’s not wise to hastily synthesize the experience. It’s best to delay a day, let the details distill into the essence of the evening. Then write. Bob obviously ignored this advice. His note will not meet the standard for inclusion in the primer for Life Among Southern Gentry.


Marvin and Sue, dear friends, November 18, 2013

Your dinner party was a smashing success. Thank you for including me. It was a lovely evening. From the moment I entered, I could see the welcome surprise on the faces of your guests and yourselves. Please don’t even think about apologizing for your dog mistaking my leg for something else vertical. It often happens. I’m sure the cleaners can eliminate the stench.

I regret not wearing a jacket, but frankly, I thought the black silk Tommy Bahama shirt with the pink flamingos would be a hit. It coordinated well with your loan of the brilliant yellow blazer.

The hors de oeuvres on silver platters were scrumptious. Real class. It reminded me of my aunt’s tenth wedding. Her pigs-in-a-blanket were just as big a hit as your fish eggs, at a fraction of the cost. But your champagne was definitely superior to her Ballatore Spumante at five bucks a bottle.

Place settings confuse me. Especially silverware. Why do place settings require more than a knife, fork and spoon? Whatever. But, thank you, Sue, for helping me to segue through the sixteen pieces of silverware surrounding my plate. I noticed that your initials were engraved on each piece. Clever. Cuts down on pilfering.

Marvin, excellent choice of wine. Delicious is a cheap word…it was divine, purely ambrosial. A strange label, written in some foreign language. Something like Henri Jayer Richebourg Grand Cru, Cote de Nuits France. Your butler, Roland, was in a bit of a snit. I think I offended him. He kept coming to fill up my glass. I told him to just put the bottle on the table, I’d pour my own. Is he on a quota system?

Sue, your flower arrangements were absolutely elegant. They were an incredible artistic design of dandelions. Imagine, a common weed. Splendid.

Thanks to Lamar, I wasn’t the only one eating those luscious lamb chops with my fingers. I recall reading once that it’s against the law in Georgia to eat lamb chops with anything but your fingers. Is that true? I was a bit surprised Heinz was not served. I‘ve never eaten meat without ketchup.

The finger bowls and lemon wedges on the white doilies arrived just in time. I would have hated to soil the linen napkin with more au jus of chops. I think the last time I used a finger bowl was at the White Star prom dinner in the Sigma Nu frat house. I dipped a biscuit in it.

Sue, I just adored the colorful coffee demitasse. So French. But the handles are quite small. I’m sorry it slipped from my hand and ruined Marvin’s yellow blazer. Fortunately, it didn’t soak the half-smoked stogie I discovered in the pocket. Please forgive me for lighting it at the table and setting off the alarm. It was a case of bad judgment.

Thank you again for including me in your lavish affair. It was lovely. And please let me clear up a slight confusion. I’m not runner-up for the Pulitzer Prize as I thought. It’s for the Publisher’s Clearing House sweepstakes drawing. I hope this inadvertent oversight won’t spoil our friendship.

Yours, fondly and with affection,

Bob

PS: One thing still bothers me, though. Where did you hide the sterling toothpicks?

Bud Hearn
November 22, 2013

A Case of Wishful Thinking

Some actually believe if it weren’t for mules, men would be the dumbest creatures on the planet. Hearing and comprehension don’t equate. Yesterday proved the position of my lowly estate.

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It was like this, see. I come home, stagger through the door, beat up from another onslaught of the details of life. I need TLC, some hints of marital bliss, a reprieve from the war dogs of the world.

“Hey, I’m home.” Silence greets me. I repeat, “Uh, helloooo, the Pack Leader is home.” My wife’s voice answers from the bedroom, “Oh, you sweet boy, how are you feeling?”

“Exhausted. You should hear what I’ve been through today,” I shout.

“You poor darling. Maybe you’ll feel better if you take a nap.” Her voice drips with affection. All men should have wives that are so caring, I think. I pour myself a stiff single malt, two fingers, two ice cubes and a splash. I plop down, prop up my feet and pick up the newspaper.

She speaks. “How ‘bout we take a walk on the beach. Maybe you’ll feel better. Besides, I always enjoy showing you off,” she says. I ignore the suggestion; mutter incoherently something about the state of politics and the idiots in DC.

“Would you like me to tickle your tummy?” she says with a sexy sigh that would melt steel. Tickle my tummy? Hmmmm. I lay down the paper, wondering what she’s been up to. Unusual behavior. Probably bought jewelry, I conclude. And it’s not even dark. Tummy tickling is a nocturnal sport.

“No?” she asks. “How about I run a nice hot tub and bathe you. Would you like that?” Things are looking up already. I’m a lucky guy. What a wife!

“Ok, if not that, why don’t you just put your head on my soft pillow. Oh, I bought you a surprise today,” she says.

I answer, “I hope it’s edible. I’m starving.” It’s so nice to have a wife who thinks about my needs. I take another sip of scotch.

“Precious, were you a good boy today? Did you do all your business?” What’s with her, I wonder. What does she think I do when I go to work? “Yes, I did all my business today, thank you. Why?” I answer.

“Well, sweetie, you seem so tired and irritable. Have you been playing with that cutie up on 37th Street again?”

What, the 37th Street cutie? What does she suspect? Ok, so I know her, but she’s not really what you’d call a cutie. Besides, she’s not my type anyway. Somebody’s spreading lies. I defend myself, “NO, baby, I was at the office all day. Ask my staff. I’ve been a good boy.”

“Maybe you’d like to invite her over this weekend. We could all three play some fun games, get to know her better,” she says. She’s baiting me, I know. Something’s going on. I need to find out what.

“How’s your little leg today, my big boy?” she asks. How thoughtful, she remembers I have bursitis in my hip. “Gonna live,” I say. I don’t know what’s come over her, but I approve.

“Listen, my sweet angel, I really wish you’d be more careful about the accidents you’re having around the house lately. Do you need to visit the doctor? I’m tired of having to clean up after you,” she says in a slightly menacing tone.

I reply in a weak, defensive voice, “I’m sorry, baby. I forgot to tighten the lid on the cranberry juice when I shook it. I’ll scrub the red polka dots off the wall tonight, I promise.”

“Oh, I forgive you, sweet darling. You’re a male. Accidents happen. Besides, I like the way you lick my ears. I know you love me when you do that.”

Ah, things are heating up. “Keep up that sweet talk, baby, I’m feeling frisky already,” I say. I can’t figure what’s gotten into her, but whatever it is, I’m excited about the possibilities.

I’m a man of action. I pitch the paper, grab my violin and head towards the sweet voice in the bedroom. I’m thinking music and romance.

I open the door and freeze in my tracks. There she is, lying on the chaise and cuddling with Mac, our dog. My ego crumbles into dust at my feet. I’m convinced Mac smiled and winked at me!

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After the shock, we had a big laugh. And now I wonder: What if all our relationships were laced with doggie talk…imagine the possibilities!

Bud Hearn
November 15, 2013


Illustration courtesy of Leslie Hearn

Who’s On First?

It’s a strange scene. An office conference table, a Bull named Gordo and a Skeleton named Lazarus. They’re politicians.

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Gordo’s on a diet. Lazarus needs a resurrection. They can’t agree on things. They get close, yet remain far apart. They work on a modus vivendi, an agreement to reconcile two opposing parties. Entrenchment makes consensus difficult.

But what can be expected from polarization of ideology? They read their respective newspapers. For Gordo, it’s the New York Times. For Lazarus, it’s the Wall Street Journal. Political party affiliations? Guess.

Their tete-a-tete goes something like this:

Lazarus: Here we are, looking for answers for Beltway’s travails.

Gordo: Better here than hanging like an ornament on a lawyer’s wall.

Lazarus: (laughing) Yeah, politics beats my old real estate job.

Gordo: Who are you anyway?

Lazarus: I’m a metaphor. Right-wing Conservative. You?

Gordo: I’m a symbol. A Progressive, just fat and happy. Like lawyers.

Lazarus: That’s part of our problem. That, and money.

Gordo: (thinking) Huh?

Lazarus: You know, fat and happy. Money does that. Where’ve you been?

Gordo: Hanging around the feed lot….eating. Rich lobbyists, you know. No boring job. Everything’s free. Government trucks back up, fill the troughs. Food stamps, disability, unemployment insurance, stuff like that. Got it made.

(Pause)

Lazarus: No free lunch, Bullhead. Somebody pays.

Gordo: (glances at the NYT’s) Says here our party won. Says yours lost. Maybe you pay? More taxes, right? We don’t pay taxes. We’re winners. You’re losers. Losers pay. (He burps)

Lazarus: (opens his palms, attempts to reason) Yellow journalism. Look, do you know why I’m skinny? I’ll tell you. Conservatives diet, work hard, have tea parties and tithe. OK, so I did have to eat my own flesh to survive for the last six years. We’re not on the public dole like you. God’s on our side.

Gordo: This is politics, Scrawny, God doesn’t take sides. We shook down Wall Street. The Golden Checkbook is ours now. We’re even milking the scapegoat. Anyway, this newspaper suggests the President is God.

Lazarus: (Laughs) You stupid bovine, he just talks. Don’tcha know, sometimes mud gives the illusion of depth? Remember, when smashing monuments, save the pedestals—they always come in handy. Anyway, I’m gonna leave it all behind when I’m resurrected. (He shouts “Amen.” A slight applause echoes in the distance)

Gordo: (yawns) You should eat more protein, Bonehead. And lay off the hallucinatory supplements.

Lazarus: (pops his knuckles, his bones creak) My paper says Bigears is a socialist. He’s hanging himself with words, all these promises about cheap insurance, “no matter what.” Didn’t Lord Chesterfield say, “Cunning is the dark sanctuary of incapacity?”

Gordo: Have you forgotten, “WMD, Mission Accomplished?” That was your man Bush. Say, are you still at war with women?

Lazarus: (irritated) Man, that’s a myth. Just a small rift between some disgruntled pro-lifers and a few women’s righters, both nutcases, stirring up the Pope. Got him fired. The Press is incendiary.

(They take a breather. A calm descends)

Gordo: (now inspired, waxes academic, and changes the discussion to platitudes) Skinnyman, did you know that in a war of ideas it is the people who get killed?

Lazarus: Interesting, Bloathead. It’s a nightmare—too many ideas floating around, Twitters, bloggers, pundits. Reminds me of fleas on the necks of giraffes…from that height they begin to believe in immortality.

Gordo: Look, Thinman, did you know the first condition of immortality is death?

Lazarus: Good one, Fatso. You climbed pretty high to reach that deep thought. I think I’m beginning to like you, even if you are on the other side of the aisle.

Gordo: Yeah. We’re not that different, you and me. Can we be friends? I don’t want to have to cross heaven’s Streets of Gold when I see you coming.

Lazarus: Oh, sometimes I wish we could sleep off death on the installment plan. I love Washington.

Gordo: Man, let’s don’t talk about death. We’re too important. I don’t know about you, but I prefer signs that say NO ENTRY to those that say NO EXIT.

Lazarus: That makes me think about freedom. To whom should we marry freedom in order to make it multiply? (His demeanor becomes self-congratulatory)

Gordo: (Ponders the conundrum, them speaks) How about we include the letter of the law in the alphabet? (Conceit shows on his face)

Lazarus: You sound like a prophet. Remember, even the Prophet’s beard can be shaved. What will he hide behind then?

And so it goes, this aphoristic engagement.

Gordo: Let’s not leave until we agree on at least one thing.

Lazarus: OK. How about this: “Women will probably be the last animal civilized by man.”


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Uh oh, Lazarus drops a loaded bomb. An eerie quiet pervades the room. There’s always a brief silence before an explosion is heard!

Bud Hearn
November 8, 2013


Note: Lest I should be accused of plagiarism, I wish to thank some of the great aphorists for the loan of their wit, including Geo. Meredith, Lord Chesterfield, Oscar Wilde, Ogden Nash, Stanislaw Lec and a few others I can’t recall.

Outhouses and Sears Catalogs

These two icons of American life have something in common. One’s on the environmentalist’s endangered species list and the other is deep-sixed. Is there a correlation?

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Change is coming so fast we don’t even like to look in the mirror. We have a love-hate relationship with it. Things become obsolete, compost for landfills. Survivors are recycled as art.

E-bay sells old Sears catalogs. The 1909 catalog of 1,100 pages was a pricy $99.00…expensive paper that was once outhouse wipes. Outside privies are now pop art. The $359 Amish model is a perfect conversation piece for any front yard.

Art is a relative term. Like clean, it’s a matter of personal taste. Things are born to die. Humans are creative with that concept…money can be made even on dead things.

Obsolescence and technology…a correlation? Look around…what hasn’t changed? Some changes slip up on us; others smack us in the face. The past never dies. We recycle, repackage and resell everything. Novelty is ephemeral. We frantically search for the next new thing.

Cell phones were once mobile phones. I had an ‘attaché’ phone. It was tucked away in a briefcase. It impressed people. Impression is a big deal to 20-year old upstarts. But after hippies and double knits, attitudes changed. Externals lost their luster with the old crowd’s attitude of ‘who-gives-a-rip.’

I got tired of toting the briefcase so I bought a black ‘car’ phone. It was the size of a basketball. It bolted to the floorboard of my car, smack between the bench seats. You remember bench seats, right? A lot of ‘accidents’ occurred on bench seats. Especially at night in pickups.

Mothers of high school girls helped develop technology that took all the fun out of drive-in movies. Bench seats were ripped out and replaced with bucket seats and Berlin Wall consoles. It resulted in the death of outdoor theaters. Change morphed to Netflix and sofas. Is there a correlation?

The first car phones were essentially mobile party lines. The world listened in, especially after midnight when tongues of tanked-up tycoons turned loose. While not quite as good as listening to “John R” or “Hoss” Allen on WLAC, Nashville, it was close. Today, party lines are replaced by NSA’s silent surveillance. Somebody’s always listening!

My father was into art…fishing art. Before he died we cleaned out the dusty tool shed. Ancient fishing rods, stiff as steel wire, hung limply from the walls.

“Daddy, get over to Walmart and replace this junk with graphite rods,” I told him. He told me back, “Son, rods don’t catch fish – fishermen do. It’s an art.”

After he died I found a tackle box full of old fishing lures kept from his youth. They were well-used and worn. I pawned them off on my nephew for a pittance. He later sold them as art for something approaching the price of a new boat. Art’s in the eye of the beholder, folks. I was blind.

Even nomenclature has changed. When did dinner become lunch, or supper become dinner? Or beauty parlors become salons? What’s happened to stamp lickin’, cotton pickin’ and pea shellin’? Pocketbooks are now handbags. Life is confusing.

Barbers have become hair stylists, a horrible ending to a venerable profession. Crew cuts were once cool. Later, ‘butch’ cuts were the rave. Bald was an embarrassment old men disguised with ‘comb-overs.’ Now everything goes, except the nickname of ‘Butch.’ Totally uncool.

Who dials phones now? Voice recognition does. Nobody gets up to change the TV channels, all 5,000 of them. Remotes do that. Rabbit ears are replaced by cables and satellites.

Technology makes human interaction irrelevant. Smart phones and thumbs book airline tickets, pay Georgia Power or charge Church pledges on Visa. Where’s it all going? The sky’s the limit.

Human nature is never satisfied. The psyche embraces the future. We’re dreamers. The poet, Dylan Thomas, once wrote, “The human mind is inspired enough when it comes to inventing horrors; it’s when it tries to invent a heaven that it shows itself cloddish.”

Ah, a heaven. Maybe that’s what we’re after…and our hearts are restless until we attain it.

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Dreaming transcends the boundaries of technology. Americans say, “We are free, so we can dream.” But perhaps it’s best said, “We dream, so we can be free.” Is there a correlation?

So long to Outhouses and Sears catalogs. I’m not looking back…you?


Bud Hearn
November 1, 2013