LifePundit

Kirkin' of the Tartans

Today our Presbyterian Church (USA) celebrated the Kirkin' of the Tartans. There's something really strange about seeing a man with a knife in his sock carrying the bible in the church processional.

I'm so far behind in my bible study that I cut Sunday school to catch up on my reading assignments. I slipped into the sanctuary, figuring that the church would be a good quiet place to read.

It was. Until all these bagpipers came marching and piping in. With drums. And then the other folks who needed to practice their parts in the service.

The ad agency where I used to work was extremely loud and I learned to concentrate and write in an environment that sounded about like the trading floor at the NYSE, so I thought I could close my ears and keep studying. I think I got three paragraphs read today.

Bagpipes are war pipes, intended to be heard from mountain to mountain in the Scottish highlands. They are not an indoor instrument. I like bagpipes -- that was about the only thing I liked from getting dragged to The Citadel, my father's alma mater, every weekend during football season and then some. I like bagpipes. Outdoors.

One time Paul and I invited a young man who was a bagpiper over to our house. The pipes were so loud that they rattled the windows and made the cat throw up.

My known ancestry is Irish (my great-great grandfather stowed away on a boat when he was 14, went to live with his brother in NY, got drunk and wrecked his brother's milk wagon and was thrown out. He somehow ended up in S.C. where he continued to be a colorful character. My mother remembered him. In his bible was a map of County Antrim, where he was from. That's all I know. The other side of the family is better documented but I still don't know of any Scotsmen. Joan I., if you're reading this, correct me!) And I didn't grow up Presbyterian.

So I'm a little puzzled by this tartan kirking thing, but it was fun and the pipers playing "Amazing Grace" along with the organ and all of us singing gave me chills. The good kind.

And if that's what it took to get the Scottish-Americans to fight on the side of the British in WWII, then I'm grateful Peter Marshall thought of it. But was that really a problem? Doesn't that form of hyphenated Americanism look a little strange to you?

I don't have the answers. I'm just trying to figure out how to get this knife to stay in my socks.

News that Makes Me Tired

I feel like I should feel sympathetic for somebody about this bit of news that a woman was inconvenienced and pained when the TSA required her to remove her nipple rings before boarding a flight. They had to lend her pliers and it supposedly hurt. On the one hand, this is America and if somebody wants to mutilate her body I guess that's none of my business. On the other hand, something about nipple rings makes me hurt just to hear about them, so it's hard to feel tremendous sympathy that it hurt to take them out. And then to have all these TSA people tied up in this business, and now they're going to change the laws to make them more accommodating to people with hidden piercings.

Look, if Anwyn can't carry her son's pre-packaged puddings on a plane without harassment, why can't they just make a law that you don't wear your TMI piercings on a plane? If you've got a metal plate in your head to keep your brains from falling out, that's one thing. If your brains have already fallen out and you have nipple piercings, take them out before you get to the airport so you won't set the metal detector off. You knew you were going through a metal detector. Did you just need to show somebody your piercings?

I'm So Sorry the Cat Likes Me Best

Photo of Lily and Izzie when they were both kittens. Izzie, the indoor cat, likes my lap and my lap only. When the three humans in our family are sitting down together to watch "Lost" or whatever other show we can agree on (not yet found), Izzie hops into my lap. If I hand her to Lily, Izzie hops right out of Lily's lap and into mine. I feel sort of bad about this, as I know what a pleasure it is to have a cat purring in your lap.

So Lily and I switched chairs. Izzie still hopped in my lap.

"Make yourself uncomfortable, Mom," Lily says. So I stick my arms and legs up so that my lap is the Himalayas, only to have Izzie hop on anyway.

Lily so wants to have the cat in her lap that she squeezes into the chair with me. We really don't fit, but I figure it won't be much longer before my teenager won't like to be in the same house with me, much less the same chair, so I cope. The cat will join us in this pile of bodies. Everybody's happy. Sort of.

"Mom, that cat is biased. She only likes you," Lily says. "And she's my cat. I bought her with my own money. Izzie is mine, not yours."

"I'm sorry," I say.

"I've never done anything to that cat. Why won't she sit in my lap?" Lily asks.

"I'm probably warmer and softer," I say.

"I'm going to get you a kitten for Mother's Day," she says. "That way you can have your own cat."

Not Sophisticated Enough for Edible Flowers

Pansy Psychedelic Blue Butterfly Hybrid from Park Seeds. Would you eat something called "Psychedelic Blue Butterfly Hybrid"? I don't eat blue food. I don't eat flowers. I certainly don't eat psychedelic blue butterfly flowers. Do these make your mouth water?

I used to fancy myself a sophisticated eater (several notches below a "gourmet" but a few notches above "all you can eat"). I knew that a dish with "Normandy" in the title meant something to do with apples and a few other code words that might keep me from accidentally eating tripe. But I draw the line at flowers.

My mother told me never to eat flowers or other things that were in the yard. We had azaleas and abundant other blooming things that were poisonous. Never eat flowers, she said. And I lived to tell you that I never did.

I still can't bring myself to eat flowers. If you're going to garnish my plate, I'll take parsley or chocolate. Please, keep the flowers in the centerpiece. If you throw nasturtium petals in my salad, well, I'll be intimidated at your boldness and you'll probably find them later in the centerpiece, where they belong. My mouth won't accept flowers. Like one of those Coke machines that's picky about dollar bills.

Now, Lucy, my horse, will eat pansies. I was really sorry to find this out after she ate a whole planter full I had put by the barn. Quite pretty. Must have tasted even better.

I get an e-mail newsletter from Park Seeds, my father's favorite supplier of seeds for his garden, and today's promotion was edible flowers. This is not an ad, but a confession.

What Do Dogs Pray For?

This dog is praying alongside his owner, a Buddhist priest. You can read the story here. There is some talk that they may try to teach the dog to meditate.

The dog may be talking to God for all I know. But, if he wants to get by in the fourth-grade Sunday school class when I'm the teacher, he'd better shut his eyes. (Note: Not currently teaching Sunday school.)

What does a dog pray for?

Maundy Thursday

Today is one of my favorite days in the Christian calendar. It's Maundy Thursday, the day that marks our mandate to "do this in remembrance of me" and to "love one another, as I have loved you."

Tonight we will go to our new church for our first Maundy Thursday communion there. It's a "drop in" communion. You go on your own schedule and are given meditations and scripture to read while you wait to be taken into the sanctuary. When it's your time, you'll go with a small group to sit around a table in the front of the church.

All are given the chance to pray out loud or silently as we contemplate the Lord's supper of bread and wine. It's quiet. Very personal. Usually there are tears. I remember sitting with a mother who had lost her 8-year-old daughter to cancer. She said, "This table is my link to Elizabeth. Because of this table, I will see her and hold her again."

For me, the table brings me closer to mysteries that are just beyond my grasp. I accept the sacrifice and love, with gratitude and puzzlement. The bread is real, and though it's a symbol, it takes on meaning as I swallow and it becomes a part of me. The blood of the grape is intense, even in a small portion, and shocks my mouth as it floods it. I swallow though it seems odd to, as though I should hold it longer, perhaps forever, and this symbol of a love so deep the creator of the universe would die for me and lives for me also becomes a part of my mortal body. The color of the remnant in my glass even calls to me. This was something alive and now lives in you, deep and intense.

There is no magic. I will most likely not have any deeper understanding, though I will once again visit the mystery and ponder on it. I'll want to explain it to Lily, to make sure she understands, but she already knows what it means and why. And how can I explain that which I don't fully understand?

I wonder if she'll feel the intense and holy presence of the Holy Spirit as we gather? I wonder what her eyes will see in the eyes of the other believers gathered around the table?

I go with great hunger. And in those small tokens of bread and wine, my soul is fed.

Thanks be to God.

The Subway Salad I Couldn't Eat

I don't mean to pick on Subway here. We eat there a lot on road trips because we all like it and it can be a healthy choice.

But one day I got a salad there that I couldn't eat. Of course I was in a hurry. Of course there was a line at Subway, and the people behind the counter were in slow motion. I ordered a salad, which seemed like it should be fast and easy. It wasn't.

If it doesn't suit you to work behind the counter at a fast-food restaurant, you should perhaps consider finishing high school. But I didn't say anything. First the drop-out sullenly plopped some lettuce in a disposable bowl. She flicked the pieces that escaped back in. Then she plopped on the veggies I wanted -- tomatoes, cucumbers, olives. Then she took out the pre-assembled slabs of lunch meat and put them on the chopping-block counter.

With her knife, she began to cut the meat into strips. With every slice, she took off a fingertip of her plastic gloves. When all her glove fingertips were cut off and some had made their way into my salad, she sullenly picked the fingertips out of my salad and threw them away. Then she threw her gloves away and put on another pair.

I knew at that very moment that I would never, ever be able to eat that salad. Why I paid for it and walked out the door has no explanation. Perhaps, for once, I was speechless.

What would you have done?

Our Hot Date

In spite of the weather reports that a tornado was headed this way and we were all going to die (there were five or six tornadoes in S.C. on Saturday evening), we decided to go ahead and take Lily to her friend's Bat Mitzvah. We were lucky. The tornadoes passed north and south of us, and the reports of where it did hit were shocking and sad. Many homes were destroyed. Here's a story about one where the father is on his third tour of duty as a flight surgeon in Iraq. He hopes to be home by Wednesday to help his family. At least they still have their sense of humor -- their potbellied pig's house was tossed by the winds and landed upside down with the pig still in it -- they've changed the pig's name from Ellie Mae to Dorothy. Please pray for the victims here and in Georgia.

In a complete change of tone here, off to telling you about my hot date. It stopped raining where we were so we picked up two other 13-year-olds who were going to the Bat Mitzvah (none of them Jewish, so nobody knew what they were doing, though Lily has been to a Bar Mitzvah before). It was a big fancy party at a downtown hotel where a lot of St. Patrick's Day revelers were staying and revelling even though the festival had been shut down due to the weather. Next door to the ballroom where the Bat Mitzvah was was the Islam Grand Temple gathering. I thought that was funny. I think the Islam Grand Temple was not actually Islamic, but a black Masonic order -- the Jester's Club, to be precise. Lots going on. And here were our three 13-year-olds, looking a whole lot older in their cocktail (and Easter) dresses.

One mother said she was going to put nametags on them saying, "Hello. I'm 13." Would have been a good idea.

Anyway, here Paul and I were downtown, not dead from the tornado, and with three hours to kill. So we decided to have a very rare hot date. First we went to a fabulous Chinese dinner at a place with the best spicy-peanut salad dressing and everything so fresh and good. Then we went to a movie.

Only I had it wrong. Wrong theater. Wrong show time. Wrong planet. There was no movie we could see and be back in time to pick up Lily.

So, we did the thing old married people do on their hot dates. We sat in the car on the parking garage rooftop -- and took naps.

My Friend Just Lost 12 Pounds. Is She Still My Friend?

My neighbor, friend and walking buddy joined Weight Watchers about three weeks ago. She's lost 12 pounds. Is she still my friend?

Her husband's having a problem with this, too. You see, heart disease runs in his family and he's a smoker. She's been desperately trying to get him to quit smoking. He told her that when she loses 20 pounds, he'd quit. He thought he was safe. Now he's telling her to slow down.

My fat pants are tight. I can get bigger and buy new pants. I can get smaller and toss these fat pants. Which will I do?

How big can I get? Don't want to find out!

Envy can be a good thing. It says, "Though shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, ass or anything that is thy neighbor's." Did you see weight loss listed in there? I think it's okay if I covet my neighbor's weight loss -- especially if it inspires me to get healthier.

Can't have her giving me her fat pants when they're falling off of her, can I? So, in a surge of envy, I joined Weight Watchers online. I keyed in what I ate yesterday. I have 35 points for the week. I've already used 21. This can't be good. How long is a week?

I'll be going out to get legal food later today. Wish me luck -- or I may have to move.

Terry Pratchett Diagnosed with Alzheimer's

Terry Pratchett, one of Lily's and my favorite authors, has been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. I'm so sad. You can read the BBC story here. By the way, he's donated $1 million for Alzheimer's research. He's still writing but has quit driving. He said, "Personally, I'd eat the arse out of a dead mole if it offered a fighting chance.

"I am, along with many others, scrabbling to stay ahead long enough to be there when the cure comes along.

"Say it will be soon - there's nearly as many of us as there are cancer sufferers, and it looks as if the number of people with dementia will double within a generation."

In a separate, older story, I loved his response to J. K. Rowling's statement that she didn't know Harry Potter was a fantasy while she was writing it. Pratchett said:

"I would have thought that the wizards, witches, trolls, unicorns, hidden worlds, jumping chocolate frogs, owl mail, magic food, ghosts, broomsticks and spells would have given her a clue?"

I don't know whether people will be reading his work in 100 years, but he's certainly given a lot of pleasure and laughter to people during his lifetime. We loved the books about the young witch Tiffany Aching, and the other witches, too. We just finished Maskerade and are now listening to Wyrd Sisters.

I hope they find a cure for Alzheimer's. It's too late for my mother. I'm so sorry to hear about Pratchett. What a fine and wonderful mind.