ThingsPondered

(Warning: Not for the weak-stomached or faint of heart.)

In late winter 2003, the United States of America had a President named George W. Bush.  He was, at that time, exploiting the 9/11 attack on our country in order to promote war on Iraq.  This war-making would be very beneficial to his and his friends’ financial interests and, he hoped, to his political career.  A rather weak-willed citizenry followed him like the proverbial drove of dumb sheep.

It was my blessing (or curse) to see then that this would be another Vietnam-like fiasco and waste of lives.  Thus, I participated in a march for peace (also known as anti-war) in the nation’s capitol.  This was on the Ides of March, 2003.  A month later, the USA entered the protested war. 

For the sake of historians who relish primary sources, I would like to publicly report the text on signs of my fellow marchers.  A thorough knowledge of the players, allies, scapegoats, and the nation’s mood and contemporary pop culture will be needed to understand some of the messages. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

How did our oil get under their sand?

Read my apoca-lips.

Dad, I need money for gas.  Can I start a war?

Chiracq for American president.

Merci, France!  Danke, Deurschland!

Empty warheads in White House.

W stands for wrong.

The Pope, France, Germany, and Daddy can’t all be wrong.

Make love on a rock.

Drunken draft dodger drives country into ditch.

Bush: war-whore.  Whose missile is bigger?  (This accompanied by racy cartoon drawing with a missile replacing a male anatomical feature.)

(A sign carried by a young woman:  ) 

The only BUSH I trust is my own.

We know Saddam has the weapons because we have the receipts.

Support our troops:  Bring them home!

Tea for peace delegates                                    $325

Conference room                                            $1,80

Hotel rooms                                                     $3,445

           PEACE                                                   PRICELESS!         

I miss sex in the White House.

Who would Jesus bomb?

I’m in shock but not in awe.

Frodo has lost.  Bush has the ring.

No child left behind really means send them to Iraq.

(On an 8-year-old boy’s T-shirt:  ) 

Am I collateral damage?

A sandwich-board sign on a jack Russell terrier…

(One side) Little Dog for Peace.

(Other side) He’s not my President!

Now, in 2009, many more people agree with the marchers.  A bit late, I say.  Hopefully, we will finally remember history so as to avoid being condemned to repeat it.

With much irony:  Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. *

Maren E. Morgan-Thomson

·         *It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.

I am saying goodbye to a special place.  My mind, intuition, soul, heart, and soon bank account, know it is the proper time to pass it to the next family.  Therefore, there are no regrets mixed into my aches.  Nevertheless, it goes hard with me, saying goodbye to my sanctuary.  Sunlight, ubiquitous wood, glass doorknobs, porcelain kitchen sink, tiles from 1937, a back garden framed with tall privet hedges like “the secret garden.”  May the next wonderful family’s guardian angels watch over them as they love and create a home in this space.  And, may my guardian angels quickly take me to my next sanctuary.

All this hullabaloo over dead Michael Jackson!  I think there is a clash between reality versus “hero-fication” of the artist.   The USA is feeling the need for a hero right now, and posthumous production insures that the object of worship won’t do anything embarrassing or unworthy of the honor.

Michael contributed to the pop music scene.  He had some good tunes.  And, yes, he composed or contributed to the composition of some of them.  His team produced some good music videos.  And, yes again, Michael actively contributed to the creative process for some.

Michael’s personal life is rather well-known.  He was not perfect.  And, his life was darker than a “run of the mill not-perfect.”  Some would say he was dangerously mentally ill: especially his attitude towards children.

When honoring someone for career achievement, should personal life have a bearing?  You decide.

In my book, whether or not personal life is considered, Michael Jackson was not so exemplary or artistically creative to deserve the huge accolades some are bestowing.  MANY other musicians and performers are more worthy of honor.

The four-county area near Boyertown has gained a sought-after artisan typically found only in the largest of metropolitan areas. Djembe builders and repair masters are a rare breed in central Pennsylvania.  Fortunately, we now have one!  A hearty welcome extends to Doug Libby, proprietor of Alive Drumming, with locations at Zern’s Farmers Market, Gilbertsville, and South Jersey.

The djembe is a hand-drum  - not one of the drums seen in rock bands. Originating from West Africa, it is made from a tree trunk carved into modified hourglass shape.  Traditionally, the drum head is made of goatskin.  With the increased appreciation of world music, the djembe’s popularity in the United States has steadily increased over the last twenty years and is now frequently the staple instrument played in drum circles.

Doug glows describing what he likes about djembes.  “Every time I play, especially in our drum circles, I feel so cleansed from daily stresses, almost like a spiritual renewing of some sort…I have learned that the djembe is a very powerful instrument.  Djembes are used in healing ceremonies, they are used for calling spirits within the spiritual world that we are surrounded by, and are used just to have fun.”  Doug is also drawn to the spiritual nature of the djembe drum. “The djembe itself is known to carry three spirits: the spirit of the tree that it is carved from, the spirit of the goat that is used for the head of the drum, and the spirit of the drum maker.” 

Doug first became interested in djembes about seven years ago.  Like many Americans, he really didn’t know much about them.  However, while attending The Swagg’s Greatful Dead Tribute concert in Kansas City, he witnessed his first drum circle.  “I was in awe and really amazed by the trancing beats that were being played.  It was at this show I bought my first djembe from a drum vendor.  My first djembe was a mini baby djembe - a  perfect size for a beginner’s drum.”

After that concert in Kansas City, Doug and a group of friends in Missouri started their own drum circle every Saturday night.  “We called it ‘another Saturday night’ after a well known Grateful Dead song.  At first we didn’t have too many hand percussion instruments.  One of my best friends Paul would actually play on pots and pans … They sounded awesome.  We eventually purchased a Conga set, and some more djembes.” 

Doug’s musical journey continued while on active duty with the Navy.  When he transferred to the Willow Grove Navy Air Base, he wanted to get involved with the drum scene in the Philadelphia area.  “But just playing wasn’t enough for me.  I had a deep interest in building these sacred instruments,” Doug explains.  He found Conrad, a drum builder, online and began email correspondence.  After attending a workshop with this Philadelphia area builder on how to rehead djembes, they slowly built a friendship.  Doug began an unpaid apprenticeship working for Conrad in his shop trying to learn as much as he could. 

Doug relates, Conrad’s work is “so amazing.   My apprenticeship lasted on and off for about a year. I knew my apprenticeship was over when he started to offer money to work for him.  It was such an awesome moment when that time came.”  Through this spiritual skill path, Doug has left the Navy, opened his own drum shop, and can devote time to his wife and baby boy.

It is impressive that Doug incorporates spirit and energy practices in building a drum.  Doug shares, “I like to smudge each step with White Sage to cast any bad energies from the drum and draw in good energies resulting in a pure drum.  That gives out positive energies each time it is played which are spread to others.” 

Alive Drumming is located at Stand # 4 at Zern’s Farmers Market on Route

73 near the intersection with Route 100.  The email address is douglas_m_libby@yahoo.com.  It is well worth a visit to this shop.

Dictionary of Wilzbach-isms

Since my mother came from a partially German-speaking family, many of our household words were some sort of colloquialisms or creations with a Cherman flavor.  I hope relatives who may remember more of these Wilzbach vocabulary words will add to the list.

I have guessed at spellings.  Generally, in my renditions both a “u” and the “oo” are pronounced as the “u” in “put,” such as “Put the milk back in the refrigerator.”

Bruntz = brunts  (verb) to urinate

Brunser = BRUN-zer  (noun) a boy

Brunshilda = BRUNZ-hil-da  (noun) a large woman or large girl.  Think Valkeries.

Futsnipper = [pronunciation exception: U is pronounced as the “u” in “cut.”] FUT-snip-per  (noun) a person who is delaying things by obsession with minor details.  Literally, it means fart-cutter.

Goonk = gunk (noun) nose mucous

Grootzely = GRUT-sul-lee (adjective) annoyed, irritable, out of sorts

Machs nichts = mox NIX (sentence) it doesn’t matter, it makes no difference

Runtz = runts (noun) a mischievous, joke-playing yet lovable person

Runtzing or runtz  (verb) = making light-hearted mischief

Schlutz cloth = SHLUTS-cloth  (noun)  a blanket used by a toddler for comfort when going to sleep, for accompaniment to thumb sucking.  In the A & T Morgan household, it was a specially designated old, clean cloth diaper.

Schmecks = shmeks (sentence) With voice going up at the end of the word, it is a question: Does it taste good?  Or with voice staying level or dropping at the end of the word, it is a statement:  It tastes good.

Stroobled = STRUB-uld (adjective) messed up, especially for appearance such as hair or clothing

Tonight I met an angel.  Correction: I already knew him, but tonight he revealed to me the angel he is.   I accidentally learned that he is much more than one of us grunts showing up at work to get the paycheck.  

I do ancillary work in a public elementary school.  I’m there in the wee hours of the morning and again in the evening.  With these hours, I’ve gotten to know many of the behind-the-scenes staff.  Don is the head custodian.  Maybe in other parts they call such folks janitors or maintenance people.  Anyway, he’s one of the guys who gets all the fun toys to work with: that big wringer bucket on wheels, floor buffers, moving dolleys, and the keys to every single room.

While I was cleaning up my area, Don was taking a quick break, chatting with other custodians within earshot of my room.  They were talking about work schedules and he brought up that he had off on Friday but that he might come in for a few minutes.  Why?  Why in the world? It seems that there is a boy in first grade who has developed quite a bond with him. Don and the child’s teacher have worked out an arrangement in which Jake gets to shadow Don for five or ten minutes every day.  On one particular day when Don was at work but coming down with one of the nasty germs that go around every winter, the teacher suggested that Jake pass on the helping because Mr. Don was not feeling well.  As Don put it, Jake’s whole self just sort of deflated.

It seems that Jake doesn’t have a father.  At all.  Nada.  Never – as far as the mother is concerned.  So, little Jake doesn’t have dad’s name, doesn’t have a pre-divorce memory, or even an entire paternal side of the family.  While Don isn’t trying to overstep his role, he sees how important it is for this little tyke to have a positive, caring adult male in his life.  And THAT is why he is going to pop in for ten minutes on his day off.  Not for overtime pay, not for glory and honor.  Just for little Jake.  He’s an angel.

the world who you are: 

just start talking.

Failure to Conjugate Third Person Singular

                    a/k/a

        Don’t say Don’t with he

Santa Maria, Madre de Dios!  There are many languages more

complicated

(MUCH more complicated)

than English. 

We are talking PRESENT tense – also not a huge

challenge.  In English, generally we use the same exact verb (action word

for you Wal-Mart devotees) with five of the six types of people groups. 

The is action word identical for: I, you –singular, we, you-plural, and

they.  Therefore, we need only learn one other form of the verb to

complete our vocabulary.  Why, then, do you insist on declaring to the

world that you are happily locked into the lower class?  

It seems to be a badge of honor to talk like a country-western song.  I

know you are not stupid people.  You have many skills, talents, and

bodies of knowledge.  You can run rings around so many of us with your

expertise in myriads of arenas. Yet, you persist in trashing English when

the solution is SO SIMPLE.  There is even a pattern:  often all that is

required is adding an “s” or an “es” to the verb used for the five other

pronouns.

Examples:  I do, you do, He does.

Therefore, when the word “not” is part of the sentence, we have: I don’t,

you don’t, he doesn’t.

Try it.  It is easy, truly.

Why does it need to be so late on the east coast?  Can’t our fellow Americans in the Pacific Time Zone watch a game that starts at 2:00 PM their time?  I do not see obstacles to that.  If that could happen, then the east coast people will be watching starting at 5:00 PM their time – certainly an appropriate time for scarfing down all the wings, pizza, beer, chips, and so forth.  As for the Californians, they can take a turn for a few decades of “needing” (?) to eat Superbowl foods at a time they might not normally eat in the middle of their afternoon.  The Superbowl commercials will be just as funny.

The end of January/ beginning of February is cold and dark, and possibly full of bad weather conditions,  for half of the east coast at the traditional Superbowl starting time.  If party guests are drinking spirits, then they possibly have the alcohol to process before they can head home,.  Late, late, late night for adults and some children.  On a school night.  On a work night. 

It’s time for a change.

Let’s explore the common features.  Both give the viewer unvarnished pictures of Indian poverty.  Furthermore, both focus on children for the majority of the story.   In addition, the films were made in the last 5 years by Brits in India, although Slumdog is more of a cooperative effort between Brits and Indians.

Slumdog was completed in 2008 and is in theatres now (January 2009.)  Its story occurs in the city of Mumbai (Bombay.)    Although it is not officially a Bollywood film, it contains many of the Bollywood elements such as melodrama, star-crossed lovers, and much good music.  In contrast,  Born is a 2004 documentary, transpiring in Kolkata (Calcutta.)  It won an Oscar in 2005 for best documentary, whereas Slumdog has yet to be judged.  Slumdog is listed as R-rated comedy-drama, which is a good way to describe it, though I think that it comes close to fantasy, as well.  Many things are left unexplained or poorly developed, asking the viewer to willingly abandon expectations of credulity.  On the other hand, as Born is a documentary – it is totally true in revealing its happy or less-than-happy endings for various characters.   Many newspaper reviews call Slumdog a feel-good movie, but I beg to differ.  The many instances of graphic violence in Slumdog surprised me and did not make me feel good.  Furthermore, I think that Born is much more uplifting because it is more than “possible;” its happy resolutions are real.

One thing I am glad both pix do is contribute to American knowledge and respect and probably appreciation of things Indian.  Sometimes, persons in the U.S. focus on perceived negatives of the brother and sister humans who do not speak English or worship in Judeo-Christian establishments.  Both of these movies draw the viewer empathetically into the very difficult and courageous lives of the characters.  The films succeed in changing Indian people from “them” into “us.”

(Some names have been changed.)

Most Roman Catholic grammar schools are connected with a church.  St. Munificentia R.C. School followed form.  The precious jewel of a church was a high-spired landmark in the Polish ghetto of a medium-sized Pennsylvania industrial town.  Even as recently as fifteen years ago, the tight-knit neighborhood had arrivals of newcomers from Poland and the eastern European countries.  The parish of St. Munificentia qualified, in the eyes of the diocese, as an ethnic parish.  This means that Polish-American Catholics living outside the geographic bounds of the neighborhood were permitted to belong.

The school of St. Munificentia served the parish plus that of St. Patchoulicus, whose parochial school had closed.  Therefore, the students were blessed with the care of priests from both churches.

St. Patchoulicus is an easy ten-block walk from St. M.  However, there truly was a world of difference.  Better said, it was a different part of the world which settled in that parish’s environs.  Our superb immigrants from Vietnam somehow selected this neighborhood in Pennsylvania’s land of opportunities.  We are very fortunate that they did, because their work ethic and desire to become contributors to the community were inspirational.

Students at St. Munificentia went to Mass every single Friday.  Spelling tests and Mass were a good way to end a week.  Because of the school affiliation with two parishes, the priest celebrating the pupils’ Mass could be from either church.  I particularly remember two. 

Father Ubiquitous could have won at James Cagney impersonations.  His heart and soul were in exactly the right place: he gave up a room in his rectory quarters to a child in his parish struck paralyzed and mute by a tragic accident.  If that is not living the faith, I don’t know what is.  However, Father U. is notable in my mind for another practice.  When he led the children’s Mass at St. Munificentia, he absolutely, always, always cut short his sermon – homily with the excuse that he was sure we all had things we needed to be doing and he did also.

Gruff Father Lione, on the other hand, gave great care to his homily for the Masses at which he knew the children would attend.  His homilies were a perfect amalgam of a message for children and a few “hidden” bits of humor for adults.  Nothing off-color (Heavens no!), just grown-up experiences.  They were similar to a good Muppets sketch, and since I was not Catholic, I felt free to laugh out loud.  However, his children’s parts were not cutesy; they were rather stern and required paying attention because he often asked a few questions.  Then, the brave among the children (this includes all first graders, universally) would raise a hand.  If he pointed to the child, that student would quakingly stand up and give an answer in the echoing cavernous gorgeous church.   Fortunately, Father Lione appreciated the bravery, so would not skewer or embarrass any child giving an incorrect answer.

These Masses were a golden moment.