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.

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.

The first item in this list is primo.  After that, I consider the events equally thrilling, so their order does not imply ranking.

1.        Singing a duet with my son Benjamin for a nursing home gig at Christmastime.   He was in junior high, but was already a baritone.  (Ben wryly attributed this precocious vocal development to all the steroids he has endured for asthma.)  It was joyful to me how well our voices blended, and….duh…I guess they should have coming from the same genetic heritage.

2.       Singing a duet of Amen (from 1963 film Lilies of the Field) with Clark Lash at meeting.

3.       Singing The Verdi Requiem (alto chorus member) with orchestra, guest soloists.  The Dies Irae with timpani —- omg!  Icing on the cake was the small, private party afterwards with some good people from Reading Choral Society and bass soloist Brian Gibson.

4.       Teaching the Sunday school song “The Lord Said to Noah” with full motions, standing up, sitting down and so forth to kindergartners at St. Mary’s R.C. School.  I remember  many times singing “Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory” with my arms outstretched to the sky and thinking “I am getting PAID to do this!  Wow!”

5.       Playing one of my choral compositions (AATTBB) on the piano for a Harvard music major and his gasping with delight at one part.

6.       Singing the Queen of the Night “Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen” aria (from Mozart’s The Magic Flute) in a voice lesson.  I always wanted to do it.

7.       Playing djembe with good, experienced fellow drummers.

8.       Singing in District and Regional choruses in high school.

9.       Teaching and directing the St. Mary parish children’s choir in my composition of the Our Father.  Also, hearing them singing it on the playground for fun because it is lively.                                  (Like God. Duh)

1                – Room for whatever the next biggie will be -

I had trouble understanding how a Berks Jazz Fest 2009 event belonged at a national historic site of an iron-making community which operated from 1771 to 1883.     I mean, there wasn’t even ragtime as these early citizens of the republic went about their daily lives.  They were the contra dance people, not the swing dancers.

However, all was explained after the Exeter Community Band (an under-rated gem of a group) wowed the crowd with its first few numbers.  Park Superintendent Edie Shean-Hammond informed the band and the audience that the Hopewell Furnace National Historic Site property was purchased by the federal government to become a “Recreation Demonstration Area” through the Work Projects Administration (WPA).  Restoration work was performed by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), so those men definitely would have been living at the time that jazz selections similar to those being performed by the Exeter Community Band were popular.  In addition, Ms. Shean-Hammond stated, World War II servicemen (more jazz listeners) worked on the site.  Therefore, she felt very confident that the spirits of those men were present and appreciative of the music.

Therefore, jazz does belong at Hopewell Furnace.  Perhaps it is not germane to the iron plantation days, but it is a part of the total story of this historic American site.

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.

Snow is an act of nature, an act of God.   However, people who do not directly profit from it whine and moan.  The radio and television announcers warn us to leave early for work because it is going to take longer.  Casual conversations at stores or mailboxes usually center on the negative features of God’s chilly white gift.  Municipalities are either praised or castigated on their road crews’ performance in “disappearing” the snow.  Snow gets dumped on left and right.

Westerners fight the natural.  We are SO wrapped up in control.  We want control and we want, often, to speed up nature.  However, there is another way to react.   In the tradition of the Tao philosophies, why don’t we embrace snow instead of fighting it?

For a chunk of my life, I worked in American public schools.  Public education seems to be one of the few operations that shut down quickly at the least threat of danger to its participants.  I assert that in doing this, they are one of the few sane and sensible institutions.  If conditions are dangerous, shouldn’t EVERYBODY go home?  Is it really going to matter if that report is delayed by two days or the garment isn’t finished today?

Yes, yes, we can think of some deleterious effects of delay – food spoilage, opportunities lost, and so on.  However, other than a few essential services such as emergency health care and fire- and crime-fighting,  I say that the world should accept a snow-induced work stoppage, embrace it, and savor it.   

Perhaps a reason I can indulge in squirrel watching and thus become enamored of the little rascals is my bizarre work hours.  I work a split shift:  7:00 to 9:30 AM and 2:30 to 6:30 PM.  This schedule permits plenty of daytime deck viewing.  However, I think that 8:00 to 9:00 AM is the ideal time for our neighborhood.  Weekends and weather-related work cancellations afford me access to this window of squirrel gazing.

Our squirrels are definitely morning creatures, as am I.  Just as dawn hints, they are up and checking for food in our feeders and bowls.  As day breaks, if there is bright yellow sunshine the squirrels and I position ourselves to maximize exposure.  For Seasonally-Affected me, I position myself at the eastern side of the house, straining my eyes and soul to absorb as much as possible of the life-giving warmth and light.  Strangely, some of the squirrels do a version of this as well.  The first priority, of course, is to see if food is available.  After gorging on food and water, sometimes a squirrel hops onto a rung of our deck railing to mentally prepare for yoga Sun Salutation.  It digs its toenails into the wood, braces itself against the wind, and thrusts its white-furred belly into the gold glow of the rising sun.

A squirrel wanting to feel the sun on its body  -  I totally understand.

As Uncle Jay, of Uncle Jay Explains the News , says: this Inauguration is going to be “momentous.”  It is our country’s first dark-skinned President and first dark-skinned First Lady.  Just as my parents never thought they would live to see people land on the moon, I did not think I would live to see an African-American president of the United States.  We are extremely pleased that we are witnessing these events in the progress of humankind.

I offer this prayer in honor of the occasion:

Dear Kind and Loving God of Goodness:

Please keep the Obama family, both the nuclear family and the extended relatives, safe in eye of your care.  Please have all the guardian angels and spirits on duty and all the apprentice angels in on the act.  Thank you for this momentous moment in the history of our country, a country that tries hard to do the right thing but sometimes stumbles.  Let the Inauguration Day be a joyful celebration of a fitting and proud step for our citizens and for all your purposes.

If you can immediately answer that question (as can I), then I know how old you are.  Or, at least I know your minimum age.  In fact, it was a great age-estimator question for me when I was dating “the second time around.”

Now for the rest of you, the particular Kennedy (because there certainly are a gaggle of them) is JFK, John Fitzgerald Kennedy.  He was the 35^th President of the United States, serving from 1961 to 1963.  Although I was a mere child with absolutely NO interest in the world beyond my immediate neighborhood, I was touched by his vitality and youth via osmosis from the mind-set  of the adult world.  Not only Americans, but much of the “free world” was enamored of him.   To say he was charismatic grossly under-describes his appeal.

Therefore, when he was gunned down in Dallas right before Thanksgiving, anyone who was age five or older had the tragedy’s events imprinted on his consciousness forever.  Everyone aware of it knows exactly where he or she was when she heard, exactly what part of the day she heard, and exactly how she learned it. 

For younger Americans, the day of the disintegration of the space shuttle Challenger in January 1986 may be equivalent.  For all who were aware, the attack of 9/11 2001 is the same.