............Sipress cartoon from The New Yorker, 3/10/08, p. 91
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Behind the altar in the Baptist church of my childhood was a velvet curtain. If I ever did think about it as my mind wandered during Sunday services, I’d have thought it was simply a decorative touch, a bit of burgundy (or was it gold??) that matched one of the colors in the stained glass windows.

When I was about thirteen, my church-going contemporaries and I were herded into a baptismal class. The lessons “taught” to me there didn’t stick in my memory – but for the revelation that a large concrete water trough had been secretly lurking behind that velvet altar backdrop, and that one by one my classmates and I were going to be paraded into that tub and get our heads wet. In all the years past, church folks had been smart enough to do this sort of thing after all the young kids were sent down to their Sunday School classes. None of us had previously witnessed this strange event.

On “the big day” we donned some sort of white cotton choir robes, got in line, and then one-by-one waded into the tank. The water was waist-high, the minister asked me the pertinent questions, I answered as I’d been instructed to, and SPLOOOSH: the bastard tipped me over backward and under water. Apparently I came out of that tank a saved Christian; in reality I decided this religion was for the birds, or maybe the fish.

At some time after “organized religion” was washed out of me, some family friends came to visit. Their daughter Donna Jean and I were the same age but of ever more differing interests, making it harder and harder to know what to do during these occasional social get-togethers, and on this Sunday I said, “Why don’t we sew? We could make something.”

Donna Jean looked a combination of horrified and all-knowing while proclaiming, “Don’t you know that every stitch you take on a Sunday will be a stitch of pain before you die?” I must say that I didn’t know that…but not wanting to push her into doing something that she obviously felt was wrong (and apparently dangerous), I answered something like, “Yeah, oh, well, we don’t have to sew.”

My logical brain scoffed. I already had one foot planted in my father’s agnosticism and was secretly turning away from my mother’s Baptist church, and Donna Jean’s nonsense was laughable. Or was it? My mind raced. Had I sewn anything on a Sunday before?? I had. Yikes. Could Donna Jean’s proclamation be true?? Nah. But could I be sure?? Pain scared me. Building up a large cache of stitches of it that would have to be endured before death scared me not a little. We didn’t sew that day, nor did I sew on a Sunday for many, many years.

I’ve had pain now and then in the years since God’s ways were revealed to me by Donna Jean. Maybe I’m paying down the cache. Or maybe there’s a Christian equation that looks something like this:

(Life allotted) + (Sunday stitches sewn) – (Pain stitches experienced) = Time Remaining

Who knew God was a mathematician?
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The Great American...... -.Off .

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For the past couple of weeks, our little local food co-op has been having a run-in with Corporate America. I could tell the tale, but perhaps you'd like to click on this link to hear what the NATIONAL NEWS COVERAGE has to say.

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I couldn't help weighing in, nor can I resist sharing my thoughts with you, dear readers. What follows is a copy of my letter to the heads of General Mills and Pillsbury:

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Dear Mr. Sanger and Ms. Chugg:

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Regarding the recent unauthorized use of your Bake-Off trademark by the Potsdam (N.Y.) Community Co-op and the subsequent threat made against them by your legal department, I say a resounding GOOD FOR YOU!!!

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Just because these country rubes want to have a baking contest to raise money for a local food pantry does not give them the privilege of using your time-honored and esteemed trademarked phrase. Corporate America must stand tall, General Mills must protect itself, and I am happy to know that your legal team is on the ball and ready to throw all of their expertise in the way of this shameful usurpation of your brilliant trademark.

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Even more disgraceful than these simple folks trying to make a few dollars to help the needy (obviously at General Mills' expense) is the fact that even though your attorneys have succeeded in intimidating the Co-op into changing the name of their annual charity bake-off to a Baking Contest, they have not been able to control the sentiments of the many residents of northern New York who have taken to calling the event The General Mills Fuck-Off! Have they no shame?

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I am buoyed by my belief that the noble cause shall win in the end. General Mills must stop the Co-op's use of your sacred, patented phrase. Failure to do so will cause a domino effect: first the Co-op; next, the local 4-H Clubs will be Baking-Off; and then - heaven forbid - the local Humane Society will be doing it. From there, your sales will slump, your profit margin narrow, and your stock will begin to tumble. Had your legal team been less vigilant, it would be frightening to consider all of the consequences.

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For your courage and nobility, you will be in my thoughts each time I gaze lovingly at a frozen tube of Pillsbury cookie dough. Fight on, Mr. Sanger and Ms. Chugg, and God bless America.

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Sincerely,

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And here is a photo of the business posing the terrible threat to Mr. and Ms. Doughboy: Go ahead and click on the link below the picture for a more intimate look at the Bake-Off.

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......................The Potsdam Co-op

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In Harmony

It's a struggle to get Grandson into a bathroom in any of the Ottawa museums because their thrones are all watched over by The Electric Eye, the master of the great, sudden, sucking, high-decibel, child-devouring flush. Grandson is absolutely terrified of those automatic toilets.

I can get him to go with me into the Women/Femmes - when he gets desperate enough - if I use a combination of reassurance ("I've already been in there, and they really aren't that loud") and a bite of the reality sandwich ("You're dancing, you have to go, and if you don't go pretty soon, you're going to wet your pants"). Once convinced/strong-armed, we get into a stall and I shut the door. This is when it gets dicey. Imagine being contained in a 3 x 4' space with a kid who is suddenly startled and sent into terrified flight... a kid who has a running garden hose he can't let go of. Sometimes I get the monster to flush immediately (as soon as the door is locked and he can't escape and before he gets his belt unbuckled) so as to prove that the automatic flush isn't as bad as he imagines, but that tactic undermines future trust in Grandma.

Exacerbating the whole matter is the fact that the ever-diligent Electric Eye can't seem to figure out what to do when it detects the movements of two people in the stall. Like the ass-kisser that it truly is, the E.E. invariably flushes more than once, making the point that it is never lax in its duties.

Our last museum visit was to what Grandson calls "the dinosaur museum" (otherwise known as The Museum of Nature). We had a great time and managed to survive the one and only toilet encounter, then we found an Ethiopian restaurant for dinner. To his great relief, this eatery was in an old building with an old bathroom...

The meal was spicy and very good, and eaten with your fingers: small mounds of food are placed on a large crepe-like injera. You tear off a small piece of the injera and use it to pick up a "pinch" of one food or another, so no silverware is needed. Grandson enjoyed it and seemed completely oblivious to the fact that we were practically the only white folks in the place.

After dinner we began the drive home, and as we traveled along the four-lane I turned to the back seat and said, "You know, we all have fears, things we're afraid of." Grandson was quick to reply, "I'm afraid of flushing toilets and the boiler." (The boiler "lives" in our mudroom and has terrified him irrationally since he was very young). I said, "Yes, I know you are, and I wish I could take away your fears."

A beat of silent thought; then, "Well I'll talk to Jesus about that."

I answer that sure, that might be a good idea, and I sound like I mean it. His parents take him to church, and apparently he's soaking up the message. Okay, I think, I used to believe in Jesus. And Santa Claus. And the Easter Bunny. If it gives him comfort in this world, that can only be a good thing.

A minute later I start to say something and he says, "Be quiet, Grandma, Jesus is whispering in my ear." (!) I obey, wait another minute, and then ask, "So what did Jesus tell you?"

"That these fears are okay for me to have."

"Well, that's good," I say, and Husband and I suppress amazed giggles.

A day later, it was Husband who made the musical connection. We had been listening to a Lucinda Williams CD on the way to Ottawa that morning. One of her songs, Lake Charles, contains the lines:

Did an angel whisper in your ear
Hold you close
Take away your fears
In those long, last moments

There is a game Husband and I sometimes play. We'll be discussing some event or topic, and he'll say, "Okay Wizard, what's the song?" I then quote a line from the lyrics of a song that succinctly sums up the point of discussion. (I know a lot of songs). Without realizing it, I had borrowed the third line from Lucinda's chorus when I told Grandson I wished I could take away his fears. What warms this grandma's heart is that apparently he remembered the lyrics too, and his reply made use of the first two lines.

Gone to the Woods!

This week I'm off to attend a photography workshop in the southwestern Adirondacks. Got my camera gear, a notebook computer, clothes for all kinds of weather, kayak, sleeping bag, and high hopes for learning a lot!

I leave you with a very short story:

This afternoon we harvested our onions, squash and carrots with the help of 5-year-old Grandson. He especially enjoyed pulling out the carrots, always surprised and charmed by the unexpected sizes and sometimes twisted shapes. He also got a kick out of carrying any worms we found over to the compost pile (not for any reason other than he thinks worms like the compost pile). Here's a carrot that made him laugh out loud:

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"Grandma, look! This one has a penis!"
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A good, happy and healthy week to each and all of you!

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