One big happy family

I'm probably going to be writing about our family reunion now and then for months to come.

There were so many angles, so much tradition and richness and history that came together in a Glenmoore yard with the heat ebbing from the day, that I haven't really even begun to process it.

And, I can hear one of my multiple historian cousins say to me, who is to say that your point of view is accurate?

So let me say it before anybody else -- my perpective might not be that of the other 55 or so participants.

But boy, it was a bonnie affair.

I had convened the clan for reasons that relate directly to my own place on the family tree. With the exception of my sister, my family of origin is dead. I have always had warm feelings for all of my cousins, even the ones who were family memories from childhood. But as time went by, I have more and more felt the lack of an extended family.

My mother, and before that my grandmother were previous clan gatherers -- my great aunt Jennie the original Jackson family historiographer.

Knowing that all of these wonderful folks were out there -- and that there was no Hatfield-McCoy blood feud keeping us in enemy camps -- it seemed crystal clear that we needed a place and a time, and the reason would be evident.

Send out a casual email, and they would arrive, after multiple twists and turns, in pastoral Glenmoore. The invitation seemed easy -- and I figured the details would eventually spool themselves out.

And so, indeed, they did arrive, from Oregon and Atlanta, Washington, D.C. and Truro, Massachusetts, Maine, and Birmingham, Alabama.

We were gifted with a wonderful group of octogenarians, and one amazing nonogenarian. Seeing her hold court at breakfast this morning was a reminder of the blessing of good genes.

And then there were the children, teenagers, and young adults -- the "Facebook" friends who communicate via texting, messaging, and gaming. They eventually drifted off to discover each other.

We know we were Jacksons. And that we were proud to claim our heritage. But we hadn't had the chance to do it together. And, tout suite, we have a network, ties that bind -- a family for the twenty-first century.

And I am so grateful. Amazed. And awed.

Thankful, also, that the dead skunk, and vulture didn't reveal themselves on the back lawn until this morning.

Knowing what I don't know

It's almost time to get up -- I slept late this morning. And it's time for Inky to have a bite to eat. His routine (if it's not humiliating for them to say that cats do anything as normal as a routine) is to move from the foot of the bed, sit down next to me, and start vocalizing until I give in and move to the closet where I keep his food.

Today, however, he jumps on my stomach, kneads a few seconds (the guy is an efficient kneader) and closes his eyes. Like, purring, he could stay there for hours.

I don't know why, of all mornings, he decided to climb on my stomach. Perhaps he needed a little time close to the mammal he may think of as "mom." No one really know why cats purr, but his little black and white body reverbrates. And I'm not sure whether he's hungry, or could stay here for the rest of the day.

Probably not. But that's about all I can say, based on previous experience.

This past weekend a friend of mine drove with me down to Gettyburg. After a few hours hiking around, we decided to do a ghost tour after dinner. Gettyburg is allegedly one of the most haunted locations in the U.S., for obvious reasons.

Some of the stories seemed more convincing in the dark.

But do I know whether spectres exist? Of course not. I just know I don't want to see one, whether it's part of my imagination or no. At Pennsylvania Hall, the guide said that two women saw a field hospital, with a surgeon amputating --- and beckoning them to help him out?

And then there is the movie "Crash" which I just saw yesterday -- the white folk, like me, pissed me off through the whole movie.

And yeah, I know what some of the other groups did was bad (the only really virtuous person was Latino) but what the white guys did was much worse.

That being said, I wonder -- what would the movie look like from the perspective of a black friend? Another white friend?

Did the director want us to come out critical mostly of the white attorney, and gosh, his incredibly bitchy wife?

It seems that the more I experience the more ignorant I feel.

How about you?

Pennsylvania Hall pic is courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

A little time off

I'm off to hang out with my friend TH in Princeton, NJ today -- a chance to get a little physical distance on the past week.

I find I can't write about what has happened yet -- it's too raw, too painful. What a counselor pal of mine calls "secondary trauma", which apparently happens often to counselors, medical staff and people of the cloth.

We'll hike around, talk religion and politics (he's a much higher breed of journalist than I am), drink a little wine, and maybe have some vittles to go with that...

And perhaps I'll hear about his family in Paris, and other "stuff".

Princeton was my home for a number of years while I was young and more sane than I am now. I can't wait to see it again, in the company of someone who has been all around the world, seen more than I ever can, and hasn't been there yet!

Today

We just have to get through the service today.

Please continue to hold us in prayer.

We can't bear this alone -- particularly, his parents.

Not to mention all of his relatives, and friends, and those who loved him.

For, you see, they love him still.

Darkness

Yesterday came the call no pastor ever, ever wants to get.

A one-car accident. Two teens dead. One critically injured.

And in a little town, every one knows every one else. Last night parishioners told me of talk in the grocery store, neighbor to neighbor -- even the man who owns the filling station and went to get the car is connected to our parish.

We are plunged into mourning.

These are the details. The journey doesn't have any markers, except for the absolute certainty of grief.

Please pray for the parents of these babies.

And if you have a moment, pray for all -- our church, our town, our faith, as we walk in darkness together -- not even ready, yet, for the light.

C.A.D.

I told him I wouldn't write about the specifics on the blog, and I won't. Not that he deserves mercy.

But I'm a little worried. I'm losing my general air of skeptical distance.

Instead, I feel nauseated. Mostly, it's because I thought he was an honorable person -- until he turned out to be something else.

And I wonder, if most guys wouldn't do what these opportunists do -- if they thought they could get away with behaving like foxes in heat.

Another proposition issued -- and rejected. What's the harm?

Well, try being on the receiving end -- for years. It doesn't matter of they have letters after their last name. Who cares if they send you emails replete with typos, or freaking gilt-edged Hallmark cards.

The end result is the same -- the sense that they want to use you -- for one purpose only, and then move on.

If it had happened once, it might be mildly amusing. But there seems to be a trend.

It feels degrading -- disgusting. And, frankly, infuriating.

I know a lot of decent men, kind men -- mostly, they are married. Of course, that doesn't mean that all married men treat their spouses well. Or that it's better to be married and unhappy.

And I know these propositions speak more about the guys than about me.

But I must admit that the tide of murk that drips onto my computer screen has an effect on my self-esteem -- while the men who administer this punishment go blithely, and ignorantly, on their way.

The courage to say "no"

It's a good thing that I have friends in real life.

Friends to debate the ethics of capitalism (if such a thing exists) with over a beer or a hot fudge sundae.

Buds to walk with on those mornings when we can see our exhalations mist the chilly air.

Pals to climb along the rocks in the tropical humidity of midsummer.

Middle-aged moms and dads, writers and sextons, seniors and thirty-somethings who laugh at me and hold my hand and sometimes @#!*% me off.

Because if I had come inexperienced and innocent to this world of online relationships, friendships, potential romances and business ventures, I might think that they only needed the touch of reality to melt like an ice cream cone does in your hand on a summer's evening.

Saying "no" to someone you have met briefly in real life -- saying that you don't see a future for friendship or business association -- takes courage.

Possibly, the person on other end of email or phone call may argue with you.

Perhaps they may insult you.

Maybe they won't get it, and it will take a while.

But I keep remembering, whether I have met the person or not, that their emotions aren't "virtual."

And, perhaps most important of all, whether they are down on their luck, or grapple with mental illness, or aren't attractive to you personally, people aren't disposable.

I suspect that those who find it hard to say "no thank you" or to face conflict, or to work something through in real life also find it difficult online. It certainly is harder. But I still (knowing that sometimes I fail) believe it's worth the attempt.

If you can't say "no," then your "yes" becomes a rather cheap knockoff in a world in which authenticity is the rarest jewel of all.

If they aren't getting it?

Pick up the darned phone -- I'm pretty sure that communication is what Edison invented it for.