Speaking of Ruth...

Her last three posts are worth a plug from me. The comments afterward are also worthy of your perusal.

First, she wondered about the meaning of Communion in “Eat My Body, Drink My Blood.”

Then, she wondered whether Jesus might have told a lie in “Sinless, but not a Perfectionist.”

And for the third part of her trifecta, she topped it off with a beautiful photo and a quotation from Robert Browning, both of which cause the rest of us to wonder, in “Thought for a Sunday.”

Ladies and gentlemen, Ruth Hull Chatlien of Illinois!

If bandleader Lawrence Welk were still around, he might have added, “Wonderful! Wonderful!”

Chapter 4 of Ruth's story

My blogger friend Ruth Hull Chatlien up in Illinois posted Chapter 1 of a story (as yet untitled, but I’m suggesting “If You Play Your Cards Right”) a few days ago and invited other bloggers to add chapters in a sort of play-it-forward fiction meme. Some have taken her up on the challenge and more than one version of the story is currently underway. It’s a definite challenge, but I decided to play.

I chose to add to this version:

Chapter 1 (by Ruth at ruthchatlienblogspot) is at the bottom of Ruth's main page.
Chapter 2 (by Sherry at afeatheradrift)
Chapter 3 (by Jeannelle at midlifebyfarmlight)

After you have read the first three chapters, read my Chapter 4 below (the narrator's voice is Ruth, and I want to say here that I've never written -- or done anything else -- as a woman before). Or you can read Chapter 4 first and work your way backwards to Chapter 1. Or you can jumble the chapters up and read them in random order, but I don’t really know why anyone would want to do that. Or you can skip them altogether and just wait for the next post to come along.

If, after reading the story so far, you are moved to write a Chapter 5, feel free. Just include a link in your blog to this post and one to Ruth's blog as well.

Are you sure Penelope Ashe started this way?

-----------------------------------

CHAPTER FOUR
by Robert H. Brague (rhymeswithplague)

Feigning sickness, I left the zoo a couple of hours early, and anxiously headed north in my five-year-old, dark green Honda Accord. Ninety minutes later, having successfully navigated my way through the rush-that-left-early-to-beat-the-rush-hour traffic on the Interstate, I parked my trusty steed in the lot marked “SHORT-TERM PARKING” at Milwaukee’s airport and hurried into the terminal, nearly breaking a heel in the process. A quick glance at the big board overhead in the lobby told me that the next flight from L.A. would not be arriving for another hour. I breathed a little easier, found a sandwich shop, and ate someone’s idea of a nourishing meal.

As I left the restaurant and began to make my way to gate B-25 (I confess, I couldn’t help thinking, “Bingo!”), a well-dressed, grey-haired man in a dark suit, flanked by two uniformed airport security guards, exited an area marked “MEN” midway down Concourse B. We passed like ships in the night. I made a mental note that he looked dignified and downright senatorial, but at the same time, a little like a trapped animal. I couldn’t help wondering where his journey might be taking him. Mine took me further into the bowels of the airport.

Elliott’s plane, gleaming silver in the afternoon sunlight, was just pulling up to Gate B-25 as I arrived there and the telescope arms of the access ramps extended from the building, spider-like. Elliott was one of the last to leave the plane, and he was by himself. When he saw me waving, his blank face turned into a huge smile as he walked briskly toward me and took me in his arms. He kissed me like he meant it, and his hands managed to find places even my chiropractor seemed to have missed. I was thankful that the other passengers had already headed for the baggage claim area; I’m sure the warm blush I felt on my cheeks would have glowed even brighter under their gaze. “Not now,” I whispered in Elliott’s ear, “there will be plenty of time for that later.” Almost reluctantly, he took my hand in his and we walked together toward the baggage claim area.

Elliott fidgeted as we walked down the concourse into the terminal and I could tell he wanted to tell me something. Before he could form the words, however, the baggage claim area came into view and a murmur in the crowd at the carousel rose into what sounded like cries of alarm. “Oh, no,” he said, dropping my hand and running on ahead, leaving me to catch up with him on my own.

Slowly making its circumnavigation around the baggage carousel along with all the suitcases, trunks, garment bags, golf clubs, and water-skiing paraphernalia required for two hundred people to enjoy a Southern California vacation was a large metal cage surrounded by a crate of wooden slats that allowed its occupant or occupants to breathe. “Oh, my God,” someone said. My sentiments exactly, I thought.

How Elliott managed to convince the immigration authorities in Los Angeles to waive the usual period of quarantine and let him bring his surprise with him all the way to Chicago’s Northside Zoo himself is indicative of and a tribute to Elliott’s rather formidable powers of persuasion, which he had also used successfully on the officials of the airline. And what a surprise it was! Inside the crate was a sight I never expected to see: two young Komodo dragon lizards, each weighing perhaps twenty pounds, were hissing and spitting and exploring their new surroundings with their long, yellow tongues.

Since Elliott wanted to get the animals to the Zoo as quickly as possible, it was relatively easy for him to convince me to let him load the crate in the back seat of my Honda Accord. Though I agreed, I wanted no part of this expedition myself. Elliott’s tongue in my ear could be quite pleasurable on occasion, but a pair of curious Komodo dragons trying to reach me with their long, yellow tongues from a stinky cage in the back seat of my own car was not something I was ready to experience. Handing him my car keys, I told him, “Don’t worry about me; I’ll be along later.” As I turned to walk back to the terminal I didn’t care if I ever saw Elliott or his precious Komodo dragons again.

When I reached the terminal entrance, watching my only means of transportation grow smaller until it disappeared in the distance, I tried to figure out how I was going to get back home. I don’t carry credit cards, and I knew I didn’t have enough cash in my billfold to buy a plane ticket. I could afford a bus ticket, though, but not a taxicab to the station to boot. What was I going to do? Seeing a police car parked at the curb, I walked over to it and explained to one of the two officers standing next to the vehicle that I had been stranded unexpectedly. I asked if they could possibly give me a ride to the nearest Greyhound bus station.

“Well, Miss, it’s a bit unusual,” he said, “but I guess we could do that. I hate to see a damsel in distress. As a matter of fact, we were going in that general direction ourselves.” I tried to look grateful, but inside I was seething at Elliott’s total lack of consideration for me. “There’s just one thing,” the officer continued. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to ride in the back. With him. I’m sorry.” The officer opened the back door of the squad car, and I saw a well-dressed, dignified, grey-haired man wearing a dark suit, looking positively senatorial as he smiled at me and patted the seat. He seemed strangely reptilian, too, reminding me of the two passengers in the back seat of my own dark green Honda Accord, speeding at this very moment toward Chicago. I had no options left. I climbed into the back seat of the police car.

My well-dressed traveling companion pulled a deck of cards out of his coat pocket, lay them on the seat between us, and said, without introducing himself, “Would you care to join me in a game of gin rummy?” I didn’t, but he was already dealing the cards, and I’m a sucker for a good card game. I suddenly thought of my long-ago dream, and in the back of my mind I could almost hear my father’s voice -- or God’s -- saying, “You know, Ruth, it’s not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.” As the officer in the driver’s seat turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb, I breathed a sigh of resignation and tried to forget about Elliott, at least for the moment. Eager to see my hand, I picked up the cards.

(end of chapter 4)

Who is this woman and why is she holding a fish?

Here’s a hint: In 1984, she was both first runner-up and Miss Congeniality in the Miss Alaska beauty pageant.

Mother Goose: omniscient frequent-flyer or airborne busybody?

Somewhere in the dim, distant past I learned the following little poem:

Monday’s child is fair of face;
Tuesday’s child is full of grace.
Wednesday’s child is loving and giving;
Thursday’s child works hard for a living.
Friday’s child is full of woe;
Saturday’s child has far to go.
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

My first observation is that this poem is obviously very old because the word “gay” used to mean something besides what springs into many people’s minds nowadays. In fact, our old friend Wikipedia says the poem first appeared in print in Harper's Weekly on September 17, 1887.

My second observation is that Sunday is not really the Sabbath day. Ask any Jewish or Seventh-day Adventist person who is serious about his or her religion and he or she will tell you that the Sabbath begins at sundown on Friday and ends at sundown on Saturday. Christians began calling Sunday “the Lord’s day” very early. In fact, the apostle John wrote in the book of Revelation, chapter 1, verse 10: “I was in the Spirit on the Lord’s day, and heard behind me a great voice, as of a trumpet.” No mention of the Sabbath.

My third observation is that good old Wikipedia has an interesting article on the origins and versions of this poem, and rather than telling you myself, you can go read it here.

Before I begin sounding like a cross between old-time gossip columnist Louella Parsons (“My next exclusive!”) and one of the Puritan divines droning on (“Twenty-fourthly,”), let me ask you two questions: Do you know on what day of the week you were born? (I was born on a Tuesday.) More importantly, did Mother Goose have you pegged? (In my case, I certainly hope so; I need all the grace I can get.)

And then, of course, there is one little problem. Since the real Mother Goose -- if there was a real Mother Goose -- is said to have lived in the seventeenth century, she couldn’t have had anything to do with this poem.

In unrelated news, Jethro is getting groomed today.

Tuesday ramblings #6

Yes, it’s Tuesday again, but the outrageous rains of Tropical Storm Fay are beating against my window as I write this, and my widdle head doesn’t function at top level in extremely high humidity. Therefore, for this one Tuesday only, I refer you to my three immediately previous posts, “Now that the Olympics are over,” “WWACD?,” and “It’s Sunday. Let’s do something religious.”

I think the subjects of these three posts are wide-ranging and disparate enough to qualify as “ramblings.”

Please peruse them at your leisure.

Here are your vocabulary words for the week: bourgeois, plebian, patrician, vulgar, Vulgate, sesquipedalian, arthropod.

Be prepared, when tested, to give a definition of each word.

We can only hope and pray that by next Tuesday, Fay will have moved on.

Now that the Olympics are over

and the CLXXIXth Olympiad of 2608 is fading into history, we can all return to our busy lives until the CLXXXth Olympiad takes place just four short years from now in the year 2612. It is mind-boggling to realize that these games have been held for 712 years, ever since the first one was held in Beijing, China, back in 1896. Rumors of even earlier games in an ancient country called Gris persist, but have never been verified. Many of the competitions from the first hundred years or so of the modern games have fallen by the wayside, of course, especially since physical contact sports were outlawed by Our Great Leaders in 2392 in favor of more cerebral and artistic pursuits. You may also recall that feats of individual strength and endurance were dropped almost a hundred years later in 2488 because of objections raised by the Comprehensive Report of the Joint Commission of the International Alliance of the Weak and the Worldwide Congress of Losers, Simpletons, and Cowardly Persons.

We congratulate the latest stars in the Olympic heavens:

1) Auk Dingo of Tasmania, who won a coveted Tin Medal for Uninterrupted Navel Gazing. Auk established a new record of 83 hours, 17 minutes by outlasting the second-place finisher and winner of the Recyclable Plastic Medal, the formidable Ludmilla Ubetchurlifwithgrouchomarxova from the Georgian-Tibetan-Andorran Federation, the newest member of the Neo-Sino-Soviet bloc, who had held the old record of 83 hours, 16 minutes.

2) Miguelo Felpi of tiny Nord Amerik, who won an unprecedented seventy-three medals at the games. Miguelo, who handily swept past all other competitors in every event in the Dumpster Diving Division at the magnificent new Garbage Cube, told this reporter that his inspiration came from having learned that one of his remote ancestors had once achieved a measure of success in something called “swimming.”

3) Pinchuk Quadrilahmagong of the Gulag Archipelago, who cleaned the floor, toilets, and urinals of the Grande Stadiume’s Platinum Level’s men’s room using only a toothbrush, a box of paper towels, and sheer determination, thereby winning for himself not only the admiration of thousands but also a handshake from Our Glorious Leader, who wore gloves for the occasion. Pinchuk was awarded the most sought-after prize of the games, the Rubber Ducky with Double Plunger Clusters. These games marked only the third time in Olympic history that spectators have been allowed to continue to use men’s toilets and urinals on the Platinum Level of the Grande Stadiume during the competition, giving them a sense of ownership and a level of participation in the games not seen heretofore.

And so we bid a fond adieu, an adios, an au revoir, an auf wiedersehen, and, yes, even a sayonara to the games of the CLXXIXth Olympiad, and wait with ’bated breath for 2612, when, because of the constantly shifting patterns of global climate change, the summer and winter games will be held simultaneously in Waterloo, Iowa, the largest city in what's left of Nord Amerik. Two new sports, Corn Detasseling and Cow Milking By Hand, will be added into the mix of fascinating events you can expect to be watching at the next games.

See you in four years in Waterloo.

WWACD?

Continuing with yesterday’s theme (It’s Sunday; let’s do something religious), I had what for me was a very strange experience listening to the radio recently. We are now well into the 21st century, and in the Atlanta area, at least, that means one hears advertisements from churches smack-dab in the middle of news and talk-show programs. You know, where you go straight from Neal Boortz, Libertarian apologist, to “Hello, I’m Bryant Wright, and I’m the pastor of Johnson Ferry Baptist Church.” One minute you’re listening to Clark Howard, Consumer Advocate, tell you how to spend wisely and live well, and the next minute a new voice is saying, “...this has been a message from David Cooper, pastor of the Mount Paran Church of God.”

Well, old Doctor Bob Jones, Sr., founder of Bob Jones University, did once say many years ago, “There is no difference in the sacred and the secular. All ground is holy ground, and every bush is a burning bush,” but there’s still something a little jolting about suddenly hearing a commercial for a church in the middle of, say, Sean Hannity’s program. It’s just bizarre.

I may be a little too comfortably ensconced in my little corner of the evangelical world, but I was surprised one day recently to hear, just after Scott Slade had concluded the hourly news update, a pitch for the Episcopal Bookstore at The Cathedral of St. Philip in Atlanta. I mean, I’m aware there are such things as Christian bookstores -- Family Bookstore used to be Zondervan, for example, and what is now called Lifeway used to be the Southern Baptist Bookstore -- but I wasn’t even aware there was such a thing as an Episcopal bookstore. Imagine that! It made me want to run right over there and buy one of those WWACD bracelets (and, no, they weren’t mentioned in the commercial).

You know, What Would the Archbishop of Canterbury Do?