More Dream Diary

Last night I had a very good dream.  It was so good I forced myself to get up at 2:30 a.m. and write it down before I forgot it as I knew I would.

The dream began as a jumble of things.  I was sleeping in my mother’s bedroom but I had to get up and go to a distant country road to see who was in a truck that would be coming down the road.  It was all a part of some mystery.  I was in my nightgown so I grabbed my mother’s robe off the back of the door and headed out on foot into the night to the road which just happened to be the road near my daddy’s old homestead.  I was watching a mystery unfold like a spectator, but I was a spectator who was actively involved.  It was like watching a movie except I was an extra with one line to deliver.

After that jumbled bit I started for home, and on the way I encountered some farm animals that were mine and they followed me and repeated letters I gave them to say.  I was teaching them how to talk.  Instead of going home I knew I had to go to a prayer service my sister, the pesky one, had arranged for my daddy who was away somewhere.  It was going to be a sing.  The room was actually a pod, like an airplane, and it was very dark in there.  But there was a back wall with a large open window and the scene beyond was so beautiful it was like paradise.  It was a pastoral scene at sunrise with a light spray of water, like a fountain, in the foreground.  I knew I had to get a picture so my sister told me I could go get my camera.  So off I went, talking to animals on the way there, got my camera and came back, talking to the animals again.  They were so much fun. I'm still in my nightgown and robe, by the way.

When I got back to the pod I had to squeeze in and make my way to the front of the room which was really in the rear.  The light had changed so the scene wasn’t as breathtaking as before, but my sister had already started the program so I had to sit down and sing.  We were singing obscure songs from the musical Oklahoma.  I didn’t know the words but there was sheet music to use, so I sat down next to Becky and left an empty seat for Julius who was not there yet.  We sang a couple of songs and then I heard Daddy in the back of the room say, “Let’s just talk to each other.”  My first thought was, “Oh, he made it after all.”  He began singing in his serious voice.  Daddy’s serious singing voice was very soft and very low with a slight quiver, and that is the voice he used to sing these words, “Oh, what a burden, my God, ba ba ba ba bom, to…” By the “to…” no one knew the rest of the words so the song just faded off.

It was then my conscious began to surface over my subconscious and I realized that I had just heard my daddy’s voice from heaven, and he wanted to spend his few seconds to “just talk to each other.”  I then came fully awake but had to lie there in the dark with my eyes closed and repeat it all to myself so I would not forget.  Then I got up and wrote it all down.

As I was getting back in bed my tablet, which I had set to charge last night, suddenly lit up.  I guess it does that when the charging is done.  The ironic thing is the wallpaper photo on my table is the picture above.  The people in the photo are my daddy’s family.  He is the only one missing in the photo which leads me to believe he’s the photographer.  I got up to turn it off fully expecting to see him appear in the picture.   That’s how close he felt at the moment.

My daddy sang to me last night, and oh, what a blessing it was.  Thank you, God, for giving him a minute off.  I know heaven is a busy place with many things to do.  And thank you, Daddy, for stopping in for a brief visit.  I appreciate you taking the time to sing to me.

Food for thoughts

Fall is finally showing its golden presence.  The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and there’s a wee nip in the air.  This combination of goodness puts me in the mood for two things - cooking and changing out my closet.  I’m never really in the mood for changing out my closet but October is going to be a busy month for me, and if I don’t get it done this weekend it won’t get done until sometime in November.  And I really don’t want to be wearing white capris and cotton lawn blouses in November.  Fall is the time for denim, fleece and flannel even if South Mississippi temperatures still hover around 80 until Christmas.  Fall is fall, by golly, and I plan to dress like it even if I have to carry a handkerchief to dab the dew off my forehead.

When it comes to cooking, though, I’m not as seasonal.  I cook the same foods year round with the exception of dressing at Thanksgiving.  That’s the one time in the year I cook dressing since I only know how to prepare it for 25 people instead of just four.  But since there is a snap in the breeze today I decided to stay with a fall feel and throw together a pot of chili. 

I’m more of a throw-it-all-in-one-pot cook anyway.  Soup, stews, chili, spaghetti sauce, and dried beans are my specialties.  Cook it one pot, eat it in a bowl.  That’s how my children are going to remember my cooking when they are my age.  My children are going to write about me one day and say, “Gee, I sure do miss mom’s beef stew; meat, potatoes, and vegetables all there together in one bowl.  Mmm boy, that was some good cookin’!” 

While my chili was simmering I had a flashback of my mother’s cooking.  She was not a one pot cook.  She cooked in many pots and served multiple dishes with each meal.  We never just had spaghetti.  We would have spaghetti and a vegetable or two and fried chicken and maybe even potato salad.  I never said she was a healthy cook.  Her food was flavorful, comforting, and inviting but rarely was it healthy.  The meal I was thinking of this morning was a typical Sunday lunch of roast beef, baked broccoli and cheese, mushrooms sautéed in butter, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn and/or green beans, cucumber and tomatoes in Italian dressing, U-Bake rolls and dessert.  

As good as her meals were her desserts were even better.  Mama rarely made one of anything.  She didn’t make one pie she made four.  She might make one cake but it was as large as two.  I remember coming home from school one day and the entire kitchen table (and it was a big table) was covered entirely with cinnamon rolls.  She was on a cinnamon roll kick that year.  The same can be said of her dalliances in pecan tassies, cupcakes, Rice Krispy treats, and brownies. 

I do so much miss my mother’s cooking.  I miss her, of course, but I’ve missed her cooking for much longer.  She stopped cooking after her bout with West Nile in 2005.  That dreadful disease zapped her of her energy and her memory.  One little mosquito took it all away.  

I may be a one pot cook but I try to put as much love into cooking as Mama put into hers.  Maybe that is why it tasted so good.  She truly enjoyed cooking it and she truly loved to see her family enjoy it.  Now if only I could put as much love into changing out my closet I might get the job done before bedtime.  Nah, I doubt it.

Words get in the way

Whenever I see a Facebook post remarking on a death of a friend or loved one it will ultimately be followed by comments from people expressing “I am sorry for your loss.”  I am guilty of this as well, because sometimes I am clueless as what I should say, or worse, what I should not say.   “I am sorry for your loss” just sounds so hollow to me; meaningless words spoken as rote and as unfeeling as “bless you” to a sneeze or “thank you” for passing a bowl of beans.  “If there’s anything I can do...” is another empty phrase spoken by well-meaning people who lack the gumption to come up with their own ideas of what actually needs to be done.  And saying you’ll pray for them only counts if you actually do pray for them. 

So, what are the proper words to say when facing someone who has lost their very meaning for life?  I remember when my sister died a young friend came to me at the funeral home and hugged me and said something so sweet and thoughtful that I wanted to remember her words forever.  Unfortunately in that moment there were so many people were saying so many different things I forgot her words almost immediately.  I guess it didn’t matter exactly what she said but how she said it.  In the end it was her sincere compassion that touched me deeper than words and has stayed with me for almost 20 years now.

There is nothing that can be said that will remove the pain from the one who has suffered the loss.  Making profound or sentimental statements may make the speaker feel relieved of their sympathetic duty, but words are easily forgotten.  A hug, a look, or even a squeeze of the hand can be more significant than any combination of words.

I know someone who lost a son years ago and recently lost another son unexpectedly.  I have no idea how to express how my heart hurts for her.  If I could remember my young friend’s words from my sister’s funeral I would repeat them verbatim.  If she was near I would give her a hug.  If I had the right words I would tell her to stay strong, don’t worry about making it through the day, but just try to make it through each hour.  I would like to tell her to stay away from the black pit, find a nearby branch and hold on tight because she is important and worthy.  I would even go so far as to say that even though we do not know each other very well I think of her as a friend and I like her very much.  I would tell her all of these things if only I knew the right words.  

“I am sorry for your loss,” is too hollow for someone you care about.  It is just not the right thing to say.  I’m learning.

Rites

There was a baptism during mass today.  I love seeing the sweet babies in their white gowns, so pure, so sweet.  When my children were baptized we gathered after mass in a private ceremony with family.  Nowadays, at my new church at least, the sacrament of baptism is an integral part of the whole mass so everyone in the congregation can be a part of the moment the child’s life is dedicated to God.

Some people disagree with the Catholic tradition of infant baptism and they have valid arguments to the contrary.  However, without going into a theological debate I would surely lose I will say that the other sacraments Catholics receive throughout our lives are built upon and affirm the vows of baptism we could not speak for ourselves as infants.  Even the liturgy of the mass itself is a reaffirmation of our faith. 

As a mother I can say without question that having my babies baptized was a blessing to me.  In the act of baptism I gave them over to God so throughout their lives when they took those scary steps towards independence I reminded myself of their baptisms and it eased the stress of letting go.

My priest, Father Tommy, always gives the parents the option of keeping the actual baptismal vows private or inviting the congregation to join in.  I’ve yet to see parents keep them private, and I’m glad.  It gives me the opportunity to renew my own baptismal vows in the process.  The ritual is portioned throughout the mass and becomes an integrated part of the service for everyone present, solidifying the child’s membership in the community of the church. 

The first part is the baptismal vows.  Father says,

“Do you reject Satan?”  “I do,” I proclaim with conviction.
“And all his works?”  “I do,”  I affirm.
“And all his empty promises?” “ I do.”
“ Do you believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven earth?”  “ I do.”
“Do you believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was born of the Virgin Mary was crucified, died, and was buried, rose from the dead, and is now seated at the right hand of the Father?” “ I do,” I say with a slightly weakened voice.  By this time the emotion of the moment is setting in. 
“Do you believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting? ” “ I do,” I say through the lump in my throat wiping the tears that ultimately stream without permission.

This morning I maintained my composure fairly well, but the last baptism got the best of me.  The little girl being baptized a few weeks ago was named Mary Ann, my mother’s name.  Well, one of her names anyway.  By the end of mass little Mary Ann was sound asleep as Father Tommy placed her tiny feet on the altar as a sign of dedication.  My thoughts drifted to my mother and what she may have looked like when she was baptized.  I feel certain the sacramental rite was not celebrated in the communal way it is today.  It was probably more of a formality, a matter of fact, anoint and splash sort of ceremony.  I say this from what I know of my mother’s baptism.

 

The story goes like this.  When my mother was born her parents named her Doris Mae.  When it came time for her baptism her Godmother took her to the church to meet with the priest.  Apparently my Granny didn’t even go to the church, I don’t know why.  When the priest asked “What name do you give…?” her Godmother said Doris Mae.  The priest told her that was a name for a movie star, not a saintly name.  He suggested naming her Mary instead.  But my mother’s Godmother told the priest my mother had a sister named Mary Marie and so they didn’t need another Mary in the family.  He then chose Mary Ann and the matter was settled.  So little Doris Mae was brought home and called Mary Ann from that day forward.  I always wonder what my Granny thought of that, why she didn’t call her Doris anyway.  Knowing her the way I did I imagine she probably just shrugged her shoulders and spouted a sharp quip and then went on about her business of raising her six children.

It wasn’t until she was in her teens and needed a copy of her birth certificate that my mother learned her true name.  She was in disbelief and thought she was adopted.  From then on she went by Doris Mae on any legal documents, pay check, driver’s license, etc. but she was always Mary Ann to the people in her life.

In addition to the thousands of times Mary Ann confirmed her faith in mass she repeated her vows of baptism seven times for her own children and just as many times for her grandchildren.  She took the words as gold and lived a faith-filled life that was an inspiration to me.  My mother may have told me to do as she said, but all the lessons I learned from her were from the way she lived her life.   She was like her own mother in this way and I try to continue the tradition even though I still trip from time to time from veering down a rocky path.  But I know the way home to heaven because she started me on the right road when she had me baptized, and kept steering me in the right direction even though she may not have ever known it.  Well, maybe was knowing it after all.

  

I read, too.

When I was in school I detested writing book reports.  I could never grasp the concept of writing about a book without telling the whole story and giving the ending away.  The exercise always seemed pointless to me.   More times than not I would find the shortest, simplest book and write a double-spaced essay on wide-ruled paper until I met the assigned number of pages.
 

Later, in college, the term changed from book report to critique.  A critique is just a more academic book report but in a critique you have to use words like “man’s struggle against…” and “theme”.   I was a little better at critiques because they were my own thoughts on the subject and as long as I wrote well and thoroughly I couldn’t really have a wrong answer.

This brings me to my theme of the day.  Last night I finished reading The Casual Vacancy, J.K. Rowling’s first published novel after the final Harry Potter installment.  I was so excited to see that she had written another novel that I pre-ordered it months in advance.  Unlike the Harry Potter series that I read the moment I brought them home, I held onto this book for a while, giving it time to breathe.  Then the negative reviews started flowing in, and I set it deep under stacks of other books.  I even resorted to using it as part of a platform I fashioned on the top of the piano on which I built a Christmas vignette, assuring a whole month of not having a chance to pick it up.  I didn’t read the reviews because like Harry I wanted to make my own decision about it’s worth and not base my opinion on someone else’s narrow mind.

Now, almost two years since it was published I finally picked it up and took the plunge.  It was an icy plunge, and many times I wanted to save myself from drowning and sit by a warm fire and then throw the book in the fire for good measure.  I picked it up, I put it down.  I picked it up, and put it down.  Finally, a little over half-way in I picked it up and didn’t, couldn’t, put it down until the end.  

I guess after so many years of pouring her heart into the boy wizard, Rowling needed a change of pace.  I can only think that every vulgarism she withheld from Harry and Hogwarts she spewed into this story like a sigh of relief.  I look at it as her “Girls Gone Wild” moment.  Like a young girl set free in college after fourteen years in a private, Catholic school, she’s twerking on the dance floor.

The underlying struggle in this book was my struggle to find one shred of likeability in any of the characters.  This has got to be the first time I’ve read a book and loathed the characters so much I wanted them all to die painful deaths in the end.  

My purpose is not to tell the story here, so I will only say it is set in charming, scenic village in England that is bordered on one side by the slums of the nearby, larger city.  A parish council seat in the village becomes vacant and there is a rush to fill it before a major funding decision is made.  Conflicts arise between the deep–rooted residents of the village and the residents of the slums who depend on the village for their welfare.  Whoever wins the empty seat will have a direct effect on the future of those living in the slums.   It is rough story wrought with domestic violence, illicit drug use, and promiscuity. 

The only character with any likeability or moral fiber dies in the first few pages.  The only other character I had any interest in had one short scene in the last eighth of the book.  And I only really liked her because she had such disdain for her awful parents.   She sweeps into town in a fast, green BMW and just when you wish she would stay awhile she is gone, only to be mentioned once again in passing.  

There were three others that I rooted for even though none of them were very endearing.  In the end it was these three that put heart into the story even though the heart is covered in mud and slime and takes a tragedy to reveal it.

I never expected this book to be anything like the Harry Potter stories.  That is probably the main reason it took me two years to pick it up; I didn’t want to be disappointed.  Honestly, I did not know what to expect since I didn’t even read the dust jacket.  I’ve made it clear in a previous post how much I admire J.K. Rowling as a writer.  Was I disappointed in her change of voice?  Absolutely not.  Despite the rawness of the story and her despicable characters my respect for J.K. Rowling as a writer has only grown.  When it all boils down her characters may not have been endearing but they were strong.  Each of them had an inner voice that spoke loudly to the reader.  Some shouted and some whispered but they all had a say.  Rowling’s talent shows itself through her character study and her way of tying it all together even when the ends are so loose they almost unravel completely.   I stand by my previous assessment of her work when I called her a genius.  

I judge a book by the way it makes me feel when I finish reading it.  If I can pick up another book immediately then it wasn’t very impressive.  If the story puts me in a funk where I have to replay it over and over then I was moved.  This is one of those that put me in a funk.  I think the reason it affected me so much is that despite the foul, unlikeable characters in play I found bits and pieces of myself in each of them, one in particular, and that is a hard realization to digest.  The feelings of anger, angst, insecurities, disappointment and desperation that undulate through the story will hit a sore spot on even the most level-headed person who thinks they have it all together.

These characters are real people with real problems and vacant dreams.  There is no Felix Felicis to give them good luck.

My advice about this book is to open it with caution. If you are opposed to reading vile language, upsetting situations, and finding a bit of yourself in some really damaged people then do not pick it up.  Don’t even look at it.   Otherwise, read it with an open mind and you might end up like me, surprisingly sad to see it end.