Friday, December 15, 2017

Done & Gone

Thursday, rescheduled from last week, we made the Apalachicola roundtrip, scattered Jean Purdy’s ashes around John Gorrie Square in front of Trinity Episcopal Church, friend and parishioner the years we were there. 

Next Linda shopped at favorite stores, LilyLiver or something, and Daisy's or something else, honestly I don't remember the names of the stories. 

Finally, late lunch, this time I had a taste to repeat my Oyster Roast experience at what used to be Frog Level, now is Boss Oyster on the river, sitting on the outside porch, cool but plastic screens over the openings. When the weather is warm there's no screen or plastic and birds sit cocking their heads this way and that, staring, watching and waiting for you to lay down a piece of bread or a bit of french fried potato. Two dozen piping hot oysters on a huge tray, just off the grill, an oyster knife, hand towel, and gallon bucket for the shells. Ice water. Lemon. A dozen fried oysters, and a generous bit of fish from Linda’s grouper basket.

On the way home we listened to Christmas carols on the radio, among others, "Thistlehair the Christmas Bear, Spreading the Good News everywhere," one of the new evangelical Christmas hymns.

Wednesday it must have been, we drove out to The Carousel at Laguna Beach, where Linda bought a couple of Christmas gifts and I bought a package of their bacon-wrapped eye of round steaks. Faux filet mignon, they’ve always been good in the past, maybe one for mid-afternoon dinner.

Afternoon, prepare lesson plan for study of the Gospel according to Mark to close out confirmation class this Sunday.


Thursday, December 14, 2017

fa la

Now that it’s happening and I’m standing here holding a microphone to my loud mouth and singing raucously, I never realized that “Deck the Halls” had so many verses, it keeps going on and on. Jeepers.

Last evening our church youth group had a it’s not a sing-a-long, there’s another word for it. Not charades. Your name is called and you are summoned up front and told to choose a song and sing it to the music. I told them Father Tom isn’t here tonight but was called up regardless. Anyway, it doesn’t matter to me, because anyone who has made a fool of himself Sundays in the pulpit for nearly forty years can’t possibly be bashful about being handed a microphone in the parish hall and told to sing. I chose “Deck the Halls” because my favorite line in the song, “Carroll the ancient Yuletide troll,” is about me. Anymore, my range is about three notes, five if I start an octave lower, but I started too high and couldn’t reach all the FA LA LA LA LA, LA LA LA LAs without screeching and straining. These are middle schoolers, and by the time they started screaming “Father Tom, Father Tom,” all the boys had escaped outside, leaving only the girls to sing behind me. They did well though.

+++   +++   +++

Seldom to never is there a connection between yesterday’s blog and today’s and tomorrow’s; rather, blogposts are like sermons: as I step out of the pulpit and head back to my clergy chair I pull a lever in my brain and whatever I said during my unconscious time in the pulpit drops into the outer darkness; so it’s useless to ask me to explain something I said, I’ve moved on. 

But yesterday for reasons that were not at all personal but purely pastoral as priest, confessor, and sometime spiritual advisor, I started out to reflect briefly on the effects of suicide. This holiday season is a time of year when many folks have nothing joyful to enjoy or look forward to, but only the anguish of looking back on Christmases and friends and loved ones and relationships and places and times gone forever and irretrievably and tormenting the mind. For many, the memories are too painful and the depression unbearable, and it’s a Time and Season when suicides skyrocket tragically, breaking even more hearts. Many years ago, I think I’ve recalled this here before, a parishioner came to me in deep depression about a collapsing relationship, this particular situation immeasurably worsened by his own alcoholism, and confessed to me that he was so down that he was contemplating ending his own life. His marriage was broken, but he had a son whom he doted on. 

We discussed statistics that a parent who commits suicide communicates to his children, regardless of their age, that suicide is an acceptable way out of life’s problems, and that children of a parent who commits suicide not only lifelong suffer from what the parent did to them, and never stop pondering what they did to cause it and how they might have prevented it, and why the parent didn't love them enough to want to share life with them regardless of the cost and his pain; but moreover that children of a suicide parent have a higher probability of killing themselves in their own future. I told him flat out that if he killed himself he would be eternally guilty of the murder of his own son whom he adored.

There are broken hearts this holiday season, and more hearts will be broken, and half of the people we know will be deeply grieving as everyone around them shouts “Merry Christmas!” and “Happy Holidays!!” As priest and pastor, my prayer is that everyone who is trying to hold back tears and choke down sobs while the rest of us celebrate, will have the courage and sense to hang in there and make it through hour by hour, day by day, until everyday life returns to some semblance of the day-by-dayness that it really is. 

God’s peace.

DThos+ 201712140616CST and counting

For fans who monitor my breakfasts: thirteen large blackberries, eight jumbo shrimp in remoulade, sizzling-toasted strips of French baguette dipped in olive oil.

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Cold Day in Heaven

Clergy colleague and dear friend Mike opened the topic this morning, about the Lord’s Prayer petition that involves God leading us into temptation. In my 82 years I’ve both confronted temptation and given in to temptation innumerable (which means so many they can’t be counted) times. Did God lead me there? Or was it, as Jesus was tempted in the wilderness immediately after his baptism by John, satan the devil who led me to it. 

What does the Bible say? 

Matthew 6:13 καὶ μὴ εἰσενέγκῃς ἡμᾶς εἰς πειρασμό. and not lead us into temptation

Luke 11:4 καὶ μὴ εἰσενέγκῃς ἡμᾶς εἰς πειρασμόν. and not lead us into temptation

Matthew and Luke each have lifted the phrase verbatim from Sayings Gospel Q. Saint Quelle was not standing there taking dictation as Jesus spoke, so the Q version (look it up: it will be Q 11:4, because reconstructed Q uses Luke’s chapter and “versification”) comes out of oral tradition. Can we modify it? Pater Noster, Our Father, the Lord's Prayer has elsewhere already been modified by evangelists and translators: Matthew says forgive us our ὀφειλήματα debts; Luke says forgive us our ἁμαρτίας sins; the KJV (1611) says forgive us our debts; but our traditional liturgy language (1549 Book of Common Prayer), from the Tyndale Bible (1526) that most people never heard of but that for centuries is instituted wherever English is spoken, says “forgeve vs oure treaspases eve as we forgeve oure trespacers” and "lede us not into temptation." So we're stuck with Tyndale.

There is no recording of Jesus speaking. Meanings change over Time. “Lead us not into temptation” is institutionalized language that, though theologically problematic, is not easily, readily or acceptably changed, revised or corrected. Leave it alone and let it come up in Sunday School every year at question and discussion time. Or change it to “Let us not yield to temptation” and enjoy the fireworks. A cold day in heaven.

Thanks, Mike. Wishing you a speedy and increasingly painless recovery from yesterday’s neck procedure.


Tuesday, December 12, 2017


Life gets very early, but the day doesn’t begin so early that I’m completely off my rocker. But, early this morning, about the time the newspaper carrier bonks Linda’s PCNH against 7H door, I read two things online then went elsewhere meaning to return. One was Anu Garg’s word "contretemps" for today, the other was an article - - neither of which I can find now, I don't recall punching "delete" which makes me half, no, ten-percent, doubt my sanity - - about scientists receiving an award and commenting that the earth is one maniacal rant and impulsive stupidity from self-destruction. I can’t find those now, must have pressed “delete,” but …

Last evening celebrating grandson Ray's 30th birthday with laws, in-laws and outlaws at Gulf Coast Burger Company PCB, my first margarita in forty years

At any event, contretemps (yes, “contretan”) is interesting, and nasal French pronunciation of slurring off word endings though not as interesting as German or Russian or Hebrew or Greek that I’d love to be fluent reading and especially conversing in. But especially am I aware of living in an age of profoundly stupid insanity ruled by the mothers of all imbecilic narcissists backed by trembling sycophants, and indeed either idiot’s impulsive knee-jerk will end all that is as far as the eye can see. If future analysts are interested in assigning guilt and blame, which we love to do but which by then will be pointless, they will have to say that humans should have looked in the gardenia mirror: it will have been your fault and will have been done in your name, by your electoral choice, in an age of certitudinous subhumans vomiting ethics into the rubbish bin before heading for the polls. Today, for instance, will be the most informing day in American history since we woke up on Wednesday morning, 20161109 ho anaginoskown noeito

Looking at the gospel reading for upcoming Advent3B, the latest narrative of all four canonical evangelists damning with faint praise the Wild Man of the Desert’s messianic chair competition by having he himself personally disclaim. Renunciation begun by Mark, beautifully and elaborately told by Luke, and now Gospel John’s (it was actually Lazarus) good spell that will be crowned the next day when John Baptist acclaims the Lamb of God, Gospel John’s beginning to end theme that turns out as poignant as the annunciation scene that has a crucifix hanging subtly in the shadows behind Mary as the angel beguiles her so persuasively; or in the heavens above and beyond the multitude of heavenly hosts. We won't read it in Advent, but tucked quietly among his masterpieces, "Ἴδε ὁ ἀμνὸς τοῦ θεοῦ ὁ αἴρων τὴν ἁμαρτίαν τοῦ κόσμου," the Lamb of God is Gospel John's ultimate "gotcha."

John 1:6-8,19-28
There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.

This is the testimony given by John when the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, “Who are you?” He confessed and did not deny it, but confessed, “I am not the Messiah.” And they asked him, “What then? Are you Elijah?” He said, “I am not.” “Are you the prophet?” He answered, “No.” Then they said to him, “Who are you? Let us have an answer for those who sent us. What do you say about yourself?” He said, “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord,’” as the prophet Isaiah said. Now they had been sent from the Pharisees. They asked him, “Why then are you baptizing if you are neither the Messiah, nor Elijah, nor the prophet?” John answered them, “I baptize with water. Among you stands one whom you do not know, the one who is coming after me; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.” This took place in Bethany across the Jordan where John was baptizing.
The next day, ...

Monday, December 11, 2017


Mr. Bubba leaving church yesterday in the Bradfords’ 1946 Ford club coupe, what a dream. The car is showroom outside and in. With minor adjustments year to year, Ford made that body style for 1941, 1942, 1946, 1947 and 1948 before introducing the all new postwar 1949 Ford. Stirring cubicles of the brain, memories, dreams. 

Our neighbors had a 1946 Ford. Mr. Danley of Opp, Alabama, owner of Danley Furniture Company, gave one to Wm A Guy, manager of the local Danley’s store and our next door neighbor all my growing up years, a new 1946 Ford fordor (for long years, FoMoCo’s cutesy term along with tudor) sedan. Mr. Guy’s car was the same color as this car as I recall, replaced their maroon 1940 Ford tudor sedan, which had replaced their tan 1934 or ’35 Ford with the interesting trunk on the back. 

Mr. Guy’s next car was a brand new light turquoise 1949 Ford fordor V8 sedan that, not to gossip, caused screaming and shouting in the back yard as Mary B Guy wanted her husband to give her his new car, Mrs Guy’s mother Elizabeth Burgin, who lived with them and raised Bill, my age, taking part in the argument, Mrs Guy shouting for all the neighborhood, “Oh, mother, let him keep the damn thing,” and then a day or so later showing up in her own new 1949 Ford convertible. 

That red convertible was the car Mrs Guy owned when she dropped dead of a heart attack at home an evening in December 1949 at age 39. When Bill was in high school (Bay High class of 1954) it became Bill’s car, and that I've several times remembered having the use several weeks summer 1955 or 1956 when Bill was away in St Paul, Minnesota visiting his aunt and cousin the Pryor family. A summer of my dreams.

By the end of the nineteen-forties our family really, really wanted a station wagon, and could afford the new and coming American dream of being a two-car family. I remember totally dreaming after a traded-in like new dark blue1948 Ford station wagon sitting on the lot of a car dealer on Harrison Avenue.

We stopped and looked at it one Sunday afternoon, and my father said, “I think that car may have mechanical brakes, and that fabric top is not a good thing,” and that was soon the end of my first car lust - -

because in 1950 my father brought home the brown 1949 Plymouth station wagon that was a demonstrator at W&W Motors, the Dodge Plymouth dealer. “The station wagon” was our trademark car all through high school and on into college, the car my parents dropped me off at the Freshmen's Dorm "North Hall" a Sunday afternoon in September 1953 to begin University of Florida, and the car in which I several times came to Robert Frost’s Road Not Taken. Two or three years later when my mother got a 1954 Buick Century hardtop coupe, I was offered my choice of The Station Wagon or the green 1948 Dodge sedan (another story - - the Dodge had been my mother’s 36th birthday present, spring 1948 she and I went down to the train depot, walked up onto the ramp, and chose the green Dodge over the blue one as they waited to be unloaded from the boxcar). 

My late teens/early twenties summer, I chose the Dodge sedan over the Plymouth woodie, because I'd had personal experience over the years, every year or so sanding down and revarnishing the wood, and also at least once driving it without a door for several days while the driver door was in Ethridge's Cabinet Shop for rotted wood to be replaced. So my father got the station wagon until it was given to my brother. As for the red hot Buick V8, small Special body with Roadmaster engine, I begged it off my mother as often as I dared until summer 1957 when I graduated from UFlorida, and Linda and I were married, and we went away for twenty years in the U S Navy.   

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

One car from my growing up years stirs more dreams than I can bear, every one as dear and sharp as yesterday driving the 1946 Ford.   

DThos+ still farther downstream

Sunday, December 10, 2017

Pajama Sunday 2017

Catholic spiritual direction today focuses on the Lord will not delay, which two thousand years on seems ludicrously pious and innocent until one minds that two thousand years is nothing in universal terms, and also sees that the meditator is thinking of salvation into God’s Realm here and now in this life, lifting away cares for each individual, instead of a general eschaton that, for our solar system alone, is five billion years in some future unless we mess it up sooner, which apocalyptic path humanity clearly is on; and, for the universe, spinning, expanding slowly to a halt, all lights wink out, chill and freeze to absolute zero at which there is nothing, not even space, one to a hundred trillion earth years hence, our tiny sun and planets long forgotten wherever awareness still exists.

More likely, what- or whoever speaks to ignite Big Bangs will long since have shifted attention to more promising experiments than earthly humanity, if not already, μη γενοιτο. 

Somewhere in South American jungles or deepest Africa are humans blessed enough to be oblivious to the rest of us and our ways of self, our blindness and self-absorption; who do not worry about a Second Coming. But those of us in our mainstream, watching and waiting, may find assurance in this morning’s scripture:

Isaiah 40:1-11
Comfort, O comfort my people,
says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
and cry to her
that she has served her term,
that her penalty is paid,
that she has received from the Lord's hand
double for all her sins.

A voice cries out:
“In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord,
make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
Every valley shall be lifted up,
and every mountain and hill be made low;
the uneven ground shall become level,
and the rough places a plain.
Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
and all people shall see it together,
for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.”

IDK, I don’t know, I don’t know anything. I think and am skeptical but know nothing.


Pic: 2017 Christmas parade of boats 20171209184

Saturday, December 9, 2017


After an unnerving opening in which his wife the boy’s mother makes her way into the night, the boy says knowingly to his father, “She’s not coming back, is she,” and Cormac McCarthy takes us some ten years memory to the beginning, before the boy, or The Ending, when he gets up to go to the bathroom, there are flashes in the directions of various cities, bursts light up the horizon, a pause then dull, jarring thumps, distant thuds, as the bathroom light dies out never to come back on. That came to mind at 3:37 this morning as I walked out on 7H porch to behold what instantly said “apocalypse.” Ordinariness, a burst, and darkness. 

Ten years later it turns out to be universal, worldwide. We never knew, Cormac doesn’t tell us, what happened or what brought it on. No one in The Road is named as the father, with his ominous cough, heads south with the boy, a grocery cart and a map, and two then one cartridge for his firearm, hoping to find life and warmth. Speculation, I don’t recall whether it was aside or part of the story, was that it was the doing of international terrorists, though what served by obliterating all civilization and returning man, humans, to barbarous inhumanity could only be religion or some other such fanaticism. It will be funny, grotesque irony will have the last laugh, when religion indeed brings to an end what at the end of Genesis One seemed so possible and promising, Ship of Fools Redivivus that in a distant eon beyond the great and terrible Day of the Lord, outsized rodent genuises will call “Noah’s Ark 2” as they devise weapons for eradicating their enemies the giant hyperintelligent arachnid residents of the continent across the sea.

Only a fool could be blind to the havoc that religious certitude has wrought upon creation over our millennia here; the roaches and rats will be gladly shed of us.

Meantime, in PC no snow, but raw, damp chill.


Friday, December 8, 2017

Genitive not Dative

Franciscan Father Richard rather says it all this morning. Instead of re-inventing or paraphrase, I'm simply going with him. His Franciscan outlook and theology closely match my own as a self-thinking Anglican Christian, American Episcopalian. TW+
Richard Rohr's Daily Meditation
An image of a large tree with roots growing above ground.

Interfaith Friendship

Jesus and Buddha
Friday, December 8, 2017

In his book Jesus and Buddha, New Testament theologian Marcus Borg (1942-2015) highlights numerous sayings in the teachings of Jesus that are strikingly similar, if not identical, to the teachings of the Buddha who lived some six centuries earlier. There have been some attempts to explain these similarities through historical access, which is a remote possibility. Borg suggests a more meaningful view: that Jesus and the Buddha had both discovered the same spiritual goal and destiny, or I would say the one Holy Spirit that is guiding all of history. The Jewish Kabbalah, Muslim Sufism, and the teachings of the Tao also reveal a map toward non-dual consciousness and oneness.
Let me just share just a few of the parallel teachings Borg gathers in his book [1], and you will see how they are coming from the same non-dual perspective:
Jesus says, “Do to others as you would have them do to you” (Luke 6:31). The Buddha says, “Consider others as yourself” (Dhammapada 10.1).
Jesus says, “If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also” (Luke 6:29). Buddha says, “If anyone should give you a blow with his hand, with a stick, or with a knife, you should abandon any desires [to hurt him] and utter no evil words” (Majjhima Nikaya 21.6).
Jesus says, “Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me” (Matthew 25:45).  Buddha says, “If you do not tend one another, then who is there to tend you? Whoever would tend me, he should tend the sick” (Vinaya, Mahavagga 8.26.3).
Jesus and Buddha diagnose the human dilemma similarly. Our suffering is primarily based on ignorance. The vast majority of humanity lives in blindness about who we are and where we are going. Jesus and Buddha both speak about anxiety, attachment, grasping, craving, and self-absorption.
Unfortunately, Christianity became so concerned with making sure everybody believed that Jesus was God (faith in Jesus) that we largely ignored his teachings on detachment, simplicity, nonviolence, and anxiety (the faith ofJesus). Our Buddhist brothers and sisters can help us remember these teachings at the core of our faith; they can help us be better, truer Christians. And we can help them, or at least give them very few reasons to dislike us! Why not try this novel idea?
On many levels, Jesus and Buddha talked about the same experience of transformation. In the end, all spirituality really is about transformation, dying before we die and being reborn as our True Selves in Love.

Gateway to Silence:
We are already one.

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Thursday, December 7, 2017

the universal sovereign Reason

"In the universe Asia and Europe are but two small corners, all ocean’s waters a drop. Athos a puny lump of earth, the vastness of time a pin’s point in eternity. All is petty, inconstant, and perishable. All proceeds from the one source, springing either directly or derivatively from the universal sovereign Reason. Even the lion’s open jaws, the deadly poison, and all other things that do hurt, down to the bramble bush and the slough, are byproducts of something else that is itself noble and beautiful. Do not think of them, then, as alien to that which you reverence, but remember the one origin that is common to them all." (MAurelius, Meditations 6.36)

A modern English-speaking Christian who has read the prologue to the Gospel according to John might reasonably wonder if the one source, Reason, the universally common origin, is the Word, thinking "Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ λόγος, καὶ ὁ λόγος ἦν πρὸς τὸν θεόν, καὶ θεὸς ἦν ὁ λόγος," and that Marcus may have used the word Logos for Reason; and indeed although we prefer Word, Logos can be rendered “Reason” and Reason can be rendered “Logos,” meaning the primordial creative will that brought all that is into being; but Logos is not what Marcus writes. In fact, with my overwhelming incompetence in Greek, I spent overly much time this morning finding his Meditations in the original Greek that while he was a Roman whose first tongue may have been Latin, Marcus was learned in Greek and apparently wrote in Greek and, me, lacking a working knowledge of Greek although Marcus probably used a literary Greek not koine, my working through his 6.36 wasn’t as easy as I’d anticipated. So the relevant sentence of his 6.36, ”Πάντα ἐκεῖθεν ἔρχεται, ἀπ̓ ἐκείνου τοῦ κοινοῦ ἡγεμονικοῦ ὁρμήσαντα ἣ κατ̓ ἐπακολούθησιν” came out, "All thence comes from That One the common dominant they urged on to insatiate cognizance,” which sounds like something my brain tries to work out from what Linda says to me when I’m not wearing my hearing aids. So, all to Jesus I surrender, I surrender all. Meantime, here’s Aurelius’ Greek 6.36 for some expert to work through word by word without using a Greek -English translator as I did, or interlinear:   

Ἡ Ἀσία, ἡ Εὐρώπη γωνίαι τοῦ κόσμου: πᾶν πέλαγος σταγὼν τοῦ κόσμου: Ἄθως βωλάριον τοῦ κόσμου: πᾶν τὸ ἐνεστὼς τοῦ χρόνου στιγμὴ τοῦ αἰῶνος. πάντα μικρά, εὔτρεπτα, ἐναφανιζόμενα. Πάντα ἐκεῖθεν ἔρχεται, ἀπ̓ ἐκείνου τοῦ κοινοῦ ἡγεμονικοῦ ὁρμήσαντα ἣ κατ̓ ἐπακολούθησιν. καὶ τὸ χάσμα οὖν τοῦ λέοντος καὶ τὸ δηλητήριον καὶ πᾶσα κακουργία ὡς ἄκανθα, ὡς βόρβορος, ἐκείνων ἐπιγεννήματα τῶν σεμνῶν καὶ καλῶν. μὴ οὖν αὐτὰ ἀλλότρια τούτου οὗ σέβεις φαντάζου, ἀλλὰ τὴν πάντων πηγὴν ἐπιλογίζου.

Breakfast; prosciutto sandwich, cut ham sandwich thickness, black coffee. Lunch: lamb sausage with mustard, bowl of homemade soup, remainder of the pasta salad Linda made for last night’s supper at church before Lessons & Carols, which whoever missed, my sympathies, has only Self to blame.

Plan for today had been drive to Apalachicola to scatter ashes of Jean Purdy but, weather interferring, we'll reschedule for late next week.


Wednesday, December 6, 2017

all the news that's not fit to print

The morning might not appeal to many folks, but I love it, 66°F 88% out here on 7H porch, December 6 and reminds me of summer mornings in Newport, Rhode Island, where we lived while at Navy OCS in 1957-58 and at Naval War College in 1968-69. Winters in Newport, you can have and keep but summers were incomparable. 

Wednesday morning breakfast, toast and red salmon salad, hot black coffee. And from the papermill that I can see from here, the seven o’clock whistle that 75 years ago signaled time for breakfast and walk to Cove School. Robert remembers, I remember. And who’s on WDLP, must have been Carl Gray or dishishyosheffDocDaffin. Carl Gray, who was in my father’s class at Bay High, or at least they were there at the same time, was our mayor for a while. A card and character, he used to say on his morning radio show as he was reporting local crime, “if you don’t want to be on my show, don’t do it.” Some will remember both Gray and Daffin. 

News? more catastrophic wildfires in Califivenia, as we watched Victor Borge cast it in a show of memories at bedtime last night. A feisty president word dueling with FatAlbert in DPRK. Same character recognizing Jerusalem for what it was for maybe three thousand years. My sympathy is with both sides. Human history is of land conquest, including Europeans taking over North America and, bleeding hearts, that’s just the way it is, I’m living on or adjacent to an Indian mound. Recent decades or centuries, Palestine was arab, canaanite, palestinian, before that Jewish, before that canaanite. At the moment more eternal warfare over it, the Jewish claim to Jerualem is at least as valid as the Christian and Muslim claim plus Palestine being made Israel a Jewish homeland by international acclaim and decree after WW2 with international shame about the Holocaust, somebody’s got to side with Israel, and with the Jews who are forever under inexplicable persecution. So Jerusalem, Jerusalem, my happy home, and we’ll see what happens with this bold American action. Elsewhere, the people of Alabama will show & tell the world what they are in their upcoming senatorial election. And the US Supreme Court is contemplating whether a culinary artist can just offer a gay couple any item in his bakery showcase or whether he is required to use his artistic talent to create a wedding cake for them. IDK. As a priest I may agree or decline to officiate any wedding, he/she, she/she, he/he or other: will the USSC decision affect my legal options? Regardless of my sympathies, as an American I’m not into being told what to do or what I must do. Don’t push or press me, my temper ignites fast and filthy I'm not proud to confess.

Juan Diego underway for Progreso.


Tuesday, December 5, 2017


TUIT, round tuit, I never got a round tuit earlier this morning, so there was no wakeup blogpost. I did sit staring at the screen for a long time, MacBook sitting open in my lap, eyes scanning my screensaver/desktop picture.

A friend sent it to me awhile back, challenging me to identify the cars. I set up a “plot” and ID’d all the ones I could get close enough to, then made it my desktop screensaver picture. It has cars from my favorite era, which would be the 1930s, when I got started in life.

We got out the ladder and cleaned all the ceiling fan blades, 7H has three of them, one in each bedroom and one in the living room. I swallowed furo-forty and later cardio stuff, which within about half hour mandates an hour nap. Malinda came over late morning with a rug shampoo machine from Lowe’s and shampooed the rug in the Beck room. After lunch we moved the furniture out of the dining room and now she’s about to shampoo it. 

Some of my favorite cars are in the picture, 1939 Plymouth convertible sedan, 1938 Dodge sedan, there’s a 1934 Chevrolet with dual side-mounts, a black 1937 Buick and a red 1939 Buick, a 1939 Chrysler front and center, and way in the background a 1939 Dodge coming this way, and a 1937 (could be 1938, I can’t see the front grill well enough to tell for sure) Chevrolet coupe sitting parked along the left side of the beach picture. The picture is no earlier than 1939, on Daytona Beach as I recall, could be early 1940 but there are no 1940 automobiles pictured. 

In another photo, in the late 1980s, George Chapel and I selected that hanging lantern for over the front porch of Trinity Church, to replace a ludicrously little one that had been there for some years. Still looks good.

Oh, and one morning early, I was inside the Bill Lloyd Building of Holy Nativity Episcopal School to see what was being done to correct ceiling boards that had come loose and fallen because of a humidity factor. 

Came across a shot I took of an oversize fly enjoying a bite of cake before it was cut. 


Monday, December 4, 2017

moon & martini

The camera on my iPhone sometimes gets a spectacular picture of the moon, more often a smudge. Not good with the almost orange rising super moon 5:23 pm Sunday evening.

Or 24 hours earlier, rising nearly full Saturday evening, 6:00 pm.  

What’s more, with earth now tilted for winter the moon passes above the condo building such that from 7H we can only see it as it rises on the eastern horizon. 

Good about the tilting business though is that in summer the sun is over the condo building; in winter it blazes onto the Bay with glaring reflection into our windows, meaning that in our three years here we’ve run the heater maybe a total of twenty minutes. Even bitterly cold outside, 7H is snug and naturally warm. 

In other news, everyone who likes a martini likes it different. Sunday after church I may concoct and sip one while dinner is cooking, maybe one other during the week, but seldom to never. After several weeks trying this and that, yesterday I came up with one that suits my taste. There may be others in Time, but this one pleases at the moment.

Four ice cubes in martini shaker.

Pour in one capful M&R dry vermouth.

Swirl lightly so vermouth coats ice cubes.

Let sit for a minute while you get the green olives with red pimiento out of the fridge and spear two queen size beauties with toothpick.

Pour out the shaker contents into the sink.
This leaves just the right hint of vermouth frozen to the ice cubes.

Lay the olives in the martini glass. I want the shaken martini to be poured over them.

Measure out and pour two and a half ounces gin into the martini shaker. I abandoned the Tanqueray and bought what the BX had: Seagrams extra dry gin. It was all they had, lots of vodkas but only this one gin. Okay.

Pour in less than teaspoon olive juice.

Close shaker tight so it doesn’t leak.

Shake the hell out of it, nevermind that prissy rubbish about not bruising the gin, why should the gin get off easy, bruise it, make it scream with pain.

Let sit for couple minutes while Linda does our thirty-something-year routine of critiquing SS and sermon for me, contemplating whether SS (subject, Day of the Lord) was too rambling and sermon too something or other. Worst is when sermon was too long.

Take off shaker cap and pour contents through the strainer into beautiful clear martini glass with fish etchings round it, that Linda bought me at her favorite store in Apalachicola.

Sip. Serves one.

Clergy martini before Sunday dinner, which was a trial standing rib-in roast from TAFB commissary that worked out beautiful, crispy crust, red rare, blue center. Cut off one rib and serve onto warm plate. Keep warm in toaster oven while Linda's slice of roast cooks a bit longer. Side: two tbsp rice covered with one tbsp collard greens and four pan-seared Brussels sprouts. Glass chianti (Gaetano D’Aquino 2015), mug ice water.

Sunday afternoon: high priestly nap.

DThos+ enjoying +Time+