Monday, March 13, 2017

Ray


In my years I’ve only known one amateur photographer of genuine professional grade, Raymond Wishart, who always had a camera with him. Ray told me that he’d taken at least one photograph a day for many years. To show or post, he’d have been professional enough to select the best or most interesting shot, instead of, like me, being unable to choose and so printing the whole batch. That’s what I’ve done this morning, all sky cloud shots from yesterday, Sunday evening. I even got two of the moon, at 7:55 and 7:56, 



in the east with clouds, same picture but one showing the lights still on in Oaks by the Bay, the municipal park just below. It’s an active park, families coming to picnic or just walk, lone guitarists sitting on a bench at the end of the several long boardwalks out under the trees, often weddings in season (which should be about upon us for 2017). One morning in wee hours, Linda woke to the sound of shrieking and went out on 7H porch to see what: three couples about in their twenties cavorting naked in the bay while splashing cold water at each other. 



Our lectionary readings this week, for next Sunday are classics. Exodus 17:1-7, Moses at Massah-Meribah with the Israelites whining about thirst and what turns out, etiologic, to be Moses’ downfall. Psalm 95, the Venite that growing up we sang, Anglican Chant, every other Sunday in Morning Prayer, alternating with Psalm 100, the Jubilate Deo. The old days were best, but I don’t know what to do about it; if Anglican Chant is not sung in Heaven, I’ll give it a miss and stay here at 7H. 



The epistle reading is from Romans 5, Paul with justification by faith and Christ dying for the ungodly. In the gospel reading, Jesus encounters the Samaritan woman at the well. All good stuff, we’ll see what the preacher (it’s not me) does with it. 



Walk this morning, funeral for Dorbre McMullen who connects me with Mamie Johnson of an old Apalachicola family. On into their eighties, Mamie arrived faithfully at Trinity Church on Sunday mornings for ten o’clock worship, with Pearl Marshall. I knew they were coming, Mamie if driving would look for a parking place where she didn’t have to back up to get out with her huge old car, and I’d watch them through the old shuttered windows. Once as they entered the church, Mamie apologized to me that they’d arrived after ten o’clock. I said, “Mamie, it’s not ten o’clock at Trinity Church until you get here,” and as they entered their pew I signaled the organist to start the processional hymn.

As long as I have breath, I will miss those years. And I’ll never stop missing Ray Wishart, who used to sit, as he said, “under Jesus’ armpit” with me as we timed Arnold’s sermons. But like the diving depth limits of a boomer submarine, those numbers are top secret. 


DThos+ well along in +Time+  

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