HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

 SO glad to be Back in the Bucket after sometime  at the Brigham in Boston.

It is a great hospital and I am grateful that I can go there for procedures and surgeries.

But I am grateful to be back in my home and awaiting the first big storm of the year.

This really feels like Xmas to me and brings me back to the Xmas times of my childhood.

I recall one  Xmas when my mother waited until near Xmas  Eve to purchase a tree. I was so afraid that  we were not going to get one,  Then she told me to dress warmly and walk with her to a place where she had noticed trees for sale. It was a freezing night in December  but I was happy to  go. We left my two sisters alone and we  looked up to the second floor tenement  windows where they were  both watching us and waving happily.

When we arrived we had walked  what seemed to me a long way in the wind and blowing snow. We went up Columbus Avenue and there he was a man with a few lopsided and skinny trees  standing in a bare spot next to the railroad tracks on York Avenue. He was closing shop and clearly did not expect  to sell these  neglected and rejected trees.

My mother told him that she  had only 5 dollars. Could he sell her a tree for that  price?

He looked at her and me shivering in the wind  and he picked the scrawniest of a scrawny bunch and tied it up for us and took the five dollars. Then my mother  picked up the  trunk end and  I held  onto the  top of the tree and we retraced our steps. 

 When we got to our house on Englewood Avenue, we looked up and my sisters were watching for us still.  We waved and they came running down the front stairs to  help and the four of us  hauled  that tree inside. I said that we had waited to the  last moment. She laughed and said yes and in two days we could pick out a better one from  trees thrown out  the day after Xmas.  

We laughed and said  that we would keep ours for the Twelve Days of Christmas.  AND WE DID.

NOSTALGIA DURING THIS HOLIDAY SEASON

 CHRISTMAS WAS ALWAYS A MIXED BAG

I have already written about  the ways that my Aunt Grace provided  the food for our Thanksgiving and also our Christmas feasts.  But there is so much more to  Christmas than the  big meal which is really the entire focus of Thanksgiving.

We had various ways of preparing for Christmas.We thought a lot about Advent.  I also tried to go to daily mass.  Devotional aspects of the season increased after my father's departure in 1953.

Even before that sad event we celebrated or at least I did by saving whatever money I had and buying Xmas gifts.  Our gifts to each other were  not very glamorous. I would pace around Grants and Woolworth's looking at lipsticks for my Aunt Anna and  a perfume for my mother. I got my sisters paddle balls one year and that was a big hit. They could  play with them quite successfully. I had seen them borrow those of other kids, and I knew they could make the ball bounce off the paddle.
 I remember that when my friend Lucille came over to see  my tree and gifts and she looked at the three piles of  gifts that we had opened--one for each of us children. They were almost identical--pajamas, underwear, a new robe, socks. She said, "I see that you have a very practical Xmas." My mother laughed and my Aunt Anna said that she was rude. She was not, she was just being truthful.
We did not get toys. None of us cared about dolls.The only thing that I got that my sisters did not get would be paper doll books and coloring books. Our stockings were filled with an orange and an apple and some walnuts in the shell. Also sometimes hair ribbons or hair clips.
One winter I  had complained to my Aunt Grace that I had to wear some cast off hockey skates of Lucille's brother when we went to the  Blue Pond to skate.  I was amazed when new  lovely white figure skates showed up under the tree for me.There was no giver's name--these were from Santa.  My mother  warned me  not to whine anymore to  my Aunt Grace and I  knew what that meant.
Aunt Grace was always  my secret Santa.  
When  my father was still with us, I do recall some  sudden eruption of a great gift--like a tricycle. Later when I was about six, he brought in a large and gorgeous doll house. Somehow, there was some suggestion of  scandal  about these gifts--that he had won them in a card game or even stolen them.

 I remember that one Christmas morning he reached under his pillow and took out a small box and in it was a gold cross very plain and simple on a gold chain.  I still have that cross.

SECRET SHARER IN THE BUCKET

Joseph Conrad--one of my favorite novelists-- has written  a novel  with that title  THE SECRET SHARER.

 I recently received not one  but two communications from someone who wishes to stay  an anonymous fan. This person  knew my home address and sent cards.  The second one was  to celebrate my  50th anniversary.

  I have been absent on my own  blog and this caused some concern.  I had another  visit to the Brigham and a surgical procedure --  I am now  in my second day  recovering at home.

These medical events are  difficult and   discouraging.  I have a bunch of new  appointments in December and I doubt my ability to keep them.

Time will tell; I certainly can no longer tell.

MY Secret Sharer tells me that he/she?  likes the fact that my blog recalls details of growing up in Pawtucket in the 50s.  I take that endorsement as a hint that she also recalls those times and that decade in this little city.

I enjoy recalling  that part of my life also, but recent events have demanded a more topical response.

  I have  made a point of staying away from politics and  yet, I could not evade the pandemic and the effect that it has had on so many people.

Even the Brigham seemed changed--chaotic and  over run- in my recent visit there.

I am glad to be home  And I will try to return to the 1950s in my blog. STAY TUNED!

Playing the Hand We were Dealt in the Bucket

Today we are celebrating --50 years  we have been married.

I remember that cold November day. We had  both been  teaching, and  we had been told in no uncertain terms  by my mother not to come for Thanksgiving if we were not married,

She did not want us to continue "Living in sin."

Actually we had already  gone to City Hall a few times  and gotten a marriage license at City Hall. But   we let each license expire.  I was too  close to the disaster of my first marriage.

I COULD NOT BEAR A SECOND FAILURE AND DIVORCE.

So we went down to City Hall one more time  dressed in our everyday teaching clothes. When we got there and filled out the form, the clerk said, "The Judge is still here; you could get married today."

I guess he had noticed the  other lapsed licenses.  

We have no witnesses I answered.

"Oh, I can be a witness and my receptionist  would also be happy to oblige."

So he herded us into the inner office and introduced us to the  Judge,

"We have no ring,"  I protested weakly.

The justice reached down and took the ring off a cigar.  "This will do until you get another."

With all my excuses shot down, we stood there and  made our marriage vows and signed the form that  he presented.

We were given the official Marriage Certificate and we ran out into the now dark and  drizzling night,

A couple of days later I  brought that document to my mother's house  to guarantee that we were not denied our Thanksgiving feast.

That strange marriage lasted these 50 years,

Well they say the first fifty years are the hardest.

So we hope for smooth sailing now into the sunset.

DARK TIMES IN THE BUCKET

 TUNING UP TO SING AGAIN IN THE BUCKET

Been back about a week after spending more time in hospital and rehab.  And believe me it is not a good time to be in either  place during this pandemic. 

 IT WAS A VERY LONELY EXPERIENCE. 

EVERYONE HAS TO ISOLATE FOR 14 DAYS. ALSO NO ROOM MATE AND WHEN NURSES COME IN OR  A CNA THEY  MUST GOWN UP AND PUT ON VISORS AND MASKS AND GLOVES. THEY DO EVERYTHING AS QUICKLY  AS POSSIBLE..

Draw blood or take vitals and leave. NO VISITORS!

But enough about me--- I Never like it when my blog takes a negative turn,

I hope after one more time in December  going to the hospital  I will be better and the Blog will recover too.

Then I came upon this poem.  That even --maybe especially-- in the DARK TIMES we must still sing.

excerpts from “Will There Be Singing”

Juliana Spahr

^ During these days, I would wake up and my head would hurt  and then I would realize that in my dream  I had said to myself that I should write some poetry. But my dreams never explained to me why.   Or how. How to sing in these dark times? It is true that I have been with poetry for a long time.  Since I was a teenager. Those loves of many years and our bodies changing  together. And yet also the deepening of this love. Despite. That day with the breeze in the bar And we said together, there needs to be some pleasure in  the world .  And next, poetry is the what is left of life. And we pledged, more singing. And we referenced by saying, In the dark times. Will there also be singing?   Yes, there will also be singing. About the dark times. SO I am back and so is the Blog--still  singing.

MY EARLY TEACHING CAREER

GLADLY TEACH AND GLADLY LEARN.

That was what they said about me in my school yearbook in 1960 when I finished high school at Saint Xavier'sAcademy in Providence.

But the teaching had begun early.

My mother came home from her work at Darlington  Fabrics talking about  a workmate who was a German War bride. She had a son and he could not read.   My mother told her that I was an excellent reader and had started to read when I was four.  So the  German mother  asked if I could come and try to help her son. 

 I went to her house as directed and there I met her son. I was nine years old.

I don't recall much about our meetings except that the house was immaculate and her kitchen floor was shining.  She had  a lot of large deep arm chairs and I would sit in one with her son and teach him the sounds that the letters make and then combine them to make words.

After several lessons, the boy was reading.  When  his mother heard him read,  she rushed over with a large Bible and  pointed to a Psalm and very slowly the boy  sounded the  words.
She was so happy she wept and she gave me 10 dollars for all  my work.

I had expected nothing.

I don't know why, but instead of taking that ten home and giving it to my mother, I went downtown to the Roger Williams Savings and opened my first bank account.

I was impressed with the bank book and when I went home I showed it to my mother with great pride.

She reacted in a way that I could never anticipate -- she took the bank book and threw it across the room!

"Here I am" she said, "a middle aged mother of three and I have never had the  courage to walk into a bank and open a savings account. How could she do this?  That is her Black Protestant Yankee Jenckes soul coming through. OMIGOD. What will she do next?"

Good  question and one that I never had an answer for - I still don't.

My teaching career did not stop with that setback.  As summer loomed, I decided to open a school from Nine  to Noon in a garage across the street from our tenement.  I think, if memory serves--and miraculously it still does-- it belonged to the Mc Cormack's on Englewood Avenue.  I asked if I could use it and offered to sweep it out and clean it.    Used some of the old broken chairs and   boxes as  student seats.  There was a small table and I used that as a desk.  I opened the little school and I  charged  a nickel for reading and a dime  for math. Students came with their  money and I  put the coins in a little piggy bank.

There were about  ten or fewer students but they did seem to be learning  and their  parents sent them each day with their  nickels and dimes.

I was exhausted by noon each day--but I knew that I had found  my calling. I had gotten the connection between teaching and  money. It would support my life!

ALL MY LIFE GLADLY WOULD I TEACH AND GLADLY LEARN.

CRAWLIN' BACK TO THE BUCKET

 THAT'S ALL SHE WROTE,

WELL NOT QUITE.

I am home after a month at Brigham Hospital two surgeries and  some time at Hebrew Rehab--the best place to be .

Maybe I came back too soon.  But on hospital and rehab  TV s I watched the Celtics collapse and now I am awaiting the surgical removal of the HEAT. All seems to be once more back in the capable hands of LeBron.

I notice now that people who talk about him now--his friends--call him just Bron.  Can I call him Bron?

I usually take Bron's advice. And last night the  word from the sports cast people was that Bron said--

WE MUST LEARN FROM PAST MISTAKES. 

THAT WILL BE MY GUIDING MANTRA  FOR A CHANGE   

LEARN FROM THEM DON'T JUST REPEAT THEM.

LET'S  SEE HOW THAT WORKS FOR ME.

STAY TUNED.

CELTICS SWEEP

 I regret that I lost faith in the Celtics for a few moments.
MEA CULPA, MEA CULPA, MEA MAXIMA CULPA.
May the BASKETBALL GODS  forgive me.


 With the help of Kemba Walker they  put on a display of  great basketball that allowed them to sweep the series with the Philadelphia  opponents.

What a difference a player like KEMBA  brings. He has everything that Kyrie lacked, and he really clicks with the other team members. Also  I am thrilled to see Marcus  Smart spur the team on and make the  great defensive moves when they are needed.


One of the things I learned was that the team  had spent sometime in China with Kemba playing with them as part of the USA team. They clicked and I imagine that facilitated both the trade and the  happy result of that trade.


Believe it or not this is the first time that Kemba has advanced in the playoffs. So he is glad to be on a team that wants to win. And the team has not had a player like Kemba who now is being compared to such Celtic legends as Cousy and Mc Hale. 


I hope that they don't get too overconfident.  I think that they may be facing the  talented Toronto Raptors next.

PLAY ON

SIMPLE THINGS IN THE BUCKET--- TOO HOT TO BLOG?

Just wanted  to tell you that I have not succumbed to the COVID or the heat--but I  sometimes feel as if I am on the brink.

ENOUGH  ALREADY!!  

PANDEMIC
has gone on too long and even the return of my beloved Celtics has been a little less than glorious.   They cannot seem to find enough intensity to carry them through all  four quarters.


I have certainly been grateful for the races at Saratoga  and have gotten through many afternoons and evenings with Maggie and those wonderful,well-spoken touts that tell me so much.

So those are the best events.

Surely we have comeback to SIMPLE THINGS.

Poet, author, and farmer Wendell Berry is a shining example of humility and simple living. He’s made it his life’s concern to commit to one beloved plot of land in Kentucky. He says everything he’s learned has been through his faithfulness to that commitment. He reminds me of St. Francis of Assisi in that he loves nature deeply and takes the Gospel seriously. Berry writes of the profound pleasure that can come from simple things—if we can attune ourselves to them:

  It is impossible not to notice how little the proponents of the ideal of competition have to say about honesty, which is the fundamental economic virtue, and how very little they have to say about community, compassion, and mutual help. . . . 

For human beings, affection is the

 ultimate motive, because the force

 that powers us, as [John] Ruskin 

[1819–1900] also said, is not “steam, 

magnetism, or gravitation,” but “a 

Soul.”. . . [1]

Is it possible to look beyond this all-consuming “rush” of winning and losing to the possibility of countrysides, a nation of countrysides, in which use is not synonymous with defeat? It is. But in order to do so we must consider our pleasures. . . . [There are] pleasures that are free or without a permanent cost. . . . These are the pleasures that we take in our own lives, our own wakefulness in this world, and in the company of other people and other creatures—pleasures innate in the Creation and in our own good work. It is in these pleasures that we possess the likeness to God that is spoken of in Genesis. [God looked upon all that God had created and saw that it was very good (Genesis 1:31).] . . .

The passage suggests . . . that our truest and profoundest religious experience may be the simple, unasking pleasure in the existence of other creatures that is possible to humans. It suggests that God’s pleasure in all things must be respected by us in our use of things. . . . It suggests too that we have an obligation to preserve God’s pleasure in all things. . . . 

Where is our comfort but in the free,

 uninvolved, finally mysterious

 beauty and grace of this world that

we did not make, that has no price? 

Where is our sanity but there? 

Where is our pleasure but in 

working and resting kindly in the 

presence of this world?

NOT SUCH GREAT RECKONINGS IN LITTLE ROOMS

This morning I was happy to see the full dress rehearsal of the seven plays that the BLUE COW GROUP  is presenting as their part in the Providence Fringe Festival.


The Director Daniel Lee White polished our work and ----WHOA!!!-----

Stop the PRESSES  I am watching the meet at Saratoga as I write this and am amazed that the winner of the race I am watching is named OAK HILL.

 Anyone who knows me in Rhode Island knows that I am  much involved in  the management of a great Historical Civil War Cemetery  called OAK HILL.  My father's people are buried there  dating back to the first ancestor who established  a mill in Woonsocket JOB JENCKES.


If I had not spent much of my life avoiding the sad fate of  my dear father who "FOLLOWED THE  HORSES"  I would have had a big bet on that horse.

Well now back to the on line ZOOM presentation of the BLUE COW GROUP.


The first performance is  MONDAY JULY 20 at 6pm EDST

The second performance is WEDNESDAY JULY 29 EDST  at 9pm.

A Play’s the Thing

Presented by The Blue Cow Group

FRINGE PVD 2020

http://fringepvd.org/a-plays-the-thing.html

Showtimes:

Monday, July 20, at 6 p.m.

Wednesday, July 29, at 9 p.m.

​Stream via

Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/fringePVD/

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/c/WilburyTheatreGroup/

The Plays

Directed by Daniel Lee White

Sonnet: “To Our Wonderful Audience” by Norma Jenckes

Player—Jane Bird

Two Ladies Doth Protest by Kay Ellen Bullard

Sara—Becky Minard

Gwen—Carole Collins

Ghosted by Martha Douglas-Osmundson

Sadie Wyatt - Sarah Reed

Maya Lee - Lee Rush

Clementine DeVere - Pamela Gill

The Apparel Oft Proclaims the Man by Norma Jenckes

Allen—W. Richard Johnson

Beth—Kayla Ribeiro

Dale—Mike Daniels

Hand Off by Monica Staaf

Alice—Mary Paolino

Melanie—Kate Fitzgerald

All the World’s a Stage by Elaine Brousseau

(with original songs by Paula Elser Clare)

Julie—Amy W. Thompson

Paula—Paula Elser Clare

Open Seating by Susan Buttrick

Forest—Christopher Ferreira

Lilac—Ava Rigelhaupt

Betsy—Chantell Marie Arraial

At the Stage Door by Jayne Hannah

Olivia—Nova Drewes

Mom—Carol Drewes

Clementine DeVere—Pamela Gill

#onlineplay #theatre #theater #actorslife #hamlet #shakespeare #onlineperformance #fringePVD @ FringePVD

These performances are all free on Zoom and open to all.

Of course, there is an opportunity to donate.  But  do what you can, you are all most welcome.

SO matter where you are in the world you can use your computer to see these shows.

I was pleased with the wonderful performances that the Director has gotten from a group of 17
talented actors.

ZOOM THEATER looks like a new medium to me and it is thrilling to see how  live theater performance can translate to those limitations.

MY UNCLE GEORGE SURVIVED THE SINKING OF THE USS POLLUX

MY MOTHER WAS VERY PROUD OF HER BROTHER GEORGE.


And she had good reason!
 Her  younger brother, George, enlisted in the Navy when he was  18 in 1930. 

He visited us occasionally when I was growing up and  my mother was always excited to see him.

 I remember that he talked only when urged about his close brush with death on the coast of Newfoundland.

He made light of it.  He told me that when he finally made it to the narrow stony beach beneath the cliffs that seemed so high as cold and wet and exhausted by his own efforts to get to shore.


And so he began doing jumping-jacks to keep his muscles going and to get his blood to circulate freely.. Later someone from the town who helped him told  him that when they saw  George doing his jumping jacks and ordering  other sailors who had made it to the shore to join him, they said "That guy wants to live,"
And the towns people came down the cliff face and helped men to leave that freezing shoreline.  George helped them to  aid the other men.  Then he took his turn and was helped up to the  top of the cliff.
He was taken to hospital and there he got well again,

So much gratitude-- he expressed to the wonderful people  of Newfoundland  who rescued him and his ship mates.

George L. Coleman was born at Valley Falls, Rhode Island on April 4, 1912 to parents Jane and Joseph Coleman. He enlisted in the US Navy in 1930 and initially served in the eastern Pacific Ocean aboard the armored cruiser USS Seattle. He transferred to the Navy's Asiatic Fleet several years later, where he served for three years aboard the heavy cruiser USS Augusta. Coleman was reassigned in 1941 to the supply ship USS Pollux, which transported troops, equipment, food, and other goods to Allied ports on both sides of the North Atlantic. He was 29 years old when the vessel ran aground off Newfoundland's south coast during a violent winter storm on February 18, 1942.

Coleman survived the shipwreck, but 93 of his fellow sailors drowned or froze to death; among the dead was his close friend George Marks. Years later, Coleman described to author Cassie Brown how he felt while watching men jump overboard: "I believe I was more stunned and bewildered to see what was happening and just couldn't believe what was going on. I don't know how long I was standing there by the lifeline looking down in that raging sea when I raised my eyes and looked towards the beach and I saw one sailor making his way to the beach, and then he may have been about 12 to 15 feet from the beach. I saw him turn around, face the ship, give a hand salute, and I saw him go down."

Coleman eventually made it to shore and was rescued by a group of men from the nearby communities of Lawn and St. Lawrence. He spent three weeks in hospital following the disaster and returned to military service shortly afterwards. He participated in the invasion of North Africa during the Second World War and also fought in France, Normandy, England, and Norway before peace was restored in 1945.

Coleman was married to Helen for 25 years before she died of cancer in the 1960s. The two did not have any children. Coleman remarried in 1966, this time to Marcellena Lawson, and the pair lived in Norfolk, Virginia.

BLUE COW ACTING UP IN THE BUCKET

PLAYWRIGHT COMES OUT OF THE CLOSET 
--OR IS IT THE BUCKET?


Those of you who read  this BLOG know that the Blogger--ME!!--is also a poet and very interested in Poetry.

What I have not blogged much about is that I am  also a playwright. 

That interest and  play productions were more  to the fore when I was still teaching drama and playwriting at the University of Cincinnati and having my own plays produced in various Cincinnati theaters.
It was an exciting time and deserves more attention.  But when I retired completely from teaching in 2012, I was drawn back into my first passion POETRY.

In recent years  due to the good influence of a former high school student of mine who is now a college professor,  I became a founding member of the BLUE COW GROUP--a group of playwrights who formed a support group that met twice monthly to read and  improve each other's plays.
Since I left the playwriting scene  a new phenomena of ten- minute plays  has mushroomed as a way to get new work performed, and also a way to bring  beginning playwrights to the attention of theaters. It was also a way to see new writing without commiting to a full length play production.

All this history is just to  introduce my Blog Readers to an opportunity to see some of  the work of the BLUE COW GROUP which is being  staged as part of the Providence Fringe Festival.
Due to the PANDEMIC these plays will be available on ZOOM and so anyone with a computer can watch them.

So in that spirit  of trying to find the upside of these trying times, I invite each and every one of you to  follow the link below and watch the plays  wherever you are on the globe.
This is an introduction. I will provide more specifics of time and date in future blogs.

 https://www.instagram.com/p/CCWoi16nuaK/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet

Name changing extends to Belfast Northern Ireland

Recent name changes  inspired by the  BLACK LIVES MATTER  has expanded from Columbus in the US to   leaders of colonialism in England.

 So Churchill's statue has been attacked and now we hear that the celebrated Queen's University in Belfast will be named Mairead Farrell in memory of an IRA member who was killed by British  intelligence.

Also street names have been changed  and there is now 

a BOBBY SANDS STREET!

I  hope those changes become official.


I think it is time to celebrate the 4TH of JULY with a  blow for the independence 
of the remaining  6 counties that are still held by England and considered part of the UK.

TIME TO RECALL AGAIN THE GREATNESS OF  BOBBY SANDS.

THE WRECK OF THE EDMUND FITZGERALD--BOBBY SANDS'' FAVORITE

I woke up ten mornings ago with these lyrics  repeating in my head and I thought--that wreck must have happened in NOVEMBER  and it did.

NOVEMBER 10, 1975

Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald

Music and lyrics ©1976 by Gordon Lightfoot

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down 
of the big lake they called "Gitche Gumee."
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
when the skies of November turn gloomy.
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty,
that good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
when the "Gales of November" came early. 

The ship was the pride of the American side
coming back from some mill in Wisconsin.
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
with a crew and good captain well seasoned,
concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
when they left fully loaded for Cleveland.
And later that night when the ship's bell rang,
could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
and a wave broke over the railing.
And ev'ry man knew, as the captain did too
'twas the witch of November come stealin'.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
when the Gales of November came slashin'.
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
in the face of a hurricane west wind.

When suppertime came the old cook came on deck

Sayin' "Fellas, it's too rough t'feed ya."
At seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in; he said,

(**2010 lyric change: At 7 p.m., it grew dark, it was then he said,)

"Fellas, it's bin good t'know ya!"
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
and the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when 'is lights went outta sight
came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does any one know where the love of God goes
when the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
if they'd put fifteen more miles behind 'er.
They might have split up or they might have capsized;
they may have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
in the rooms of her ice-water mansion.
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams;
the islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below Lake Ontario
takes in what Lake Erie can send her,
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
with the Gales of November remembered.

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed,
in the "Maritime Sailors' Cathedral."
The church bell chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times
for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they call "Gitche Gumee."
"Superior," they said, "never gives up her dead
when the gales of November come early!"

PROBABLY ONE OF THE GREATEST NARRATIVE SONGS WRITTEN in the 20TH CENTURY, THIS BALLAD DELIGHTED AND INSPIRED BOBBY SANDS
PLAY IT ON  YOU TUBE BY GORDON LIGHTFOOT.  It will stay in your head for days.

SO now I am reminded by the great  biography of Bobby Sands JUST AN UNFINISHED SONG  by O'Hearn which relates how Bobby loved this ballad and thought that it was the greatest song that told a story.  He sang it aloud during the prison protest and he taught it to the other men who were  imprisoned with  him.

  He confided to "The Dark", his comrade Hughes, that he wanted to write a  song about the Irish struggle to the same tune as the Edmund Fitzgerald.  He did that as O'Hearn relates that one night when they were having a sing song to keep up morale one of the other prisoners asked Bobby to sing The Wreck. 
Bobby said that he had been putting new words to it.
Then he sang THE VOYAGE a song about United Irish  prisoners who were being transported to Tasmania on a ship called The Gull.

Here are some of the lyrics that Bobby sets to the tune of The Wreck:
It was 1803 when we sailed out to sea
And away from the sweet town of Derry
For Australia bound and if we didn't drown
The mark of the  fetter we'd carry.

Here is another verse that ties together the United Irishmen and the Blanketmen:

In our own smelling slime we were lost for a time
Hoping God in his mercy would claim us
But our spirits shone high like the stars in the sky
We were rebels and no man would tame us.

Try singing these words to the tune of the Wreck and you will  see how well they fit.

Bobby was able to pass from life through suffering  to death with so much grace because he had the certainty of a martyr.
He knew that his cause, the cause of Irish Freedom,  was just and the British Imperial  claim was unjust and would be judged so by History and by God.

CLIMBING LADDERS TO NOTHING

Have I spent too much time climbing those ladders to Nothing?

I have just three things to teach:

 simplicity, patience,

 compassion. —Lao Tzu  

Most of us have grown up with a capitalist worldview which makes a virtue and goal out of accumulation, consumption, and collecting. It has taught us to assume, quite falsely, that more is better. 

But it’s hard for us to recognize this unsustainable and unhappy trap because it’s the only game in town. 

When parents perform multiple duties all day and into the night, it is the story line that their children surely absorb. “I produce therefore I am” and “I consume therefore I am” might be today’s answers to Descartes’ “I think therefore I am.” 

These identities are all terribly

 mistaken, but we can’t discover

 the truth until we remove the

 clutter.

The course we are on assures us of a predictable future of strained individualism, environmental destruction, severe competition as resources dwindle for a growing population, and perpetual war. 

CULTURE OF NEVER ENOUGH

Our culture ingrains in us the belief that there isn’t enough to go around, which determines most of our politics and spending. In the United States there is never enough money for adequate health care, education, the arts, or even basic infrastructure.

 At the same time, the largest

 budget is always for war, bombs, 

and military gadgets. I hope we

 can all recognize how the tragic 

consequences of these decisions 

are being played out right now.

E. F. Schumacher (1911–1977) said years ago, “Small is beautiful,” and many other wise people have come to know that less stuff invariably leaves room for more soul. In fact, possessions and soul seem to operate in inverse proportion to one another.

 Only through simplicity can we find deep contentment instead of perpetually striving and living unsatisfied. Simple living is the foundational social justice teaching of Jesus, Francis and Clare of Assisi, Dorothy Day, Pope Francis, and all hermits, mystics, prophets, and seers since time immemorial.

We must let go, to recognize that there is enough to go around and meet everyone’s need but not everyone’s greed. A worldview of enoughness will predictably emerge in us as we realize our naked being in God instead of thinking that more of anything or more frenetic doing can fill up our infinite longing and restlessness. 

Francis did not just tolerate or endure simplicity; he loved it and called it poverty. Francis dove into simplicity and found his freedom there. 

Francis knew that climbing ladders to nowhere would never make us happy nor create peace and justice on this earth. 

Too many have to stay at the

bottom of the ladder so we can 

be at the top. 

 

Epigraph: Tao Te Ching, 67. See Tao Te Ching: A New English Version, trans. Stephen Mitchell (Harper Perennial: 2006, ©1988), 67.