Once in a While Wednesday–to be born again, in another world, in another time

spoiler alert: this post starts out silly and ends with Trayvon Martin. It has been an organic piece of writing and I’m gonna stand by it; at least I think I know what I’m doing

Click through and see the Utz girl eat potato chips before your very eyes. Yes, I have mentioned her before.

Did you ever think that organic food is popular because the word organic is close to the word orgasmic?

Orgasms, what’s the big deal? You can never get enough of them and everything’s over too fast, even the long ones.

I like hot flashes. All that sudden heat created by ME without me even trying. It’s fucking awesome. However, I am not sure I’ll be enjoying them so much in the middle of summer.

Note to self: do not wear thermal shirts during peri-menopausal years unless it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey

I don’t even like that expression. Where the hell did it come from?

I do remember a song from when I was a kid at summer camp which had the line “it’s cold as the hair on a witch’s ass”

Here’s what I remember:

It’s cold, it’s cold, it’s cold, it’s cold,                                                                                                                                                                           it’s cold, it’s cold, it’s cold, it’s cold                                                                                                                                                                              it’s cold as the foam on a tall beer glass, it’s cold as the hair on a witch’s ass

(oh, wordpress, why must you irk me like that, effing with my line breaks? WHY!?!)

Does anyone else know that song? I swear I learned some crazy things at summer camp. But I never made out with anyone, which I understand is something that is maybe supposed to happen at summer camp.

I went for 5 summers in a row from the time I was 7, so not making out by the time I was 12 seems OK. Whew!

What if it was peace of ass instead of piece of ass? Because we all know that getting a piece of ass makes you calmer and more peaceful. See? The phrase would effectively kill two birds with one stone.

How do vegetarians feel about idiomatic expressions using images that are violent toward animals? I’ve discussed this before.

And vegans, how do vegans feel about phrases involving violence toward butter or violent acts committed with butter? Don’t you go thinking about Last Tango now either, ‘kay? Because I only saw that movie once in college and you know, I don’t think it was very good. I thought The Last Emperor was better. I used to love John Lone but he was never in very many movies.

I will not stand by the term “wife-beater” to describe a man’s white ribbed cotton undershirt, the kind my dad wore. Do men still wear those? My Greek friend calls them papou t-shirts and I like that better. When you pronounce a p in Greek, it’s really more of a b sound.

I believe that this is true: the Finnish language has no word for “toes”

Stand your ground: wasn’t Trayvon Martin the one who needed to do this? What about his self-defense? A neighborhood watchman with a gun trumps an unarmed minor every time.

I tire of the debates and comments that continue to defend the actions of George Zimmerman based on some notion that Zimmerman behaved in the only possible way he could have in such a situation.

I think about Trayvon Martin’s parents. I think about Emmet Till and his brave mother; and don’t tell me this situation is nothing like that situation.

No matter what happens to George Zimmerman, Trayvon’s parents will never have their son back. Never.

You wake up, you make the coffee in the automatic coffee maker, do your morning routine, whatever it is, you hope for the best, that this time your kids leave the house will not be the last time you will ever see them.

Still, I can’t help but be grateful when I hear this.

Astral Weeks, Van Morrison

If I ventured in the slipstream
Between the viaducts of your dream
Where mobile steel rims crack
And the ditch in the back roads stop

Could you find me?
Would you kiss-a my eyes?
To lay me down in silence easy
To be born again, to be born again

From the far side of the ocean
If I put the wheels in motion
And I stand with my arms behind me
And I’m pushin’ on the door

Could you find me?
Would you kiss-a my eyes?
To lay me down in silence easy
To be born again, to be born again

There you go standin’ with the look of avarice
Talkin’ to Huddie Ledbetter
Showin’ pictures on the wall
Whisperin’ in the hall
And pointin’ a finger at me

There you go, there you go
Standin’ in the sun darlin’
With your arms behind you
And your eyes before
There you go

Takin’ care of your boy
Seein’ that he’s got clean clothes
Puttin’ on his little red shoes
I see you know he’s got clean clothes

A puttin’ on his little red shoes
A pointin’ a finger at me
Standing in your sad arrest
Trying to do my very best

Lookin’ straight at you
Comin’ through, darlin’
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah

If I ventured in the slipstream
Between the viaducts of your dreams
Where mobile steel rims crack
And the ditch in the back roads stop

Could you find me?
Would you kiss-a my eyes?
To lay me down in silence easy
To be born again, to be born again
To be born again, to be born again

In another world, darlin’
In another world
In another time
Got a home on high

Ain’t nothing but a stranger in this world
I’m nothing but a stranger in this world
I got a home on high in another land
So far away, so far away

Way up in the heaven, way up in the heaven
Way up in the heaven, way up in heaven, oh
In another time, in another place
In another time, in another place

Way up in the heaven
In another time, in another place
In another time, in another place
In another face

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May Your Never-failing Treasury Be Filled with Boundless Stores of Grace: Beekeeping and the Class of 2010

On the last Friday in May 2010, I was able to accompany and photograph Hartsbrook’s 8th Grade students during their final Agricultural Arts class.

It is customary for each Hartsbrook class to begin a study of Beekeeping with Nicki Robb in the fall of the 8th Grade year.

Beekeeping is a complex art, combining ancient farming techniques and the science of keen observation with a deep understanding of what is natural to the bee. The beekeeper must become a steward of nature in order to reap the benefits of the hive in the form of that most sensuous and mysterious of substances, honey.

The weather on this particular day was the best of the week, not as hot as it had been earlier, but sunny with a slight breeze. The beginning of beekeeping class found the 14 students donning their bee-proof Tyvec suits. After this somewhat elaborate ritual, they followed Ms. Robb to the hives at the back of the campus. The 8th Graders were instructed to be as still and quiet as possible and to approach the hives only from the back in order to avoid interfering with the flight path of the bees. In groups of 3 or 4, the students carefully removed the cinder block weights from the tops of the boxes. Having been taught to listen to the sound of the bees’ humming in order to assess the mood of the hive, the teenagers were transformed from chatty and excited to quiet almost immediately. Next, they carefully pried up the frames to observe the combs: to see if there was honey, to observe its color and quality, and to notice if any chains had been created. After their observations were complete, the frames and boxes were put back in reverse order. A final “bee check” with a brush was performed on each student and the space-age suits were stripped off with happiness and relief.

Having never been near a living hive of honeybees, I was in a state of awe for the 45 minutes or so that we spent there. Time was suspended in the sunshine and whispering breeze of the morning. The frames oozed with a liquid, golden light. I was never afraid of being stung, but rather soothed by the hum and buzz all around us. Nicki stood in front of the boxes and I was astonished at the hundreds of bees flying halo-like around her, to and from the hives, both as if none of us existed, but also as if they were there simply for our pleasure and beholding.

After I removed my own bee suit, I spent some time in the Great Room looking over the class’ final work displays—the material “honey” of 8 years of a Hartsbrook education.

I spent about an hour paging through Main Lesson books, poring over poems about the animals of Africa, reading about the properties of light and atmosphere, drinking in the splendor and colors of dozens of watercolor paintings, and admiring the wooden toys and handmade dolls. I was amazed at the material declaration of knowledge and beauty and at the incredible amount of industry that went in to each child’s work. It is more than I can contain in my mind at once even now.

When I ventured back to join the class, they were gathered in the shade of a huge tree, listening dreamily to Ms. Robb. Once her lecture was complete, Nicki asked the group which of Hartsbrook’s resident farm animals they would most like to visit for the remainder of the time. The resounding answer was, to my surprise, “THE GOATS!” The 8th Graders rarely, if ever, have a chance to visit the animals during the school day and this was obviously a final gift from their teacher.

In the presence of the goats and our resident donkey, Francesca, the class was transformed from a group of sophisticated teenagers into young children again. I watched as their hearts lightened. Tenderness and joy overtook them as they fed, petted, and played with the goats and Francesca.

Hartsbrook’s 8th Grade Class of 2010 had an educational path that was forged by not one, but three, different Class Teachers. This provided them with unusual and unforeseen challenges but also opportunities for flexibility and growth. Ultimately, the situation allowed the class to become intensely bonded to one another and to have a strong spirit of perseverance in the face of external pressures. I thought about this during my final time together with them. This class did become a hive unto itself, as any of its teachers could tell you.

The day was certainly blessed and I knew it was a gift to be in their presence as a group for the last time. While I overreach to apply metaphors, I still have this wish for them: May your days forever ooze with golden honey as you fly from the geometry and industry of your Hartsbrook hive and venture into whatever awaits you.

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