Hey! God!

My sibling-in-law – “Atti” (Atticus, formerly referred to here as Brianna) – told an amusing story.

What with tuition breaks, Atti used to attend a private Christian high school in Granger, South Bend’s upscale suburb. Her mother (Karin’s mother) taught there. Being a teacher’s child wasn’t always easy for Atti.

One day, Atti + classmates were riding through South Bend to a charity recipient’s house for “Service Day” and talking about the privileged lives of Grangerites.

They passed a trailer park. Hey! Atti exclaimed. That’s where my sister – not Karin – used to live.

Nuh, uh! gasped Atti’s classmates.

It began to dawn on them that Atti was different from the others.

As the children rode along, the surroundings became curiously familiar to Atti.

Then they parked in Atti’s driveway.

Atti’s mother had signed them up to rake the leaves in the yard.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Samuel has been taught to say “please” and “thank you” but still begins most requests with “Hey!” This morning he was, as usual, taking out his frustrations on Daniel. I told him to ask God to help him to be patient, and to breathe some deep breaths.

Hey! God! Please help me to be patient! (Deep breath, deep breath.)

A new niece; the “little house” books; the Hardy boys

The time has come to salute our new niece, Belladonna “Bella” Jean Louise. She was born to Brianna – who now goes by “Atticus” (“Atti”) – and to “Atti’s” partner, “Ike.”

Karin went to Michigan yesterday and visited the child and her parents.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Samuel pulled Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books off the shelf and spread them out across the floor. Which of them do you think caught his attention? That’s right: Farmer Boy. The only one in the series about little Almanzo Wilder. The only one about a boy.

The only one I’ve read, as it happens.

Karin tells me that when she was a little girl, she read all of the series *except* Farmer Boy. “That one is dumb,” her mom advised her.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I had the opposite limitation. I tried, when I was younger, to read some Nancy Drew books. I failed. But I succeeded in devouring dozens of Hardy Boys mysteries.

Now, after some thirty years, I’m rereading one of my old favorites: While the Clock Ticked (the eleventh novel in the series). Samuel and Daniel will be reading The Hardy Boys before long, I expect, and I’d like to be conversant in that literature.

The pacing is breakneck. There’s an amusing scene in which Frank and Joe attend a party with their girlfriends for all of five minutes before they rush off again to pursue a lead.

The police are implausibly nice. They’d like nothing better than to share information with the teenaged sleuths. Frank and Joe’s friend group ticks the important boxes, race-wise. In just a couple of pages, the Italian-American “chum,” the Jewish-American “chum,” and the Irish-American “chum” all are introduced. (Introduced, but never developed as characters.) Nowadays, other races than these are the beneficiaries of token inclusion; but a similar diversity principle seems to have guided the great mercenary children’s writings of 1932.

Then, of course, there’s Chet Morton, a rounder character in more ways than one. The chums go hiking in the woods, and Chet keeps pleading with them to stop so they can all eat their sandwiches. This is where the book provides character development and comical relief.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Back to Laura Ingalls. I picked up Little House in the Big Woods, also published in 1932, and read the first chapter. Its prose is plain but descriptively exquisite; I wouldn’t be surprised if it were a direct influence upon that of Nobel winner Alice Munro. (I’m especially reminded of her story “Boys and Girls.”) A lot happens in the big woods, but it happens out of view. The children wake up to see dead deer hanging from the trees. Pa kills the family’s pig; Laura stays indoors and listens while it squeals. Predators lurk outside the house.

The taste for this more atmospheric sort of writing comes later in life, I think. First comes a hunger for stories like The Hardy Boys, stories for one-track-minded readers. Not all children, but many children, are like greyhounds chasing a mechanical rabbit.

A stressful week

Longest blogging lapse in two years, I think. I desperately need to turn in three chapters that I promised my adviser a week ago.

This has been a miserable time.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Not that it’s compounding my misery, but Brianna is being thrown out of her mother’s house, effective tomorrow. (Brianna has turned eighteen, and her mother is within her legal rights.)

No, Brianna isn’t going to live with us. She’s taking a spare room in a friend’s friend’s house.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

There is some good news. On Tuesday, Karin & I found out that we’re going to have a baby boy. The child seems healthy. The due date is in mid-October.

May’s poems

This month, I offer two poems whose disturbed author was Mary Lamb.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Envy

This rose-tree is not made to bear
The violet blue, nor lily fair,
Nor the sweet mignionet:
And if this tree were discontent,
Or wished to change its natural bent,
It all in vain would fret.

And should it fret, you would suppose
It ne’er had seen its own red rose,
Nor after gentle shower
Had ever smelled its rose’s scent,
Or it could ne’er be discontent
With its own pretty flower.

Like such a blind and senseless tree
As I’ve imagined this to be,
All envious persons are:
With care and culture all may find
Some pretty flower in their own mind,
Some talent that is rare.

Choosing a Profession

A Creole boy from the West Indies brought,
To be in European learning taught,
Some years before to Westminster he went,
To a Preparatory school was sent.
When from his artless tale the mistress found
The child had not one friend on English ground,
She ev’n as if she his own mother were,
Made the dark Indian her particular care.
Oft on her favourite’s future lot she thought;
To know the bent of his young mind she sought,
For much the kind preceptress wished to find
To what profession he was most inclined,
That where his genius led they might him train;
For nature’s kindly bent she held not vain.
But vain her efforts to explore his will;
The frequent question he evaded still;
Till on a day at length he to her came,
Joy sparkling in his eyes; and said, the same
Trade he would be those boys of colour were,
Who danced so happy in the open air.
It was a troop of chimney-sweeping boys,
With wooden music and obstreperous noise,
In tarnish’d finery and grotesque array,
Were dancing in the streets the first of May.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Of the author, the Poetry Foundation writes:

British Poet and anthologist Mary Lamb worked as a seamstress for 10 years to support her ailing family. She suffered from bipolar disorder and, during an episode in 1796, killed her mother with a kitchen knife. Her younger brother Charles, a poet and essayist who worked for the East India Company, agreed to serve as Mary’s caretaker rather than consign her to lifelong institutionalization. They lived together for nearly 40 years, save for Mary’s annual manic episodes, during which she was institutionalized.

Despite her illness, the siblings developed a collaborative writing relationship and produced many well-known collections of poetry and prose for children, including Tales from Shakespeare (1807), Mrs. Leicester’s School (1809), and Poetry for Children (1809). The books they wrote together were published anonymously or under Charles’s name in order to shield Mary from unwanted publicity.

Charles and Mary were forced to move often due to Mary’s notoriety. In 1823 they adopted an orphan, Emma Isola, who lived with them for a decade until marrying their publisher. Charles died in 1834, and Mary was cared for by family members and a nurse, and at times placed in asylums, until her death in 1847.

A tragic, heroic tale.

I thank God for placing us into families that restrain our wildness, hold fast to us though we wound, and steady us so we can do some good …

… today, especially, I thank Him for grandmothers, mothers, wives, and sisters.

Closing credits (2018)

A rainy New Year’s Eve. Still, 2018 ends with more warmth than 2017 did.

This is my 120th entry of the year. I’ve written ten entries each month.

For providing material to discuss, I again thank Karin, Jasper, and Ziva; my tutees; my blood relations; and Brianna and other in-laws.

Additionally, this year, I acknowledge:

The poets.

Boca Juniors and River Plate.

The Mormons, who, until mid-October, were very friendly to Karin & me. They must have then given up trying to convert us.

Brett Kavanaugh.

My dissertation adviser for – so far – allowing various prolongments.

The St. Joseph River for declining to flood our apartment complex.

The city of Austin.

Maj Sjöwall & Per Wahlöö for authoring the Martin Beck mysteries.

Aimee-Ffion Edwards for acting in four of the best screenworks I viewed this year:

• Skins (a lewd TV soap opera about Bristol’s teens; not for the faint of heart);
• Detectorists (a gentle sitcom – featuring the excellent Toby Jones – about rural, amateur metal detectorists; quite suitable for the faint of heart);
• Luther (a quasi-fantastical crime show starring Idris Elba; for the great of heart); and
• Queen & Country (the long-overdue, surprisingly un-cynical, cinematic continuation of John Boorman’s Hope and Glory).

I also thank the moviemakers of 1996.

And I thank our new church, which welcomed Karin & me during a rather turbulent period. We watched over the two- and three-year-olds during many services. Starting in the spring, we also wrote, printed out, and folded each week’s bulletin. (Mercifully, that task will soon be performed by a new secretary.) The most rewarding event each week was the adults’ Sunday School class. For authoring that class’s discussion guides, I heartily thank the late John Stott.

Finally: thanks to everyone who offered money and prayers on our behalf. Please pray for me to complete my degree soon. Karin & I long to get out of this rut in which we’ve been living.

The joy of getting, pt. 2

Karin & I went to four Christmas gatherings. All were relatively painless, and some were quite nice.

As mentioned a few entries ago, I participated in the gift exchange held by Karin’s mother’s family. I’d been assigned to buy gifts for Brianna. She’d asked for clothes and toys with decorations of Hufflepuff – her Harry Potter “house” – and of Bob’s Burgers, the TV show. My selections were very well-received: especially, the Bob’s Burgers-themed Clue game, which we all played after we finished eating the Christmas meal. (Brianna was the murderer, of course.)

Brianna also had drawn my name for the exchange. She used her $50 budget to order three books for me, all of them new, though I’d submitted a much longer wish list of used books. Two of the new books arrived in time for Christmas; one is still in the mail.

The three books are:

• An Artist of the Floating World by Kazuo Ishiguro (not yet arrived);
• The Unconsoled by Kazuo Ishiguro; and
• Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman.

Due to my puny haul, and out of pity, Karin bought me the last two of Sjöwall’s & Wahlöö’s police procedurals (used).

At the gathering of Karin’s dad’s family, I was given a book called A Journal for Jordan, the heartrending true story of a U.S. soldier killed in Iraq and the woman and child he left behind. This, apparently, is a “joke” gift that has been passed around between all the family members.

I also was given a t-shirt depicting Schrödinger’s cat:

The cat is a recurring topic of discussion in the TV sitcom The Big Bang Theory, which Karin’s dad’s family enjoys. I don’t watch that sitcom – it’s about nerds – but I do like cats and metaphysics (which is not the same discipline as physics). I talked to Karin’s dad’s family about this horrifying philosophical paper to show that I appreciated their gift.

I take a day off

Well, Karin’s and Brianna’s mother has returned from abroad, and Brianna has gone back to her mother’s house.

Only, last night, Karin brought Brianna back to our apartment for a few hours. Brianna needed to use the Internet to do some homework. Her mother had turned off the Internet at their house so that Brianna might become more obedient.

Also, Brianna’s mother wanted her out of the house because she (the mother) felt unwell and needed to rest. (Never mind that Karin & I continue to feel unwell.)

As you may have gathered by now, Brianna is rather difficult. And so is her mother.

Before Brianna arrived last night, I’d had a restful day at home. I’d been scheduled to do jury service, but the trial was canceled. I watched Chariots of Fire and wept through most of it.

The man on the roof

Karin & I rested all of yesterday while Brianna and her friends roamed the streets. We’re still sick – Karin is sicker than I am – but not so sick that we can’t go to work or that Brianna can’t go to school.

I finished reading two other novels by Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö (seven down, three to go). Afterward, I learned that in 1976, one of those novels, The Abominable Man, was cinematically adapted as Mannen på taket (The Man on the Roof). This movie is something of a classic. It’s said to have been stylistically influenced by The French Connection. And it’s got Sweden’s “signature” action sequence, in which a rifleman shoots at police helicopters from a rooftop.

Here’s a poster:

And here’s another:

The second poster shows my favorite policeman in the book series, the obnoxious Gunvald Larsson. He has a towel on his head because his scalp has been grazed by a bullet.

I’d very much like to see this movie, but I don’t know where to find a version with English subtitles.

The disaster artist

A rainstorm lashed South Bend yesterday afternoon. Karin filmed it:

Brianna walked away from school in it. She was like a drowned rat when she reached our dwelling (she’s staying with Karin & me while her mother is abroad). She took off her wet clothes, got into the bath, and pulled the curtain rod down upon herself. She lay under the curtain in the bath.

(I know all these details because she “texted” them to Karin while she was in the bath.)

She already had a cold before the rainstorm caught her. I’d been wary of contracting it (we make our lunches with the same processed chicken slices). Now, Brianna’s cold is worse, and it’s Karin who’s got the sniffles.

Update: Saturday, September 22

Tonight, Karin is flat-out sick. Certain congestive sensations in my chest do not bode well for me, either. We’ve decided to stay home from church tomorrow.

Brianna put twice the requisite amount of soap inside a washing machine. This prolonged the wash cycle’s “rinse” phase, which generated extra water and flooded our building’s laundry room.

I’ve decided to call her memoir – should I ever write it – No Thanks to Herp Derp.

Brianna is taught the consequences

Ziva’s adoption-day was yesterday; she and Jasper were allowed to share a can of tuna. She’s lived two years with us. We love her very much.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Today, I worked on revising my dissertation chapter on the Rawlsian quest for political stability. This chapter has been scrambling my little brain.

Rawls offers many different characterizations of his key ideas. It’s bad enough, having to explain which characterization of an idea is the most important one for him; explaining others’ confused interpretations is downright dizzying.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

As I was engaged with these tasks, Karin’s little sister, Brianna, knocked on our door. She’d missed her school bus – again – on purpose, to talk to her friends (Brianna is a twelfth-grader). Also, she hadn’t wanted to walk home. Instead, she’d walked in the opposite direction, to our apartment.

Karin was away for the evening and couldn’t drive Brianna home.

Karin’s and Brianna’s mother refused to come over and drive Brianna home. “Why are you punishing Brianna in this way?” Karin asked her. “I’m not punishing Brianna,” her mother said. “I’m merely helping her to learn the consequences of her actions.”

I was inclined to agree with my mother-in-law. But, in this case, the consequences of Brianna’s actions fell squarely upon me. (Farewell to a peaceful evening during which to write.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

“Gather up your school things,” I told Brianna. “We’re walking to your house.”

Of course, Brianna is capable of walking by herself (though, notoriously, she doesn’t).

But what could she say? It’s much easier and nicer to be kicked out of someone’s home when that person goes with you on your journey.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

On the way to Brianna’s house, we saw the friendly Mormons driving down the street. They waved at us and drove away.

Goodbye, Mormons, I thought. I wish you’d offered us a lift.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The walk to Brianna’s house took fifty minutes. When we arrived, Brianna’s mother was in her car, pulling out of the driveway. She stared at me. “Thank you for walking my daughter home,” she said. Then she drove away, to go shopping.

I hadn’t quite expected my mother-in-law to offer me a lift home; I suppose that if she had, it would’ve interfered with Brianna’s learning of the consequences. Still, I was a little irked that she didn’t.

All together, my round trip was five miles. A few years ago, that would’ve been a cinch to walk; but now, I’m old and fat. My limbs are sore, and I am tired. These, also, are among the consequences.

Iterations

Karin & I hosted a dinner party last night. The guests were Karin’s grandpa, Karin’s mom, and Brianna. We had to spray Jasper with water to keep him away from the food. Even shy little Ziva came out of hiding a few times, and we had to spray her, too.

We discussed the Vikings’ dramatic playoff victory, which, in solidarity with Karin’s stepdad, we all had witnessed. (Here are some rather lengthy highlights, as well as the game’s winning play and the same play from a field-level perspective.) Later in the evening, Karin’s mom told me that “buffalo” is a verb. To buffalo is to baffle. Researching this, I learned that grammatical sentences of n words can be formed simply by saying buffalo out loud n times, for any cardinal number n; and that the writing of such sentences requires minimal punctuating. Here are a few examples:

“Buffalo,” a command to do buffaloing.

“Buffalo buffalo,” a command to do buffaloing to buffaloes.

“Buffalo buffalo,” which states that buffaloes do buffaloing.

“Buffalo buffalo buffalo,” which states that buffaloes do buffaloing to buffaloes.

“Buffalo buffalo buffalo,” which states that Buffalo’s buffaloes do buffaloing.

“Buffalo Buffalo buffalo,” a command to do buffaloing to Buffalo’s buffaloes.

And so on.

I stayed out of bed until one o’clock forming longer and longer sentences from iterations of buffalo. Then I lay awake in bed until three o’clock. This morning, bleary-eyed, I went to my first regular tutoring shift of the new semester.

Closing credits (2017)

Zero degrees, Fahrenheit. “Feels like −11°,” says the Weather Channel. Plenty snowy, too.

No heat in the church building, so tomorrow’s service is canceled. I’m glad Karin gets two full days off (the 31st and the 1st).

And so ends 2017. This is my hundredth entry of the year.

For providing material to discuss, I wish to thank:

Karin.

The kitties, Jasper and Ziva.

All the soccer players.

The weather.

Kazuo Ishiguro.

Bertrand Russell.

Russell (the dog).

My other family members.

My tutees.

The LimeBikes of South Bend.

The fire department of South Bend, for turning us out of our first marital dwelling. (That building has been demolished. There’s a vacant lot where once was so much love.)

The church camp.

President Lenín Moreno.

President Donald Trumpie.

ProQuest, for storing many dissertations.

The State of Wisconsin.

Brianna and other in-laws.

The Bee Gees, for singing “Fanny.”

The Isle of Man.

Wilkie Collins.

Flashman.

The Irish. I didn’t blog about them, but they figured prominently in what I read and watched on TV. A nod, also, to the Scottish (it goes without saying that I was obsessed with the English and the Australians). I wonder if 2018 will be the year of the Russians.

I hardly saw any new movies. The most I did was to catch up on the offerings of the last decade. Two standouts were It Follows (2014) and Man on Wire (2008). Tonight I saw Nerve (2016), which was a cut above most of what gets released nowadays. (It strikes me that all three of these movies supply a good dose of existential dread.) I did watch a lot of TV. I spent many happy hours immersed in Broadchurch, Midsomer Murders, and Shetland – British crime shows – and in Rake, which is about lawyers and politicians in New South Wales. (I was transfixed, if not happy, watching The Fall, another British crime show.) Of these, I urge everyone to try out Rake; as one reviewer puts it, beneath its farcicality it’s about how to be good. Man on Wire I also unreservedly recommend. It’s about how sometimes a person’s calling has nothing to do with being good, but with doing one beautiful and useless thing.

Good night!

And once more to the apartment

… much to the kitties’ delight. Our reunion with them was most tender.

Here is my summary of the last three days at the camp.

It rained often, and so the paths were muddy.

We went to church twice each day. The sermon that I discussed in the previous entry was the best one by far. The others all went on longer than their allotted times, and they rehashed these points:

(1) The importance of the U.S. armed forces.

(2) The importance of the church elders (Michigan district).

(3) The importance of camp, for training the youth.

(4) Dangers that beset the youth. In this last category:

(4a) Satanism in rock music.

(4b) Activities that steer the youth away from camp.

(4c) Homosexuality.

(4d) Disney World – not explicitly named, but inferable from certain mentions of (4b) and (4c).

And lastly:

(4e) Unmanliness in various guises: being an absent father, selling one’s spiritual “birthright,” and failing to “cross the line.” (Julius Caesar, one speaker told us, heroically “crossed the line” when he crossed the Rubicon. The speaker himself had “crossed the line” many times, breaking rules at the mental health center where he worked, so that he could lead a teenager away from Devil worship.)

Yesterday, between services, Karin & I and Karin’s friend, Shad, traveled to the touristic town of Frankenmuth. Much of the town is German-themed. It’s also the site of Bronner’s, “the world’s largest Christmas store.” Like the House on the Rock, the store displays a staggering number of knickknacks. It also has a small chapel.

We returned to the camp. That night was the best night of the trip. We took lawn chairs out into a dark field and watched a meteorite shower. It was lovely, except when other campers drove near to us in their rented golf carts, blinding us with their headlights. “You’re ruining the meteorite shower!” I called out to them.

This morning, Brianna and her retinue tromped into our cabin and woke us up. We packed up our car and drove home, skipping the sermon of the denomination’s president. I plan to listen to the sermon on YouTube.

Once more to the camp

With stops, our drive to the “thumb” of Michigan took six hours. It was quite tiring – we’d stayed awake late the previous night, due to Barcelona’s victory over Palmeiras in the Copa Libertadores – and when we arrived at the camp, we wished to rest. Alas, our cabin was filled with Brianna and her noisy teenaged retinue.

One grubby youngster, Noah, unknown to us, is Brianna’s new boyfriend of some few days. The other teenagers look ganglier and greasier than last year.

“Let’s turn around and leave,” said Karin.

“Yes! Yes!” I agreed.

But we didn’t.

Instead, we went to the church service. The speaker posited a “social trinitarian” conception of the Godhead, on the basis of which he argued for the value of community – and, by extension, against leaving the church. He showed Andrei Rublev’s famous painting of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit seated together at a table. “This is a picture of God,” he said.

I was glad to view that lovely painting. But I recalled that other pictures show the Godhead as one person with three faces. The “social” doctrine isn’t the only account of the Trinity.

(Not that the speaker needed that doctrine to make his point. Community can be important even if it doesn’t exist within the Godhead.)

After church, everyone lined up for ice-cream, which was served in heaping portions. This photo shows me eating a “single.”

Mother’s Day

On Mother’s Day, I was with my in-laws – especially, with Karin’s father’s family. This photo depicts us in Goshen, Indiana, at the house of Karin’s paternal grandparents.

(Brianna – who belongs to Karin’s mother’s family – sits next to Karin. The older man with the NRA thermos isn’t Karin’s father. I don’t know who he is.)

(I, of course, am the one standing with his fingers in his pockets.)

Karin had to explain to Brianna (who’d never visited the Goshen house) who all the relatives were. “And my Uncle So-and-So was married such-many times and has such-many children – and there are a few others who may or may not be his children. …”

I asked: “Does this mean that some people may or may not be my cousins?”

“Yes,” said Karin.

“You look too delighted about that,” said Brianna.

I was even more delighted to be reunited with Sammy, Karin’s grandpa’s small, grumpy dog. (Sammy and I get along so well that he barks and barks whenever I’m about to leave.) At seventeen, Sammy has frosted eyes and a walk that’s decidedly creaky. When he barks, both his front paws rise off the ground.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Returning to South Bend, Karin drove in the wrong direction. Then, after she righted the course, she speeded and was given a ticket. She was sad for a bit, but she recovered. We dropped Brianna off at Karin’s mother’s house, and I was reunited with – and climbed all over by – George, the nice dog that Karin’s stepfather brought home one night.

Brianna tries sushi

For Mary’s birthday, we went out for sushi. I hadn’t done that in years. Robert, the chef, recognized me and called out from across the restaurant.

“I think you mean David, my brother,” I called back. But no, Robert meant me. I approached him afterward, and he was well aware of the distinction.

Waiting for our food, our group played “Authors,” the card game. I didn’t play (Karin & I arrived late). Instead, whenever someone asked, “Do you have A Tale of Two Cities?” (or whatever), I was like, “Oh yes, I have X copies of that book,” which probably got tiresome after a while.

Karin’s little sister, Brianna, was with us. She tried – but failed – to enjoy the sushi. She did hit it off with the waitress, who joked with her all night.

This morning, Brianna was a visitor in our still-not-tidy apartment. She was extraordinarily caffeinated. She set herself to shelving books. What I hadn’t accomplished in two weeks, Brianna finished in a few hours. As a bonus, she alphabetized my Agatha Christies. I told her to apply for a shelving job at the public library.

An impending life-change

Today, Karin went “out on the town” with her little sister, Brianna. I stayed at home. Karin and Brianna were going to eat lunch at a buffet that I suspect of having made me ill (with vomiting and the like) not long ago. Also, they planned to visit the kitties at the Humane Society. My own eagerness for going to the Humane Society has been weakened since Ziva came to live with us. Two kitties are enough for me.

This time, Karin took to a large, orange-white male. She photographed Brianna holding him.

“He looks like Jasper,” I said, examining the photo.

“I guess he does,” said Karin.

(Notice, also, Brianna’s blue eyebrows.)

We aren’t going to adopt this feline. This isn’t our impending life-change. No, the city has decided to tear down our building to make room for a new fire station (you can read the news here). We’ll have between 45 and 50 days to find somewhere new to live. This affects me most – our current building is very near to where I work, and I don’t drive – but it’s bad for both of us. We won’t find a cheaper rental. We won’t be compensated by the city: We’re renting month-to-month, and the city isn’t kind to monthly renters. We may have to accept an unfavorable new lease.

I often ask for prayer for Ecuador. Please pray for our country to defeat Colombia on Tuesday. Pray for Ecuadorians to elect a good president on April 2. But pray, also, for Karin & me to find a decent place in which to live.

Interpreting a funeral

Antonio Valencia poses here with the medics of Manchester United, thanking them for quickly healing his broken hand. He came back from his layoff earlier than expected. He was the “man of the match” last weekend, versus Arsenal.

On Friday, Karin’s grandma died after a long illness. The funeral was held this afternoon, and I played a large part in it: I interpreted, into English, the speech given by one señora Máxima, whom Karin’s grandparents had known when they were missionaries in the Dominican Republic.

It was a lovely and very long speech. It included:

(1) Stories of how the dead woman liked to bake. (A bake shop, named after her, is now operated in the Dominican Republic by sra. Máxima’s niece.)

(2) Accounts of the dead woman’s unfailing cheer, and of her submissiveness. (“Who is this person who is being talked about?” wondered Brianna. Indeed, my own memories are of a sassier, stronger-willed woman.)

(3) An acrostic of the letters D-U-L-Z-U-R-A which, sadly, was not translatable.

(4) Detailed greetings from quite a few members of the Dominican church.

Afterward, my interpreting was praised by many of the mourners. It was nice to be recognized, but I felt like collapsing onto a sofa. Translating a half-dozen single-spaced, typed pages in front of so many people was like shoveling a mountainload of bricks.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Martin & Mary have flown to Houston to spend Thanksgiving with Ana & David. While they’re away, Karin & I will look after Bianca.

The end of camp-time

Brianna is quite the little Queen Bee. She has so many friends at Brown City Camp that they have to compete for her attention. Sometimes she and just one or two of her friends come into our cabin; but then the others locate her, and our cabin is filled with teen-aged girls (the boys are too polite, or too shy, to join us).

Inevitably, feelings get hurt. There’s only so much of Brianna to go around, and she doesn’t always distribute herself most equitably and lovingly.

This is a difficult thing to manage. It’s difficult for adults. It’s even harder for the young. They’re only beginning to grasp that personal relationships come with duties as well as benefits – that more is expected than a spontaneous reaction of the heart. It’s painful to watch Brianna charm people but not fully embrace all who are charmed.

Still, her uninhibitedness serves her well during a Q&A session about creation vs. evolution.

“Good Christians disagree about this subject,” begins the pastor, and then he spends the rest of his time explaining why Young Earth creationism is clearly the right – the righteous – option.

Brianna is his sole dissenter.

“My name is Brianna,” she says, “and my grandparents are _____ and _____, who have been coming to this camp for many years” (there is a murmur of approval). “And I just want to say that I don’t believe in Young Earth. But when I get to heaven and see Jesus, if he says, ‘The world was created in six days,’ I’ll say, ‘Praise God!’ And if he says, ‘The world was created through evolution,’ I’ll say, ‘Praise God!’” (The pastor glares.)

Her mother and Karin & I are very pleased. I’m reminded of myself, of my own youthful outspokenness. (Whether I was equitable and loving, I don’t recall.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The next day, Karin & I return to South Bend. We listen to the Twin Peaks soundtrack, to Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and to my playlist-in-progress, “Stalker Songs,” which has melodic, soft music and vaguely unsettling lyrics. (And not all of its songs are about stalking: some are about mugging, or about being mugged.)

When we go into our house, Jasper is very happy to see us. He meows and meows and eats half of Karin’s sandwich and dashes around the house for about an hour.

Karin goes to the Social Security office and changes her last name. It’s her decision. I’m glad she’s doing what she wants, not what I want.

I love Karin better all the time. It’s a delight to wake up next to her.

And I love Jasper, who this morning did the waking up.

Brown City Camp, pt. 2

On our first morning, Karin & I sleep in. We skip the church service. Around lunchtime, we leave the cabin, and I see what the camp is really like.

There are no barracks, no neat rows of same-styled cabins. Rather, the camp is a dense jumble of tents and cabins and trailer-houses, each one uniquely decorated by its tenant (who returns to the same plot of land year after year).

Golf-cart traffic proceeds along the dusty streets. Some of the carts are used by the security guards, but most of them are rented by the tenants.

We stroll. Karin takes me to a section of the camp where there are only trailer-houses. “This was the last area to be built up,” she tells me. “You can see that the trees here are younger and shorter than in the front of the camp; there’s hardly any shade.” Indeed, this back area is like a squatters’ village appended to the better-established “main” section of the camp.

In the “main” section are the great civilizing buildings: the tabernacles (separate ones for grown-ups, youth, and children); the cafeteria; the general store; the bookstore; the ice-cream shop. The line at the ice-cream shop is longer than an airport security line. Karin & I stand in the line for half an hour on Saturday night (ice-cream is not sold on Sunday, and each person is gathering a double-portion). We move up five feet in the line before we quit.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Our own cabin, in the camp’s posh section, has a pink exterior. It has a large sitting-room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a loft. Karin & I sleep in a double bed curtained off from the sitting-room.

Karin’s mom and Brianna arrive at the camp. Brianna is reunited with her friends. They roam in packs of five or six.

One night, Brianna and her friends come to our door and sing Christmas carols to us.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

It rains. The streets are turned into mud.

The nights are cold. I am getting sick.

The church services occur twice daily, two hours at a time. Usually I arrive late. A famous Jamaican is the main speaker. Ruthlessly he cuts out the heart of prosperity theology, propounds the spiritual necessity of suffering.