A Special Place

Here in the mountains of western North Carolina, about as far from Wilmington as our state's roads will carry us, is the John C. Campbell Folk School, a place which is truly special.

It's special because it's nestled within some mountainous topography dense enough to allow Eric Rudolph to evade the combined forces of the FBI, CIA, and the United States Army. (He was caught when he snuck back into civilization for food, and, who knows, perhaps to stop the cat and mouse game he was winning.) The nearest town to us is a little over a mile away, but we have to drive seven miles to get there! If you can picture the point where North Carolina, Georgia, and Tennessee come together, there we are. It's a long way from everywhere.



It's special because based on the Danish folk school model, John C. Campbell began in 1925 as an alternative to the higher education facilities that drew young people away from the family farm and home. Still today it offers instruction to locals and others in arts and crafts of every stripe; this week's program covers work on clay mosaics, old time fiddle, sign carving, photography, collage, metalwork (jewelry), polymer clay, (pause for breath of air) rug weaving, wooden toys, cooking, spinning and dyeing, baskets and chair seats, and blacksmithing. Next week's classes will all be different. Not your ordinary "school".

It's special because it is dedicated to preserving and supporting many of the traditional art forms which were being lost to the modern world, and it's rather like being in a time warp around here. Modern conveniences (like WiFi) are here, obviously, but they take a back seat to the culture and values of the southern Appalachian mountain people. There is a large clock in the folk school office, long ago stopped and never repaired, over which is a sign, "Time stands still at John C. Campbell". Indeed it does.




Ann and I have been here several times before, and try to make a return visit every year. Ann paints, or tries out some other artsy subject like papermaking or collage, while I lug around my fiddle to learn some new tunes or try some new ways to play the Golden Oldies. But the subject matter is almost secondary to the real fascination which the folk school holds for us, and that is the opportunity to get to work with and meet people we might otherwise not get to know in a completely non-competitive environment. It's a fascinating community which gathers here, many of them return visitors, and we enjoy getting to know them. Unfortunately I don't have any pictures of us or the school to post with these comments, since I thoughtlessly left behind the necessary umbilical cord between the camera and the computer. But stop by the house, and we'd be glad to show them to you!

Whither the Episcopal Church?

It's a wonderful holiday, this Thanksgiving Day business, and we've thoroughly enjoyed it. I've even had the opportunity to gaze over a number of other blogs, many of which are reflecting the season's traditions, our excesses of eating and shopping, and our preparation for Christmas. Enough's been said, at least for me, on all three counts.

Rather I'd like to ramble a bit on a subject that bounced around in my mind during yesterday's drive across North Carolina en route to share the holiday with one of our sons and his family. The subject of my rambles was/is the Episcopal Church, about which I never really say much here in Homeboy Reports. Not that it isn't important to me. Quite the contrary, most of my adult life has found me swirling through the Episcopal Church on just about all levels of its existence, and I've enjoyed almost every minute of it.

But it's not the same, it's not the same. On one level, that's not unusual, for everything changes, and I can handle that. In fact I've always found change to be challenging and exciting, one of the real motivators behind everything. I've even been accused (imagine this:) of actually provoking change! So sure: bring it on. You can't step into the same river twice, and all that.

What bothers me, in fact what really disturbs me, is the slow but steady erosion of the character of the Episcopal Church, the gradual evaporation of the juices that made it a unique force in American Christianity. Two examples jump to mind.

Example one: There was a time not too long ago when we would hear the term "via media", the middle road. In between the evangelical theology and Biblical authority of the Protestant church on the one hand, and the sacramental theology and historical authority of the Roman Catholic church on the other, stood the Anglican church, the Episcopal Church, blending all these elements into a "bridge" wherein our liturgy, our worship, expressed the best of both worlds.

Sure, we had the "high church" spikes with their black suits and funny hats, and we had the "low church" prots with their sport coats and preaching tabs, but we all stuck together, we were all under the broad and inclusive umbrella of the Episcopal Church. Maybe it drove others nuts, but we reveled in it. We Episcopalians were folks who hung together, no matter what. During the Civil War, when other protestant groups were dividing into North and South, our unity was more important than what threatened it. We were a united community of faith.

No longer. Don't like the new (if "new" means 1979) Prayer Book? Don't get upset. Finesse the Episcopal Church and start another one with a name like Traditional Episcopal Church and enjoy Sunday mornings with Elizabethan language and medieval chants. Don't like ordaining women or gays? No problem. First call a lawyer for the inevitable litigation, then call a bishop in Africa who agrees with you, and presto: the Continuing Anglican Church (or somesuch). Don't like the way the bishop parts her or his hair? Start the Right Part Episcopal Church.

So much for that middle road. The other example is more painful, for there is in the Episcopal Church a meanness of spirit, an anger which bubbles over into outright hostility, a confrontive in-your-face attitude which dares you to knock the chip off a shoulder. Good men and women from around the Church have tried to pacify, tried to accomodate, tried to listen, only to get trampled by the vindictive righteousness of those who seem to have a monopoly on the truth. Walls have been created which may never, at least in this life, be breached, and it's excruciatingly painful. Read any copy of our weekly magazine, "The Living Church", then retreat to weep in silence.

No, the Episcopal Church is different. It's changed. And that's a loss. Oh, I don't lie awake nights worrying about it, and I have no intention of ever leaving the Episcopal Church, but it does make me sad. It helps me to remember that for all our troubles, all our pain, the Church and our lives truly are in God's hand, and in ways I only dimly understand and articulate with hesitation, I do believe that all will be well, all will be well.

A Fish Story

There are lots of reasons to like November. Hurricane season is just about over, and fall weather is in the air. The leaves around here (the ones that aren't pine needles, that is) are changing color and blowing in the wind. Santa's showing up at the malls. Clocks return to where God intended them to be, and, despite all the troubles which may be nibbling at our souls, it's Thanksgiving, the time our gratitude overflows.

Most of all, however, it's the prime time for surf fishing. You can fish in the ocean's surf any time of the year, of course, but November is the time for some serious fishing. As long as we were living at the beach, only a hop, skip and jump from the water, I fished there pretty regularly, often getting out before dawn and then out again in the evening until it was too dark and I was too tired. But then they ("the gov-mint") began the process of "renourshing" the beach every three or four years, thus changing the configuration of the ocean floor and wiping out most of the available food. Fishing went south, and even my fishing rods corroded and rusted away.

Until this year, when I got the urge to go try it again, which brings me to today, reminding me of all the reasons I enjoy surf fishing. It was just a beautiful November afternoon: a mild breeze coming in off the ocean, cool-ish (about 60, I would guess), hardly anyone on the beach, gentle surf (waves the surfers call "ankle slappers), absolutely perfect. I set up my folding chair, cut off a few pieces of salted mullet for bait, flipped the rig just beyond the waves, put the rod in a sand spike, opened a diet Pepsi, sat and enjoyed. Did I catch anything? Well, no. That would have been lagniappe. The day itself was a "keeper", and here comes the fish story.

In the midst of my reverie about the joys of surf fishing, something caught my eye. In the rolling waves off to my right there was a strange object floating on top of he water, coming in closer with each successive surge. I thought perhaps it was a jacket, or maybe a pile of clothes, so as the waves brought it closer to shore, I had to get up and go investigate.

Turned out to be a rope stringer, loaded with about eight or ten Spanish Mackerel only recently deceased. The stringer had obviously broken loose from any one of the half dozen or so small fishing boats that were off-shore, and was the now futile results of another fisherman's afternoon of trolling. Poor guy.

I can picture him getting back to his dock, or to the boat ramp. Ready to hoist his trophies out of the water, having already called home to announce dinner's new menu, he shouted to share his success with others. I can only imagine the sinking feeling that came on him when he went to pull the now vanished stringer out of the water. Gone. Empty. Nothing, except maybe the stub of a rope.

He tried to speculate, to explain, but it sounded like a classic Fish Story. By now, of course, there were 12 to 15 fish (the legal limit), all some of the biggest he'd ever seen. Maybe a shark had snared them. A big shark. Maybe the Spanish had struggled so hard they'd snapped the stringer rope. Possibilities boggle the mind.

Oh, but I know the true story. And if you're the bereft fisherman reading this and are still wondering what happened to that great catch a few days ago, don't worry. My lips are sealed, like confession to a priest. It's the fishermens' code, even surf fishermen.



P.S. We're going on the road for a while, so the Homeboy Report may not (then again, it may) appear on Friday mornings, because the Homeboy won't be home. Next week we'll be in Johnson City, TN, enjoying the holiday with son Jerry and his family, and the following week we'll be southwestern NC mountains, at the John C. Campbell Folk School, for a week of painting (Ann) and fiddling (me). A nice break, we hope, before coming home for December's festivities.

Veterans' Day, 2007

After his son died in World War I, arguably the most brutal and meaningless war in history, Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem about it. The poem consisted of two lines:

"If any question why we died,
Tell them because our fathers lied."

Choices

I had the choice last night (the time I finish up on the week's blog) to either spend the evening doing a blog, or taking my first Law School exam. Law school won, so I'll be writing on another venue!

Just in case you're interested, here's my Question #1:
............................................................

Stella really misses her mom, who passed away several years ago, and even though she is gone, the two of them still talk to each other often.

One afternoon, Stella sees Emily, who was her mother's employer, and whom she knows Mom hated. Without warning, Stella hears Mom telling her that she must get back at Emily.

Mom has never told Stella to do anything like this before, and Stella doesn't know what to do. Consequently, she explains the situation to Father Muldoon, who explains that regardless of what her mother may, or may not be saying, it is wrong to hurt Emily. Stella thanks Father for the advice, but she isn't so sure that a living priest knows more about right and wrong, than her mother whom she knows is in heaven.

That night Stella is awoken by her Mother's voice screaming in her ears, that she must teach Stella a lesson. Terrified, and not knowing what to do, Stella gets out of bed, and decides to take a walk.

As she turns a corner, she runs almost headlong into Emily, who yells at Stella, that she better watch where she is going. At that point Stella hears Mother's voice telling her to punch Emily, and when Emily points her finger in Stella's face, Stella kicks her in the abdomen, knocking her to the ground. With her mother's voice screaming in her head, Stella continues to kick Emily, until she is dead.

Discuss

[Completion time: One hour]
...........................................................

Ain't that cute? And, for those who want to see my answer, without the professor's grade or comments, here 'tis...

State v. Stella

Can Stella be charged with the first degree murder of Emily?

Under criminal law, MURDER is an unlawful homicide, the killing of one human being by another human being with malice aforethought.

Here, there was an unlawful homicide because Emily, a human being, was killed by Stella, another human being. While at common law there were no degrees of murder, modernly statues define first degree murder as one which is committed by poison, by lying in wait, by torture, one done willfully, deliberately, and with premeditation, or done during the commission of a dangerous felony.

In this instance Stella left her home to take a walk, terrified by the voices she hears in her head which created malice aforethought but without any premeditation of killing Emily.

Therefore, absent the element of premeditation, Stella cannot be charged with first degree murder.


Can Stella be charged with the second degree murder of Emily?

Under criminal law, SECOND DEGREE MURDER is defined as all other murders, those homicides committed with malice aforethought which which do not meet all the requirements for murder in the first degree.

Inasmuch as Stella’s unlawful homicide resulted in the killing of Emily with malice aforethought, and without all the elements of first degree murder, she can therefore be charged with second degree murder of Emily.


Can Stella be charged with voluntary manslaughter in the death of Emily?

Under criminal law, VOLUNTARY MANSLAUGHTER is the intentional killing of a human being by another human being without actual malice or with malice but under mitigating circumstances.

Here, Stella’s killing of Emily was spurred on by the voice of her dead mother screaming in her head, and there is no evidence to describe the volitional element of an intention to kill.

Furthermore, mitigating circumstances are present through the voice of her dead mother which controls Stalla’s mental state.

Therefore Stella can not be charged with voluntary manslaughter.

Can Stella raise the defense of insanity?

Under criminal law, INSANITY is a defense which negates criminal intent. Under the M’Naughten Rule a person is considered insane if their mental disease so impairs their reasoning that they are unable to appreciate the nature and quality of their acts, or to know that they are wrong. By the Irresistible Impulse Theory a person may rase this defense of they are unable to control their acts, even if they know the act is wrong.

In this instance Stella deflects Father Muldoon’s counsel that hurting Emily is wrong and chooses to obey the screaming voice of her dead mother, encouraging her to attack Emily. Stella would be on shaky ground by pleading M’Naughten since one voice (Fr. Muldoon’s) told her the action was wrong. She would be on much more solid ground with an appeal to the Irresistible Impulse Rule because she was unable to control her act of kicking Emily.

Therefore, Stella may be successful with an insanity defense.

65 min.

Halloween/All Saints

Halloween just ain't what it used to be. On this annual fright night, we had the usual visitation by sugar deficient fairy princesses, pirates, and Draculas, but by 8:00 everything was quiet as a tomb, to use a good Halloween metaphor. No soaped windows, no water balloons at passing cars, not even my personal favorite, the old "dog-poop-in-a-burning-paper-bag" trick. How in the world are today's children going to learn to be destructive and manipulative and scary if they wimp out for a couple of Mars bars and popcorn balls? Where are they going to learn about "ghoulies and ghosties and things that go 'bump' in the night"? Oh, well; "Each generation gets weaker and wiser", as the Good Book says.*



Actually, I don't play the curmudgeon role very well. I'm delighted that our children are learning to have a good time without invading the lives of other people any more than a knock on the door. I'm delighted to see parents out walking with the little beggars, not just as guards but participants. I'm even delighted with the secularization of Halloween with the month-long display of yard decorations, drug store costumes, and even alternative parties.



My delight stems from the hope that all this will, in some measure, keep us tied to the deeper truth of Halloween/All Hallows Eve and it's connection with All Saints Day. Just about every culture has an All Hallow's event in some shape or fashion, an opportunity to respect with grace and gratitude those whose lives have enriched our own. There's really no harm in the children playfully focusing on ghosts and goblins and graveyards, for in our death-denying world it's a window into the next, but my point is that there is more to All Hallows Eve than that.

Those of you who know me will not be surprised to learn that I keep a record, a book, of every baptism, wedding and funeral I've performed over the past 47 years. Last night, as I sat waiting for our Trick or Treat crowd, I took that book down and spent some time remembering those whom I've buried. There were hundreds of names: names of old friends and family members whom I remember very well, many only names I simply can't remember, one or two or three names of folks I honestly didn't particularly care for when they were living, but most all of them dear friends whose faces and lives immediately came to my mind. I don't mean this to sound morbid or gruesome, and I hope it doesn't seem that way, but it was such a good experience for me, one of the more rewarding pleasures of having been around a while.

A special memory was of my first burial service, for an 86 year old Presbyterian lady, though I have no idea of why I, a brand spanking new Episcopal cleric, had that privilege. At any rate, we had the service in Markwood's Funeral Home in Keyser, WV, then proceeded to the grave site on the side of a fairly steep hill. It had been raining for days, so the funeral home had a hard time getting the casket up the slippery and muddy trail. When all was settled and the mourners gathered, I stepped up for my role but realized I was almost too close, slipped in the mud as I tried to step back, and came within inches of joining that Presbyterian lady in the grave.

There are lots of funny stories about church services, especially funerals and wedding, that have accumulated over the years, but we'll have to wait for my memoirs (to be published posthumously!) to get those details. For now, let's return to this week's All Saints Day event, for when we gather this evening in St. James we'll remember, by name, all those in our "parish family" who have died this year, as well as others specifically requested, and as their names are read the tower bell will be tolled.

For some, this may seem like an especially gruesome exercise, but for others of us it's a potent expression of our need to remember. As I was writing this, I noticed that the current issue of the National Geographic magazine's cover story is on memory: why we remember, why we forget. I suspect it will be a pretty thorough review of the current state of neurological knowledge, and I'm looking forward to reading it.



I'm also sure that the more important story of memory and Halloween and All Saints Day is the one told by theologians and poets, the one we'll sing about in church tonight, and the one heard best by Spiderman and Raggedy Ann, both of whom came to our house last night.

* Actually, the Bible says no such thing, even though it does sound rather, well, biblical. It was probably made up by a grandmother somewhere who was trying to offer encouraging comfort to frustrated parents. When people would ask me where that phrase is in the Bible, I always told them it was in the Book of Heziakiah, chapter 2, verse 4. As Yogi said, "You can look it up."

Aches and Pains

I suppose that's about the last thing anyone might be interested in reading about, but right now it's the first thing that's on my mind. Day and night. Standing, sitting, or lying. Aches and pains, and in this drought I can't even blame the rainy weather.

It comes with the territory, I say, without wanting to believe that. Oldtimer's Rule: the more candles on the birthday cake, the more pills in the medicine chest. The absolute worst part is when we (by whom I mean those like myself who are in their seventh decade, or more) start the litany of our medical wounds and woes, the response usually begins with something like, "Well, at your age..." Thanks a lot.


All this is prelude to the sad story of my hamstring muscles. There are three of them on each leg, connecting the knee to the pelvis, and while doing some striding I managed to tear one or more of them pretty badly. Major league hurt. But I tried to do as I was told: stay off your feet, give the muscles a chance to rest, pop ibuprofen for the inevitable pain. Eventually it got well, or at least I thought it did. So I eased back into my walking program.

Too early, I guess, because I managed to tear it again, this time much more painfully. Even lying in bed, trying to sleep, the pain was excruciating. I discovered that everyone seems to have an opinion on this kind of injury, opinions they are not reluctant to share,... but they don't work. Some people said to apply heat, others said ice was the answer. Some people said to elevate the leg, others said to walk gently around the house. Talked to three M.D.s, and they didn't have any more of a clue than the drugstore pill-pusher. Time, and Mother Nature, it seemed to me, was the best course.

Then a neighbor, and also a runner, told me of a massage therapist here who specialized in sports injuries and who did therapeutic deep tissue massage on sore muscles. Massage therapist? I think not. Let them do their voodoo on someone else, but please keep their oily hands off my bod.

The more I thought about it, though, and the longer it continued to hurt, that option began to look more and more attractive, so I finally called my friend's recommended guy. What he said made sense, and I was beginning to be desperate, so a few days ago I made my way to his shopping center office and got a half hour treatment. It was somewhat painful, but not nearly as painful as the leg had been doing nothing, and a few hours after he finished the pain had nearly gone. What relief! I've made another appointment to continue the process tomorrow.

It still hurts, but I know the muscle will heal if I give it time. This go-round I'm going to let several months pass by before putting stress on it again, and when I do I'll be more conscious about stretching the hamstring before starting to walk. The last thing I want is to go through this experience again, plus I know that my muscles aren't what they used to be. After all, I remind my self, at my age...



P.S. You wondered about the cat? Just a picture that caught my eye as I endured my recuperation, for the cat is doing hamstring stretches!