rabbit-trails about "extra" children and carbon footprints

I'm always a little irritated when I hear about population control or the irresponsibility of having more than so many kids. I found this article while deleting accidentally-saved drafts, and I decided to write about it after all.

When I'm finished with a gallon of milk, I throw the bottle in the car and, when I go home, add them to our recycling bin in the garage. I keep a hamady bag next to my desk and fill it with scrap paper (rough drafts of essays, map quiz practice sheets, outdated flyers I've removed from bulletin boards). I use some of it to make lists or so I don't get acrylic paint on the carpet, and whatever I've collected by the time I go home next gets tossed in the recycle bin at St. John Vianney. Clothes I don't wear anymore go to St. Luke's Street Ministry; clothes too worn-out to wear I make into something else. For the most part, I avoid using paper napkins. I made a gift for a friend from a green glass balsamic vinegar jar; I filled an emptied peanut butter jar with cough drops. I shy away from bottled water. I walk to Mass and the grocery store when I can. On my shelf right now is a burned-out lightbulb and an empty 10-oz apple juice bottle, waiting to be turned into projects.

I am thrifty (read: stingy) and I honestly enjoy walking, but most of these environmentally-friendly activities come from a desire to treat the earth with respect. We ought to: it is a gift from God.

But the earth is not God, and we need to remember to keep our duties in perspective. As a student I have a moral obligation to complete my schoolwork thoroughly; however, if a friend had a rough day and needs my shoulder and my ear the night before an exam, I ought to hug my friend. Love for God first and neighbors second should rule our lives; other duties follow.

Caring for the earth -- treating so great a gift with respect -- should flow from, not supersede, our primary duty to love.

Here we need to distinguish between love of humanity and love of neighbor. It's easy to "love humanity," for humanity is merely a collection of our neighbors, minus what makes them actually human.. We can "love humanity" without having to deal with a human response. We can "love humanity" but this love carries with it no risk of rejection and it is therefore a cheap form of love.

We were specifically instructed to love our neighbors, and our neighbors are real people. They have faces and middle names and favorite colors. The hairs on their heads have been counted. These are the people we ought to love. Your spouse and children are real people; the ozone layer is not. Contracepting to reduce greenhouse gases is putting humanity ahead of neighbor, promoting a vague, faceless cause instead of loving people.

The lede paragraph in the article asks: "Will there be enough food? Enough water? Will planet-heating carbon dioxide gas become ever more uncontrollable?" These are horrible questions to consider when planning a family.

First of all, we shouldn't really "plan a family." Just as the Son is love become incarnate, so too ought children be love become incarnate. There's a reason the "how to make babies" talk begins with "when a man loves a woman..." Love transforms from an abstract concept to a physical being, a child conceived in his mother's womb. "Family planning" involves an attitude of "I love you, but let's decide when/whether to let our love become incarnate," which is simply wrong.

Secondly, given the amount of food we waste in this country, we really shouldn't pretend that we worry about food quantity. Food will never be appropriately distributed over the entire world, and if we did run short, I don't think we would notice. We would continue to eat our dinners and ignore larger parts of world.

Third, though food is necessary for survival on a physical level, we are not merely physical beings. We are also spiritual beings who will live forever. How does fasting appear in the light of eternity? I don't want to trivialize starvation, only point out that it is an evil suffered, not an evil committed. Evils suffered damage the body; evils committed damage the soul. The human race has survived famine before; we can probably do it again.

Quoth the article: "If you are serious about your carbon footprint, think: birth control."

Interestingly enough, artificial forms of birth control are really really bad for the environment. The Pill is essentially a collection of hormones, bad for the environment and bad for your body. (Honestly, why would you want to mess with women's hormones more than necessary anyway?) With other forms of artificial contraception, the packaging and the items themselves get thrown away, filling landfill space, or left in a parking lot or in the woods, littering. The factories that produce these products and their packaging also produce greenhouse gases.

One way to avoid having children is to abstain, or to abstain during fertile cycles (which you can figure out easily if you have a thermometer). This leaves no carbon footprint whatsoever.

At heart, though, this isn't an issue of the methods of preventing conception but whether to prevent conception at all. Every time a husband and wife express their love this way, they must know that their love might become incarnate and they must be open to this possibility. Otherwise, they are qualifying their love and love must not be qualified. Love doesn't come with modifiers, dangling or not. Love does not precede a cum clause. Love is not followed by conjunctions. Love is "I (completely) love (completely) you (completely)," not "I love you, but let's be careful" or "I love you when you're not fertile."

The article continues: "The greenhouse gas impact of an extra child is almost 20 times more significant than the amount any American would save by such practices as driving a fuel-efficient car, recycling or using energy-efficient light bulbs and appliances," according to the study.

This begs the question: which children are extras and who decides? Look my little sister, kid #5, in the eye and tell her. I dare you.

The article goes on to say that "under current U.S. consumption patterns, each child ultimately adds about 9,441 metric tons of CO2 to the carbon legacy of an average parent--about 5.7 times a person's lifetime emissions, he calculates."

The writers of Our Sunday Visitor's Daily Take blog comment better than I ever could:

First of all, what is that even supposed to mean? If we start thinking about our future children in terms of how many metric tons of carbon dioxide they will produce, we may need to consider the possibility that perhaps we are not called to the vocation of motherhood and fatherhood in the first place.

The article mentions that this awkward statistic takes place "under current U.S. consumption patterns." Who's to say that these "extra children" will follow current U.S. consumption patterns? Most couples having "extra children" (we'll say more than two) tend toward the Catholic/homeschooling variety -- countercultural enough not to follow the current consumption patterns. They are probably wearing hand-me-downs, driving vans and buying food in bulk. They probably don't take long or frequent road trips, leave a big-screen TV flashing at all hours or fill landfill space with used contraceptives. I wouldn't be surprised to find that a normal family of seven or eight leaves a carbon footprint similar to that of a normal family of three or four. Big families just don't follow normal consumption patterns.

In the light of eternity, how much of this matters? The heavens and the earth, including the ozone layer, will pass away, and when it does my carbon footprint will be erased. My first duty is to love God, and from my love for him flows a desire to respect the gifts he has given me. I will recycle not for the greater good of the vague mass we call humanity, but to express my gratitude to so great a Creator.

Lepanto Day

I have friends whose families have recipes for Pacskis and others who take Mexican dancing lessons. I know people who grew up bilingual and whose grandparents speak broken, accented English. I didn't.

I know people who revel in being Irish or Polish or Italian or French. I can't -- I'm made up of smidges and pinches of Europe.

Ethnically, I am lost, without a clear history or notable ancestors to show me who I am and where I came from. Judged this way, I have no real identity.

I think a lot of Americans feel this way. We are a people without a past.

But I have a past. I have my people. I have St. Peter, who insisted on being crucified upside-down because he wasn't worthy to be martyred the way our Savior was. I have St. Joan of Arc, who led France to victory. I have St. Francis of Assisi, who rebuilt the church. I have St. Maximillian Kolbe, who died in place of a stranger in Auschwitz. I have St. Nicholas, who slapped a heritic on the face at a church council. I have Perpetua, who thought of modesty before pain during her martyrdom. I have St. Thomas Aquinas, brilliant man, who realized God is infinitely more than he could contain in a book. Even St. Paul -- everyone reads his letters -- he's one of mine, too.

Anthony put it beautifully on Sunday: "I, too, have some claim to this." This is my history. These are my people.

I have our baggage, too. All throughout our history -- even now -- we've been varying degrees of fallen human beings. The more visibly fallen ones are my people, too.

But I also have Don John of Austria and the heroes of Lepanto. I have the Blessed Mother, who can do anything.

And I'm with them, too.

advice from my brother

"Most importantly, the amount of things that you unnecessarily set on fire should increase as you grow older."

what I didn't say when I gave you a hug

Mostly it was goodbye and thank you, but the "thank you" seems so empty. How can I say it? I've learned, grown, laughed so much.

Camp does weird things to you, socially. We're a small group (too small) working crazy hard toward a common goal with a common enemy and still finding the energy for a game of after-hours ultimate. We live together, we sleep in the same quarters, we eat every meal across the table from each other, and just when you fall into a groove and figure out how things work with this group, bam! you go home and the group dissipates. Some of them you'll probably never see again. Some of them you create weirdly close friendships with and you'll stay in contact for quite some time. But you'll never get the whole group together, living and functioning with its own dynamic.

Unless you're lazy, we're all pulling for you. We've all got your back. I can go on crazy adventures (four-mile hike in lightning for a Christmas tree? getting lost in a swamp? slinking around a mental institution at twilight? shooting off fireworks? sleeping in homemade shelters? sailing?) and the whole time I know I am completely safe. Be tough, be strong, do something stupid but I got your back. If you need a boost up a tree or a hug when you fall, if your sparkplugs go bad, if you want to learn how to cook or start a fire or change your sparkplugs or juggle, if someone's inappropriately hitting on you, we got your back. I've got a whole crew fighting for me, and I'm fighting for them, too.

I love camp because I know I am safe, and once I know I am safe, I can take risks and go on adventures. I wouldn't swamp tromp with just anyone.

From Mike: "Mary, you know I feel about my girls here. If you get in their face, you're not coming back. I'll make sure the situation gets taken care of. Now come here, give me a hug and tell me how cool you are."

I learned some cool skills, like camp cooking, knife sharpening, wood splitting, spark plugging. I grew a back bone. I learned how to goof off and why it's important. I learned how to throw my whole heart into what I do. I learned that people wildly different are crazy fun and can love deeply.

I am a different person now than I was when the summer began.

I learned how to give. When you give, you can receive. When you pour out your love, you make room in your heart to receive love. Then love pours in and you overflow and hurry to pour more out, but more comes streaming in and the mad waters splash and everyone rejoices.

Last night I had a blast (that's a pun for those of you who were with us at firebowl), but morning came and I had hugs to distribute. Mostly I didn't talk, because I knew if I did I'd be a mess, and I don't like crying in front of people. Usually I can't.

"Mary, you leaving?"
No words; just a hug. Together silence.
"Hey, look, I have to go."
"No." Arms tighter.
"No, really, I have to get the toilets cleaned and pick up my paycheck."
"No."
Eye squeezing. Tears losing. Together silence.

My list of people to say goodbye to was getting shorter. I looked across the parade field and saw another friend walking toward me.

"Did I give everything back?" I asked him. I'd probably never see him again, and I wanted to make sure I returned everything of his.

He nodded. "Yes. I hope I gave something back, too."

Gave something back? We work at Camp Tapico. That's just what we do.

The Adventures of George the Viking

an anachronistic and heartily plagiarized tale mostly by Mary Petrides, about a year ago

Chapter One
How George the Viking Conquered England

Once upon a time there was a Viking farmer who had three Viking sons: Alexandros, Pip, and George. The farmer grew old and died, leaving only his tiny hut as inheritance, so the three sons set out to try their luck.

One day they came to a hill of silver. “This is all I need,” said Alexandros, and he filled his bags and pockets with as much silver as he could carry and returned home. Pip and George continued on in hopes of something better further on.

Later they came to a hill of gold. “This is all I need,” said Pip, and he filled his bags and pockets with as much gold as he could carry and returned home. George continued journeying.
George walked into a great forest that seemed to have no end. He climbed the tallest tree and looked around and all he could see were treetops, stretched for miles in every direction. “Frick!” said George. Wondering where he would stay the night, he exclaimed “what I wouldn’t give for Chinese takeout and double-stuf Oreos!” He climbed down the tree and there on the ground was a tablecloth with the most exquisite Chinese takeout and double-stuf Oreos. Without asking where the meal came from, George ate to his heart’s content. When he was finished, he picked up the tablecloth and took it with him.

He journeyed further into the woods and he came upon a charcoal burner. “Good day,” George said to the charcoal burner. “Potatoes for supper again?” “Yes,” said the charcoal burner, “and though it isn’t much, you may be my guest for supper.” “Thank you,” said George, “but I’ll be treating you to supper tonight.” The charcoal burner couldn’t see how George could fit a supper into his pockets, but George pulled out the tablecloth and laid it on the ground. “Tablecloth, set yourself!” George commanded, and the tablecloth was immediately filled with the most exquisite Chinese takeout and double-stuf Oreos.

When George and the charcoal burner had eaten their fill, the charcoal burner said “what I wouldn’t give for a tablecloth like that! I have a knapsack in my hut that has magic powers, and I’ll trade it to you for the tablecloth.” “First,” said George, “I’ll have to know what those magic powers are.” “When you slap the knapsack, a corporal and six soldiers appear, armed to the teeth, and ready to do whatever you command.” “A fine trade,” said George. He took the knapsack and left the tablecloth with the charcoal burner.

George walked further into the woods. “Let’s see if this knapsack really works!” he said. He slapped the knapsack and there appeared seven men, armed to the teeth, just as the charcoal burner had said. “Go back to the charcoal burner and demand that he give my tablecloth back,” George orderedthem. They soon returned with the tablecloth: they hadn’t asked the charcoal burner; they’d just taken it. George dismissed them and continued on.

Soon he came upon another charcoal burner. “All I have is two potatoes,” the charcoal burner said, “but you are welcome to share them.” “Thank you,” said George, “but I’ll be treating you to supper tonight.” The charcoal burner couldn’t see how George could fit a supper into his pockets, but George pulled out the tablecloth and laid it on the ground. “Tablecloth, set yourself!” George commanded, and the tablecloth was immediately filled with the most exquisite Chinese takeout and double-stuf Oreos.

After George and the charcoal burner had eaten their fill, the charcoal burner said “I have a hat in my hut, and this hat has magic powers. If you put it on and give it one-quarter turn, a battery of guns begins firing. I’d be happy to trade it to you for the tablecloth.” Once again George made the trade, and once again he slapped the knapsack and sent the soldiers back to regain the tablecloth.

George continued walking and saw a third charcoal burner. “You are welcome to be my guest tonight,” said the charcoal burner, “if you don’t mind potatoes.” “Thank you,” said George, “but I’ll be treating you to supper tonight.” The charcoal burner couldn’t see how George could fit a supper into his pockets, but George pulled out the tablecloth and laid it on the ground. “Tablecloth, set yourself!” George commanded, and the tablecloth was immediately filled with the most exquisite Chinese takeout and double-stuf Oreos.

George and the charcoal burner finished eating, and the charcoal burner said “I have a horn in my hut that has magic powers. When you blow the horn, the earth shakes and buildings tumble so that not one stone is left lying on another stone. I’ll gladly trade it for your tablecloth.” “A fine trade!” exclaimed George, who made the trade and promptly sent the soldiers back to retrieve the tablecloth.

“I have a magic knapsack, a magic hat, and a magic horn, not to mention a magic tablecloth,” said George. “I’ll go home and see how my brothers are doing.” He went home and found his brothers living in style in a mansion with gold, silver, and lots of fancy electronics. When his brothers opened the door and saw him in an ugly sweater and green pants, they laughed at him. “You can’t be our brother!” they said. “Our brother passed up silver and gold for better luck! He wouldn’t come in an ugly sweater and green pants!” They slammed the door in his face.
George slapped the knapsack several times until he had whipped up a good-sized army, then he ordered the soldiers to harass his brothers. The king sent his army to counter them, but George slapped his knapsack several more times and whipped up an even larger army. The king sent reinforcements, but they accomplished even less. George demanded to marry the king’s daughter, and the king had no choice but to let him. The princess was highly disappointed to marry George, and George was highly disappointed to find out that she was an ugly Puritan named Buttercup.

They were married nonetheless, but Buttercup was determined to kill George. She took off her ugly Puritanical bonnet and her ugly Puritanical dress and asked George to get rid of his ugly knapsack. “I won’t,” said George. “Why not?” Buttercup asked. “It’s embarrassing to me. It’s ugly.” George suddenly found her beautiful, or at least passable, or anyway, as good as an ugly Puritanical lady named Buttercup was going to get. “My knapsack is my source of power,” he said. “Every time I slap it, a corporal and six soldiers appear, armed to the teeth, ready do my bidding.” “Oh, George!” said Buttercup. She threw her arms around him as if to kiss him, but deftly slipped the knapsack off his shoulders and ran away. She slapped it once and ordered the soldiers to escort George out of the palace. They forced George off the property and obtained a restraining order, but as soon as George’s hands were free, he turned his hat and the battery of guns began firing. The king and his daughter had to let George back into the palace.

Buttercup was still determined to kill George, so again she took off her ugly Puritanical bonnet and her ugly Puritanical dress and asked George what was the source of his power. “It’s my hat,” said George, again finding her suddenly beautiful. “When I turn it, a battery of guns begins to fire.” Buttercup threw her arms around him as if to kiss him, but she slipped the hat off his head and ran away. Again she had George escorted off the premises. George blew his horn over and over again and the castle tumbled down and his brothers’ mansion tumbled down. Not a single stone was left on another stone, and his brothers, the king, and the king’s daughter were killed. George retrieved the knapsack and the hat and got to be king over the whole country.

Chapter Two
How George the Viking Discovered New Lands and Went to Russia

Soon George the Viking became bored of England, so he picked up the knapsack, the hat, and the horn, and, not forgetting the tablecloth, set sail for Russia. George was a clever man and thought to get east by going west. On his way to Russia, he accidentally bumped into Canada, a land which no one had ever seen before. In Canada there lived mythological creatures like elves, dwarves, and meteors. George was deftly navigating his way between the islands of northern Canada when the water froze over, trapping his ship. He slapped the knapsack with his frozen hands and the soldiers appeared. “We’re army men, not navy men,” said the corporal. “Don’t ask us what to do with a ship.” George dismissed them. He was at his wit’s end, not knowing what to do, when suddenly there appeared a draagyn. George whipped out his sword, ready to slay the draagyn. “Wait!” the draagyn cried. “I’m not a dragon! I’m a draagyn, which is very closely related to the dragon, but we’re not the same thing. Draagyns are good; dragons are evil. Don’t slay me!” “Frick!” said George. “I was hoping there was a beautiful princess to rescue!” “No,” said the draagyn, “but there is one in Russia.” “Oh, good,” said George. “I was on my way to Russia. But then I got stuck in the ice and now I’m not sure what to do.” “I will help you if you promise to offer a ride to anyone who asks for one,” said the draagyn. George promised, and the ship sprouted wings and flew off in the general direction of Russia.

Soon, George heard a voice and stopped the boat. “I’m listening to everything in the world, but I need a ride to Russia.” “I’ll give you a ride,” said George. The man who listened to everything in the world climbed aboard the boat. Later, George heard a voice. “I unstrapped one of my legs so that I wouldn’t reach the end of the world in one bound, but I left the leg in Russia.” “I’ll give you a ride,” said George. The man with one leg climbed aboard. Again, George heard another voice. “I can shoot a bird at a hundred miles, and I did, but it’s in Russia, and I need a ride to pick it up.” “I’ll give you a ride,” said George. The man who could shoot a bird at a hundred miles climbed aboard. “I need a great basket of bread for breakfast,” said another voice, and yet another said “I could drink a whole lake and still be thirsty.” “I’ll give you a ride to Russia if you’d like,” said George. “I’ve never been to Russia,” said the hungry man. “Neither have I,” said the thirsty man, and the two of them climbed aboard the ship. Another voice said “I have a straw that makes everything cold, and Napoleon’s about to invade, so I need to go to Russia.” “I’ll give you a ride,” said George, and the man with a straw that made everything cold climbed aboard. Yet another voice said “I’m a tailor with a magic needle. I’d like to try my luck in Russia.” “I’ll give you a ride,” said George, and the tailor with a magic needle climbed aboard. Still another voice said “I’m a perfectly normal person. Can I come, too?” “Frick!” said George. “Normal people aren’t supposed to show up in fairy tales! But I suppose I must give you a ride. Come aboard, then.” The perfectly normal person climbed aboard the ship as well and gave George a squeaking haggis.

Chapter Three
Why It Was George the Viking’s Fault that the Princess was Turned Into a Flower and How He Saved Her

The ship landed in Russia and everyone got out and scattered. George took the knapsack, the hat, and the horn, and, not forgetting the tablecloth, got into a canoe and followed a river to a mystic seaport in Byzantium. Mist swelled and ebbed about the dock, and a distant chorus chanted “unus … nullus … ullus … solus … unus … nullus … ullus … solus.” “Why is there a seaport on a river?” George wondered, but not for long because he glimpsed a beautiful lady with red hair flowing to her waist, skin the color of snow, and eyes green like the sea after a storm. The mist flowed over her and when it moved again, she was gone.

“Who are you!” George cried. “I will tell you about her,” said a voice. George turned and looked and saw a little green alien. “Tell me!” said George. The little green alien began:

“Ich will euch etwas erzählen. Ich sah zwei gebratene Hühner fliegen, flogen schnell und hatten die Bäuche gen Himmel gekehrt, die Rücken nach der Hölle, und ein Amboß un ein Mühlstein schwammen über den Rhein, fein langsam und leise, und ein Frosch saß und fraß eine Pflugschar zu Pfingsten auf dem Eis. Da waren drei Kerle, wollten einen Hasen fangen, gingen auf Krücken und Stelzen, der eine war taub, der zweite blind, der dritte stumm und der vierte konnte keinen Fuß rühren. Wollt ihr wissen, wie das geschah? Der Blinde, der sah zuerst den Hasen über Feld traben, der Stumme rief dem Lahmen zu, und der Lahme faßte ihn beim Kragen. Etliche, die wollten zu Land segeln und spannten die Segel im Wind und schifften über große Äcker hin: da segelten sie über einen hohen Berg, da mußten sie elendig ersaufen. Ein Krebs jagte einen Hasen in die Flucht, und hoch auf dem Dach lag eine Kuh, die war hinaufgestiegen. In dem Lande sind die Fliegen so groß als hier die Ziegen.”

“Lügen!” cried George, and he pulled out his sword and slew the little green alien on the spot.]

“Who will tell me about her?” asked George. “I will,” said a wise old man named Gerontius Senex. “She is a Byzantine princess named Blodwyn, and the her father and an evil tyrant king wants to marry her to a man of wealth. With a sweater like that, you don’t stand a chance.” “What!” said George. “This is my best sweater!” (He was wearing the one that’s gray on top, green on bottom, and has three rows of diamonds and one of zigzags in between.) “Sorry,” said Gerontius Senex. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.” “Then I shall have to see the king!” said George. Gerontius Senex pointed. George looked where he was pointing and saw a castle with walls that rose straight up to the sky. He walked in.

“Your Majesty, I have a squeaky haggis and I would like to marry your daughter,” said George. “Marry my daughter!” said the king. “You’re but a peasant with an ugly sweater! You can’t marry my daughter, even if you have a squeaky haggis! Leave my presence.” George came back the next day. “Your Majesty, I have a squeaky haggis and I would like to marry your daughter,” he said. “Leave my presence!” said the king. George came back day after day until finally the king said “You can marry my daughter if you can accomplish what I’m about to whisper in my servant’s ear.” The king leaned over and whispered something into his servant’s ear. “If you finish before I am done with dinner, you can marry my daughter.”

George left the castle. Knowing there was no way he could accomplish the task, he sat under a tree and read Manga online. Some Japanese martial arts tourists walked by, blurting out “Hic! Haec! Hoc!” when they kicked things. George paid them no mind.

Presently, the man who listened to everything in the world walked by. “Hello, George,” he said. “The king wants you to go to the end of the world and get the healing water.” “Frick!” said George. “I can’t do that before dinner!” “I can,” said the man with one leg, who had found his other leg and was carrying it with him. He strapped it on, ran to the other end of the world, got the healing water, but fell asleep by the bank of the river. The man who could shoot a bird at a hundred miles shot him. He woke up, healed himself with the healing water, then ran back to George. Then he remembered that he’d forgotten to bring healing water for George, so he ran back and got some and brought it back to George. “Thank you,” said George. George brought it to the king. “I can’t have a peasant marrying my daughter!” muttered the king. “I have another task for you.” Again he whispered to his servant.

George went outside and sat under the tree. “The king wants you to eat twelve oxen and twelve tons of bread, and drink forty casks of wine with forty gallons each,” said the man who listened to everything. “Frick!” said George. “I can’t do that before dinner! I can’t do that for dinner!” “We can,” said the hungry man and the thirsty man together. “Jinx!” said the hungry man. The thirsty man slapped him. “Go,” said George. They went. They ate. They drank. Or, rather, the hungry man ate and the thirsty man drank. They finished the meal, though the hungry man choked a bit on the bones and the thirsty man was severely hungover the next morning.
Again, George went to the king. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I have a squeaky haggis and I would like to marry your daughter.” “What!” said the king. “I can’t think of any more tasks, so I guess I’ll have to let you. But first we’re going to burn that ugly sweater of yours.” “No!” cried George, but the servants tore the sweater off him. They were about to light it on fire when the man with a straw that made everything cold put the fire out. The tailor hastily sewed the ugly sweater back together. (The tailor even fixed the holes under the arms with the magic needle, and the sweater almost looked nice.) The king sent an army in to destroy George and burn the sweater, but George hastily slapped his trusty knapsack and turned his hat a couple times, and the king’s army surrendered.

“I can’t have a peasant with an ugly sweater marry my daughter!” said the king, “even if the sweater almost looks nice now.” He turned his daughter into a flower and sent her out into the garden. She was only allowed to become human again during the night. George could save her only by plucking the right flower. If he plucked the wrong one, she would die.

George spent the night on the ground next to the garden. “Blodwyn, Blodwyn!” he murmured. “Here I am,” she called, and there before him stood the princess he had seen at the mystic seaport, only this time, she was much closer much more beautiful. Her red hair flowed from her head to her waist and her eyes shone green like the sea after a storm. Her skin was pale and she stood at about 5'8". She wore a beautiful green dress and a funny Russian hat that matched George’s exactly, except for its magical destructive powers. The two sat in the garden under the moonlight, and when Blodwyn began to get cold, George gave her his almost nice-looking sweater to wear. She was even more beautiful with the sweater on, George thought. A breeze ran its misty fingers through their hair, and George shivered. Blodwyn did not shiver because she was wearing the gray and green sweater, and George was pleased.

At sunrise, Blodwyn vanished and again became a flower. George picked up his sweater and looked at the garden: there were three flowers of exquisite beauty, all three identical in height, color, and shape. “Blodwyn, Blodwyn!” George whispered, knowing one of them was her. None of the flowers responded. George studied the flowers, and finally he knew which was Blodwyn. He plucked it, and instantly the flower was transformed into the beautiful Blodwyn. “How did you know it was me?” she asked. “Dew fell on the other flowers during the night, but since you were up all night, there wasn’t any dew on you,” he said, and kissed her.

Chapter Four
The Wedding and Some of the Events that Occurred Thereafter

George and Blodwyn were married the next day. George wore the gray and green sweater and a pair of red and green striped stockings. Blodwyn wore her beautiful dress. The perfectly normal person presided. (He had turned out to be an Orthodox bishop.) Afterwards, George pulled out his tablecloth and there was a great feast of Oreo and French fry pizza. George and Blodwyn lived happily ever after and had lots of grandchildren.

The end.

on aging

I plan to be beautiful my whole life.

I don't plan to be 20 my whole life, but I plan to be beautiful my whole life.

I will grow old and get wrinkles and gray hairs and stretch marks, but I'll tell you what, they'll be sexy stretch marks.

When it is my birthday, people will ask if I'm 29 again, and I will say no, I'm 67.

I am a fallen woman, and deep in my heart I doubt. I wonder. I ask: "am I beautiful?"

I won't take my question to the world: they will say "no, you are old and wrinkled, and all beauty is vanity."

I won't take my question to my husband, a fallen man. Some days he will say "yes" honestly. Some days he will conjure this required answer.

I will take my question to God, and he will say "I made you, I created you, I know you better than anyone else. Yes, you are old and wrinkled and beautiful. You are a captivating, beautiful woman, desired and loved. Let me wash you with my blood so you can be seen." And deep in my heart, deeper than my doubt, I will know this is true.

I will empty myself and let Him fill me with His love.

And I will go to my husband and say "Look!" and I will not be ashamed of my wrinkles; I will not be afraid. I will be beautiful, and my husband will see my beauty. He will speak and I will hear Christ's voice: "you are truly beautiful."

I have no beauty that does not come from my Creator. To Him I owe infinitely more than I have or am. I deserve nothing. But "deserve" is irrelevant to love. I am empty and grateful.

Christus resurrexit!

My Eastern friends (Catholic and Orthodox) don't celebrate the resurrection for another week. I've heard a couple jabs from them about why the Western calendar is wrong, and I don't really know how or who worked out the calendars, but I think it's interesting that the Son rises in the West before he Rises in the East. Hooray for semantic fun.

This went through my mind tonight:

With pretty much every one I know, especially people I know well, at least once I've felt that love so strongly that I was convinced I'd be utterly willing to die for them.

Then something happens and I find out I'm not willing to do smaller things for them. My emotions go reeling and I am ashamed.

It's a painful reminder that as much as I think I love, I don't love strongly enough. As much as I think I'd die for someone, I don't actually know, and I won't actually know until/unless the situation comes up.

You? I love you. My heart is weak, though, and I fail often. But I'm not letting it stay that way. I can do all things--even love--through Christ who strengthens me.

Who strengthens my heart.

Feast of St. Patrick confessions

Happy birthday, Emily.

I went to the scout office to turn in my paperwork and pick up some patches for my bag. Pat found a 2007 Camp Tapico patch for me and even let me buy a climbing merit badge patch, on condition that I don't give it to a scout.

I thought briefly about going to my grandpa's house while I was pulling out of the parking lot. I didn't really feel like going, but I wanted to see them at some point over break so I guilted myself into going. Then I realized I wouldn't have to take the freeway if I stopped at his house, so cheerily I went, making only one especially stupid navigational error ("that looks like some sort of factory on the left, so I ought to be turning right").

I pulled into his driveway and gave him a hug as I walked in the door. His clothes matched: gray pants (belt undone) and a gray-and-white plaid shirt. Both were stained with the blue paint he'd recently used on the basement walls. "Do you have any work for me?" I asked.

For as long as I can remember, these four black-and-gold profiles in tilted-square frames hung on the east wall in his living room. He had taken them down, and he told me he wanted to fill the wall with pictures.

These were gathered on the couch awaiting wallhanging: Uncle Steve's 11x14 senior picture in a large, smooth, light-brown wood frame (taken from a shelf in the basement); my dad's 11x14 senior picture in a large, rippled dark-brown wood frame (taken from the basement wall); Uncle Chris's 8x10 senior picture in a thin wood frame (taken from a shelf in the basement); an elaborate matching pair of worn-out-fake-gold frames holding 11x14s of my dad and Uncle Chris when they were about four (taken from the upper stairwell).

I gently tried to discourage him from putting these together on the wall, but secretly I wanted to see what the wall would look like when he was done. We pulled three nails from the wall and left the top center one in to mark the middle of the wall, and it was time to work.

He'd bought a package of tiny plastic suction-cup hooks to hang them up. I pressed a dry suction cup against the white paint and let it fall, but I was disappointed to find out that my grandfather was not so easily discouraged. He explained that suction cups don't stick unless they're wet, so I lightly licked one while he soaked another like an excited puppy. We pressed them onto the wall. Neither stuck.

"I think your best bet would be to use nails," I suggested. Determined to get his money's worth from the tiny suction cup hooks, he told me he had some gorilla glue and asked if I'd heard of it. My eyes got real big.

He spread yesterday's newspaper on the kitchen table to protect the ratty old tablecloth and leaned over the suction cups, dabbing them with glue that was the nasty yellow-green color of hydrochloric acid.

I knew I had to prevent him from gorilla gluing the tiny suction cups to the wall because the tiny plastic hooks attached to the tiny suction cups didn't look strong enough to hold these heavy, decades-old pawnshop frames.

He finished dabbing glue onto one suction cup, and he stuck it on the wall. I was happily surprised to find that the glue didn't hold any better than our saliva had.

He tried again, this time with more glue. Again, the glue didn't hold.

I had an idea. I picked up one of the tiny suction cup hooks in my hand and hung my dad's senior picture from it, but it didn't break. I swung the picture back and forth a bit, but it didn't break. I twisted the hook back far beyond its normal range and it snapped with a pathetic little sound. The frame fell to the floor.

"Grandpa," I said, "I don't think these hooks are strong enough to hold the frames. Look." I showed him the broken hook.

He set down the glue and looked. "Well I'll be--" he started, and tried hanging a frame from a hook in his hand. The hook split almost before he started swinging it. It was time for nails.

Scotch tape from the kitchen drawer, hammer from the coat closet, a Gerber jar of nails from the basement, and he began.

I sat in Grandma's chair, watching him and laughing silently. One by one, the pictures went up.

"I don't care if it's symmetrical or not. I just want to blast a buncha pictures up there," he said. He looked at me as if asking permission. "Deal?" he asked.

I looked into his eyes. "Deal," I told him.

Oh, man. I just betrayed my entire family and pretty much anyone else who sees that wall.

"Glad you come over 'cause I wasn't sure if I 'as gonna do this or not, and you come over and I decide to do it. See what kin'a influence you got over me?"

My insides cringed. I should have sucked it up and driven home on the freeway.

I sank back into Grandma's chair. We small talked for a bit while he fiddled with the pictures, and, remembering his World War II exploits, I asked if he'd ever been to Thailand.

"Thigh-land?" he asked. "No, I never been to Thigh-land. Why do you wan' know about Thigh-land?"

"I have a friend who went to Thailand for a year," I told him.

"Why would you go to Thigh-land?" he asked, stepping around and back to the pictures. He answered the question for himself: "Study Chinese. It's not a very healthy country to go to right now," he said, maybe to himself.

Four pictures hung in a nearly-straight row on the wall. He looked at me and there was an instant of eye contact before his eyes danced into laughter. He, too, saw how ridiculous the pictures looked.

"They aren't even," he said.

When he turned around, I facepalmed and wondered what my parents would say when they saw the wall. I could hear my dad saying "what on earth?" The wall looked so bad that no one would notice that the pictures were uneven, and if they did, they would assume it was part of the lack of design.

There was still a nail hanging in the middle of the wall, between my dad's and Uncle Steve's senior pictures. He wanted something small to hang there, so I gave him a horizontal 4x6 picture of my immediate family (my parents and siblings and me; his son and daughter-in-law and grandkids) at Uncle Joe's. Framed in black, it fit snugly between the foiling brown frames.

He put another nail in directly below this one and asked for the picture of him and my grandmother. A vertical 4x6, it sat on the shelf in a simple fake-gold frame. There was no hook to hang the frame with, and he mentioned gorilla gluing the whole thing to the wall. "Can't see, can't hear," he muttered and distracted himself with a Cole Porter casette tape.

The wall had pretty much gone to hell, and I felt like I was responsible for it. What could I do? If he had twine, he could tie it around the shelf-stand and hang the frame from there, I suggested.

He didn't have twine, but he had packaging tape. He looped it around the shelf-stand on the back of the frame and hung it from the nail below the family portrait.

To recap, this is what the wall looks like from left to right:

.elaborate fake-gold frame with 11x14 of either my dad or Uncle Chris at about four years old
.dark brown rippling wood frame with 11x14 of Uncle Steve at eighteen (looking slightly left)
.black frame with horizontal 4x6 of my family, below this a simple fake-gold frame with 4x6 of my grandparents
.light brown smooth wood frame with 11x14 of my dad at eighteen (looking slightly right)
.matching elaborate fake-gold frame with 11x14 of either Uncle Chris or my dad at about four years old

"Okay, if I keep messing it up, it won't matter, will it?" he asked me. He straightened my dad's senior picture and for a second I thought the whole thing didn't look half-bad.

Suddenly he realized he'd forgotten Uncle Chris's senior picture, the lone 8x10 sitting in its simple medium-brown wood frame. He decided, with some egging on from me, to put it on top in the center. He dragged a dinette chair into the living room and stood on it. I knelt on the couch, handing up equipment and spotting in case he fell.

"Scotch tape and duct tape. You can't live without 'em," he muttered. I wondered where the duct tape was.

I thought it strange to display the middle child in such a ridiculously prominent location, so I handed him his 50th anniversary frame with wedding-day photos of him and my grandmother. Well now he needed a place for Uncle Chris's picture, and he fit it snugly between the two other senior pictures, hanging down below. He found a spot, stabbed at it with his finger, marked it with Scotch tape, and started the nail. "So much for measuring," he said.

The 4x6 of him and my grandmother slid out of its frame. He knocked it around a bit, trying to straighten it, but without any luck. Finally he gave it to me.

"Get the picture straight and put that sucker back on," he instructed me.

I took it to the kitchen table, emptied the frame, and taped the photo in place. The shelf-stand was in the way. Grandpa stole a guilty look at me and ripped it off.

"Why didn't we think of that before?" he asked me.

I sat back in Grandma's chair, watching him, and then I realized this wasn't as ridiculous as it looked. It was his house, let him have it how he likes, I thought. I've spent a lot of time in college going out of my way to be tacky because I've had a nagging feeling that once I grow up and settle down somewhere, I'm going to have to look respectable and my house will have to look respectable and my picture frames will have to match and hang symmetrically from the wall. It was kind of liberating to known that I can grow up and still be tacky.

I understood, then, what he was trying to do. He was thinking the same way I thought when I attached a hanger to the ceiling with push pins and twine so I could hang my internet cord up or when I carried an old drumhead back to my room to use as a table. He knew where he was going, and now I knew, too, and I could help him without silently mocking him.

"I shouldn't even be doing this," he muttered into the wall. "Someone smart should be doing this."

He wanted the 5x7s of his five grandkids on the wall on the left side, and I went through each one, Scotch-taping the bottoms so the pictures wouldn't fall out. The shelf-stands on the frames were too big to hang the frames on the wall. "I don't dare rip these off," he said, and so he turned the first one over on the table and began nailing the shelf-stand to the back of the frame. He'd had some success with this tactic before, but this frame was thinner. We heard the glass break.

"Oh, sh-t, I mean, shoot," he said. He didn't mean shoot. The glass had shattered and there was a nail sticking out through Emily's shoulder. We cleaned out the glass and, without it, there was plenty of room to tuck the shelf-stand into the frame. We used either tape or gorilla glue to tuck in the other four shelf-stands, then we realized that Anne's frame didn't have a loop to hang on the wall. I found a paperclip and taped it to the back of her frame.

We were done for the day. He stepped back and we admired our work. He asked me if I liked it, and I told him I did--and told him this honestly. I also told him I didn't think my parents would like it, and he was surprised, but I said it didn't matter. I liked it.

My Thigh-land friend once told me I was endearingly tacky, but he hasn't met my grandfather. He is impossible not to love.

Saturday, I went back to Grandpa's house, and he had more pictures up. It looked better, actually, sort of collage-like. Now I got to run off to Greek, but here's a picture of what it looked like on Saturday:

I hate shopping for clothes.

I had a package to mail, then I was heading out to Miller Road. I hoped to return with a pair of jeans and a Tekiela book, but also in the back of my mind were hiking shoes, spankies (for skirts at swing dance and worn-through jeans), toothpaste, cough drops, and any sort of food I could bring back to college with me.

I went to the post office and spent about $10 mailing the package, feeling vaguely guilty for mailing it the cheapest way so I'd have more money for clothing. They said 5-10 business days, 5 would be right on time. I went to the bank and deposited a check, and then I was off to Miller Road.

First stop: Target. I browsed the clearance racks first, then the regular racks. I found a few pairs of jeans that might fit, checked the prices, put a few back, and walked into the fitting room.

How I envy men and their easy-to-use sizing system! Women's clothing is sized in an utterly arbitrary fashion, probably designed to assure us that we're not fat. In addition to this, we're all shaped in frustratingly unique ways and we all have different ideas on beauty and modesty. The fitting room is one of the most frustrating place in the world. You start with a simple question: do the pants fit? And the answer is ridiculously complicated. I tried to map it out in an easy-to-use flowchart, but I gave up. Try this:

Question 1: Do the pants fit?
++If you answered NO, try a different pair and go back to Question 1.
++If you answered YES, you are a liar.
++If you answered MAYBE, go on to Question 2.

Question 2: How do they fit around the waist?
++If you answered WAY TOO TIGHT, try a larger or smaller size and go back to Question 1.
++If you answered WAY TOO LOOSE, try a larger or smaller size and go back to Question 1.
++If you answered JUST RIGHT, you are a liar.
++If you answered SORTA TIGHT, remember that jeans stretch out after a while and go on to Question 3.
++If you answered SORTA LOOSE, remember that you can always wear a belt and go on to Question 3.

Question 3: How long are they?
++If you answered WAY TOO LONG, try a larger or smaller size and go back to Question 1.
++If you answered WAY TOO SHORT, try a larger or smaller size and go back to Question 1.
++If you answered JUST RIGHT, you are a liar.
++If you answered SORTA SHORT, try a larger or smaller size and go back to Question 1.
++If you answered SORTA LONG, remember that you can hem them and go on to Question 4.

Question 4: How do they fit around your butt and thighs?
++If you answered PRETTY SURE THESE ARE GUY JEANS, try a larger or smaller size and go back to Question 1.
++If you answered MY BUTT GOT SWALLOWED UP BY A DENIM BLUE WHALE, try a larger or smaller size and go back to Question 1.
++If you answered THIS WOULD DISTRACT EVEN THE MOST CHASTE MEN, try a larger or smaller size and go back to Question 1.
++If you answered I CAN COUNT THE CHANGE IN MY POCKET BY TWISTING AROUND AND LOOKING IN THE MIRROR, try a larger or smaller size and go back to Question 1.
++If you answered JUST RIGHT, you are a liar.

Question 5: Do you like them?
++If you answered THEY'LL DO, then go pay for them and leave the store before you get distracted elsewhere.
++If you answered YES, you are a liar.
++If you answered NO, then try on a shirt that you already know will look good. This will make you feel a little better about the jeans. Then go pay for the jeans, because you've already spent three hours at this store and there's no sense in spending another three hours elsewhere.

I tried on a handful of jeans at Target, but didn't find anything. Fashion Bug was a couple stores down, and I figured why not try my luck there? I parked and got out of the car.

Fashion Bug tried to get around this problem with their Right Fit revolution. "Try on a revolution,” the sign said. “What is RIGHT FIT? It’s the revolutionary result of the most extensive fit study in 60 years. Our unique fit and sizing system is based on 3 different body shapes: straight, moderately curvy and curvy. Resized with Right Fit technology, L.A. Blues jeans and Studio 1940 dress pants are now available in plus and misses Right Fit sizes.”

Right Fit was color-coded. There were signs on the walls and tags on the clothing. I perused them eagerly, hoping to cut down on fitting-room time. The signs read:

Do your current pants or jeans:
fit your waist, but are baggy? fit your hips/thighs, but have to be unbuttoned? Try RIGHT FIT YELLOW.
fit at the waist? but are slightly big in the thighs and hips? Try RIGHT FIT RED.
have to be cinched at the waist? or have a gap at the back? Try RIGHT FIT BLUE.

Already I don't fit! I needed Right Fit Green. Sometimes I feel like unbuttoning my jeans, but I have to tie them up and at least two people have made fun of me for the gap in the back. I picked up two pairs, a blue and a yellow, in size 2 and walked to the fitting room.

I swam. For good measure, I put both my legs into the right leg of the blue pair, and hopped around until I saw a mermaid in the mirror. While I pulled my own jeans back on, I glanced at the tag.

Size 5.

Turned out I'd been browsing the plus sizes without realizing it, so I tried the other side of the store. Two full racks of clearance jeans, about $15 per pair, and in all three Right Fit colors! I picked up three, the smallest size I could find in each color, and tried them on.

Yellow 4M: baggy, but waist and length were good.
Blue 6M: I'd wear these advertising a weight-loss product.
Red 4MP: tight around the waist, baggy elsewhere.

"Did you find what you needed?" asked the clerk.

"No," I told her, "but I know where to look now." I put the jeans on the rejection rack and went back to clearance.

Blue 3M: waist was good, but baggy enough to look like guy jeans.
Yellow 3M: I had to suck in my gut to get these on, but I got them buttoned. I could barely move.

The clerk saw me add more jeans to the rejection rack, and she asked if she could help. I told her specifically what the problems were with the jeans, and she told me to try size 3 red.

Red 3M: too tight at the waist, a little baggy but they're clearly girl jeans

I told the clerk what happened and she suggested trying yellow.

"What size?" I asked her. "Yellow 4 was too baggy and I could barely squeeze into Yellow 3."

She tried to convince me that the red ones would stretch out at the waist, but I didn't want to try my luck. I wasn't Straight, Moderately Curvy, or Curvy, so it was time to move on.

Old Navy?

It was the next clothing store in the plaza. I usually don't like to pay Old Navy prices, but I've had some luck with their clearance racks before, so I decided to give it a try.

What luck! Jeans for $15 on the clearance racks! I took four pair, two size 0 and two size 2, into the fitting room.

Size 0 sort of fit, but were ugly.
Size 2 sort of fit, but were ugly.
Size 0 was way too tight.
Size 2 was way too tight.

I tried on almost a dozen pair, almost the entire S/XS clearance rack, and finally found two pairs of pants that I liked. They weren't jeans, but they were good pants that I wouldn't mind getting grass stains on. I hung up the jeans and empty hangers on the rejection rack and carried the pants to the checkout counter, walking past $30 and $40 jeans. I'd found two pairs of pants for less than $30 total.

Hard work pays off.

Next stop, Borders. I found the Tekiela book, remembered the Amazon.com price, and bought the book because it was cheaper in the store. Ten minutes.

Sports Authority was right next door. I didn't want to spend any more time shopping, but they might have spankies. I walked in the door.

Shoes on clearance!

Well, they were all to big for me, but I went over to the regular shoe aisle. An employee was on me like a dog to dropped food. "Can I help you find anything?"

"I need something waterproof and good for backpacking."

I liked the $70 shoes and almost bought them, but then I saw a $55 pair marked down to $29. He found a smaller pair for me and they fit well. Also, if anything went wrong in the first year, including normal wear--soles coming loose, stitches coming out, color fading, etc.--they'd pay for it or replace the shoe.

He brought the shoes up to the counter while I hunted after spankies. I found some, they fit, and I brought them up to the counter.

I didn't realize I had to pay extra for the shoe-insurance. I asked how much it cost.

$4.99, she said.

"How much are the shoes?"

She beeped it with the red laser.

"It ain't even worth it," she said, partly to herself. She looked back at the guy who'd helped me find the shoes. "It ain't even worth it," she told him. "The shoes are only $10."

I paid for them and drove home in the clunky light-blue Olds.

Mission accomplished.

it doesn't go there!

Right before lunch I went to the bathroom and before I unbuttoned my jeans, my pen flipped out of my pocket and landed in the toilet. I wasn't sure what to do but I had to act before it sank, so I grabbed some toilet paper, reached in, launched it out and let it drop on the floor. About then I realized the superfluity of the toilet paper.

I went down to lunch and my ID card wasn't in my pocket. I went back to my room to look for it but couldn't find it--but picked up the check I had to cash--and came back up just as the 11:50 lunch rush was starting. I got a note from the desk and waited in line.

Finally, we approached the door to Saga. I felt something in the back of my pants suppressed a sheepish smile. I knew where my ID card was. I had somehow flipped it out of my back pocket--my pockets are small and it often falls out when I use the bathroom--and flipped it into my pants while in the bathroom.

I cleared my dishes from the table but didn't feel anything in my pants. Had it fallen to my knees? Perhaps. I left the cafeteria and returned to the bathroom.

I locked the door and checked everywhere, but with no luck. The card must have fallen out my ankle. It must be lying on the floor somewhere in Saga.

I asked Steve when I went to dinner, but he hadn't seen it.

The check is still in my pocket.

how to love

The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.
G. K. Chesterton

The most important thing is to love God.

The next most important thing is to love people.

Love people because we are all made in the image and likeness of God, because we all have the same core human dignity, because we're all in this together.

Love those behind you, but love, too, those in front of you.

Though I command languages both human and angelic--if I speak without love, I am no more than a gong booming or a cymbal clashing.

And though I have the power of prophecy, to penetrate all mysteries and knowledge, and though I have all the faith necessary to move mountains--if I am without love, I am nothing.

Though I should give away to the poor all that I possess, and even give up my body to be burned--if I am without love, it will do me no good whatever.

Love, for God so loved. And how ought we love?

Love is always patient and kind.

Love is never jealous.

Love is not boastful or conceited.

It is never rude and never seeks its own advantage.

It does not take offense or store up grievances.

Love does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but finds its joy in the truth.

Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always endures whatever comes.

Love never comes to an end.

If love never comes to an end, then love, in this fallen world, must forgive. Love knows that the person is more important than the pride invested in the disagreement.

As it is, these remain: faith, hope, and love, the three of them.

And the greatest of them is love.

fail

"Mary, you're such a woman," he said, and I apologized.

caritas and the best gift I ever got (and am)

So those who received his word were baptized, and there were added that day about three thousand souls. And they devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers. And fear came upon every soul; and many wonders and signs were done through the apostles. And all who believed were together and had all things in common; and they sold their possessions and goods and distributed them to all, as any had need. And day by day, attending the temple together and breaking bread in their homes, they partook of food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having favor with all the people. And the Lord added to their number day by day those who were being saved. Acts 2:41-47, RSV-CE.

This morning I wanted to wear Joe's Mancino's shirt, so I put it on. Wearing it, I wanted to see how little of my own clothing I could wear today. I've got on Anne's running shoes, Paul's scout socks, Emily's jeans, Anne's belt-ish-thing, Joe's painted Mancino's shirt, Anne's earrings (not quite matching), my mom's hoodie, and my dad's orange hat. Near last-minute, I switched my undershirt for one of Anne's, then kicked around my pile of gloves to see whose I had. Halfway to Mauck, I realized the mittens I usually wear are either Emily's or Joe's.

I thought about carrying my things in the purple Wilson bag today, but I'd lent it to [G] for the semester. The bag used to be Emily's, and she let me take it to Timbers camp after eighth grade, and I don't think I ever gave it back to her. It was in Anne's closet for a while, I think. We've all taken it on trips and to camps.

Originally I typed "my purple Wilson bag" but I erased it and wrote "the" because it isn't really my bag, or Emily's bag, or Anne's bag. Possession of the bag is so fluid it doesn't really matter. The only thing preventing Anne from using it is a two-hour drive, and, well, Emily lives rather farther away and has her own nifty red suitcases. But I really have no attachment to it that would prevent them from having it. (That "having" is closer to "holding" than "owning.")

I suspect this is pretty close to what the early church did with their possessions. I don't think their idea of charity was "I own X, and you don't own X, and you need X, so I will give you my X so you can own an X." I think their idea of charity--caritas, yes?--was this fluid possession, or lack of possession. This shirt isn't "mine," it's just the shirt that I happen to have paid for and happens to be in my closet, but that's entirely irrelevant. It's a shirt. If you need to put something on, here's a shirt. You're dressing up and you need to look nice; let's look through the closet and see what's in the closet. We aren't even thinking about "my" shirt or "your" shirt but "the" shirt that happens to be there. You can "have" it--the "have" that means "hold" or "use," not the "have" that means "own" or "possess" or "want payment for" or "want back."

If we could all do this consistently, the world would be a better place, but still communism doesn't work.

Well, this isn't communism. Forcing people to share only works as discipline and training for caritas, not a replacement for caritas itself. If it is not free, it is not love.

(Additionally, when you base your institution on atheism, you're going to have very serious problems. Even if you don't believe in God, even a cursory glance at human history will tell you that human nature desires God, and common sense should tell you that that's not a strategic desire to stifle.)

I remember my mom relating to me something she heard from a priest: the best gift you can give your child is another sibling.

Is that true?




Heck yes.

love of chrema

For the love of money is the root of all evils; it is through this craving that some have wandered away from the faith and pierced their hearts with many pangs. 1 Tim. 6:10

I haven't read the NT in Greek, and I'm no scholar, having had only one semester of the language. Seth tells me the word translated money is the Greek chrema, which I remember from C&P to mean thing in the singular and things or money in the plural. An alternative--and perhaps better--translation, then, would be "love of things is the root of all evils." (Thanks, Seth, for pointing this out.)

I believe it.

Let him be the rote and grounde of alle your blysse (Pearl, 420), and all will be well.

this is just fun

I used Steven Pinker's The Language Instinct: How the Mind Creates Language as a reference for my research paper or my science fair project (or maybe both) in eighth grade and have been meaning to actually read the thing ever since. I finished Exodus; Leviticus; Bud, Not Buddy; Caddie Woodlawn; and All Creatures Great and Small. Numbers intimidated me and I didn't really want to read Everlasting Man. So I started The Language Instinct.

Here are some fun things I found:




George Bernard Shaw complained that fish could just as sensibly be spelled ghoti (gh as in tough, o as in women, ti as in nation).

Chomsky: colorless green ideas sleep furiously

About the Kivunjo language: "The Kivunjo construction fits entirely inside the verb, which has seven prefixes and suffixes, two moods, and fourteen tenses; the verb agrees with its subject, its object, and its benefactive nouns, each of which come in sixteen genders."

Cherokee pronouns can distinguish between "you and I," "another person and I," "several other people and I," "you, one or more other persons, and I" -- and in English, it's "us" or "we."

"He walks" = "as solitary masculinity, leggedness proceeds."

Newspaper headlines:

• Child's Stool Great for Use in Garden
• Stud Tires Out
• Stiff Opposition Expected to Casketless Funeral Plan
• Drunk Gets Nine Months in Violin Case
• Iraqi Head Seeks Arms
• Queen Mary Having Bottom Scraped
• Columnist Gets Urologist in Trouble with His Peers

First guy: I didn't sleep with my wife before we married, did you?
Second guy: I don't know. What was her maiden name?

These apparently also appeared in newspapers:

• Yoko Ono will talk about her husband John Lennon who was killed in an interview with Barbara Walters.
• Two cars were reported stolen by the Groveton police yesterday.
• The license fee for altered dogs with a certificate will be $3 and for pets owned by senior citizens who have not been altered the fee will be $1.50.
• Tonight's program discusses stress, exercise, nutrition, and sex with Celtic forward Scott Wedman, Dr. Ruth Westheimer, and Dick Cavett.
• We will sell gasoline to anyone in a glass container.
• For sale: mixing bowl set designed to please a cook with round bottom for efficient beating.

One witness told the commissioners that she had seen sexual intercourse taking place between two parked cars in front of her house.

The comedian Dick Gregory tells of walking up to a lunch counter in Mississippi during the days of racial segregation. The waitress said to him, "We don't serve colored people." "That's fine," he replied, "I don't eat colored people. I'd like a piece of chicken."

How old Cary Grant?
Old Cary Grant fine.

More newspaper headlines:

• New Housing for Elderly Not Yet Dead
• New Missouri U. Chancellor Expects Little Sex
• 12 on Their Way to Cruise Among Dead in Plane Crash
• N.J. Judge to Rule on Nude Beach
• Chou Remains Cremated
• Chinese Apeman Dated
• Hershey Bars Protest
• Reagen Wins on Budget, But More Lies Ahead
• Deer Kill 130,000
• Complaints About NBA Referees Growing Ugly
• Squad Helps Dog Bite Victim
• Man Eating Piranha Mistakenly Sold as Pet Fish
• Juvenile Court to Try Shooting Defendant

Achtung! Alles Lookenspeepers!
Das computermachine ist nicht fuer gefingerpoken und mittengrabben. Ist easy schnappen der springenwerk, blowenfusen und poppencorken mit spitzensparken. Ist nicht fuer gewerken bei das dumpkopfen. Das rubbernecken sightseeren keepen das cottenpickenen hans in das pockets muss; relaxen und watchen das blinkenlichten.

In Boston there is an old joke about a woman who landed at Logan Airport and asked the taxi driver, "Can you take me someplace where I can get scrod?" He replied, "Gee, that's the first time I've heahrd it in the pluperfect subjunctive!"




That's all I've got for now--I haven't finished the book yet. If you want more, go read it yourself.

Thank you, Al Gore

Emily said it best.

I started this blog in September so that I would write. I had two ends in mind: first, writing more would make me a better writer, and second, writing what I'm thinking would force me to think things through all the way.

It's not especially important to me whether anyone reads this or not. The point is that I keep writing, and some vague idea that someone might read this is enough motivation.

It's weird not writing for an audience though. I made the beginning of my Jackson paper alliterate, but I would never do that for a history professor. I let spelling and punctuation slide when I'm emailing my sisters, but I would never do that in a newspaper. I scrawl in thank-you notes to my friends but write neatly in thank-you notes to my grandmother. It isn't dishonesty, it's just that you treat different people differently. No matter what I'm writing, the audience is in the front of my mind.

But here, I'm not writing for an audience. Not officially, anyway. But I know four people who read this regularly and at least two who read it every so often, and it's hard not to gear my thoughts in their direction.

For this post, however, I do have an audience in mind: Emily and Anne, my beautiful, wonderful, completely different sisters. Look:

"Your shoulder bit my tooth!"

"Mom, I don't really need black shoes."
"That's why!"
"That's why what?"
"That's why she never buys you anything when I don't come!"

Crayola still makes historical markers.

"Emily has a boyfriend, Emily has a boyfriend!"
"Will you shut up!"
"No. Emily has a boyfriend, Emily has a boyfriend!"

"I din't hev a suth'n twaang!"

"That's south of the Mason-Dixie line."

Emily: Anne, you can't wear that green striped sweater with the blue skirt.
Anne: Why not?
Mary: Anne, even *I* know better than that!

Swing dance turned self-defense turned I don't really want to fall over right now.
"They only do this when there are guys over."
"No, that's actually not true."
"Yeah, she was beating me up in the kitchen yesterday."

"Anne, are you going to eat that?"
"No."
"Anne, is that all you're going to eat?"
"Yes."
"Anne, aren't you going to eat anything?"
"No."
"Anne, eat something."
"I just ate five pieces of pizza at quiz bowl!"

Pianatapanastokavadi!

my favorite gmail chat conversation ever-
"Is that book still in the living room?"
"What book?"
"Captivating."
"Maybe, I dunno. I'm up in my room."
"Okay, I'll go look."
"Good, cause you're closer to the living room anyway."
"Anne stole it. It was in her room."
"Oh, I wondered what she came up here for."
"I can hear you laughing."
"Have you started the book?"
"No, but if you ask me the same question...wait..."
"You're gonna read one sentence then tell me you did."
"Now I have. Yes yes, lil sis, you called me out."
"Punk. Warthog-faced buffoon."
"Actually, I read one and a half."
"I hear you laughing down there."
"That is Anne laughing. I mean, coughing."
"I'm sure. You're probably choking her to death."

"Your cell phone looks like a rabbit!"

empty

Anne and I took the last leaf out of the table before dinner. I've often marveled at what a good idea it was first to invent and second to find a table with leaves. Growing up, we had two leaves in the table and three for company. As we started graduating and moving out, the table got smaller and smaller and leaves started accumulating in the front closet. Now, they only come out when everyone is home, and we put the last one away today.

Emily left first, driving away in yesterday's rain that turned the knee-deep snow into mist. She called to let us know she'd made it to her friend's house in Ohio, where she stayed the night, then again when she arrived in Atlanta.

Joe left right after Mass and breakfast this morning, his Monte Carlo moving matter-of-factly toward Arlington. He called home when he arrived.

Paul stayed for euchre and left before noon, then returned to pick up his Costa Rican shotglass. The Oldsmobile clunked down the street, bound for Cleveland. He left the polyurethane for me on the table in the basement.

And then there were four and the table was shrunk.

Evidences of my family are scattered throughout the house. A new fan (with lights!) hangs over the family room. Emily and Joe each left a pair of shoes, and I still haven't cleaned up the golden-brown mess Paul and I left on the table when the polyurethane leaked through the cardboard. I have far more clothing in my room than I really need, some of it new (that's Emily's fault). A walking stick leans in the corner of my room. There are still five beds for all of us. The house is too big for a small family.

Briefly I thought about crying my eyes out, but mostly I feel a calm, empty sadness.

And today?

Today is the feast of the Holy Family.

i love my sisters

Door opened.
Name yelled.
Bags dropped.

Feet run.
Bodies collide.
Arms pull.

Reunion.

the semester in review

Dr. Jackson told me that when you get a Ph.D, it's like you've climbed to the top of a mountain. You're there: you know what there is to know. Then you take a couple more steps up, turn around and look out, and see thousands of other mountains yet to be scaled.

I don't have a Ph.D but I know what he means. I'm at the top of a mountain right now.

I learned crazy amounts this semester. I learned that wife-beaters are shirts, not belts. I learned that you can fold bedsheets like American flags. I learned that I can function quite well on 5 hours of sleep. I learned that I can do a heck of a lot more than I think I can, and that sometimes endurance is all you need when deadlines fly into your face and go plaid.

I learned that nothing is too marvelous for God to do, and that if I pray about something, he will rush to help. During the summer, his strength allowed me to a mile in under two hours. This year, his strength allowed me to forgive someone in under two years--a much greater feat for someone like me.

I hit on Marine recruiters, and they know my name now.

I learned how to be a woman. I learned that knitting and football are irrelevant to my femininity, and there's no reason to get caught up trying to figure out whether it's okay that I don't enjoy shoe shopping. I learned that being a woman is a stupid reason not to snow sumo.

I live with my woman friends now, not down the street but down the hall. And I love them. I've never been good at having woman friends but I'm getting better at it. I want to have woman friends now, which is important. C. S. Lewis was wrong when he said friendship must be "about" something (e.g., stamp collecting). I have friends who knit and they can talk about knitting but knitting isn't the basis of their friendship. I have friends who love languages and we can lament together that English doesn't have an ablative, but language isn't the basis of our friendship. We don't need a common interest to have a friendship. We need to love each other and goof off. That's all. Most of what strengthened my woman-friendships were things like barging into each other's rooms, tattooing each other's arms with less-than-beautiful sayings, laughing about being half-dressed. The important thing was spending joyful time together, and it didn't really matter what we did.

I don't go out of my way to dress sloppily like I did last year.

I give hugs, and real hugs, not those lame side-hugs. Physical affection between friends doesn't scare me anymore. I'm willing to admit that the "I don't like people touching me" I spewed last year was a lie. (Don't tickle me, though.)

I danced.

My instinct still wonders what the attractive male two tables away thinks of what I'm wearing, but I now have a hand that can slap that instinct and tell it to shut up, because it's God's opinion that really matters.

I carry my own things, books and trumpet and such, not to show off my strength and not to spite the men who offer to carry them for me, but because they're my books and there's no reason I can't carry them myself.

I learned that people aren't as stupid as I tend to assume, at least proportionally. I'm just as dumb as everyone else, and there's probably a whole heck of a lot I'm completely oblivious to.

I have flaws, and there's no sense in getting frustrated over not being perfect. Virtue shields, but when virtue fails, there is mercy. I don't want people to think I don't have flaws, anyway, because when I find people who seem flawless, I usually don't like them.

I learned that showing off is utter nonsense. No matter what, no mere human can understand me as I am. I don't understand myself as I am, so who am I to know what to show off? Keep myself right with God. Then, everything will fall into place, and if it doesn't, I have him.

That's most important. I have him.

addendum

Addendum to mob. I was thinking about this later.

I remember when I was a little kid, my dad was watching the news and I saw people walking. The reporter said they were forced to stay on the path because of land mines, and I saw them huddled cold and with their children, walking, pressed forward. Kosovo. How old was I? I must have been very young.

I cried.

My mom took me up to her room and hugged me and talked to me and I don't remember what she said, all I remember is crying.

I didn't cry for the mob I saw today. Things are different now. I've grown older--wiser? more foolish? Have I grown out of being childish or childlike?