Sitting in Church

Swollen foot before the "boot" cast.

There is a popular church song, "On Eagles' Wings" that promises that God will lift you up. Sometimes I find the Eagle's wings are more comforting when folded around me.

Psalm 91:4

[H]e covers you with his feathers,

and you find shelter under his wings.

It has been three weeks since I broke my foot. The break itself is small, but the sprained ligaments down the side of the foot are still making life uncomfortable for me. So, in church, I have been sitting for most of the Mass. Sitting keeps the foot's throbbing at a minimum.

I place my booted foot, resplendent in black foam-filled, air-pumped padding and Velcro trim, on the kneeler and say my prayers while feeling very small. Even the eight-year-old towers beside me. Truly, I am curtained by people which makes the sanctuary seem far away, on the other side of a mountain. But, I am grateful to be where I am, in spite of the differences in my stature. I would much rather be IN church than at home praying with the computer. (I detest televised services having experienced too many of those in bedrooms, hospitals, and nursing homes with my mother.) I am certain I will be able to stand longer next week, and in a few more weeks I will be able to offer someone else a ride. For the time, I am dependent on the kindness of others

I truly am in a good place for having people pray for me. The obvious, temporary injury always gives me something to talk about, something to laugh about, something to anticipate being gone. It is different from the hidden problems that people hide from because they are so insidious and frightening in the manner they debilitate a person: cancer and depression and other illnesses that do not have one wearing band-aids or casts. An illness which allows a person to stand during a church service turns him into a sopping ball of pain when the room in his house is quiet, empty, and closed into itself. It is the harder one to endure.

Years ago, before churches made accommodations for handicapped access and wheelchairs, I sat with my mother in the servers' sacristy during Mass. We were about three feet from the open door, at an angle to view the whole sanctuary and altar, but out of view for all but a few people in the church. Since my brothers were frequent altar servers, it was my duty to stay with Mom until my sister was old enough to take turns for this duty of turning the pages of Mom's missal and being her companion in prayer. I had a folding chair, but I knelt on the cold asphalt tiled floor with no rug or padding. Mom sat in her wheelchair through the service, an exercise that exhausted her during those early years after polio. Later, she was able to build endurance and could last for several hours before needed to lay down and refresh. She was so grateful to be present at Mass.

Whenever I wish to define piety, the picture that comes to mind is that of Mom receiving communion. Father O'Brien would stop to give Mom and me communion before distributing the sacrament to the congregation. He wore a heavy brocaded chasuble with heavy incense odor still clinging to it. As though carrying a halo that needed to be put back in place, the server held the patten under Mom's chin. It reflected the act of Mom receiving the host, the host disappearing, and Mom bowing. Whereas I should have been saying my own prayers after receiving communion, it was hard not to watch Mom sitting with her eyes closed. What had she swallowed? More than bread, it was the Eucharist that sustained her; more than a world of support, she pulled Christ into her heart. I was too young to understand what I watched or felt. I simply knew that I observed the blessings of Eucharist as Mom's whole person seemed to wrap itself around what she had consumed.

I am grateful my penchant for sitting during Mass will not last, but I found a comforting connection to what I had experienced before while accompanying Mom, years ago. The handicap I am briefly enduring has allowed me a different view of my world. It is shorter, slower, and more limited than what Mom and others live. However, as my mobility and endurance return, so will my busy distractions. I will lose the quiet time I have had to reserve for icing my foot. I will stop craning my neck to look up to the eight-year-old. My time for stillness and slowing the world will need to be scheduled into my day.

It has been good to have a brief, forced time for sitting. There will be a time for standing, walking, and running.

Isaiah 44: 29-31

He gives strength to the wearied,

he strengthens the powerless.

Young men may grow tired and weary,

youths may stumble,

but those who hope in Yahweh renew their strength,

they put out wings like eagles.

They run and do not grow weary,

walk and never tire.

WYSIWYG

A new word or acronym is validated when it makes it to print. In 1982, Byte magazine printed the following definition to an acronym for a 20th century phrase commonly used in advertising and slapstick comedy: “ 'What you see is what you get' (or WYSIWYG) refers to the situation in which the display screen portrays an accurate rendition of the printed page.” 

 

I have never danced with any grace. What you see when I move is simply movement.

This is no surprise to anyone nor is it anything I have had to hide or lie to myself about. On this one point I can claim that I have been honest, and as small as that point is, it is the starting point for the string of self deceptions I try to keep at bay.

Being honest with myself.

I work at honesty and transparency, and I truly don’t want to offend anyone by the joy I feel just by dancing. I am simply an awkward, distracted lady who has graduated bifocals. They blur the world for me. Sometimes I miss signs or people who crouch in my peripheral vision. They are easy to miss  as I spin, pretending to be graceful.

I felt no deceit or conspiracy to deceive anyone when I tried rinsing my hair to hide the gray, but I kept failing to keep up with the process. It was not up most in my priorities, because I don’t look at myself. So I would postpone, or do things in the evening, fit the process in of pretend beautification.  Not a good way to establish longtime personal grooming. Time? There was always something else to do. The silver hair does not yet dominate my head (note it is truly bright, catch-the-light silver, not gray) but I am comfortable with it. Yes, that is honestly spoken.

Being honest about my shortcomings.

There are other things I must be honest about. There is the general aging process that has settled in. It truly must be acknowledged, for it has loosened my skin and surrounded my eyes with bags and sags, and my mouth has rays of fine lines that are not sunny. I make lists that I check before, during, and after a shopping trip, IF I remember to make the list. 

Recalling names is another problem. How easy it would be if I could relax into simply remembering Pip or Joe Gargery. I love the logical names of Mr. Pocket (whether empty or full) and am always afraid I will slur or mispronounce a name. Sometimes, I will float in an almost-gotcha mode for a time span of 30 seconds (an uncomfortable time when the person stands face-to-face) to 3 days if someone has asked the do-you-remember question. And then the whole scenario of the friend will surface as though someone unfolded a crumpled piece of paper. 

Recalling former student names is worse. Because my memory is so visual, I will see the student in her desk or answering in class. I will hear her voice and, sometimes, remember a paper she wrote. In spite of all the recall, her name will evade me or melt into a sister-friend-soundalike. Names and tag-lines and quick recall items have always been my nemesis. Various mnemonics help for a time, but the strategies do not unfold memory quickly when time has tucked them away. 

As much as I play with words and love to repeat and memorize lines. I invariable remember the picture that is written in my mind over exact words. (I could describe in detail the wall Frost mended with his neighbor.) I don’t bowdlerize my Shakespeare, nothing so prudish because I remember those lines, it is the subtle meaning, the nuances that are essential to maintaining Shakespeare’s conundrums that invariably I flip and corrupt. How I find this frustrating. Pictures and chopped logic. 

Refresh and relax.

Smoothing the brain comes when I wrap around a book and release judgment or control. Honest in the time and space, I read. Here I am unhampered by myself, my stiff fingers, or the fear of forgetting a name. I delve into the world created for me and, honestly, dance beautifully.

Welsh Rabbit or Welsh Rarebit? I am not the first to ask that question.

I know I have had this discussion before, maybe with my mother. Is the lovely warm cheddar cheese melt called Welsh Rabbit or Welsh Rarebit?

My first introduction to this luncheon dish was during shopping trips with Mom. Lunch in a real restaurant was a real treat, since we rarely ate out. Also, the seasonings and elegant presentation of the luncheon were part of my manners education. Mom schooled me on napkin, fork and spoon use. Our usual biyearly Saturday morning excursion was through Severance Center, and we ate at Halle’s Geranium Room. Mom usually ordered the Rarebit.

Welsh Rarebit was a leading luncheon item on the famous Higbee’s Silver Grill’s menu, a popular dish served over melba toast. Very light, feminine, 60s fare. I only remember eating once in the Silver Grill when I was young. It was special then because of the cardboard stove that came with my meal. I probably returned there a few more times, but memory blurs rushed events. The downtown restaurants that stick in my mind are surrounded by story and special people, like Stouffer's at Euclid and East 14^th Street which was across the street from the Hanna Building. Grandpa Lennon was a stockbroker at the Hanna Building for Murch and Company. On the rare occasions I showed up for a visit at his office, he loved to treat me. I was a college student when, on one occasion, I was truly charmed to be introduced to people who stood up from their desks and adjusted their suit coats before they shook my hand. Then grandpa and I strolled across Euclid Ave. to the elegant dark interior of Stouffers.

Strolling was not a term anyone would use walking with Mom. My steps had to match the speed of her motorized wheelchair. Mom’s handicap meant that she planned her excursions down to the minute. She savored each escape from the humdrum confines of her wheelchair paths around the house. She plotted her trips to the Severance Mall so she could traverse the shops needed and make the purchases on her list within the time frame her body would allow. The luncheon was usually our last stop before Dad picked us up, and the Geranium Room was handicap accessible.

The rarebit was served over toast, but I liked it best when I crumbled the buttery muffins into the cheese. This was also a favorite of Mom’s. Yes, it was listed as rarebit on the menu, but the word never truly made sense to me. What was so rare about a seasoned cheese sauce? Years later, trying to recreate the recipe, the closest that would satisfy me was a sharp cheddar and beer sauce. I also spent years trying to perfect the muffin recipe.

What is in a name? Rarebit dominates in published recipes, but given the history of the dish, Rabbit makes more sense. The disparaging tone of a dinner absent of meet, even of something so humble as a rabbit, seems logical.

Most of the recipes I found in Joy of Cooking and other reputable tomes were named Welsh Rarebit; however, sometimes both Welsh Rabbit and Welsh Rarebit were given as the name of the dish. A hunt through the Oxford English Dictionary presented Welsh Rabbit as having the prior publication as also presented by the Online Etymology Dictionary:

 “Among the English, Welsh was used disparagingly of inferior or substitute things, hence Welsh rabbit (1725), also perverted by folk-etymology as Welsh rarebit (1785).” http://www.etymonline.com 

So the choice of name for a recipe comes down to the intent of the namer. Should the dish be modern or archaic? Should it blend with the heavy white napkins from Halle’s Geranium Room in the 1960s or the rustic table of a dark Welsh kitchen in the 1700s? I don’t think either name will disturb the taste of a good sharp cheddar and beer.

Regarding the linked recipes, the cook truly needs the full half-pound of real butter to recreate the Higbee muffin. No substitute will do.

Bon appetite!

What is Creative Nonfiction?

I sent a notice to students regarding recent notification of the Norman Mailer writing contest. I have had several nibbles, but they always pose the question, "What is creative nonfiction?"

Words that seem to obviously explain the genre are confusing to students who want the security of a form, a guideline, an accepted and recognizable style. It is hard to accept the simplicity of two concepts that are inherent in creative nonfiction: creativity is neither predictable or secure, and nonfiction is true. 

Then comes the hard work of writing that my students need to embrace. Gather the ideas and information, organize the presentation, and polish-polish-polish the language. Whether truth or fiction, the story must be well told.

 "Ultimately, this controversy over the form or the word is not only rather silly but moot; the genre itself, the practice of writing nonfiction in a dramatic and imaginative way, has been an anchoring element of the literary world for many years," Lee Gutkind reflected. 

Yes, the genre has existed since the first true fish story, but Gutkind has defined it through example by giving us the Creative Nonfiction journal.

The Alliance for Young Artists & Writers » John Steinbeck’s Advice to Beginning Writers

The Alliance for Young Artists & Writers » John Steinbeck’s Advice to Beginning Writers

I cannot call Steinbeck's advice inspirational, but I will say is is honest. In a writer, that is an extremely admirable attribute. Know oneself, aware of shortcomings as well as gifts, because perseverance in one's craft it tedious. A writer's lot can be lonely in spite of the numerous characters with whom she lives.