Given the sermons, home visits,
counseling, funerals, marriages,
administration, meetings, meet-
ings and more meetings and all
the other responsibilities in
ministry, he is so glad to be
retired from all that and on to
something so very different from
all that but at least as meaningful,
unlike so many that he hears about
who can’t let go of all of that. Who
were they before they were or-
dained ministers and why can’t
they be somebody other than an
ordained minister after retirement?
I don’t know. They have to answer
for themselves as I am sure they
would do gladly. All I know is that
I was called and now I am called.

The rich, religious right want every-
one to be like Jesus; they want them

to wear a crown of thorns and be nail-
ed to a cross to show how much faith

they have by dying ignominiously at
an outpost in the middle of the middle

of nowhere in the Middle East of the
Roman Empire and that’s the gift that

the rich give — the narrow road that
leads to salvation, which is good for

everyone except the rich and they don’t
have a clue about what they are doing

as they are seeding the resurrected
church of the poor for the future.

*Thanks to Chuck Smith for the idea.

Someone took the F. Scott quote on
the rich and made the following

humorous exchange: F. Scott ad-
dressed Ernest, “The rich are dif-

ferent from the rest of us,” to which
Ernest replied, “Yes, they have more

money,” and there is the rub — the
money. Recently someone disputed

F. Scott’s assertion. To paraphrase:
“The rich aren’t any different from

the rest of us. They are just as venial,
small-minded, selfish, corrupt, uncar-

ing and greedy as the rest of us.” Yes,
but maybe, just maybe, all that money

lends itself toward making the rich a
wee bit more of all those not such

great things because as an incredibly
insightful person said, “You cannot

serve God and mammon,” and that is
always the temptation when you have

a lot of mammon and F. Scott said
something like that in the quote.

Once again and again and again,
he stumbled and fumbled his way
into a last-minute decision which

he knew virtually nothing about
and once again sent everyone into
hypertension and hypoglycemic

reaction (except 33 % of the pop-
ulation), trembling at the thought
of hundreds of thousands of inn-

ocent kids being torn away from
their families and sent somewhere
which signifies nowhere and Kafka

laughed from somewhere on the
other side of the nowhere, except
that this time he may have tripped

over his own feet into something
which actually might have a good
outcome. If anything, he has shown

that in contrast to him there are,
believe it or not, conservatives
with heart or at least a keen in-

stinct for America’s compassion
for little kids and dogs and po-
litical survival and, in a crazy

kind of way, he may have helped
save the day for all those kids,
about whom he knows nothing and

cares even less.

Children feed the fish.
The waterfall water falls
bringing oxygen.

It’s Monday evening (feeling like Sunday
evening) of Labor Day Weekend and the
family of seven is well on their way

back to Chicago (sorry, I forgot they
were on their way back to Chicago, so
they may not be well on their way, but

they, according to our perspective, are
well on their way), but we aren’t (on our
way back to Chicago, that is). We are

those who were visited, in part, because
we have direct access to the beach of
Lake Michigan but here we are sharing

a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and waiting
for PBS (World) to come on with mysteries
from Europe and Scandinavia with subtitles,

which kind of remind us of the foreign
films we saw at the art theater in
Hyde Park near the University of Chicago

back in the day when we were in jr.
college in a south suburb. The problem
is that we are so tired we will not

be able to stay awake beyond Chris
Hayes on MSNBC to watch the docu-
mentary and the mystery.

Driving west for a week’s family
camping vacation at a National
Park campground in the Land

Between the Lakes area between
Kentucky Lake and Barclay Lake,
the driver struck a farm dog that

had shot out onto the road. The
man’s first reaction was anger
at the dog’s intrusion into

their trip and then shock that
he had wounded and perhaps
killed the animal, somebody’s

pet and then horror at seeing
the dog convulsing in the
gravel on the shoulder of

the road. He just stared at it,
frozen at the sight. The farmer
came out of his house carrying

a pistol. Angrily, the farmer
thrust the gun toward the man
and said, “Here, you hit him;

now finish the job.” The man
said, “I can’t.” The farmer
pointed the gun at the dog’s

head and shot the dog dead as
the man’s wife and two young
children winced at the sound

and stared through the open
windows. The farmer turned
and walked back to the house

without saying a word. The man
got in the car and the family
drove on in silence.

The clan of seven invaded for Labor Day
weekend arriving on Friday and on Sunday evening
headed up the dune road to watch the sunset

after dinner, after two days at the beach.
The couple sat listening to Tropico — Alborada
by M.M. Ponce played beautifully and

peacefully on the guitar by Horst Klee. He
reached for the wine glass as she drained hers
and he asked, “A madeira, my dear?” to which

she replied, “Savignon Blanc would be just
fine. I’m simply not a sipper of sweet wine,
my dear.” He offered, “Just a bit of forti-

fication, for when the crowd of our beloved
commandering relatives return for another day
and a half fulfilling joys and worst fears.”

She was going to wait until
After Labor Day weekend
And then a week of camping

To drop off four mixed-media
Sculptures at the new gallery
Fifty miles north and then she

Decided to dig in because the
Summer was rapidly drifting
Away and tourists would soon

Depart for parts south and so
She worked feverishly on the
One, wild one she envisioned

To go with the gracious, stately
Only somewhat wild ones. On
Friday of Labor Day weekend,

The couple drove north and
Dropped off the four works
Of art. The gallery owner

Was ecstatic when she saw the
Four and the couple drove home
Slowly on a back road, stopping

Off at one of their favorite
Roadhouse restaurants to
Celebrate wedding anniversary

# twenty-two. The drinks were
Fine and they always split a
Meal. Over dinner they discussed

All the house expenses and
promised that Montreal and
Quebec City would be great

Next year, which they have
Been promising since before
Anniversary # twenty.