Aren’t we tired of all the slime?
Wouldn’t you say it is about time
To get out the vote
And strike a better note
To save our democracy
And claim victory
For racial and ethnic unity
And unity in every other kind of
Diversity?

The next-door neighbor
Entered the yard through the trees
And saw the fish pond
And the waterfall and said,
“It’s Japan in Michigan.”

I live in a Midwestern com-
munity that revers handy-
men —guys who can work
with their hands like their

fathers before them. I live
in a neighborhood with really
handy guys. They love home
projects. I went to a party

in the neighborhood last
evening. The new owners
wanted to show the neigh-
bors all the things they have

done to upgrade the house
making it into a stylish,
beach cottage appropriate
to where we live. The handy

guys attending the party
gathered on the upper, back
deck to talk. They were in-
spired by the handiwork of

the new owner. They regal-
ed each other with tales of
measuring, cutting, sand-
ing and whatever else it

is that handy guys do.
Another neighbor stood in
the kitchen telling me that
he had had a water leak

which required sanding
and refinishing the entire
main level wood floor.
He had the work done.

He then told me that there
was a significant amount of
painting that needed to be
done to the walls, also. Every-

day he sat in a chair and said
to himself, “Get up and get
the paintbrush and paint and
do the job.” Day after day.

And then in a tone of com-
plete resolve he said that he
called a house painter, paid
him the $850 and got the

job done. “I’m really far be-
hind in my reading,” he
said. Finally, my kind of
a guy.

He has twenty copies
of his and his daughter’s
first book in a box in
the storage room. There
is an error in the table
of contents, which was
discovered after pub-
lication. Neither he nor
his daughter liked the
looks of the hardcover
copy and decided that a
corrected version in paper-
back would be better.
He can’t burn them for
two reasons: one, there
is the matter of the
horrible image of book
burnings and what that
has meant even though
this would not be for
censorship reasons and
two, the hardcover is
made of material that
would pollute the en-
vironment and so there
they sit — the twenty,
lonesome, forlorn,
imperfect, rejected
copies. They feel like
family. Every once in
a while, he goes down
and pats the box on
the back while shield-
ing his nose from the
flying dust.

He grew up in a culture
that valued working with

one’s hands, an immigrant
culture, a farming culture.

He loved to read and he
loved going to the movies

and, in time, while at
college, he learned to

love theater and dance.
He pursued a major in

theater, the dream being
to teach on the college

level. He excelled at the
technical side — light-

ing, sets. He had rough,
laborer hands — thick,

calloused fingers but
as a professor at a small,

liberal arts college, he
had to do it all and you

could see, by his enthus-
iasm, how much he en-

joyed directing — stand
here, mark that spot on

the stage. One day while
instructing a class on

how to build flats, he
absently mentioned that

his old, farmer father
once told him, “Those

who can’t do, teach.”
With that, he chuckled

faintly and then hammer-
ed the daylights out of

that poor, innocent piece
of stage scenery.

We are all going crazy with this
guy in the Oval Office. Seriously,
it is a fact that we need a
leader, a truly benevolent,
compassionate, empathic
person who will bring
unity, peace and love,
uphold the Constitution,
obey the law, deflect
praise, lift up others,
be humble, self-
effac-
ing, self-confident,
not pride-filled,
have a genuine
sense of humor,
be a secular
good shepherd(ess),
enabling a noble
spirit among
citizens and
then there is
what we have
and we are
all going
crazy.

This is really, really serious — serious
for us — individuals, families,
communities, villages,
towns, townships,
counties, cities,
states — the
United
States.

People, legislators keep saying,
in reference to the occupant
of the Oval Office, that they
hope he will change. He will
not change, cannot change. He
is incapable of self-reflection
or self-criticism. Please
stop being political and
saying that you hope he
will change. It’s a sick-
ness: he cannot change.
We are going crazy and
we need to do the only
thing that can be
done — VOTE HIM
OUT OF OFFICE
and save our
precious
Republic.

The mayor proclaimed
the community is on tenter-
hooks, while taking aim
at that which was to blame —
meaning
stretched to the point of
breaking (?) — or a state of
uneasiness, strain,
or suspense,
the dictionary’s way.
Either way,
it’s not okay
for an American city
to feel stretched in that way.
The same
we could say
is the way
it is down El 
Paso way —
We should be floating
down the Rio Grande
not burying legislative heads
in the sand.
El Paso on tenterhooks,
not fishing bubbling brooks.
not the still, serene waters
of the bucolic Boundary Waters
but tenterhooks —
stretched to breaking
or a state of
uneasiness, strain,
or suspense,
not a place
for American space
that makes any sense.
It makes sense
in the Chicago River
to paddle a canoe
or a kayak
or visit the Lincoln Park
or Brookfield Zoo
or in a National Park
go on a backpack
trip, but it isn’t okay
in this day
for cities to be
on tenterhooks —
maybe stretched
to breaking,
this very day.
It’s not okay.
It’s just not okay.
It’s simple:
CONTROL the guns
the mayor did say.

The well-coiffed, white woman sat at
the bar in the upscale hotel talking
non-stop at the woman she was with

about how much she loved her church
and how wonderful it is to be a
Christian and how when she travels

out of the country how glad she is to
get back to such a great Christian
nation. As she spoke she found time

to raise her glass of Pinot Grigio
to her lips and as she did, her Gucci
watch and bracelets jangled. When

she tossed her head back, her neckless,
just above her scoop-necked, expensive
blouse, glimmered in the summer’s

descending sun. Her companion’s hus-
band arrived and the woman excused
herself with the announcement that

she was late for her pedicure. When
she got up, she said to the couple
that she was sure they were at the

right place to make the decision for
Jesus. She tossed several singles
onto the bar complaining that the

cabbie in “D.C.” who drove her to the
plane, paid her back in them. As
she walked off, she made a statement

with her cut-off, designer jeans
and just the right height open-toed
clogs. She moved too quickly to see

how badly she might need that pedicure.

Everyone looks at their phones constantly;
there is no excuse,
no matter where they may be,
so, if I send an e-mail
and don’t hear back without fail,
those e-mail addresses are deemed obsolete
and I just jump up,
wipe my hands and dust off my feet.
I will oblige,
no hard feelings to hide.
Perhaps, my missives
are dismissive
and considered just a bother;
no hard feelings, they won’t get another.
I get the delay
and adios I will say.
They don’t want contact, it’s obvious,
so, as far as I’m concerned, to them, I’ll be oblivious.
Friends come and go,
so, come rain or snow,
come gloom of night, come the day’s heat,
that particular address I’ll simply delete.
Bye, bye.
Oh, look what just came in;
wouldn’t you know it?
They’ve been on a phone-free vacation.
I love these guys.

It is time to travel upstream,
not to die like salmon
but to live like steady, friendly, social bream
to catch life’s spiritual fun.

The theologian said, “Headwaters,”
where moving through the shallow stream,
brothers, sisters, sons and daughters
would find water deep and life might teem —

one race, all children of God
frolicking and emerging;
they dash, applaud, are awed
by love’s journey converging

at the headwaters of life’s eternal stream.

*idea from a Richard Rohr meditation
quoting Cynthia Bourgeault