Monthly Archives: October 2014

Ho’oponopono

31 Friday Oct 2014

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Ho’oponopono is a Hawaiian phrase for “making things right.” While I was serving on the Justice and Witness Board , Lynette and Richard Paglinawan led Ho’oponopono training at one of our meetings. As native Hawaiians they grew up with this practice of family peace-making and reconciliation, and they teach it to social workers and business people as well as families and other interested people from their positions on the faculty of the University of Hawaii.  

From the perspective of living together on a chain of small islands in the middle of a great ocean, the need for Ho’oponopono is obvious. Wood and fiber came from the mountains. Fish and fruit came from the sea and the shorelands. People needed to get along well enough to trade with one another within a small world. They needed to be fair to one another so that they could continue to trade products and skills and survive. They needed to listen to each other and resolve conflicts quickly so that they might thrive. For many generations the people of Hawaii lived together on those islands and their practices of peace-making showed their determination to survive and thrive.  

Even though conflicts did still grow to the point of alienation and separation, how far away could anyone go to stay apart? It was best to work things out so that people could continue to live together respectfully, even when that involved compromises and commitments to “never speak about that problem again” once people had reached a mutually agreeable resolution.  

Their methods include practices I have studied in other forms of family and group therapy, and rituals akin to baptism and communion, to cleanse people’s spirits from those mean attitudes that ruin relationships and to celebrate their roots and achievements in unity. A senior member of the family or a respected member of the community becomes the Kahuna, who serves in the position of a mature and unemotional fact-finder and the center of communication, leading the group through stating problems, one person at a time, times for quiet and reflection, apologies and expressions of forgiveness, releasing anger and resentment, and setting future tasks to accomplish before everything becomes right again.  

Hearing how this process has developed and worked for many generations, and still serves in the modern world of Hawaii, one does not have to think hard to realize that the whole world we live in is becoming the island, with people living in interdependence that require mutual efforts to resolve our differences. Where can we go to separate ourselves from the need to work together and to reconcile differences? Another planet? In the vast ocean of the cosmos this earth is our island as far as the eye can see.

A little ghost story

29 Wednesday Oct 2014

Posted by in Death, Events

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Twenty-four years ago we bid farewell to Jan’s father Lyle Kleinlein after a year long illness with advanced colon cancer. We were there when he died, and I got to say to him, “Go on ahead, Lyle; we will come soon to join you,” at which he relaxed and stopped struggling to breathe. He had asked me to officiate at his funeral, preaching on forgiveness (which is the only reason our family had been able to come together), while his step-son, Edsel, also a minister, would speak about his practical joking and impish sense of humor. The funeral went well on a perfect May morning. Hours afterward Nathan and I left Jan at Mt. Sterling. We drove home, and I realized that the watch that Lyle had given me years before was missing. I had taken it off as I drove and put it in the car’s ash tray. It was not there. Nathan helped me search the car and the things I had already taken into the house, but it was nowhere to be found. We gave up and, hungry, went to the refrigerator. There the watch sat where neither of us had put it.

Making mincemeat of it

26 Sunday Oct 2014

Posted by in Caring, Seasons, Small town life

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100_5990[1]    Mincemeat was an obsession that my mother developed as she prepared for the holidays. In this she was tutored by a neighbor and fellow church member Myrtle Overstreet. Mrs. Overstreet had the secret recipe for mincemeat that was passed down through several generations, and she kept it in the bank under lock and key. When she saw that her days were numbered, and having no qualified children, she considered all her coworkers at the church for the person to entrust with this precious recipe, and she awarded the responsibility to my mother. In order to qualify she had to be trustworthy, a perfectionist as close to herself as possible, an excellent cook, and attentive to the slightest details of the recipe.

Mincemeat does not please everyone, but no one can argue with the goodness of the ingredients. One begins with the best and rarest beef one can find (neck meat), Jonathan apples, raisins and muscat raisins, cinnamon and cloves, unsweetened pineapple juice and grape juice and apple cider and apple cider vinegar, white and brown sugar, and raw suet. Driving for miles just to find the best ingredients was mandatory. It consumed many hours of my parents’ time, since mother involved father in the project when it came to the regional search for ingredients. Everything had to be coordinated so that the ingredients were as fresh as possible, so that October was the month of search, in between the days of harvest on the farm.

The recipe made 10 gallons of mincemeat, and it stipulates that no more than two batches should be prepared in one day, and those should be mixed in the afternoon. The preparations began the day before in the morning when all sugar, raisins, currants, cider and 1 can of pineapple juice were put to soak, then refrigerated by nightfall. Next morning the suet and two half-gallons of grape juice were added when the whole mixture was set out to reach room temperature by noon. Also in the morning the 16 pounds of beef neck meat was cooked and then ground. Then it was mixed with a gallon of cider, 2 tall cans of unsweetened pineapple juice, 2 to 3 jars of Welch’s grape juice, and 2 ½ gallons of Krafts’ canned grape drink. The apples were peeled and chopped fine, and the spices, and the rest of the juice and vinegar were added and thoroughly mixed. (Since this involved nearly seventy five pounds of ingredients, did anyone require any extra exercise?) The whole mixture was put into as many jars or freezer containers as needed, by pints and quarts, and sealed, either by the usual canning process or by freezing in double-sacked containers. (A more detailed ingredient list is available.)

The mincemeat mixture is added to various recipes or pie shells and baked when people are ready to use it. The shelf life of this mixture is unknown. The last stock that my mother made was twenty years old when we ate the last of it, using one or two quarts a year, and we did not notice any lessening of the quality. You may note that a limited amount of fermentation occurs in the original process.

After Mrs. Overstreet’s death, and a discreet waiting period of a couple of years, mother printed the recipe and instructions for anyone who was interested, and distributed it freely. Whether Mrs. Overstreet turned over in her grave or not has not been determined. Anyway the secret is out, although I’m not certain that anyone can follow it. How many recipes for life experience have such a history?

Trick or Treat

22 Wednesday Oct 2014

Posted by in Growing up, Seasons, Words

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Soon witches, goblins, vampires, werewolves, and other personifications of darkness will be knocking on our doors. Jack-o-lanterns, skeletons, and spider web decorations have been visible for weeks, preparing us for the night. Stock-piles of candy have been secreted away, with some occasional invasions from hungry critters, like mice or…me?

Yes, it’s Halloween, occupying more and more attention as the years go by, but possibly, just possibly, a vestige of our remote pagan past, grabbing some familiar corner of our primitive consciousness. Or maybe just plain fun. Angels, fairies, and assorted friendly creatures show up at this time, too.

Perhaps this exuberant show and canvass for goodies does represent our growing distance from purity of heart and piety. If inclined to say so, we may conveniently need to forget the “tricks” that attended the event decades ago—outhouse tippings, cars on roofs, damage to assorted properties. Though they still occur, those offenses are much less celebrated than years ago.

Still the forces of darkness, attending this season of increasing darkness, have plenty of real-life surrogates. A variety of terrorists, plagues, and catastrophes are making their marks in our increasingly populated, crowded, but shrinking human world. Why not have a little fun while we’re at it? Give some things away. Enjoy our children. Love our neighbors. Dress colorfully and silly. Let those evil forces know that at the end of the day we will laugh more than we will cry, and be grateful more than greedy.

Stopping at a green light

21 Tuesday Oct 2014

Posted by in Events, Learning from mistakes

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I had pulled to a stop at the stoplight and sat for a few seconds before I realized that I had stopped for a green light. I was actually looking at the red light at the next intersection a block away when I stopped. My light was green and had been green all along. 

Fortunately no one was behind me. If someone had been, I am sure he would have let me know that I was stopped at a green light. People honk and do rude things when they have less reason. But this time they would have properly honked me into awareness. As it was, I finally woke up to what I was doing. 

Why would I have stopped for the next light instead of the one immediately ahead? I was looking too far ahead, responding to the next light instead of my own. When I got there, that light had actually turned green too. I had anticipated stopping there too soon, and when I got to that point there was no need to stop. 

I had gotten ahead of myself. I had allowed a more distant signal to control immediate responses, instead of paying attention to what was immediately in front of me. I was living too far into the future, and the future was not what I thought it would be.  

I wonder what fearful expectations those stoplights might represent to us– diseases, accidents, misfortunes, calamities? When does fear take control and make us stop where we should be going? When does skepticism or cynicism keep us from moving ahead because we have stopped too soon? When does a poor experience become a block to the future instead of a learning experience to help us do better? 

We turn for inspiration to one who knowingly kept his own death in front of him throughout his journey, but did not let it bring his work or love for others to a premature end. It could have brought him to a stop, but instead he insisted on moving ahead, not only for himself, but for all who would follow him, a permanent green light. 

Not that every light I come across is now green. I will wait my turn, but for the time being I remember to look for the light where I am, not where I expect to be. There will be plenty of time for the future, when it gets here.

The new phone number

19 Sunday Oct 2014

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When my daughter was preparing for the move to their new home several years ago, with a new telephone exchange, she thought she would attempt to secure a number that corresponded to their name just as so many corporations have numbers that are easy to remember because of that kind of name connection. The telephone company representative abruptly said that was not possible— “this is your number, take it or leave it.” My daughter was ready to complain to this rude service representative until she noted that the new number spelled “GOD- 1.” Suddenly it seemed quite acceptable after all.

Sweating copper pipes

16 Thursday Oct 2014

Posted by in House, Learning from mistakes

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Twelve out of fourteen sweated copper joints held perfectly. Two leaked with a tell-tale seep from one, and a fine spray mist from the other. In some matters twelve out of fourteen is a good score. In plumbing it doesn’t count for much.

This was my first serious attempt to solder copper pipes and brass fittings in order to install a new shower in our home. A skeptic had asked me whether I was a Dagwood Bumstead type of plumber. As you may recall Dagwood always managed to make a worse leak out of a minor one, and finally Blondie would have to call the plumber to repair the damage. I have had reasonable success with drains, and compression fittings and threaded pipes, but this application called for soldered copper pipes, which challenged me to try to do something I had not done before.

The home repair manuals and video guides make it look easy, and for the most part it is, if one can keep a flaming torch aimed in the right direction without staring a fire in the insulation and wood framing, and develop a sense of when the pipes are hot enough to melt the solder, and balance the torch in one hand while keeping a steady hand to skim the melting solder all around the joint to be fitted. In other words it takes some art and experience. So Jan awarded me some points for getting twelve out of fourteen, but the shower still was not functional.

In one case the water was easily drained and I could proceed with a second attempt to seal the joint. In the second the repair was more difficult, involving removal of a section, including a well-soldered joint, and starting over with some new tubing and fittings.

I suppose that I am about 12/14 of the way through my life’s expected days. There is still a lot to do, and some challenges seem intractable. Like my work with copper fittings this is no time to congratulate myself on finishing twelve out of fourteen, when the entire project is not yet complete. But when can life be considered complete? There are always more people to serve, including a new generation that is just beginning, and more problems that arise as people try to surmount the obstacles that come at each stage of life. Still there must be a time when one admits that one has done enough, at least in this situation, in this way of doing things, with what talents or time one has to do it. So I suppose I  am 12/14 of the way through, and the last two tests appear as hard or more so than the first twelve.

Some of what is left to do will mean simply continuing to do what I know how. But I will also have to take apart and redo in a different way some of the things done earlier in order to finish well. I have to keep learning right up to the last, for life changes as people and their expectations change, and there are more and different demands now than there were when I started. Still the fact that I have had twelve successful experiences gives me confidence in God’s grace that there will be at least two more.

Persistent cockleburs

15 Wednesday Oct 2014

Posted by in Farm, Learning from mistakes

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Who has ever walked through a field without getting cockleburs on pants and socks? Or let a dog run loose through a wild prairie area without having it come back with knots of hair so entangled with those pesky burs that they had to be cut out? Those horsepill-sized ovoid balls bristle with a hundred stiff fibers each so they attach to any hair or fiber that passes by. Thus the seed travels to distant points and plants itself wherever the carrier finally succeeds in dislodging it. So effective and persistent is this method of connection that it inspired the invention of velcro. Even those things that irritate us can teach us. 

Cockleburs are sturdy annuals that grow rapidly into thick stalks that branch out into shrubs. Their broad leaves provide a small tree of shade for the little animals of the field, but they crowd out the less durable row crops that farmers value, and they provide a challenge to the combine at harvest. Cutting those weeds out of soybeans and corn used to provide a steady income to us row-walkers during June and July of each year, but in the last two decades a series of chemicals have replaced the labor intensive method of extermination. And drilled beans and narrow-rowed corn have made row “walking” more challenging! (I can’t forget velvetleaf, smart weed, pigweed, ragweed, various thistles, milkweeds, and other “offenders” who each deserve their own memorials.) Nevertheless cockleburs thrive. Partly this is due to the need to time spraying appropriately to match their early development. Partly it is due to the ingenious design of the seeds themselves to include time-release germination.  

Every cocklebur produces seeds that germinate at one year, two year and three year intervals. If you really want to get rid of it, your plan must include a long-term execution. Again we must marvel at the intricacies and sophistication of nature. Often it suggests design and pattern as a counterpoint to accident and happenstance. We marvel at these small revelations and jump ahead in thought to the Designer in the faith that our lives too may prove sturdy and resilient, when the final pattern becomes visible. 

So we take our lessons from this inspiration for velcro. Can we be as persistent in our faith, and in our attachment to things that carry us farther than mere passing whim, and in our patience to begin from scratch again another year regardless of how much endures from last year’s efforts?

The blue spruce in my front yard

14 Tuesday Oct 2014

Posted by in Nature, Yard

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Twenty-five years ago we planted a blue spruce in our front yard. It was the first of many plantings, but a favorite specimen, so it had first priority. Long-time neighborhood residents noted that a huge blue spruce had been part of that landscape for many years, but it had blocked the front window of the house, so the previous owners had removed it. I would not have the courage to do that, no matter what window it had blocked. Nevertheless this new blue spruce, at one foot high, did not block anything, nor would it since I placed it at an angle from the front corner of the house.

The first year was very dry, so it was enough to water it twice a week, and hope that it survived. It did. Next year it rewarded our efforts with a full foot of growth. The next challenge came from a couple of boys who on their way to the school yard liked to run into our yard and jump over the tree. My partner saw the boys do it the time that one did not jump high enough. He came down on the tree and broke it sideways, splitting the trunk. You can be sure he got a thorough reprimand and a call to his parents. I didn’t have much hope for the tree, but I set it straight and taped it carefully. We lost some lower branches in that season, but the tree continued to grow.

A foot a year added to the tree, and soon we were decorating it with lights at Christmastime. If this was a nuisance to the tree it did not protest. Then came the windstorms that decimated the three Norway maples that fronted our lot. One huge limb after another came crashing down next to the blue spruce, threatening to smash it, but narrowly missing it. Our son, present for a couple of these storms when we were away, pulled the limbs away, and wondered how the tree managed to survive.

Now the tree stands at thirty feet, a kind of marker to providence. There have been lots of changes, and we would be foolish to believe that they have been all to the good. Several of the giants of former days have fallen, and the landscape appears smaller, even though still quite lively. We are thankful for the sturdy intrepid witness of one colorful tree, encouraging our faith in the steady hand that sees us through the changes and in the goodness of the outcome.