12/24/23: Home Companion, rewrite

(Eye of the Beholder: A sense of wonder stopped me in my tracks, at sight of these beautiful frost crystals on black ice. But on closer inspection it was a car part busted up in the gutter.)

I’ve always wished for 1. a companion, and 2. life-building occupations shared 3. in home space.

What is that like? Well, it’s two people who can spend an interlude in the same room, where for now their presence feels like enough, and is just right. Neither one has to feel shut down or afraid or left out or hurt. They like times of peace and rest. They can feel safe and at ease with how they feel and think and look.

The two can take care of each other when they are sick or having a hard day. They can listen and pay attention and talk their hearts out. Or, they are so comfortable that they can attend to their own chores. They can do the dishes. Or, they can take out the garbage. Or, they can plan on their schedule or budget for the week. Or, they can wash and iron and mend the laundry or do needlework. Or, they can cook and eat a meal. Or, they can sing. Or, they can play musical instruments. Or, they can read the Bible out loud. Or, they can pray. Or, they can practice a foreign language. Or, they can read and discuss each another’s writing. Or, they can take a nap. Or, they can play with the dog. Or, they can sit at the window looking out at rain and listen to the killdeers flying overhead. Day by day they can do small things to make every day better and more secure in a shared present, and a secure shared future.

My whole life was spent working hard on skills and character and wisdom to be the best companion for a loved one. Whenever heart-breaking things happened, or there were new lessons to learn, I tried to use this opportunity to become a better partner one day. God willing, good companionship is my biggest dream and meaning and ideal of life. I imagine it every morning waking up, and every evening falling asleep. I wish it for other people too.

Especially every holiday, and especially Christmas Eve.

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12/16/23: Frontier Town, NY: Yippee Ky Yay!

The man with the bandana over his face pointed a gun at me. “Do you have any gold teeth?”

I recognized him as an arch-villain like the kind on TV, where cowboys in big hats ran around shooting each other. I had no idea when adults were only play-acting in a costume, or what “gold teeth” were, but was pretty sure I’d never noticed any while brushing in the mirror before bedtime. I shook my head.

   “Open your mouth!” he demanded.

That was a familiar command from trips to the dentist, so I did. Then I held very very still, staring up at him. Is he going to kill me? The grownups here are insane. I’m all on my own here.

   “Aright then.” He holstered the gun, jumped off the stage coach, and waved the driver to start the horses again. The passengers gave him a round of applause. Another day of family fun at Frontier Town. Now for a preschooler, the perfect punch line would have been seeing this arch-villain take off the bandana and say “Surprise! I was only kidding! I’m a local high school kid at a tiring summertime resort job. The gun’s not loaded. It’s made of licorice.” I would have really laughed and then dogged his footsteps for the rest of the day, peppering him with questions.

The Great Stage Robbery came to mind today in a waking moment before dawn, just one more vignette in a warm loving childhood set in the utter cirque-du-bizarro called the 1950s. I lay in my blankie roll thinking “Wait, what? Did that happen? Did some historic re-enacter really point a gun at a little girl? Was it called ‘Frontier Town’? Was that a real place?”

By golly yes it was. Who knew? I just looked it up. The park opened in 1952 at Schroon Lake in the Adirondacks, upstate New York. According to the website Atlas Obscura, it had “trick riders, bucking broncos, horses and buggies and stagecoach bandits…. Founded by Arthur Bensen, an enterprising phone technician from Staten Island, the park had a Pioneer Village (with lots of calico dresses and butter churning), Prairie Junction (modeled after a Wild West main street), an Indian Village, a rodeo arena, and even a narrow gauge railroad.”

And according to this article by Michael Maciag,

https://www.governing.com/archive/gov-north-hudson-new-york-frontier-town.html

“Frontier Town, a Wild West theme park, once attracted families from all across the country. In its heyday, more than 3,000 cars may have filled the parking lot on a weekend. Patrons filled up the town’s motel rooms. When the day ended, they dined at one of several restaurants or taverns. If thrillseekers wanted to make their own food, the town even had a grocery store — a luxury not many other places in the Adirondacks enjoyed.” Article photographs include this appealing abandoned church, looking like some Volga German construction in a Russian village.

I was too young to remember any of those attractions, or the rest of our trip. But it’s heartwarming to think of my thrifty serious overworked parents driving all day for a cultural holiday. I wish I could thank them for it, especially for the chance to meet a live horse that wasn’t just in a movie or a book. That is my main memory of Frontier Town. It happened at our cute little overnight motel, white with yellow shutters and a covered porch, run by a friendly motherly innkeeper. She had a small fenced pen outside with a pony. I think their names were Betty and Tony. Someone picked me up and put me on Tony, and led him around the pen. He was very gentle and very soft to the touch, with a shining black & white pinto coat. Up on his back, I was over the moon with astonishment and happiness. That made it a little sad to click through various websites and read about a family resort shuttered down with only a few animatronic cowboys looming around. But now that story might have a new ending, according to this website:

https://www.frontiertowngateway.com/our_story

Apparently new American Mr. Mohammad Ahmad and his family have made an enthusiastic home here, and have been hard at work setting up a gas station and a local restaurant as a rest stop for tourists. The website advertises cuisine from Pakistan at “Taste of Lahore at Frontier Town (Halal).” If I were near the Adirondacks, I’d hurry on down to say Salaam aleykum and have lunch and talk to the family.

Frontier Halal. That says it all. God bless America!

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12/9/2023: Chicken Livers

(Update to original story: Oh well, back to the drawing board. Next time I’ll just cook and eat these plain as a meal apart with ginger and other pro-digestive seasonings. Liver is a wholesome food, but my system wasn’t accustomed to the novelty, and didn’t really know what to make of it. Besides, I couldn’t serve this to Angelina even at the end of a ten-foot pole; she’s way too fast for me to catch. -m)

Angelina will not want to be surprised by a photograph of this culinary adventure.

Out of consideration for her sensibilities, here instead (with full permission) is a picture of SuperPup, crawling into my lap to show me her new chew snack. SuperPup was fine with having the picture appear on the blog, stipulating only that every penny of royalties goes to her.

Last night and today it rained hard with local flooding. To shop for food I pulled on my tarp slicker and fluorescent vest, and was just hauling on my OSHA-compliant high rubber boots (a $2.00 bonanza at the state surplus sale). Then the phone rang. It was Angelina, looking out her window and thinking “Rain = Must drive Mary to store.” That is how first responders think. They just spring into action. It’s amazing. They are not one of us. Would I like a ride? Yes, Ma’am!

Soon she and I set out, with SuperPup and Bingo in the back seat. They happily licked the side of my head but whimpered in heartbreaking woe when we left them in the car. It is touching to see that when Angelina issues a training command, the dogs may have their sassy moments, as in “Ha! Are you going to make me? You and how many papal Swiss Guards?” But they are existentially distraught when Angelina is out of their sight for even a moment. She is the sun of their entire solar system. They need their alpha figure and pack configuration in order to feel safe and comfortable.

First we stopped at Fruit & Folks, where I loaded up on the Saturday bargain bin produce specials. Then we headed over to a whole new destination: the uptown butcher shop, so I could branch out and explore food products derived from (as my plant-based peeps will say) animals that had a mother and a face.

That first trip may be my last. Beef, $69.99 a pound? $40 for salmon? Where’s the decimal point? Holy smoke. Clearly, all those times that colleague Gunnar served salmon to his guests from the office, I should have been nicer to the guy.

Me: You know, at the Dollar Store there are jumbo cans of mackerel with only mildly scuffed labels. Oh wait — look at this. (Holds up clear plastic container of organ meat and blood.) $3.82 a pound. I’ve found my price range!

Angelina: (Discreetly averts eyes with random throttly noise, and walks away.) Enjoy! I’ll be in Housewares.

Out in the car, I gripped the chicken livers to keep them tightly lidded and level all the way home. (On the next offal outing, I’ll bring a lidded tupperware canister to hold the meat and avoid any chance of spillage on the upholstery.)

SuperPup and Bingo were luminous with joy to see that Angelina had decided to return instead of farming them out to a new forever home. Their great mood might have been even better if they’d had a few licks of my purchase too.

Chicken Liver Hash

Blended in Cuisinart: Celery leaves, mushrooms, zucchini, apple. (Chives or scallions would have been nice too.)

Seasonings, added to the Cuisinart hash: Parsley, dill, paprika, ginger, Bragg’s aminos. (Honey mustard and rubbed sage and black pepper could be good too.)

Last night I boiled down bones and bone broth in my heavy stew pot. Instead of scrubbing out the pot, I put the whole pot in the fridge for the night to reuse the flavorful residue at the bottom. In the pot I sauteed some minced garlic in a bit of bone broth and a dash of apple cider vinegar. I stirred in the vegetable/seasoning blend. Then I poured the livers and handy liver blood directly from container into pot without getting raw meat near cutting surfaces or utensils. Since I don’t put meat in my Cuisinart, I chopped and mashed the livers right in the pot after they were well cooked through.

Half the liver went in the freezer. The other half was mixed with one whole cauliflower, steamed and mashed. The idea was to make the dish about 90% cooked vegetables.

This tasted good. The recipe was a keeper, worth making again.

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11/28/23: Potluck at our Network Village

There was a potluck tonight at our Village To Village Network office.

Local chapters of the VTVN are growing nationwide, and that’s good news for all of us. Here is their home page. Maybe there is one in your town. https://www.vtvnetwork.org/

The Network is for folks who wish to spend their older years aging right in place, in their own homes. They would like to postpone the transition from independent to assisted living. In some cases, all these elders need is some car rides to the doctor, some light housework help, or some friendly visits. Members pay the Network a yearly fee, and are matched with vetted screened volunteers who serve for free. That can let people stay at home for months or years longer, and be healthier and happier along the way.

How did I hear about it? Years ago, my super-hearty super-sharp enterprising Mom made a difficult decision to surrender a piece of her fierce independence. She gave up driving, and sold her car. Her scenic small mountain-foothill town had zero public transportation, no grocery store, no sidewalks mostly (and even those were uneven slabs of pre-Revolutionary puddingstone over tree roots), and massive snowfall during long winters. For years I dreamed that she would move to my building in my new town or at least spend the winters here, with our mild climate, buses everywhere, and free shuttles to the medical centers. And why didn’t I move to her town and help out? Her town doesn’t have steady employment, I don’t drive, and groceries are miles away. As a senior citizen myself, it frightened me to slip and slide around in four feet of snow on frozen puddingstone, and to walk on icy interstate roads — once falling headlong off a tall snowdrift as an 18-wheeler truck sped right past me.

But Mom, being super-sharp, knew that the VTVN had been fixing to start a chapter in her town. Mom showed up at the planning meeting with a donation check for $100, four pans of fresh hot homemade brownies, and vocal enthusiasm. When the chapter opened she signed right up, attended all meetings, networked like a champion, and gave up the car. Mom was pragmatic and upbeat about asking for help. For me, living far away, it was poignant to see her tackle this milestone in her life journey.

For her first experience with a Network volunteer — someone who was, after all, a perfect stranger — I waited anxious by the phone. What a relief to get her phone call saying that she was safe at home again. “We chatted like old friends!” she exclaimed about her new volunteer. He was an earnest distinguished gentleman in his 80s with exquisite courtly manners. He and Mom shared the confidence that both were hard of hearing — and that both were big Cole Porter fans. It happened that her new road companion had a whole library of Cole Porter CDs in the car. He cranked up the volume, and the two new friends sang their hearts out all the way to the doctor and back.

With her membership, Mom met people who were eager to drive her to the doctor and the food store. She baked her luscious desserts and shared them at Network events. She had new stories to share with us, and all the news was good. For years, her wonderful volunteer (may he rest in well-earned peace) showed up faithfully for all her appointments. At his very last excursion for Mom, he signed in at the funeral home and stood quiet vigil at her wake. I spotted his name in the guest book and charged at him with a huge hug, hollering “You brought so much sunshine and song to my mother’s life!”

After Mom’s funeral I was walking down the little Main Street, and saw a woman unloading bouquets from her car. I helped her carry them up to her church door. We got talking about the town, and I mentioned the local VTVN. “I’m a brand new member,” she said gladly. “I just joined and attended my first Network party. But what an unusual party — everyone was crying! They couldn’t stop talking about someone named N___.” I explained to her that that was my Mom. She and I had a lovely chat. The two of us exchange holiday cards to this day.

The Network eased and brightened my mother’s life so much, I had to explore it further. That’s how I joined our own chapter (to her delight) over eight years ago as a volunteer. The office interviewed me, found out my interests and skills, and conducted a criminal background check. (“How did the background check go?” I asked their administrator later. “Rap sheet a mile long,” she replied.) My first assignment was helping my neighbor Miss Rose. She was perfectly independent, and needed only help with her laundry each week. Once we placed the loads in the dryer, Miss Rose would serve me tea and a fresh-baked scone, and we would play Cribbage for an hour and then fold the laundry and put it away. That was our cozy Thursday ritual each week for the next three years. And when Mom passed away, Miss Rose and her sympathetic ear and tea were a great comfort.

Tonight our Network had a holiday singalong and potluck. I brought my bowed psaltery and a batch of dark-cocoa dessert crumble (coconut spun with dates, raisins, some 72% chocolate chips, and spices), and headed over.

As an icebreaker, the flock of us gathered and pitched in to set the table and set out the food. We talked about and admired the different dishes while I sat in the corner with the psaltery and played winter-themed songs. Then everybody settled down around the table.

At first, the conversation was a bit unsettling for me as a newcomer. The fabric of words was like a slightly scratchy loose burlap cloth, floating aimlessly overhead. Sometimes people talked over each other, or talked at once, or asked one person several questions at the same time. I caught myself retrieving people’s words for them without being asked, and calling out the ends of their sentences for the benefit of people at the table who didn’t catch all of the stuff being said at the other end of the table. Finally I realized that my nervous habit of moderating the group chat came from large family dinners in the old days, where frequently the quiet people got left out or there were misunderstandings that led to someone feeling hurt.

But at this potluck, nobody got upset at all. Clearly my worry was only an extra mind-casserole that was all in my head, not on the table. So I sat on my hands and hushed up while everybody talked past each other. And sure, sometimes they interrupted. They repeated stuff. They were asked to repeat stuff again. They left trains of thought on the side of the tracks. Then they circled around and eventually finished those trains of thought. They tried new trains of thought and set out together happily to explore them. And they all agreed on one thing: Eating together was good for us. I agreed too.

One Board member had a great idea. She started us off by suggesting that everyone share their story: How and when did we learn about and come to join the VTVN? Then, she gently made sure that the conversation got around the table so that everyone got to share. Every member had a starting point (loss of a spouse; son or daughter moving away; medical troubles), then a moment when they heard about the Network, then a moment of Hope, when they pictured that maybe now their lives could be better, and maybe this group could be just right for them, and they made that very brave phone call and found themselves a new bit of home and connection. Members talked about how much they enjoyed the Group’s social clubs. It was very touching when they all chimed in and encouraged each other to sign up for exercise outings, life-planning skills, transition support, music and drama and poetry groups, and more.

At the end, another member had a great idea too. “Let’s close with a song.” We struck up a heartfelt chorus of “White Christmas.”

At the end, a member who brought appealing paper holiday ornaments gathered them up, mentioning softly that we were welcome to take some home. I asked her “May I have a few? Our building has a giveaway table, and we have small children who will be delighted to have their own ornaments.” She beamed and handed them right over, and I made a big grateful fuss of appreciation.

Walking out the door with my psaltery and cocoa crumble jar, I stepped out into the frosty starry night. Then, it struck me. That whole conversation over dinner? That was our Scottish waulking-work. Waulking was a group handicraft for women, who would beat fabric while singing to keep the rhythm. That’s what we were doing with our conversation at the potluck. It was taking the floaty loose-knit scratchy burlap and talking the words until finally the fabric was smooth and a good fit, as a new little piece of shared history. Our conversation turned out great. Working out shared talk is good for our minds and spirits. I look forward to the next potluck, and to more events.

At home I set out the ornaments on our house donation table downstairs with a little greeting note. They looked merry and bright for that evening, but were snapped right up and gone by morning.

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11/23/23: Thanksgiving Confection, No Sugar

Dates, 6 large, pits removed, soaked in a bit of water for half an hour, then diced up.

Oranges, 4, tiny mandarinees or tangeritas or whatever the word is, peeled and chopped.

Flavoring mix: bitter cocoa powder, 1/2 tsp or so. Cinnamon. Vanilla, alcohol-free. Teaspoon of coconut cream (optional, for softer fluffier texture).

Coconut, unsweetened flaked. The package is 8 ounces, but this was more like 7 ounces because I put some on my oatmeal last week.

Spin coconut in Cuisinart until it’s all powdered down and just starting to stick together. Add flavoring and spin some more. Add orange and date pieces. Spin until mixture sticks together in a clump.

On a sheet of wax paper, pat dough into a firm ball. Wrap it in the wax paper. Press down into a small bowl. Pop into the freezer for an hour. Then unroll and slice it, or roll into little balls. Put it back in the freezer, and serve at dessert time. It’s handy that for upcoming social events you can freeze this in advance.

This is for anyone at the party who is cutting out refined sugar. The coconut is the central ingredient. (But spinning raw almonds, soaked and peeled, should work too.) Overall, a very versatile recipe. Substitute anything for anything. This doesn’t give the usual spike hit of sugar because there isn’t any. But when it’s chewed a while it tastes sweet, and the healthy fat and fiber give it a satisfying feel. I brought this to Angelina’s tonight, and the guests were fine with it.

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11/23/23: Walking and Strawberry Trees

For colleague Gunnar, holidays are a time to get up before the sun and hit the HIKING TRAIL for a fast light 5 miles before his coffee, if he even drinks coffee which is doubtful, and not only on holidays but any old morning before a full day of work. This time I ventured to join him. For a slow-moving organism, that meant planning the day before by laying out clothes and going to bed early, then hopping up before 6:00 for a cold bath and lymphatic massage and foot bandages and compression hose, getting dressed and having shoes and carry bag ready at the door.

Yay, all ready — half an hour early! So I curled up on the carpet with a Pimsleur language CD and learned some Italian until hike time.

We hit the trail for that fast light 5 miles. (Fast and light for him, clumping along for me.) Through the trees there were views like this one. Cropped out the family’s house. Kept the scenery.

Along the way we passed a strawberry tree, Arbutus unedo, national tree of Italy. There are impressive online descriptions of its many uses in Mediterranean cooking. (Usual disclaimer: For goodness sake do your own research. Don’t take nutritional advice from some language major.)

The fruits were ripe and falling all over the trail anyway, getting trampled. Soon they’ll be gone. So naturally I picked some for my carry bag and brought them home.

There I simmered them over lowest heat, mashing and cooking them down in their own juice. Here’s the cooked whole fruit mash. The light fruity fragrance was wonderful.

Tricky part: the fruits are sand balls. They’re sandpaper puffs of very fine grit seeds. So I added a little water, stirred them in a sieve, and strained them. Then I rinsed the strainer and bowl, and strained the fruits again, repeating that about a dozen times. I don’t know the effect of superfine grit on our digestion or plumbing, and don’t need to find out today. So I strained them very well and collected the rinsewater with the pulp to pour on the garden. That fruit cooked down to about four ounces of puree.

The slogan for truth in advertising would be “A pleasant subtle peachy-mango nectar if you are fine with rinsing residual superfine grit from your teeth and tongue and spitting in a garden bucket.”

I texted Angelina to let her know that for her Thanksgiving dinner tonight, I’m bringing her some “REAL Italian food.” She texted back a thumbs’ up. Whatever she’s expecting, it’s likely not this.

As you would expect from a guy named Gunnar, he’s a long distance type who can outpace me twice over. But today he was kind enough to interrupt his workout and stand around on the trail helping me pick fuzzy balls off a tree. Thanks, Gunnar!

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10/29/23: Pumpkins

Pumpkins didn’t cross my mind much as a useful vegetable. Winter squash and sweet potatoes and parsnips have a more pleasant taste, and it didn’t make sense to replace them with something that for most of the year just comes in a can. But then this BBC article was interesting food for thought.

https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20231026-are-halloween-pumpkins-a-future-superfood

Apparently they’re a sustainable highly nutritious crop which thrives in even dry land and poor soil. In Bangladesh, they’re a food source thriving in the mini-deserts caused by flash flooding. They don’t require refrigeration for transport. The flesh is full of nutrients, and so are the seeds. In some heirloom varieties, even the leaves are edible. That inspired me to think about planting pumpkins next year; perhaps on the steep inclined poor runoff soil behind our property? Maybe the vines would anchor and improve the ground.

Meanwhile, I went out comparing pumpkin prices. At the bargain bin down at Fruit & Folks, my favorite produce open-air stand, there were a couple of sugar-pie pumpkins that were slightly dented but perfectly good. Trader Joe had a sale on canned pumpkin pulp, so I bought some for the winter pantry. After Halloween I’ll check the half-price shelf at the grocery too.

Yesterday I bought a small pie pumpkin to support our local Boy Scout troop. The Scouts and their families were just closing the gates for the season, but still had a few pumpkins left looking wholesome and nostalgic in the sunset.

Which of the pumpkins were best for cooking? I asked the farm manager. “We don’t know; we always sort the varieties and box them up with labels, but customers spend all day carrying and moving them around. They end up all mixed together, so we don’t want to guarantee. Your safest bet is a smaller round one; that is the most likely to be a pie pumpkin. All pumpkins are edible; but these big ones, for decorations and carving? Those don’t have a good flavor, and might be bitter. The largest ones are cheapest per pound. They are bought out by [A supersize nationwide food distributor], to bake into pies. How do they fix the flavor? By adding lots of CORN SYRUP. That is not your Grandma’s pie. But the customers buy it right up.”

It was troubling to think that after the stand closed for the year, these pumpkins might go to waste. But no, the staff explained that they will drive those pumpkins home and feed them to their cows. “On the farm when we pick the pumpkins to drive them here and some are too damaged to sell, we drop those in the cow pasture. Those cows come running! Pigs love them too. Pumpkin makes great feed.” It was heartening to hear about livestock in America who receive wholesome food.

But for sustainable dry weather planting, it’s time to learn more about this underrated vegetable before garden season next year.

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Review of Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy

Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy, by David D. Burns, MD, 1980

Huge Disclaimer: This little essay has nothing to do with the millions of people experiencing world disasters and life-and-death emergencies; and there are certainly times when severe depression requires immediate medical help, and/or an immediate change in circumstances. This is only a reflection about chronic depression affecting even people in the most comfortable and peaceful surroundings.  

Another Disclaimer: Loved ones in my acquaintance report their strong conclusions that anti-depressant medications have saved and transformed their lives. Dr. Burns devotes pages 474-681, plus copious references, to these medications and their efficacy as an option, so that patients can be more informed consumers.

(This is not a psychiatric medication. It’s just some Amanita muscaria growing outside on the curb.)

Every year as hours of daylight wane, I treat myself to a re-reading of this classic text. On a dark and stormy night, especially around the holidays, there’s nothing like curling up and finding hearty laughter in a book about depression. The author’s humility, his honest admission of his mistakes, the lively dialogues that talk back to depression, and his cornball humor make this a pleasant heartening read.

The book’s message is that thinking patterns can play a role in triggering depression. In Chapter 3, in Table 3-1, there is a list of ten standard Cognitive Distortions (such as All-or-Nothing Thinking, Overgeneralization, or Disqualifying the Positive). These hurtful thoughts can loom across the sky like immense dragon floats in a parade. When people are living with depression, these thought glitches may well be the snares in the quicksand that weigh down their mood. If we recognize the common distortion thoughts and then learn simple techniques to defuse them, this can lighten our spirits.

This sizable book is packed with explanations, exercises, true stories, and encouragement for defusing the ten cognitive dragons. There is practice with reality checks, manageable little action steps, and self-compassion throughout. The author’s presentation of these tools is respectful, personable, simple, and clear, with a light warm tone.

In Chapter 5, the author deconstructs the old assumption that people shut down and freeze because they enjoy suffering. He suggests a homespun diagnostic called The Paper-Clip Test: pressing the end of a paper clip under one’s fingernail, while asking “Is this really enjoyable? Do I really like to suffer?” If you’ve been lectured enough times that you enjoy being depressed, this is good for a healthy guffaw right away. In the same chapter, he addresses patients overwhelmed by the prospect of the many life tasks waiting to be done. He reassures them that at dinner, they need not plan ahead for the oceans of food and liquid that will need to be swallowed in the course of a life; they need not lose hope and say “There’s just no point in eating one pitiful hamburger tonight.” The same chapter offers the hourly Daily Activity Schedule technique of planning a day with small worthwhile tasks, and with plans for pleasure and fun. He proposes this in particular for the “weekend/holiday blues” experienced by us single people — the cognitive distortion that being alone will mean a dull discouraging day. This quote is my personal funny-bone favorite.

You stare at the walls and mope, or lie in bed all day Saturday and Sunday; or, for good times, you watch a boring TV show and eat a meager dinner of a peanut-butter sandwich and a cup of instant coffee…. Would you treat someone else in such a sadistic manner?

Another real knee-slapper comes up in Chapter 8. There Dr. Burns applies self-compassion to successfully lose excess weight. His greatest calorie temptation was ice cream at night. To deflect this thought, he would promise himself that if he refrained from ice cream, “I could reward myself with a big, fresh, glazed doughnut in the morning and a box of Mason Dots [gum candy] in the evening.” As an extra compassion benefit, even on nights when he succumbed and ate the ice cream he would still eat the doughnut-and-Dots reward! Thanks to the extra ration of comforting self reassurance, this wacky diet resulted in a weight loss of 50 pounds, and an annual holler of mirth for me.

For the author’s TEDx Talk, you can search YouTube for this title:

Feeling good | David Burns | TEDxReno

It’s a worthwhile use of 18 minutes. Here he describes his early dedication to tracking down and prescribing the right antidepressants for his patients, then the revelation of learning cognitive-behavioral therapy as an additional technique. This inspired him to write the manual of straightforward steps that patients can use themselves. I love the moment in the talk when he talks about his patient Martha from Latvia, and he becomes choked up when he expresses his admiration for her courage. As a bonus, the talk contains an open-hearted personal story and a lovely surprise ending with his son Erik.

Tomorrow the book goes back to the library, but the good exercises and zany sweet jokes will be a good influence all year.

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10/15: A Dostoevsky Film

I’ve been pondering a 1990 Russian film directed by Andrei Eshpai. Here is the copy-&-pasteable title of the link in YouTube. For movie buffs who like atmosphere and scene composition, it’s worth a look.

Униженные и оскорбленные (1990) драма

Google Translate renders this as “Humiliated and Insulted.” At first glance this looked like a translation of “Les Miserables,” but it turned out to be a dramatization of a Dostoevsky novel. Based on the Russian roots (Lowered + Offended/Hurt) it could also be “The Downtrodden and Aggrieved.” By any name, the whole plot is compressed like a bullion cube down into 90 minutes. Therefore it drifted right over my head despite the somewhat phonetically fractured Russian subtitles. It took me half a dozen plot summaries and film reviews to sort out which of the characters are downtrodden, which ones are aggrieved, and why in the world these people are so unhappy.

(Ivan at vigilant rest, between errands, chores, and imploring people to calm the heck down.)

Nikita Mikhalkov (not shown here) plays the wealthy socially dominant prince, all labile moods and polished insinuating monologues. He pops up uninvited in everybody’s personal living space, abjectly humble yet ignoring all boundaries, causing fracas right and left. Under his unctuous silliness he is clearly roaming for chances to cast down other people and then make off with their money and/or virtue. But since he feeds off the reactions of those around him, it could be prudent if his listeners could downpedal their reactions instead of falling into hysterics at his malicious sallies. The prince wants his indecisive hapless rich son to go marry a rich girl instead of the indecisive hapless poor heroine; if the two lovers would listen to him and break up, they would do themselves a lifelong favor and make the whole plot easier to follow. Nastassja Kinski as poor heroine Natasha looks beautiful and poignant; in all her scenes any available illumination in the room centers on her lovely features and fair hair.

The Russian film reviews, at least the half dozen that I checked, didn’t mention my two favorite characters.

The first character is St. Petersburg at the end of a long winter, cast as its astonishing evocative brooding self — the courtyards and gables and winding stairs and ironwork on the bridges and canals and thawing ice. A truly gifted team worked with the scene composition and props and interior lighting, scrimping and saving every candlepower in rich shades of shadow and gloom. Privileged characters (such as the prince, at a restaurant) are shown with facets of color and light, with brighter fabrics and extra candles and crystal glassware. The poorer people spend their lives frosted in to alley garrets with virtually no light at all, making one wonder how anyone could face the day and how the geranium on the heroine’s freezing windowsill stays all leafy and green.

Actor Sergey Perelygin makes the film with his beautiful portrayal of Ivan Petrovich (shown above and below). Ivan, also called by his diminutive name Vanya, is a poor honest writer. As a country orphan he was raised by Natasha’s family and keeps unswerving devotion to them. He occupies the darkest garret of all, illuminated at times only by his fine expressive eyes. Ivan and his eyes are the backdrop presence in every scene. His tastes are restrained and thrifty (he is mocked for abstaining from liquor, and for ordering the cheapest thing on the menu when the prince treats him to dinner.) He is also the only member of his social set who actually works for a living. His mercantile trade of selling written pieces for publication, and his lack of a noble name, cause the others to overlook him as a marriage prospect. (The prince though gleefully sneers at Ivan’s spartan lodgings and socio-economic celibacy, and offers Ivan a bribe to marry heroine Natasha and so get her away from his son.)

But usually Ivan is relegated to the farthest corner of the dim wallpaper while the other self-absorbed characters and their speeches drive each other to distraction. He is the one soul with a lick of sense, biding his time as an expert witness and keeping his own emotions in hand, then springing into action whenever anyone needs help or comfort. Heroine Natasha spends the film languishing from divan to bed to window lamenting to Ivan her passion for her vacillating suitor. Natasha also sends Ivan from pillar to post over ice and snow at all hours delivering messages and notes or arranging or chaperoning her meetings with her sweetheart or blaming him for her ill-starred love life. All the while, Ivan expresses his love for her by protecting Natasha while she tries to capture her intermittent swain. Once in a while Ivan gets to talk back (as, to the prince: “And what about your conscience, before God?”) or to offer ignored advice and kind gentle words.

But mostly, Ivan is busy. He’s comforting an old man and his old dog dying on the street or arranging an inter-generational reconciliation or rescuing an orphan from trafficking and nursing her until her death or sprinting to the apothecary or salvaging scraps of someone’s reputation-saving documents or handing over his only coat or lighting a candle for the deceased at church or blowing out a candle at home to save on wax or calling in the doctor or serving as a tireless confidant and probably watering that geranium. He manages a bite of apple before hand-feeding the rest of it to others, but he’s not about to get a second puff of that cigarette or a first sip of tea.

At the end of the story the characters, with no word of thanks or glimmer of appreciation for Ivan, have all moved away to greener pastures or died of tuberculosis or heart trouble or existential angst. He is left alone with his dark garret and quill pens, murmuring “If only I can capture this whole story, and write it all down.” He proceeds to do just that.

Maybe it’s not unheard of, for families in general to have an Ivan somewhere under the radar. Some kid who watches from the corner and keeps trying to fix and remember things. Maybe?

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10/8/23: Book: The Great Dechurching

The Great Dechurching: Who’s Leaving, Why Are They Going, and What Will It Take to Bring Them Back? by Jim Davis and Michael Graham with Ryan P. Burge

These authors get full credit for best intentions, sincerity, and for researching their topic. They turned to social scientists and the International Review Board (IRB) for an “academic-review-board-approved, nationwide, quantitative study” (xxi) of thousands of congregation members who have left their churches. The book reports the stated reasons given by the research subjects. It provides ideas on encouraging former church-goers to return. It offers extensive footnotes and bar graphs. It even compiles the data to form composite portraits as fictional characters talking about their faith walk.

“[I]n 2020 church membership in the United States fell below 50 percent in America.” (11) Some 40 million Americans in the past 25 years have stopped attending church. The loss in potential tithes and donations from these individuals could run to some $24.7 billion dollars per year. (13) Among evangelicals in particular, the data show four main dechurched groups: mainstream evangelicals, cultural Christians, exvangelicals, and BIPoC adults.

One reported reason for leaving church membership was polarization, as publicized and fueled in social media. As the authors sensibly conclude, “To maintain friendship in real life or online, it feels like people must agree with you on whole new lists of things that we didn’t have in the past…. [M]aybe it isn’t the best idea to end relationships over viewpoints on climate change, gun control, or a whole host of other matters.” (17)

One reason was changes within the family. The church-going influence of parents on their children is not as strong as in past generations. In fact, some respondents cited parental religion as a factor in leaving. They felt that parents were unwilling to listen to alternative ideas about a range of life issues, or that parental religion led to differences in political views.

One reason was logistics. Geographic mobility displaces churchgoers into unfamiliar communities; economic mobility comes with extra job pressures and less time; marriage and children require more time investments, with less leisure left for Sundays. The popularity of the internet and virtual services has lessened appreciation and experience of in-person shared worship.

One reason was social stress, including racism and abuse experienced both within and outside of church, discouraging members from the emotional risk of reconnecting. The authors emphasize the importance of empathy, open listening, and kindness to those who have experienced harm in their church experience.

One reason is breakdown in social cohesion. The authors point out that “If you belong to a nuclear family, graduate from college, and have children after marriage, America’s institutions tend to work better for you.” (26) “The American church… is largely built for the nuclear family or those on that track,” while “The young, single parent working multiple jobs… [is] more likely to experience depression and even shame in a church culture [aiming] to elevate the nuclear family.”

Just yesterday, my little free library furnished a second source on this same topic; I flipped through it for additional context. The book is Surprising Insights from the Unchurched and Proven Ways to Reach Them by Mr. Thom Rainer, Dean of the Billy Graham School of Missions, Evangelism, and Church Growth, 2001. This data-packed book includes two interesting pie charts. One shows time management skills of Comparison (=Ordinary) Church Leaders. The other chart shows time allocation by Effective Church Leaders, those with flourishing congregations. How do they compare? The book points out that ordinary leaders get 8 hours of sleep, while Effective Leaders save time by limiting themselves to 6 hours. (The pie charts included no time slice for “helping wife at home,” although all home life, including family life, was 22% for Effective leaders and 18% for Ordinary leaders.) Ordinary leaders lost time on personal ministry such as guidance and consolation with members requesting spiritual insight and comfort. The more sleep-deprived Effective Leaders handed off these tasks to church staff, and instead prioritized sermon preparation and personal evangelization — with goals such as winning one soul to Christ every week. The book urges Effective Leaders to write sermons which include expository, topical, thematic, narrative, and doctrinal elements, perhaps for visitors who check up on hermeneutic quality. As another winning factor, the book named infrastructure — including attractive grounds: “What surprised me was how many churches let their facilities and their landscaping… advertise ‘We don’t care.’ I sure didn’t go back to those places.” (227) It is fortunate that early Christianity arose in a geoclimate that did not call for “Lawn-Boy mower duty” as a pastoral concern.

But, back to The Great Dechurching. “There is strong scientific evidence that supports the correlation between church attendance and improved physical and mental health.” (29) (Does correlation always mean that A causes B? Could it be that B causes A, and that physical and mental wellbeing and an appropriate wardrobe allow for structured Sunday activity?) The authors add that the path of members who depart can be marked by “addiction, destructive behaviors, gender and sexual confusion, and even suicide.” (9) Can they also be marked by productive charitable connected lives? The dechurched people among my acquaintances would not be counted in these results because it wouldn’t occur to them to fill out a church survey. But not one person I know left their religion and then fell apart. Every one of them have lives marked by solid intimate relationships, mental health, philanthropy, and Sundays running at the park with their dog or building cold frames in the garden or fostering kids.

One wee downside with the book is the imaginative storytelling. The authors aimed to go beyond their own anecdotal evidence of actual people. But the narrative and dialogue style didn’t quite resonate as deep human truth. In this paragraph, a character thinks back to faith-based college days with his Christian roommate, and his subsequent dark night of the soul:

Things had gone well for [fictional dechurched] Tom in those first couple of years at USC. It was the best time of his life. His sophomore season, they were conference champs, with [fictional still-churched] Rex as their starting pitcher and team captain. Miraculously, they won both the regional and super regional tournaments. Going to the College World Series in Omaha was a literal dream come true, even though they ended up losing…. The week after that College World Series loss was when his life had started going downhill…. Senior year was basically a blur of alcohol, baseball, and differential equations.

(Did everybody follow all that?)

Another scenario mentions the Boston Globe coverage by the Spotlight team, about sexual abuse in the Catholic Church. Says [fictional dechurched] Conor,

I got a phone call from my ma that just… let’s just say it changed the rest of my life…. Ma started talking about how she was worried because some of the stories coming out were really bad…. She went on and on… and finally blurted out, ‘One of those priests touched Tommy.’

(Sad to say, this actually made me laugh. Who talks like that? No Catholic parent in my childhood ever fathomed or verbalized the concept that their children were being abused inside or outside the home.) Ma phones in Tommy’s story instead of allowing her adult son some confidentiality and space to tell the story in his own time. Conor not only leaves the church; he also stops speaking to Tommy.

The authors caution against making the Christian walk all alone or through virtual church services, and they praise the unique value of group worship. “…[W]e can taste the home we long for. Our Sunday gathering has a centering effect on us, and to the degree we make the gathering a priority in our lives, we will taste our true home and flourish as citizens of heaven on earth….. [W]e are part of a spiritual family that will never be broken.” That sounds like a wonderful feeling. Maybe church leaders can look around and see whether some members are missing out on this experience of belonging.

Despite the described advantages of group worship, “Tens of millions of regular Christian worshipers have decided to stop attending church, leaving little explanation as to why” (back cover). Little explanation? Maybe some of us just wore ourselves out crying in the wilderness, trying to tell leaders what church is like for us and how some of us feel just plain left out.

One group left out of the discussion in both books is single people, even though we’re half of America. The survey and stories don’t include any sign of “Sitting surrounded by families makes it hard to not have a family.” In traditional Christian churches, the core topic of coffee hour conversation (and often sermons) is marriage and children and household concerns. The whole social structure is built not from atoms, but from tight molecules of nuclear families matching up with nuclear families — couples with kids matching up with other couples with kids. (One kindly Catholic leader actually urged us single people to sit exclusively in the first pew, and face forward. That way we wouldn’t see the Catholic couples and families with their remarkable knack for constant mutual grooming and stroking, prolonged private whispers, and exchanges of crinkly snacks.)

The authors freely acknowledge that congregational life, like any human institution, can fail us. They offer kind words for people who have been hurt. Then, they hasten onward to assure us that the Gospel is such overwhelmingly good news that it bountifully compensates for any past hurt. They eagerly counsel leaders on attractive assertive strategies: the four-chapter vs. two-chapter presentation of the Gospel, balance of mission and confession, and much more.

If I could fill in one of those surveys, my advice would be to stop finding bigger more assertive ways of broadcasting the Gospel. Instead, when people fade into the woodwork and stop attending, try reaching out just to ask “Are you okay?” and “If you’re coming back, how can we be there for you? If you’re not, how could we do a better job?” Then, listen to the answer. Does any church do that?

Can’t be harder than operating that Lawn-Boy.

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