South of Broad

South of Broad

Dave and  I just spent one of the best, for me, Christmas holidays ever in Atlanta.  It was over-the-top great family time.  But one sad/happy thing:  Dave wasn't able to get to his daughter's house in Chicago (first time ever!) But that meant we spent Christmas together (first time ever!)

Then we spent a couple of days in one of the most popular and exquisitely beautiful cities in the South, Charleston, South Carolina.

Mother Emanuel

Most folks who know anything about Charleston know the term "South of Broad."  It refers to a exclusive, old area of the city, full of stunning architecture.  It was made popular by one of my favorite writers, Pat Conroy in his book "South of Broad."  In the book Conroy dealt with the underbelly of this area, namely racism and classism.

The last time we had a tour in Charleston I asked the guide why he never mentioned Pat Conroy.  He said, "We don't like him here."

Charleston is no different from other cities with a long history of wealth and power.  Winter Park, Florida which you know how much I love, has a long history of discrimination.

Dave spent his entire adult life before me in Edina, Minnesota. Most of the folks outside Edina call the folks in Edina "Cake Eaters."

On Tuesday we saw Mother Emanuel AME Church, where, in 2015, Dylann Roof shot and killed nine people in a 'Bible Study.  This was not south of Broad.  We had lunch at Magnolia's, a restaurant recommended by Dave's daughter.  It was exquisite.  It was south of Broad.

We toured the Citadel - my first time.  So impressive!  Huge and all white.

At the end of our tour around the city, after everyone else had disembarked, I asked our tour guide why the previous guide said, "We don't like Pat Conroy in Charleston."  This guide, who actually went to the Citadel with Pat Conroy, told us some people don't like the way he portrayed the city but what they really disliked was how he portrayed the Citadel in his book, "The Lords of Discipline."

Pat Conroy was one of our great southern writers.  I would encourage you to read his novels, starting with "The Prince of Tides."  They will make you love Charleston, even with its underbelly of discrimination and cruelty.  This exists everywhere and I'm grateful to writers, especially our southern writers, who help us see it.


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Famous For Being Famous

Zsa Zsa Gabor, the last of the Budapest born Gabor sisters, died last week at age 99 -on my birthday.  Long before the Kardashians, the Gabors became rich and famous by establishing their brand.   And they did it without social media. They relied on TV and newspapers.

Zsa Zsa, along with her sisters, Eva and Magda, had a whooping twenty (that's 20!) marriages between them with Zsa Zsa coming in first at nine.

Fun Fact:  Zsa Zsa and Magda were both married to George Sanders - but not at the same time. 

Zsa Zsa and Eva each did some acting, Zsa Zsa in the movies and Eva on "Green Acres" where she essentially played herself on a farm, but they were rich and famous for keeping their brand going by being outrageous and flaunting a most extravagant Hollywood lifestyle.

Zsa Zsa, who was Miss Hungary in 1936,  married her ninth husband in the '80s and they stayed married until her death last week.  Her husband, Frederic Prinz van Anholt became a "royal" by paying a French princess to adopt him when he was 36 years old.  He and Zsa Zsa subsequently adopted at least ten grown men who paid them millions of dollars to receive "royal" status.

As an older woman Zsa Zsa spent three nights in jail after slapping a traffic cop.  She made great use of the publicity.  She was a master at publicizing her shenanigans.

Zsa Zsa's most famous quote:  I am a marvelous housekeeper.  Every time I leave a man I keep his house.

There's nothing new about people exploiting us with our full consent


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8 lb. 6 oz. Baby Jesus

I've never seen a Will Ferrell movie but "Talladega Nights" has a great scene where Ricky Bobby says grace, praying to the 8 lb. 6 oz. baby Jesus.  He thanks baby Jesus for his wealth, for his smoking' hot wife, for his his two sons, Walker and Texas Ranger, and a myriad of other things.  His wife interrupts him to remind him that Jesus did grow up, but he's not having it.  The baby is the Jesus to whom Ricky Bobby prefers to pray.  By the way, if you would like to see this clip, go to "youtube 8lb 6oz Baby Jesus."

As, you know, I'm reading a few pages every day of Richard Rohr's book Divine Dancing.  In it he tackles defining the nature of the triune God.   Unlike Ricky Bobby, Rohr struggles with defining the nature of this God.  And he wants us to struggle with it as well.

A few weeks ago (and you might find this hard to believe) my minister, David Miller, showed the infamous "8 lb. 6 ox Baby Jesus" clip to the congregation prior to his sermon "Christ the King," in which he, too, was inviting us to struggle with the nature of God.

In the film clip Ricky Bobby's friend, Cal, says he likes to picture Jesus wearing one of those T shirt tuxedos.  Because he thinks it makes Jesus look "formal but ready to party."

In the Divine Dancing book Rohr says:

Trinity gradually becomes real for you as you honestly enter into the cycles and flow of life and death yourself...we have to grow up, which is largely learning how to live on the water wheel of giving and receiving love. 

So there's a clue.  Jesus grew up and we have to grow up.

On the other hand, when Ricky Bobby was in trouble he prayed:

Help me Jesus!  Help me Jewish God!  Help me Allah! Help me Tom Cruise!  Tom Cruise use your witchcraft on me to get the fire off me!  Help me Oprah Winfrey.

Ricky Bobby clearly needs to struggle a bit with his image of the incarnate God.


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Two Men Named John

A couple of days ago my old friend Dr. John Galloway died.  He was extraordinarily well loved by his wife, family, colleagues and friends.  He deserved it.  He was an extraordinary man.  A few years ago he developed a horrible illness called lewy body dementia which is a lot like Alzheimer's but worse.  He had non-stop comfort and care until the end. But, still, his death, in many ways, was a blessing.  He has been, and will be missed, by many groups of people, including Forum, where he was once a vital leader.

This past summer another man named John started attending Forum.  He was extremely quiet.  Some folks, including Dave, made an effort to get to know him but he mostly sat in the back of the room and did not participate in the discussions.  In the fall, he quit coming.  I don't know if anybody noticed.  I did not.  We are a big group.

Last week my friend called to tell me that John had died.  She knew him a tiny bit better because he occasionally met with her and a few others at the library.  She thought he had a brain tumor but she wasn't sure.  One day he just disappeared.  A few weeks later my friend receive a note from John's sister who lives in another state telling her that had John died on October 25th.  He apparently had no other family.  The sister gave no forwarding address.

That's almost all I know about John.  I do know his last name but since he was so private I don't want to share it.  Also, this isn't about John.  It's about me and all of us who have a new person show up in our lives, perhaps looking for something.  Here's a poem I wrote in 1975:

MARGARET RITZ

Margaret Ritz, Margaret Ritz,
I'll call you when I can. 
You haven't seem me lately,
But that was the risk you ran, 
When you chose me for a friend,
And cluttered up my plan.
I do important things, you know,
I'll call you when I can. 

Margaret Ritz, Margaret Ritz,
I heard you when you said,
That friends are hard to come by, 
But I've got to plan ahead.
Now you've played an awful trick on me, 
In the church bulletin I read, 
While meditating on my life, 
"Margaret Ritz is dead."

- Cecily Crossman, 1975

John, I sincerely hope you found what you were looking for on those Sundays you visited Forum.


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Bean Soup

We had bean soup for lunch today

I used to cook - but now I don't.  Well, hardly do.  The other day, while having lunch with good friends, we talked about this concept.  I shared my current bean soup recipe and a couple of people said, "you need to share that."  So here it is.

First, decades ago, I made the best bean soup ever.  Even better than Senate Bean Soup.  (I wonder if the Republicans and the Democrats still sit around the Senate dining room and eat bean soup.  If not, they should.)

Anyway, the earlier bean soup started with dried beans, a ham hock, and a bunch of other ingredients and 24 hours later the soup was ready.  Here is the current version that tastes just as good.

Cecily's Bean Soup
 (Serves 3)

1.  Combine a spoonful of low-salt chicken bouillon with a cup of water in a sauce pan.  Let it come to a simmer.

2.  Add a can of great northern beans.  Mash them a bit with your potato masher.

3.  Add a can of Campbell's Bean with Bacon soup, plus two cans water.  Stir it all up.

4.  Add a hand full of diced ham.  (I buy the small packet of diced ham then divide it into five snack baggies and put it in the freezer.  It's great added into things like scrambled eggs - or this bean soup.)

5.  Add a tablespoon of Worcestershire Sauce.

All of this takes less than five minutes.  Let the soup boil a few minutes then put a lid on it and turn the stove off.  It will thicken up.

I serve it with chopped sweet onions and sometimes (when I'm feeling fancy) chopped tomatoes.  Warning:  Yes, this soup is salty.

Enjoy.

P.S. I put the left over soup a cup in the fridge.  It makes a great snack when you're sitting on the couch later watching Netflix.


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Joy, Joy, Joy

The foundation of authentic Christian spirituality is not fear, but joy. - Richard Rohr

I have put a temporary moratorium on my own personal news feeds.  It's kind of working.  My daughter called yesterday to say how I must be sad that one of my icons, John Glenn died.  I had no idea.

Dave is confused.  I am a news junky.  I told him I just can't handle the "We're all gonna die" speak right now.  He reminded me that, that is one of my favorite lines.  But I had to remind him that I mean it in a realistic, something good to look forward to way.  Not the scorched earth way the news folks are giving it to us now.

I cheated a little this morning and read one of my favorite syndicated columnists and even he said, "But Lord, I am just tired."  Me too, Leonard.

So here's what!  Unless something truly earth shaking happens,  I plan to celebrate my holidays.  Lots of get togethers coming up.  Let's just enjoy. OK?

How can we possibly do that?  When I was a consultant I used to remind people that most small talk is negative.  But one person can turn it around.

And now, in reading my really convoluted, hard to digest book "The Divine Dance" that I'm (for some strange reason) enjoying - even though I'm reading only four pages a day - Richard Rohr says the following:

...neuroscience now tells us that fear, negativity, and hatred stick like Velcro to the nerves, while positivity, gratitude, and appreciation slide away like Teflon from those same nerves - until we savor them, or choose them for a minimum of a conscious fifteen seconds.  Only then do they imprint. 

So, until at least next month, I'm planning to savor the good stuff and eschew the fear, negativity and hatred.

I have been wanting the see the new movie "Manchester by the Sea."  Our theater section of the paper (yes, I'm still reading that) gave this film a four star review this morning.  But it also said it's a "Heartbreaking work of staggering sorrow."

I'll see it in January.


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Symbols

My niece recently asked my opinion on Protestants (namely Methodists) using Catholic symbols.  I essentially said to her, "whatever works."  

And then I thought of my old friend, Jim McWhinnie, who seldom posts on Facebook anymore because his battle with Alzheimer's is becoming epic.  I've shared several times that, besides being a brilliant minister, he's one of the bravest men I know, in that he's chosen to share his Alzheimer''s experience with us.  Here is part of his post from last week.  It addresses the Catholic symbols that continue to comfort him. 

On my daily prayer stroll, I pray my own version of rosary, a blend of the Roman Catholic, Orthodox and Protestant.  As I touch each of the one hundred knots, I pray the Jesus Prayer, "Lord, have mercy on this sinner."  In the spaces I sing the Gloria.  And each time my fingers touch the cross I pray the Lord's Prayer.

At least ten years before my husband, Ken, died from a number of illnesses including dementia, I began to notice small evidences of strange behavior.  One thing that caught my attention was that, after 30 years of ministry,  he had The Lord's Prayer typed up and pasted into the front of his Bible.  "Humm."

Jim, in last week's posting, goes on to say:

Today...for the first time ever...I struggled to remember the words of the Lord's Prayer.  I tried and tried...and for a few moments my soul did panic...but on the last touching of the cross on my rosary, I pieced together the scattered phrases of "Our Father."

So here is a case where, obviously, the physical symbol reminded Jim of what he was about.  At the end of his posting he shared this even better news. 

But the goodness I experienced as the Spirit of the Lord touched my own spirit was this...I believe I heard the Lord whisper with me..."Be at peace... those words and the spirit of those words have become part and parcel of your soul.  When the words seem lost...let the silence take their place."

Thank you, Jim.

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Dave and Brad

My Dave likes Brad Pitt.  I think it's mostly because Brad's from Missouri and has a passion for architecture.  Dave is from Kansas and has a passion for architecture.

I'm not sure how much Dave knows about Brad's acting career or personal life.

But when Brad got mixed up with Angelina Jolie, Dave was not happy.  Years ago, when I asked him why, he said "Brad's so wholesome and clean cut and she is just weird."  Since Dave rarely says anything bad about anybody he later said he wanted to change that "weird" to "different."  But if we look at the dictionary definition of "weird" and see unearthly, uncanny, fantastic, bizarre and then think about Angelina, it seems about right.

Almost all that Dave knows about Angelia is that she wore that vial of blood belonging to Billy Bob Thornton around her neck when she was married to him.

Recently, due to a strange set of circumstances which he did not initiate,  Dave started receiving Star magazine.  It comes often.  So he is now reading about the big breakup and believing every word of it.  When he reports his concerns about Brad I have to stop and think, Brad who?  then remember he's been reading the Star.

This week's cover story features Brad and Kate Hudson.  Dave just said to me at lunch, "I think Brad will be much happier with Kate."  I said,

"Hope so."


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Emily and Cecily

Emily Dickinson is seen as one of the greatest poets of all time.  She's certainly one of my favorites.  She's been a great inspiration, and, in some ways, I feel like she's my soul mate.  Here we are at about the same age.

Most of her poems were composed in her bedroom in her parent's home in Amherst, Massachusetts.  Emily was a recluse but she sent poems to friends and relatives, sometimes fashioning them into little books she made herself.

But only ten of her poems were published in her lifetime - all anonymously.  Just think about that in terms of the  Facebook/Kardashian world in which we live.

Emily Dickinson wrote about personal things, like death and faith and relationships.  Her poems contained excellent practical advice.  Many are short and pithy.

"Faith" is a fine invention
For Gentlemen who see!
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency! 

- Emily Dickinson

I'm not the person I'm going to be
                     But I'm getting to be
                                  Getting free

-Cecily Crossman


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Sanity Saving Poems

A couple of days ago I was talking with a neighbor who was having difficulty communicating with her husband.  She said he's too busy for her.  He's "out saving the world."  When that happened with my husband, Ken, I sometimes wrote a poem about it.





THE PERFECT ALIBI, CONTINUED

You were hours late for dinner
     again,
The egg rolls I had worked on all afternoon,
     Were limp.
Contrasting my rigid demeanor.

Our dinner guest,
A psychiatrist,
Seemed bemused,
And appeared to be 
Mentally taking notes,
On the unfolding of this,
All to frequent,
Domestic drama.

I remained calm
Throughout the description,
Of your last minute gallant efforts
To save a public official's job.

But the part about rescuing,
The man in the wheelchair,
Trapped in the revolving door,
Was just too much!

Why can't you ever,
Just stop off
For a few drinks,
Like a normal person?

Cecily Crossman


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