MAUS

  

A Tennessee school district has voted to ban a Pulitzer Prize-winning graphic novel about the Holocaust due to "inappropriate language" and an illustration of a nude woman.  

  - Orlando Sentinel, January 28, 2022

When David and I first met he was living in Edina, Minnesota and I was living here in Altamonte Springs, Florida.  As time passed our visits back and forth became longer and longer.  

There was a large bookcase in David's bedroom.  I had previously read about half of the books but, over time I read almost all of the rest of them.  They were right up my alley.  

This bookcase was where I first found the remarkable graphic novel Maus by Art Spiegelman.  At the time, I wasn't a fan of graphic novels but this was different.  Very different.  Art Spiegelman has a tortured relationship with his father and wants to understand why his father is so miserable to be around so, over an extended period of time he drags out the story of what his father and mother endured in Poland during the war.  It is horrible, as you can imagine.  

But this is a graphic novel.  The word graphic takes on a much deeper meaning here.  I read it all in one sitting.  Then I read it again.  The book flap said a sequel was coming soon.  I began a long computer search but managed to to find the sequel.  Maus - And Here My Troubles Began.The first is titled Maus - A Survivor's Tale.  The Jews are depicted as mice, the Nazis as cats.  

I couldn't find the nude woman/mouse today but, in the second novel I did see silhouettes of naked men/mice being forced to run in the snow by fully dressed Nazi/cats.

Coincidentally, another article in today's paper tells us that Polk County has "quarantined" 16 books from school libraries.  Among them are The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseine and two books by Toni Morrison, Beloved and The Bluest Eye. 

The Last Goodbye

 On Saturday we had David's ashes interred in the columbarium at our church.  He died in 2019 but donated his body to the UCF School of Medicine, so it took a while for his cremains to be delivered to me and for his family to come together to place the ashes in the wall.  

Despite plans needing to be changed almost hourly due to COVID and freezing rain, we got the job done.  There was just a hand full of us, mostly due of my inability to deal with crowds, but his close friends and family were there for the send off.  

In the photo you can see David's children in the flection from the niche.  

Before they arrived from other parts of the country I gathered things that they might want to take home with them.  While I was compiling all of this I ran across an article which appeared in the Independence, Kansas newspaper in 1939.  Most of us who know David know he had an unusually challenging  childhood,  But he never admitted being traumatized.  He often said that he loved his life and would be happy to come back and live it all over again. 

David Runyan, 7, Makes Trip of 12,000 Miles for Stay at Relatives Here.

He wasn't a bit tired after a 12,000 mile journey via freighter, streamliner and automobile from his home in Ipoh, Federated Malay States. (This is now Malaysia.)

David had told his family over the years that he essentially traveled across the Pacific unaccompanied but the article tells us he was accompanied by Rev. Dodsworth, Methodist district superintendent in the district where David's father was a Methodist missionary.  

From California David made the train trip alone to Kansas. But then he was used to traveling alone.  He had just spent a year in kindergarten in India, having sailed from his home without his parents. 

He (David) was one of twelve Malayan children to go to Hebron, a school in the hills in South India, for a year.  

I love the last lines of this article. 

David speaks with a distinct English accent...While he has been residing in Malay, he has learned to speak several languages.  On Monday David will be enrolled at the Lincoln school.  He will be given tests to determine the grade he is to enter. 

If we live long enough, we will go through many, many chapters of our lives.  As you know, I think every one of us has a story.  I'm grateful beyond measure that I got to share David's last chapter. 

***

These Precious Days

e 

Several weeks ago my friend, Ann, gave me this book, by Ann Patchett, one of my very favorite writers.  I admire not only her writing, but her purpose driven life and her ability to share her truth, even when it can cause pain, which it has. This book is a series of essays.  Much of them have been precious to me.  And I think when Ann Patchett titled her book "These Precious Days" I feel she was speaking directly to me.

In one of the essays she tells us that she and her husband are thinking about buying a bigger house but, instead, they carefully purge their current home of things they no longer need; like brandy snifters and manual typewriters.  They gather all of these things in their basement and then invited friends and colleagues to take what they want.  

I don't like clutter.  When David was alive we gave away a houseful of things that we no longer needed.  We had both been married for decades to spouses who were collectors of beautiful things.  But for the last ten years of his life, we were able to be "us."  If something came into the condo, something else had to leave.  If a beautiful painting went up, another came down. We carried out newspapers and separated the trash every single day.  

After David left us I've continued the process.  This past Thanksgiving weekend some family members cleaned out my attic because David's children are planning a visit and I was sure he had stored some valuables from the first 70 some years of his life up there.  And, neither he nor I were ever again going to make the big climb up the pull down stars in the garage.   

As it turned out, there were only a handful of David's items.  However, there were various things of mine and my husband Ken's, that had spent the entire 26 years I've been here, living in the attic.  My children and I threw away mountains of bedding and comforters and clothes that we felt (possibly) varmints had invaded.  Of what was left, my family took what they wanted - which wasn't much.  When my daughter escorted me to her home in Atlanta at Christmas time, she boarded the plane wearing her dad's college letter jacket, his hat, and carried the walking stick he and I purchase in Trinidad many years ago, because it has special meaning for her family.  

David's children are arriving on Friday.  I have several precious things ready for them, things that they grew up with.  They can either take them, discard them or leave them with me where I will keep them safe until I'm gone.  

This morning I opened a large packet of things David had sent me prior to our first face-to-face encounter.  We were pin pals for a year prior to meeting and this packet reminded me of how much we knew about each other prior to laying on eyes for the first time in Chicago.  I have photos and letters covering his unorthodox birth and growing up, plus photos of the family he created with his wife, Audrey. We don't have much here, but what we have is precious.  

Of the photos and writings I want to keep, we can make copies right there in the guest room.  As I age, I don't want to forget David's life story.  I feel the same way about Ken's life and those of my ever growing family. 

On the other hand, it pleased me to give my son his namesake grandfather's 100 plus years old leather suitcase, with their initials etched on it.  The biggest attic surprise  for me was finding two my dad's paintings he'd done in oils on small hand saws.  I was angry with him decades ago when I received the saws so I hid them away and forgot about them.  Now I have no interest in being angry with anyone.  I'm planning to have the saws mounted on my kitchen wall.  

And so, with my own days winding down to a precious few, I'm enjoying this trip down memory lane.  All days are precious, but I think Ann Patchett is reminding me to keep my priorities straight. 

***

 

Happy Birthday Martin Luther King, Jr.

 

It's long been my custom to read Dr. King's I Have a Dream" speech on his birthday.  Today I mixed it up a little, by reading "Letter From  Birmingham Jail."  Addressed to "My Dear Fellow Clergymen," it was written in April, about four months prior to the "I Have a Dream" speech he delivered to about 200,000 people gathered at the Lincoln Memorial.  And, of course, from a very different setting.  

He wrote the letter sitting all alone  in a jail cell.  He wrote it in longhand.  The letter is long, very long, and has tremendous depth.  I'm in no way qualified to critique its content.  

But here are a few thoughts:  The first thing that struck me was being reminded of MLK, Jr's academic excellence.  He did his under grad work at Moorehouse College.  At Crozer Theological Seminary, one of only six Black students, he was president of his class and was awarded a fellowship to Boston University where he received his Ph.D. 

One of the criticisms he dealt with constantly was the concept of his being an an "outside agitator." His response was "Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider anywhere within its bounds. "

He emphases to his followers that they must be able to accept blows without retaliating, and to be able to endure the ordeal of jail, as well as other horrible experiences.  

He quoted great theologians like Reinhold Niebuhr who said "groups tend to be more immoral than individuals."  

St. Thomas Aquinas said:  "An unjust law is a heinous law that is not rooted in internal law and nature law."  MLK, Jr. said, "A just law is a man made code that squares with the moral law or the law of God."

Jewish philosopher Martin Buber substituted an "I It" relationship with an "I Thou" relationship."

Paul Tillich said "Sin is Separation."  MLK, Jr. asked the question, "Is not segregation an existential experience of man's separation?"

MLK, Jr.  "One who breaks an unjust law must do so openly, lovingly, and with a willingness to accept the penalty."

As examples of extremists he sited, The Apostle, Paul,  Martin Luther, John Bunyan, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson and Jesus Christ. 

I used to love moderating discussions on the thoughts of the great minds in our past and present  I no longer have the capacity to do this.  But good people who have different views, coming together to discuss truth, the nature of God and the nature of us humans is, and always has been, exciting to me. 

Wouldn't it be a blessing to have a kind discussion with people of faith, from various points of view, grapple with the underlined statements above? 

In the meantime, as for MLK,Jr's question, "Is not segregation an existential experience of man's separation?," following is a little poem I learned years ago to explain "Existentialism."

I and Thou,

Here and now, 

Wow!

***

Take Your Choice

 I was putting books back in the bookcase this morning after using a shelf for Christmas fun, and happened to pick up two books at the same time.  

Adam Hamilton's Forgiveness, Finding Peace Through Letting Go, is one of my favorite study books.  The other was Meet You in Hell by Les Standiford.

This book is about Andrew Carnegie and Henry Clay Frick, two of the richest men of their time, who helped transform America.  Both were industrialists, both made a significant mark in American history, and they worked hand in hand.  They were good friends and trusted business partners.  

Along with making America and themselves very rich, they were both philanthropists.  Carnegie built over 3,000 public libraries, and started a teacher's pension fund, among many other endeavors.  He was of course, the major benefactor for Carnegie Hall.   

If you've ever been to "The Frick" in New York City, you've been overwhelmed by Frick's multi-million dollar 64 room mansion/museum and his huge collection of art, all of which he willed to the city.  

At some point in their relationship, Carnegie and Frick had a falling out and did not speak to each other for at least two decades.  

When Carnegie was eighty-three years old and in poor health he had a change of heart and directed his long time personal secretary, James Bridge, to take a letter to Frick.  Bridges, who had never heard Carnegie even mention Frick's name, was now asked to carry a letter to Frick.  The letter was asking Frick to meet with Carnegie before one of them died.  And he added that their past grievances were beneath their dignity. 

It was "time to make amends and prepare to meet their Maker."

"'Yes, you can tell Carnegie I'll meet him,' Frick said finally, wadding the letter and tossing back at Bridge. 'Tell him I'll see him in Hell, where we both are going.'"

***

Christmas Miracle

  

It seems like more "miracles" happen at Christmas time but maybe  we're just more open to them at this glorious time of year. 

Last Sunday while I was in worship I began feeling ill.  This has happened every Sunday since I've been back, physically present in the pew. But, to me, it's been worth it to see real live friends up close and personal - after these last couple of lockdown years. 

But last Sunday was different.  Noise, even beautiful music type noise, causes all kinds of havoc in my brain.  As the roaring inside my body grew I kept fiddling with my hearing aid and exchanging it with the one the church provides, and the ushers worked on especially for me.  

But the dreaded Meniere's Disease took over and nothing would calm it.  So, while feeling extremely wobbly, I left the service.  This was embarrassing because I sit in the front left side of the sanctuary,  which I've  done for the last 60 years - different  churches, same pew.  

I stayed in the quiet narthex until I felt safe enough to drive home.  

Here comes the miracle part.

A while after I returned home I realized I had lost my $2,000  hearing aid.  So I was miserably ill, and feeling miserably stupid to boot.  

Late Monday morning I called the church office in the totally unrealistic hope someone found it.  It's about the size of a dime.  

It had been found in the parking lot and turned into the church office.

How could this happen?   Scores of people walked to the parking lot and then drove their cars out after I was gone.  It was highly unlikely it would have survived, but it works fine. I have no idea who found it.  But if you know, please tell that person that he or she performed a Christmas Miracle in the parking lot of First United Methodist Church of Winter Park.  

I can't be there tomorrow for, festival GLORIA,  the magnificent Christmas music with choir and full orchestra but I'll be watching on my TV in my pj's.  

As my husband, Ken, used to say when he found a big ticket bargain:  How will we spend the $2,000 we just saved?  I'm sure it will come to me.  I would love to perform a (smaller) Christmas miracle that would delight someone as much as the person who found the hearing aid delighted me. 

***

Who Am I When I'm No Longer Me?

I absolutely love Darby Conley's comic strip "Get Fuzzy,"  In this strip, Bucky Katt, the inscrutable, self-absorbed, cynical, know it all, cat,  is explaining to Satchel Pooch, the sweet, gullible, not very bright dog,  the meaning of Rene` Descartes' Wax Argument.

What I see in the "Wax" argument is the question "Who am I when I'm no longer me?  My husband, Ken, had dementia during his last years, but we never doubted he was in there somewhere.  On the other hand, I've known people who were totally robbed of their intelligence and personality.  It's hard to know when we cease being "who we are."  

In other words, "What is self?  Descartes said "Reason is the ultimate of what our senses perceive is true."  When our personality ceases to be but we're still breathing, where are we?  Have we gone on to afterlife, or are we in limbo?

I don't know the answers to all this, but I like to ponder the questions.  However, I'm not as bad as Satchel who can't get past Descartes having a girls' first name .  

***