Roots. We all like to know about them. Mostly, we want to celebrate them or glorify them and sometimes we indulge them. These are all good things in my view and far better than denying your roots, as some seem to do.
Recently, I ran across a cool little emblem that shows a handful of Shamrocks that were pulled from the ground, roots and all. On the bottom, it read, “I’ve Irish Roots”. I like that. It got me to thinking about roots and somehow or other it took me backward to some old memories and it reminded me, with a bit of pain, that I owe a debt to my grandfather.

My grandfather was Irish; I know that because he told me he was. Also, there was a tattoo that backed it up. Like many Irishmen, he was a tall strapping fellow of about 5’6 and 135 pounds. His graying hair was always in a neat crew cut. I once overheard my Dad describe him by saying that he walked sideways like a crab when he got drunk. I recall him walking like Jimmy Cagney, with long, energetic strides as though he were heading to something important. I can assure you that he was not.
I never actually saw the crab walking, myself. I suppose that I was in bed by then.

When my Dad mentioned the crab-walking, it was fun and funny and sometimes he would act it out, to everyone’s amusement, including my grandfathers. It was good-natured fun and I recall how everyone around the table roared. Later they all groaned, in fun, when he started a story that began “When I was building the Ben Franklin Bridge…” I think that they had heard that particular story before, and I suspect that it immediately preceded the aforementioned crab walking.

Now if I say to you that he was “all Kensington” you probably know what I mean. I am not trying to be too particular or condescending about this. I’m just trying to make my point. You know what I mean if you have roots in Kensington, but it extends to Fishtown and Frankford as well. Maybe even some of the outlying areas. If you don’t what it means if someone says, “He ain’t nothing but Kensington”, I shall try to illuminate.

People in Kensington are not rich, but they are proud and they bind themselves together by having fun. I have vivid recollections of ringing in the New Year, just off Lehigh Avenue, by rattling pots and pans, while others used actual pistols as noisemakers. New Years Day was always pork and sauerkraut although no one seemed to know why. My mother, a Kensington girl, would use phrases like “Christmas in Kensington” when someone came into a few bucks and didn’t mind spending it, and she would always be surprised if a wedding didn’t become a fistfight.

Most of my memories are of summer. Men in strap tee shirts, with a beer in their back pocket, arguing about baseball and complaining about having to go to work. The whole street would be outside, gathered around the stoops. I recall the sound of the radio in the background and laughter in the foreground. Stick ball and hose ball and half ball and pimple ball. The men playing with we boys. I don’t recall a lot of career talk. It seems as though a job was to provide enough income to get you through, and no more. I recall hearing the word “disability” quite often. My grandfather knew that word.

My Grandfather can be best explained in these three vignettes.

1. Every Friday, he played the number. It was always the same one. If you don’t know what this means, then I suppose that your family left Kensington for Delaware County (Or the Great Northeast) before mine did. Playing the number was a bookie thing, not a Pennsylvania Lottery thing. One day, the number actually hit. Now a term that you will never hear from the proper Kensington Irish Gentleman is “Savings Account”. Money was meant for spending and living without it for four or five days of the week was ordinary financial planning. By the time my grandfather got home, he was out of cash, yet laden with riches. True Riches. The most notable thing was that he drove home. The day that he learned to drive was the day that he hit the number and bought a car. He took that car everywhere that he went before he lost it a few weeks later. (This is not poetic license; he lost the car and he took it like a man.) He bought, for my grandmother, a TV, which already had the rabbit ears wired to it, so I suspect that it wasn’t new. He also bought her a Tony Bennet record. She was ecstatic. The balance was spent on cases of Ortleibs Beer and he proudly stacked them floor to ceiling in that little shed room that is often behind the kitchen of a row home. These were the considered and careful choices of a man who saw himself, at least for that moment, as a winner.
2. He was wonderful to me. Every summer I would go to stay with him and my grandmother for a week or two. Sometimes he would have a job, so the visit wasn’t as much fun, but he would always manage to keep his work week down to three days maximum. I recall swimming in the Delaware River, near Penn Treaty Park, under his “supervision”. I am not certain if it was already illegal to swim there or not. He took me there because he knew that I hated swimming in the public pools around the neighborhood because they were so crowded. (Note to foreigners. “Swimming” in an inner city public pool means trying to find a place to stand. Any real swimming was out of the question). He always took me on the El and the streetcars and my visit was always planned so that I could see Willie Mays play against the Phillies. We would get the cheapest possible seats and went for the “Kensington Upgrade” which meant grabbing two sensational and unused seats, with the admonition to “look like you belong here”. After the game, he took me to his tappy. I would sit at the bar, and have unlimited cokes to his unlimited beers. He would introduce me to everyone by name and title and he was clearly proud of me. He would say “This is my grandson, Danny” and then whisper that I shouldn’t tell my grandmother that he brought me to the tappy. I, of course, knew that it was wrong to be there, because my grandmother would always say, on our way out the door “Don’t you take that boy to no tappy, Jack”. I understood the Coca-Cola bribe without his explaining. I really didn’t understand why he would say, “Don’t tell ‘em I’m not really your grandfather”.
3. He wasn’t really my grandfather. My grandmother had two husbands that had left her. I can see why. One took the time to divorce her, but the other went into hiding. For this reason my grandmother and he were “living together” which was pretty brazen living, even by Kensington standards. I didn’t know all of this when I was a boy. I only learned the story when my grandmother left him when I was in my 20’s. She decided to move in with my parents, apparently so that she could complete the job of being a completely useless mother to her own daughter, who was my mother. Jack was, by the reports that I got from my aunt, heartbroken. His cure was predictable. He took even harder to the bottle.

I never saw my grandfather after that. I am a worse man for it. I intended to find him, but waited too long to do so.

After a few years, I was able to track down a place where he had been working. I called there and asked to speak to the owner. I explained to him who I was and why I was calling. He was a nice man and I could tell that he believed that I was a grandson looking for his grandfather and not a bill collector. I felt his discomfort when he let me know that he had to “let him go” a year or so previously. He politely alluded to a drinking lifestyle as the cause. I thanked him for his honesty and recalled telling him in a lighthearted way that I wasn’t surprised. I then I asked if he had any idea of his current whereabouts. “Son, I liked Jack, I did. But he had a problem. He died a while ago…on the street”.

He lived and he died in Kensington.

When I think of my roots, I think of Kensington. I think of my grandfather and that he loved me.
I feel bad, more than I can explain, that I did not stay in touch with him.
I would have told him that I remember him fondly and with respect and gratitude.

Is there a greater legacy?

 

Vacation always meant going to my grandparent’s house.

 

When I look back on that, it might have been a financial decision. Like my own parents, I have a large family, so I understand the necessity of economy while vacationing.

 

I must have been successful at it; it is a frequent way in which my children remind me of my cheapness. Of course, they have no idea that I would scrimp all year just to take the trips that we did. They know nothing of the “secret coffee can,” into which I would make a weekly contribution. When they have to go through it, they’ll understand, and not before. It will be just like the electricity thing. Not one of my children mastered the art of light bulb extermination until the electric bill had their own name on it.

 

With the exception of one year, my family vacations were spent in New Jersey, at the home of my father’s parents. I loved each of them.

 

The entire family would go for a week, and there would be several days when we went fishing. The fishing trips would include “us boys,” my father, his father, and sometimes it included the odd uncle or cousin. “Us boys,” or “You boys,” was the collective name for my brothers and me. In my memory, there were always at least three boys, and eventually four of us.

My grandfather was the fishing master, for sure. He led the way, and he alone made the decisions. This is important in my memory; because I watched something unusual occur on these vacations that became a life-lesson.

My Dad, you see, is one of those highly dependable fathers who took responsibility, and therefore control, of his family. He was the man in charge.

Except, that is, when he was around his own father. It was interesting to watch my father give up the power, and become a son. I learned a lot about respect by observing that dynamic.

 

Apparently, fish are early risers. They must be, because the clock usually said four-something when Grandpop would wake up “us boys.” It was never hard to wake us up on fishing mornings. Much easier than getting up for church, I can assure you.

 

He would already have the bacon cooked, and the eggs went into the pan immediately afterwards.

All of the bacon grease would remain in the huge cast iron pan. The eggs slid down your gullet effortlessly.

He poured “us boys” our own cup of coffee. My father would never have allowed this at home, but we weren’t at home. When we would look at him for approval, he gave a look that signaled the O.K.

The only reason that I drank that coffee was because it seemed manly and exotic. It tasted awful. It was the kind of coffee that would put hair on a wooden leg, and it took two hands to stir.

Once, I tried putting milk and sugar in it, because I knew that my parents drank it that way. Grandpop didn’t approve, so it remained black. It has been more than forty years since I have had my grandfather’s coffee. It was just last week when the bitter aftertaste finally left my mouth.

 

The fishing was superb. My grandfather, or my father, would rent a huge motorized rowboat that held eight people with ease. Every morning my Dad would offer to pay for the boat, and the bait. Some mornings his father allowed it, some mornings he didn’t.

The boat also held all of the coolers and the fishing rods, with room to spare.

 

The fishing rods occupied their own special spot in my Grandpop’s barn. It was a locked area.

Sometimes he would invite one of us boys in, to carry the poles out to the car. It was a very cool and manly place, and you knew that you didn’t enter without an invitation. The wood-walled room contained all manner of fishing gear, including an outboard motor, which lived a life submerged in a fifty-five gallon drum filled with water. It said “Evinrude,” on it, and it had a distinct aroma that I can still recall. I believe that it was a mixture of motor oil and salt water.

 

Spending a day in the sun with your brothers, your Dad, and his Dad, might have been an inexpensive vacation day, but it was worth a million bucks to me.

 

The day of fishing often ended when we ran out of room to put the fish. There would be around a hundred fish, mostly weakfish and flounder, and a bushel basket of crabs. These are facts that my brothers will back me up on, and the rare part of a story where I have no need to exaggerate.

 

We would go fishing several times during the week, because my Grandpop and my Dad planned their vacations for the same week. It was the best part of a great week, every year.

Some years, my grandmother, (who was in charge of everything except fishing), would suggest that “us boys” stay for an additional week. The entire decision was based on whether our Dad was able to make the ninety-mile trip on the following weekend, to pick us up. On most weekends, he worked. Still, he often found a way. I’m sure it provided a nice break for my mother and he. It left them with only “you girls,” at home, which was another trio.

 

The second week did not include fishing, as my grandfather would be back at work. I don’t know if my grandmother knew how to drive, but it wouldn’t have mattered, because those were the times when a family had “a car,” and the car took my grandfather to work.

 

Their home was in a tiny village along a river. Even though the village was tiny, it was urban compared to our rural home, in Pennsylvania. So, we walked around the village, and sometimes we would get together with our cousins.

In the village, there was a general store, owned by a Mr. Hankins.

 

Mr. Hankins hands and head shook all the time, from some sort of awful disease, or palsy, or condition. It was so awful and apparent, this shaking, that I often imitated him for my brothers, who would scream with laughter, and then remind me that I could go to hell for making fun of people that “couldn’t help what was wrong with them.”

 

I hope that isn’t true. I still sometimes go for the laugh, and risk my eternity for it.

 

Anyway, Mr. Hankins had a pinball machine. You will have to take my word for this, but back then, pinball machines were exotic, along the lines of a poolroom. They cost a nickel a game.

Because pinball machines and pool tables were known to induce criminal behavior in a boy, parental approval was required. This may seem like an odd fact, when today, young boys frequently play video games that provide a lifelike ability to “waste cops,” but it was so.

 

“Us boys” thought that we were out of luck when Mr. Hankins told us that we needed permission from our parents to play the pinball machine. When we explained our position, he said that a note from our grandmother would do.

 

Grandmom was happy to give us permission, and even provided a handful of change.

My older brother delivered the permission slip to Mr. Hankins. He laughed so hard as he read it; I thought he would shake parts of his body off.

 

It was a full-page letter, which began by explaining who we were, where we were from, and included a full family history. It was a little embarrassing when he hung it up on the wall for everyone to enjoy, but a boy will put up with a lot to play pinball.

 

Sometimes, in the evenings, we would go by car for soft ice cream, or some other treat. My grandfather would endure the constant criticism of his driving, from my grandmother, but still, he seldom ventured over twenty-two miles per hour.

 

I have many wonderful memories of my boyhood vacations. I looked forward, with great eagerness, to this time with my grandparents.

 

It is possible, however, that the richness of those times is implanted so deeply, because of the year that my parents tried something different for vacation. To say it didn’t go smoothly would be to say too little.

 

If I recall it all correctly, two things happened at about the same time. One was that my father got a raise. This was never discussed openly, but somehow we would get wind of it, probably because my parents would want to treat us in some way, given the improvement in circumstances.

 

The other thing that occurred was that some friends offered to lend us their camping equipment. Therefore, we would have a new and exciting vacation experience that summer.

 

Eventually, my parents would have seven children, counting me. I only bring that up because I am not always included in the count, but this is usually by my own brothers and sisters. At that time, there were six of us. My youngest brother had the good fortune of not being born yet, so he missed all the excitement. He was the lucky one.

 

My Dad selected a place called World’s End State Park, for our camping experience. I recall a brochure, which showed happily camping families, and fathers in plaid shirts and fishing hats sitting alongside their sons, enjoying the idyllic and pastoral setting, as they smoked a pipe. Mothers in Bermuda shorts smiled, as they prepared a meal over a camp stove. I will admit, it looked like fun.

 

We were a little too much family to manage the four-hour car ride, with us, and all of the camping gear. To solve this, my father borrowed my uncle’s car. It was a newfangled thing, called a “station-wagon.” For the youthful reader, who has never seen one of these, they were the precursor to what we now call a “van.”

 

So off we went, the noveau riche, on a new and exciting vacation, in a borrowed car, with borrowed camping equipment.

 

It started well. I only got in trouble a few times on the car ride for bothering my sisters, because there was a fresh supply of comic books to amuse us. Before the advent of in-car video systems, the comic book was the best weapon that parents had for keeping the peace.

 

At the very edge of World’s End State Park, there was a fishing store. We stopped, and my dad engaged the proprietor in a conversation about “what they were biting on,” and other fishing wisdom. He loaded up with the appropriate bait, and we set off for our campsite.

It was a very cool spot in the woods, I will admit. “Us boys” wandered around exploring after the car was unloaded, and my parents’ set-up camp. My Dad said that we would get some fishing in, as soon as things were in order.

 

Before very long, we were off to the river, Dad, and “us boys.” This kind of fishing was new to us, being fresh water and all, and my dad instructed us on how to cast off, as well as a few other intricacies.

When the rain started a half-hour later, we had gotten nary a nibble. By the time we got back to the campsite, my mother and the girls were huddled inside the tent, avoiding the now torrential rain, and attempting to keep warm.

 

There was no cooking done on a campfire that night. It was too wet. We had bologna sandwiches, and sat around. I remember being cold. That raw kind of cold that you sometimes feel in the summertime, during a windy storm. At long last, it was bedtime.

My Dad inflated some mattresses, and sleeping bags were unrolled.

 

This was when we discovered that the tent did not exactly sleep eight, comfortably. We did try; it just wouldn’t work. The only person that seemed to find comfort was my father, who fell asleep quickly, as he always did, and snored thunderously. They often said that my Dad could sleep on a hook in a busy subway.

 

After a while, my mother had to wake him, as there simply was no way that we could all find comfort.

The solution finally unveiled itself. My brothers and I waited in the tent, while my dad set up the back of the station wagon, where “us boys,” would now sleep.

It was roomy enough, plus it gave my older brother and I the opportunity to continually tell our younger brother that we were pretty sure that one of the many man-eating bears was on the roof of the car. There were snakes too. Large ones, that could swallow a picnic table in one gulp.

When we finally got tired enough, and things became quiet, all you could hear was the rain thundering on the roof of the car. It sounded as though it would hurt if you stood in it.

 

That was Saturday. Sunday was a little better, as the rain held off until about two in the afternoon.

It gave us a chance to take a walk, and climb some rocks. There are a few pictures of this walk floating around the family somewhere. It was the only dry time of the entire vacation. We are smiling in the picture, although I’m not sure why.

 

Again, there was no fire-grilled supper, as the weather didn’t allow it. So, my mom had to make an endless supply of sandwiches, with the rain pounding on the canvas, in the cold. The top of a little cooler provided the only flat surface for her to work on. I don’t know how she managed.

 

After supper, my parents stood by an open tent flap, having their after-dinner smoke. They reminded each other to be careful not to burn the borrowed equipment. My sisters complained about the cold. I think my Dad tried to organize a sing-along, to distract us from our cooped-up misery. It didn’t work. I had begun to wonder what the good part was about a camping vacation.

My parents had stopped asking us if we were having fun.

 

That night, in our Ford Fairlane Hotel room, my older brother and I ramped up the scare tactics, as we swore to each other that we could hear the roar of a lion, and it was getting closer. When my little brother ran from the car to the tent, we laughed together in victory. That is, until my father brought him back out, and told us to take it easy on him. It was one of his shorter lectures. He spoke to us, with the car door open, as rain came off the brim of his hat in long sheets. He was shivering also.

You just don’t think to pack winter clothes for summer vacation, even though you should. Plus, before long, everything you own is saturated.

 

Figuring that he wouldn’t come back out, we turned up the torture until it ended in a long three-way rumble, where we all ended up hurt. I have a distinct memory of having a car door handle stuck in my ear. It took twenty minutes to untangle the sleeping bags.

I can recall hearing my mom hollering at the girls to “settle down,” as I tried to pee out of the open car window, to avoid going out in the rain. It didn’t work perfectly. I kept this fact a secret from my uncle.

 

The next morning, we awoke to…rain.

 

My mother did her best to feed us, and we had some of those cool little cereal boxes that you poured the milk right into, and ate from them as if they were a bowl. That was modern technology in 1960, and I loved it, even though my carton leaked.

 

One of the big problems with camping is the absence of toilets and showers. At my age, I didn’t care about the showering much, but I will admit to missing the toilet. For my sisters, there was a potty seat.

I recall this, mostly because they insisted on privacy for it, and so the boys had to go to the car while they used it.

 

On that third day, sometime in the early afternoon, the rain slowed to a drizzle.

 

We all loaded into the car, and went to a building that resembled an army barracks. It was wooden, and it had a long row of toilets, and showers. There was a boy’s side, and a girl’s side.

My Dad took a shower, while “us boys” relieved ourselves of the bologna that we had managed to store up for a few days.

 

It was while I was seated there, that I heard my mother yelling. First, she was hollering my sister’s name, and then she was calling for my father. He tried having a conversation with her, hollering through the wall, with a towel around his middle. All that was really audible was that there was some kind of emergency, and he was dressing as quickly as he could.

 

It seemed as though my sister had somehow managed to flush the keys to my uncle’s station wagon down the toilet.

 

Now, my Dad is a handy guy. That meant all the difference. Even though he was unsuccessful in retrieving the keys from the toilet, using a straightened coat hanger, he was able to hot wire the car. I have to tell you that I admired him for that. I thought you had to be a criminal to have such knowledge.

 

In the midst of all of this excitement, we failed to notice that the rain had stopped, completely.

 

Back at camp, my Dad started a fire. They hooked up some sorting of cooking gizmo that had a fuel tank attached to it, and before the supper was started, they made coffee. I now understand how difficult it must have been for them to be coffee-less for those last days.

 

My mom and dad sat sipping coffee and chatting, while we played around the campsite. It was an entirely enjoyable forty-five minutes.

 

My mother had burgers cooking when the thunder started. When the lightning began, we all ran to our assigned stations. “Us boys,” to the car, the rest of them to the tent. I watched the rain douse the fire, and fill the frying pan with water. It was a terrible thing to have to watch, being as hungry as I was, and sick of bologna.

 

After a little while, “us boys” decided to join them in the tent. That was the start of the final unraveling.

 

It was just too crowded, we were too young, we had all been cooped up too long, and the coffee was outside getting drenched.

 

When my sister announced that she needed to use the potty chair, “us boys” refused to leave, and go out into the thunderstorm. My parents acquiesced, but insisted that we turn our backs. We did so.

 

Shortly after we were given permission to turn around, another sister announced her need for the potty chair. She was given the go ahead.

 

For some reason, she did not like the idea of her pee co-mingling with the pee in the pot, so she dumped it out onto the floor of the tent. There was a family chorus of “ewwwww,” and my mother tried to stop the pot mid-pour. In all of the excitement, the fire was knocked from her cigarette, and my father announced that it was now burning a hole in the floor of the tent. A rather large one, at that.

 

My parents didn’t argue much. But I suppose that it just became the breaking point, and they were exchanging heated words about “burning borrowed tents,” “losing keys,” and “dumb ideas.”

 

It was tense, I can assure you. The rain was coming down so hard that it was collecting on the roof of the tent to such an amount that it looked like it might just collapse at any moment.

 

My mother looked at my father. He looked at her. I saw the expression change slightly on his face, as you could see that he was hatching an idea.

 

“Let’s vote, kids,” he said. “Who wants to go home?” Although we all stuck our hands up instantly, my mother beat us by a mile. He was smiling when he raised his hand also.

 

“Okay everybody, get in the car,” he said. His voice had a lilt of merriment to it.

 

We sat in that car, while my father packed up camp and loaded the car. It could not have been raining harder. He didn’t seem to mind though.

 

In some moments when, as a father, I have had to do awful things, only for the good of the family, I recall that moment from my childhood, watching him go about his duties. Sometimes being the dad just sucks. Deal with it.

 

When it was finally done, the car wouldn’t start. Apparently, in the process of all of us going in and out of the car, someone had kicked the wires that now dangled under the dashboard. He didn’t complain, he just fixed it.

 

I’ll never know why I didn’t sleep at all on the ride home. All of the other kids did. It was only me that was awake, plus my dad, who was driving, and my mother, who made sure that he didn’t doze off, as he sometimes was inclined to do.

 

I can recall them talking on the way home, and even laughing a little, although I have no idea why.

 

It was ten minutes after four when we walked into the house. I remember that distinctly, because I had never before been awake at that hour.

 

My parents carried the girls to bed, and rousted my brothers.

 

I slept until noon.

 

It was a hot and sunny day when I awoke, back at home. My dad had set up the tent on the lawn and was cleaning it out with a hose. He repaired the hole admirably with a bicycle patch.

 

All of the packing of the borrowed camping gear was done with great precision. He left, in the hot-wired car, to return the goods.

 

I was in the kitchen with my mother, when he returned.

 

“How did it go?” she asked.

 

“Just fine,” he said. “I told them about the damage, and they didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they said that we were welcome to borrow it again.”

 

They just stared at each other for a moment, each with a half smile. Then they began to laugh at the thought of it. I got the joke too. Our camping career was over, that was for certain.

 

That night we all went to my uncle’s house, to return his car, and to retrieve ours.

 

When my aunt asked why we were back so soon, they told them, in detail. Much laughter followed.

 

There was still a half of a week left to my Dad’s vacation. He suggested, and we all agreed, that we go to my grandparent’s.

 

And so we did. And that was where we spent every other vacation in my memory.

 

I have never been camping since.

It’s time to ban the Boy Scouts. Why? Because they have become the “We will adopt the position of our sponsors” Scouts”. It is no longer about boys at all.

Here are two facts to consider:

1. According to the NY Times “more than 70 percent of local scout troops are chartered by religious groups.”

2. Some boys are gay.

Therefore, it is fair to conclude that the Boy Scouts of America are willing to sell out some of the boys, so that they can retain financial sponsorship of certain “religious” groups. 

It must follow that these sponsors have told the Scouts that if they allow gay scouts or gay scout leaders, they will pull the plug on the finances. 

I say that the Boy Scouts are spineless hypocrites, and their supporters are haters. 

Why in the world would any Christian person think that they are supposed to single out one group of people for exclusion? It is unfair, and in direct opposition to the teachings of Jesus. All you have to do read the “Love one another” sections. Jesus also says interesting cool things like “The Father is in me and I am in you.” It doesn’t continue with the words….except for the gay people.

Of course, we can’t expect the Scout leaders (which includes their Church sponsors) to change their position. They are the problem, and they have taken their position. We can’t expect that anymore than we could expect the leaders of the KKK to say that perhaps they were misguided. 

The change will need to come from outside of the group, from people that believe that excluding people based on their orientation is evil, and will stand up for that fact.

Here are another two things that I consider as facts.

1. Being a Boy Scout is a terrific experience. I treasure my scouting memories.

2. There have been some scout leaders that are pedophiles. They, of course, should be excluded for their crimes. Being gay is not a crime.

My recommendation for the Scouts are as follows:

1. Say what you are: Rename yourselves the Heterosexual Scouts of America. If you are going to exclude people, go all the way.

Or…

2. Support all boys as the children of God that they are. After you do, you can expect your current supporters to run away, and find another group to hate.

What will happen next? You will find support in abundance from those who love all of God’s creatures, regardless of any race, religion or orientation. I believe that. I would become a supporter for sure.

What motivates me to think this way? It’s a simple matter. All I have to do is imagine that I am a young man that is gay, and I want to be a Boy Scout.

 

I have slipped a copy of this to all members of the conclave…wish me luck!

10. Saturday night mass will begin with happy hour, including half price drink specials.

There are some things I just can’t comprehend. I’m not talking about Quantum Plumbing, or the Medium Sized Bang Theory. I’m talking about everyday stuff that I just don’t get. Here is a partial list:

1. Microwave Ovens. You push a button, nothing happens, but the popcorn pops anyway. I don’t get it. Shouldn’t something be moving in there, or at least have a little fire going?
2. Lottery Benefits. When they started the State Lottery, they made a big deal that it was going to “benefit senior citizens.” That was about twenty years ago. When do the benefits begin? I called my Dad, and he said that no one has delivered his Cadillac yet. Perhaps it only benefits senior citizens that win the lottery. Maybe they just said that because they thought the senior citizens would forget about it, and go back to looking for their car keys.
3. The Electoral College-What the heck do we need this for, nobody gets it anyway. I am proposing a new system. The person with the most votes win, except in Florida, where they are lousy voters.
4. Plasma Televisions. When I went to school, they told us that plasma had to do with blood. This plasma TV thing is clearly a hoax; I don’t believe for one second that there is blood inside the T.V. somewhere. If there were though, I would guess that they have to keep it secret where they are getting it. Probably from winos.
5. Police Parking Rules. I see this all the time. Some poor guy gets pulled over by the police. The cop parks his car behind him, halfway into the highway. The police say it for “safety reasons.” Is it just me, or isn’t a little distracting to have a car with 46 flashing lights parked in the middle of the road for the rest of us to gawk at while we are forced to swerve into the other lane?
6. Unpublished Phone Numbers- How come you have to pay the phone company to not do something for you. This needs to be stopped before it really begins to snowball. Pretty soon, there could be a charge for “Calls not made to the Ukraine during peak hours.”
7. Megabytes, Gigabytes, etc.- I checked with everybody, even my geeky nephew, and I really can’t get a straight answer on this except for “memory.” If they keep us in the dark, they can just advertise stuff like, “Now with an additional 8MB,” and we’ll say, “Cool, I’ll get that, then.” It seems like this is the same as putting “With Improved Flavor,” on dog food cans. Who is doing that comparison?
8. Luminaria- Some guy’s lunch bag caught fire on the driveway, and apparently, a jillion people drove by and said, “Golly, that sure makes me think of Christmas. Let’s do that in our driveway.” I don’t get it.
9. Legal Drinking Age- Anyone who has ever been in a bar, knows that there are people there who shouldn’t be allowed to drink, no matter how old they are. We are going about this all wrong; it should be done by I.Q. We all know that we get a little dumber after a few drinks. You should be able to drink until your I.Q. gets down to around 80 (the point where you turn into a repulsive version of yourself.) If you are only at a 92 I.Q. cold sober, you just don’t get to drink very much. Sorry. This would certainly stop the guys that used to be on the football team from beating me up.

    10. Limbo. The Catholic’s used to have a place called Limbo. I know, because that’s where they said all of us “Publics” would end up. I never minded really, because it sounded like a singles bar. Now they say they don’t have Limbo any more. What did they do with it, and where did they put all of those pagan public babies? They gotta be somewhere, unless you would have me believe that Catholic’s make up stuff like that to scare people.

 

About one hundred years after the death of Jesus, the Jews living in Jerusalem made their final stand against those who would occupy their holy city. This time it was the Romans.
At first, there was a mere movement, led by Simon bar Kokhba, a militant Jew that refused to fall under the heel of the evil empire. 
Reportedly charismatic, undoubtedly devout, and wise in the ways of war, the bar Kokhba led a rebellion that steadily grew. In the year 132, when the most prominent rabbi in Judea proclaimed that Simon bar Kokhba was the long awaited Messiah, the ranks of the rebels grew more quickly.
They had good reasons.The Romans had destroyed the Temple again., For Jews this was not just a building that had been knocked down. It was the destruction of the only place on earth where they could worship Yahweh God.
We know that for the Jews in Jerusalem one hundred years earlier, the great hope was that when the Messiah came, he would lead them with the sword. He would turn the Romans out of Jerusalem, and would be known for His might.
This is why so many of the Jews missed it, when the Messiah did indeed ride into Jerusalem. There was no white steed, standing up on it’s back legs, front legs churning, while his rider brandished a sword of might, and a crown of gold. No, he came simply, and rode a donkey. 
And so he was missed, by many men and women. Good people, devout Jews who only wanted their city back, and to rebuild their temple so that they could worship their God. 
They had rejected Jesus as the Messiah and accepted bar Kokhba for the similar reasons. Military might, the restoration of their beloved temple, and a land of their own should not be too much to ask from the God that you love, and remain faithful to. 
They wished to shake loose of their foes and the shame of living beneath under culture…again. The Romans had even renamed their country. Judea was now Palestine. Removing the history of a people cuts deeply into their dignity.

And so the faithful Jews made their move, and drove the Romans out. For a while; two years or so. No doubt their victory was a source of great pride and celebration.
Tens of thousands of roman soldiers were killed. bar Kokhba reclaimed Judea as an independent nation. Life was good again.
But Hadrian and his army returned. They were led by their best general, and four times more soldiers than would be needed to decimate the Jews.. 
Six hundred thousand Jews were killed. All of the remaining Jews were kicked out of Jerusalem, and the name of the city was changed to Aelia, which was Hadrian’s middle name. The city was plowed under, and a pig was carved into the gate. Any Jew caught in Jerusalem was crucified immediately. 

Simon bar Kokhba was not an evil man, nor was he a fool. He set out to save the city that in the end he helped to destroy. He wished to return Jerusalem to the Jews, not have them murdered by the hundreds of thousands and the remaining cast out. 

Those good people that did not see the true Messiah when he came to Jerusalem were not godless fools.
They were devout believers. They were caught up more in their own hopes and desires and beliefs, than they were about the wishes and plans of God. 

One hundred years later, others followed one who was not the Messiah, full of the belief that they could destroy their enemies, and God would bless them for it.

For each, by stubbornly holding onto their own beliefs of what the Messiah would do, they missed him.

I hate when I do that, don’t you?

My decisions about the Messiah and His will for me will not affect an entire people. But my willingness to go about the work of struggling to discern who He is, and who I am, will make all of the difference for me…for ever and ever.

1 The Harbaugh family has three football coaches. The rest of the family were able to get real jobs.

2. Colin Kaepernick is the first Nevada QB to appear in the Super Bowl. My Uncle Lou was the first guy to have his head stuck in a toilet bowl in Nevada. But like he says, “What happens is Vegas….is usually bad.”

3. In 2004, Janet Jackson exposed her boob at The SuperBowl half-time show. Her brother Michael did not approve, and told all of the 8-year-old boys at his SuperBowl party to “cover their eyes.”

4. The longest kick off return in Superbowl history is 108 yards. This is exactly the same distance that my sister has to run to get to her outhouse.

5.Pittsburgh won four Super Bowls in six years starting in 1974. Starting in 1974, I worked for 6 years at minimum wage.

6. The Detroit Lions have never played in the Superbowl. They have, however, won the “Crime Bowl” every year since 1968.

7. The 49ers were the first team to score more than 50 points in the Superbowl, in 1990. That same year, my brother accrued more than 50 points on his drivers license.

8. In 1971, the Dolphins played in the SuperBowl, without scoring a touchdown. It is reported that several members of the defense scored later, in the parking lot.

9. Bud Grant was the first coach to lose four SuperBowls. This may have prompted the following quote. “Nobody in football should be called a genius. A genius is a guy like Norman Einstein.”

10. 8 million pounds of guacamole is consumed on Super Bowl Sunday. Ironically, only 43 of the consumers were able to spell it correctly, and thousands pronounce it wrong.

1. In Norway, baby Ground Hogs are hung upside down on an evergreen tree, and covered in tinsel, or in the poorer sections, sauerkraut.

2. In Arkansas and parts of Peru, the Ground Hog is treated with great reverence. On February 2nd, they are given pointy little pope hats to wear. Some people genuflect as they cross in front of them.

3. In Spain, it is known as “el día de la marmota.” They celebrate by having “The Running of the Hogs.” Last year, several people had severe damage to their ankles.

4. The French celebrate by slow-roasting the Ground Hog, in a savory wine sauce. It is known as “Hog Au Vin.”

5. Ireland celebrates the day like this. They form six-man squads to sleep in a cave with the Ground Hog. They drink from sundown the night before until sunrise on the 2nd. The hog is permitted to drink, but it is not mandatory. At sunrise, they try to figure out which one of them is the Ground Hog. 

6. In New York’s trendier districts, the animal is called a Whistlepig, except in the Jewish sections where it is known as a Wood Chuck. There is a small parade, to raise awareness for freedom of choice in sexual orientation for all rodents.

7. The University of California at Berkeley continues to hold their annual sit-in, calling for an end of the abuse of shadows without their consent.

8. Del Rio, Texas ends their Chili Competition Season, with Ground Hog Chili. The animals must be hunted with guns or cars. Free-Range and Organic Hogs are exempt.

9. Canadians celebrate by coloring baby Ground Hogs and hiding them around the house, for their children or their cats to find. Jehovah’s Witnesses celebrate this day, because the Bible doesn’t directly mention the coloring of rodents.

10. In Punxsutawney, Pa., there is some sort of ritual wherein the Ground Hog can either forecast the weather, or call for an immediate end to winter. The details of this are rather sketchy.