Be Not Idle

I’ve been driving after dark the last two days, and I’d forgotten how much I enjoy the sights and sounds of late autumn.

Despite summers spent near the shoreline of Marquette, Michigan, and my daily travels near the St. Clair River, I never tire of freighters. There’s something particularly majestic about a freighter at night, the forecastle lit like a small town and – better yet – rising high over the waterfront houses that block the pedestrian’s view. Wednesday night was a real sight: one of the Canadian freighters downbound and unusually low with cargo.

I enjoy the whispering of dry fallen leaves, especially now when the oak leaves are added into the mix. They rattle and scrape along the ground like something alive. It’s especially spooky when one hits the windshield like a brittle moth, startling me.

And then I’m forced to laugh at myself.

October 30th, also known as “Devil’s Night”, was a blast of Indian Summer. The temperature rose steadily in the afternoon until it was 70 degrees in the evening.  But no hoodlums came to egg my house or break my neighbors’ decorations – possibly because the worst teenagers moved out of the neighborhood.

The biggest excitement was the building of a haunted forest. Two high school boys asked permission from a neighbor to use his portion of the woods across the street from me. They cleared a path through the underbrush, strung cotton-thread spider webs along the boundaries, hung skeletons and severed heads, and dressed up (along with their girlfriends) to frighten the kiddies.  I gave them a few things, as I’m sure the other neighbors did.

One of the girls handed out candy in the middle of the forest – and did a great theatrical scream when a monster came from nowhere and bit her neck just after giving out the candy.  They were kind enough to modify it for the little ones, but it was still an adventure.

It was much cooler tonight and windy, but the silver of moon and the scrabbling of dry leaves lent atmosphere. My favorite moment was when a boy of about 8 escorted his mother through the woods, brandishing a sword. “I’ll protect you, Mom!” he yelled.

The Trick-or-Treaters were uniformly polite, with many homemade costumes. I couldn’t choose a favorite from the parade of mock horrors and dream careers. A baby dragon came in a little red wagon,  completed with  with skull and bones of victims dragging behind.  Several students came by, including a Spanish-speaking werewolf. A chubby-faced bear said “Hello, lady” instead of “Trick or treat”, but he remembered “thank you”  just fine.  The best costume was an elementary-school pirate: a brown felt hat and a girl’s blue peacoat modified with lace at the sleeves and gold rickrack across the chest.

This is what Halloween is for kids:  mocking fearful things with make-believe, walking after dark, and having an adventure.   The teenagers are talking about what they’re going to do for next year’s haunted trail.

Yesterday was a great day. It started off cool and sunny, then segued to warm and sunny. Everyone seemed to be jolly, from the man who held the door for me at the post office to the dog rolling in a long-dead squirrel by the side of the road. Even the radio jockeys, notorious for their innane chatter, played great songs with few commercials.

A co-worker had invited me to an investment/retirement planning seminar. I went more out of friendship than anything else, but it was interesting and conveniently located down the highway from my lunch date. I ate fruit and drank coffee (great Cadillac Coffee!!) while listening to what do with a $1 million investment for retirement. I don’t have $1 million, let alone the $10K minimum, but it was interesting.

Then I went to lunch with Michele, my old college roomie, friend, confidente, and shoe expert. She took the edge off my hunt for sensible shoes, which I must wear from now until my death.

*sniffle!* Good-bye, O Turquoise Sandals with 3-inch Cork Heels! I will miss you!

She chauffeured me to a hardware store to pick up toggles and hooks and then to a coffee shop. Coffee!!!

I arrived home to find several messages from friends/family (which always does wonders for me). Then I joined another friend at the firework display at the Marine City Octoberfest.

“Octoberfest in September?” you say.
To which I can only reply, “BEER!”

The evening was cold enough for jackets, but it made the display over the St. Clair River that much clearer. And it was gorgeous, especially the five different types of Roman candles and the coil of bright lights. How do they do that?

I was an insomniac last night, so I saw the snow accumulating outside. The flakes were too fine to see in the dark, but they had a faint luster when gathered together on the ground. I flicked on the porch light at about 2 am.  The snow melted on the residual heat of the yard, but it had transformed the walk, drive and road into gleaming white paths.

A few inches covered everything when I rose. (Late in the morning, I must add.) I pulled on my gloves and grabbed shovel and broom. While working, I finally saw a few black squirrels.  Something must have gotten a taste for squirrelmeat, because over the course of a few weeks this fall, the neighborhood and the nearby town seemed deserted.  A young, skinny Eastern Gray squirrel began frequenting my yard a few weeks ago, but he was a regular gray, not the black variation that usually dominates. 

Note to regular readers: I recognize the irony of missing the very squirrels that pillaged birdfeeders and reduced suet blocks to claw-scraped nuggets last winter.  It just proves the old adage (and Hair Metal song chorus): You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. 

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Holy Cross Church in Marine City, Michigan, has the usual Christian symbols: the Cross, angels, a slain dragon, grapes, etc. Other images seem to evoke the area’s maritime history: a ship and a lighthouse in the northern window dedicated to prayer for sailors.

The window depicts Jesus walking on water and Peter, even in his moment of doubt, calling out to Jesus to save him.  On either side of the scene are medallions with boats: Noah’s ark on the right and a tall-masted ship on the left. Beyond the ship is an ancient tower lighthouse that casts its light upon the water (see photo above).

I’d studied the window numerous times, puzzled by the contrast between the modernity of the ship and the antiquity of the lighthouse. I didn’t understand the meaning behind the image until I read Signs and Mysteries: Revealing Ancient Christian Symbols, written by Mike Aquilina and illustrated by Lea Marie Ravotti.

Signs and Mysteries focuses on Christianity, art, and history. In less than 200 pages, author Mike Aquilina explains 25 images used by early Christians. Some symbols are familiar, like the fish (ichthys). Most Americans have seen the ubiquitous car icons (including their Darwinist counterparts) and Christians know the Greek word for “fish” is an acronym for “Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior”. However, Aquilina explains how the fish comes from the multiplication of the loaves and fishes, and ultimately represents the Eucharist.

In the introduction to Signs and Mysteries, Aquilina discusses how the Christian minority of Syria were revitalized in their faith and culture after archeologist Dr. Emma Loosley reintroduced them to the symbols of the ancestors. Aquilina writes:

…Christians who truly know the cross, and the fish, and the lamb, and the lighting of the lamps – those who truly know the ancient symbols of the Church’s doctrines and rites – are Christians who are rooted in the faith, and they know their roots run very deep indeed.” (pp 8-9)

So what does the tower lighthouse mean? It’s a symbol of the Church: constructed from the “stones” of the Apostles and other saints, rising from the waters of Baptism, reaching to Heaven, and guiding a ship (a Christian) by night across troubled waters. 

Signs and Mysteries is a short, pithy book. I hope Aquilina writes a sequel to explain symbols that developed later, such as the pelican.

One caveat: the publisher could use darker print. This book is printed in a light brown ink like a coffee stain. I suppose the printer meant to give it an aged appearance, but it detracted from Lea Marie Ravotti’s fine illustrations and made the print difficult to read.

This review was written as part of the Catholic book Reviewer program from The Catholic Company. Visit The Catholic Company to find more information on Signs and Mysteries-Revealing Ancient Christian Symbols .

When I mow the lawn or weed the garden behind the house, I always watch for Mr. Toad, the amphibian that suns himself near the garden. It’s not unusual for him to leap suddenly from the grass or scurry into the flowerbed.

So today when I was coming around the side of the deck, I wasn’t particularly surprised to see movement in the grass head of me. But it was too fast and furry to be a toad and too slow to be a chipmunk. It was followed by a small explosion of other bodies running away from the horrible Mower of Earsplitting Doom.

Bunnies! Two itsy bitsy rabbits went hopping through the grass and into the garden along the privacy fence. One remained in the grassy nook between the trunks of the maple cluster until it, too, lost its nerve and made a run for the greenery. Since I like the lawn is little longer and my yard is relatively dog-free,  the backyard must have looked like a little sanctuary (until I began mowing).

I figured that their mother had left them in what she thought was a safe place, so I kept mowing.  Then she burst from the garden and ran away, leaving the three little ones behind. I got a nice look at them, since they weren’t sure at first if I were evil, too.  They are very young, so that their ears are more round than long, and I could hold them in one hand (which I wouldn’t). Then they voted that although I didn’t make a lot of racket, I was clearly a Hateful Beast. They hid in the mums.

Mother took several hours return.  She was none too subtle, either.  I looked up and there she was in front of the deck, scratching her ear. I moved and she hopped over to the corner of the deck, “hidden” by a statue of Our Lady. I could see one exquisite black pool of an eye staring at me. Once in a while the long fuzzy frond of an ear would twitch into view. 

While she waited, the three youngsters came out from the garden. I left the deck and moved to the bedroom to get a better view from that window and saw something unusual: a wild rabbit grooming her brood while they nursed.

I took some nice photos before she spooked and hid in the sedum. Then I realized there were FIVE babies. Cute ones, too. 

The Clamster (aka Kasia) and her readers were talking about the consequences of consecutive rainy days in the urban landscape, and I was filled with nostalgia. A kind of “Thank God that’s past!” sort of nostalgia, to be sure, but it’s nostalgia nonetheless.

 I used to live in Warren, first by myself and then with the Baby Brother (and older brother, and friend M’e, and BB’s buddy Rob, and any other pal who needed to crash on the davenport for a few weeks or months**).  Days of heavy rain meant the storm sewers would overflow onto the road. If it didn’t happen on the commute to Troy, it happened before the commute home.

 On two non-consecutive years, I drove my car through an enormous puddle and stalled it until the engine compartment dried out. When it rained heavily for a few days, ants would come up from cracks in the slab, trying to escape the water. Once I woke up to a sound like irregular dripping from the bathroom. It wasn’t water but hundreds of winged ants flying and then falling back into the bathtub.   Come to think of it, that was just before the mouse moved in and the Baby Brother moved out, like a mini-Pestilence drama.

Now I live in a floodplain, but only because FEMA decided to extend it after I bought my house. My neighbours and I won’t buy the insurance because FEMA doesn’t pay unless over 50% of the house is underwater. The only way for that to naturally happen would mean the St. Clair River had flooded miles (or km) of inland Ontario and Michigan and overwhelmed the islands.

UNnaturally it would mean that when the Channel 4 chopper came over the area, they’d find me and my neighbors pumping water INSIDE our towering walls of sandbags to make the FEMA percentage requirements.

Seriously, the wetlands are intact here, so there are seldom standing puddles. The only downside is the high humidity near the marsh and the state park, as opposed to surrounding areas.  But that’s okay. I haven’t had to water my lawn yet and, so far, the mushrooms are minimal.

 **crash on the davenport = sleep on a fold-bed in a full-size sofa or couch) Sometimes my colloquialisms are indecipherable without footnotes!

My clay class is officially over, with just an unofficial  ”glazing party” later. I have about 15 pounds of leftover clay, which means I’ll be using my dining table as a workplace from time to time this summer. 

My work has been a mixed bag. My first tile came out fantastic! My beautiful bowl with the painstakingly-built leaves, however, will make a rather nondescript planter. I dipped it in the glaze and wiped off the excess, but the glaze still filled all the spaces. It’s now a nothing-special planter. 

On the other hand, my failure has prepared me to use a different glazing technique when I make Jesse’s bowl. I covered it with galloping horses and horseshoes.

I find myself making gifts, mostly. I want to make Pat a tile of St. Anthony, for example. Someone else wants an angel like the one that I based on Eastern icons. And I’ve had it in my head to make a tile with an image of the Divine Mercy. 

In June, I’ll be free to volunteer more at the Art Association. I enjoy it, even when it’s actual work.  Meeting people is the main lure. I met a couple of professional maritime artists and an up-and-coming muralist. A month ago, a lovely couple named Parks came in to admire the children’s work. The wife was an absolute peach, and the husband obviously knew a lot about technique. He mentioned he painted but he humbly omitted that he illustrates Dean Koontz’s children books.   

I’ve often heard that artists are difficult, but I think the truth is that some difficult people are artists.  Mostly I’ve met people with humor, patience, and a willingness to make mistakes.

Speaking of which, I must mention one of my favorite things about going to Pistons’ basketball games: The Spare Tires. They are a group of large men who perform dance routines during halftime.  I know it sounds like a gag, but they are impressive.  

Go here and click on “Spare Tires Photo Gallery” or check them out on Youtube:

   http://www.nba.com/pistons/dance/sparetires.html

Fill us with Your love that all our days we may sing for joy. – Psalm 90:14

For a few days, I have heard the familiar chirp of the robin. However, the first robin of spring is never official until I see it. Yesterday I finally did.

Often people make disparaging remarks about the climate of the Midwestern States. They speak of ice and snow as if those were all there are to life here. But there’s a beauty to autumn – the changing of the light, the particular crispness of the air, the glowing color of maple leaves against a gray sky – that’s more pronounced than in warmer climes.

I spent one spring in Florida and noticed that the season wasn’t as astonishing as it is Michigan or Ohio. When crocuses poke out of the snow, even if it seems too early - perhaps ESPECIALLY if it’s too early -  joy alights in the heart. Even if you like winter, there’s still a certain childlike sense of anticipation for those first signs of spring.

 Perhaps the best example I’ve ever had occurred when I was taking classes at Wayne State University in Detroit.  It was early February, an overcast day in which the only brightness seemed to be the dull white of snowbanks. I was walking past  the School of Education when I heard a robin singing. I stopped and looked for it.

I wasn’t the only one.  The sidewalk was dotted with people, heading in different directions, and several paused. The robin was on a bare tree, singing its song to attract a mate. Someone commented that it was the first robin; another that spring was coming. We smiled at each other as we went on our way.  No matter the forecast, we knew winter was at its end.

One of my favourite people is Pat who runs Celebration of Faith, a Catholic bookstore in St. Clair.  About a month ago, I stopped in and she gave me a statuette of St. Anthony. She wouldn’t allow me to pay for it. She said that’s the deal she has with St. Anthony. She’s asked him so many times to pray for her and her family, and she’s seen that he’s tireless in his intercession. So she gives away his paraphenalia.

I thought it was very cool that St. Anthony is one of her “prayer friends”. I used to have a few in college, mostly other young people in the Navigators’ Bible study group. They were the people I could ask to pray with me or for me.

I was never great at asking saints to pray for me. I’d call on St. Andrew from time to time when I was kid. (Usually when in a boat.) I had a feeling that they were very busy with God. Seemed a shame to interrupt them. I prayed the Rosary, of course, but that was more a meditation on Christ than asking for anything.

So the angels took the brunt of interceding when I had no one else to pray with me. St. Michael got a lot of desperate calls late at night when spooky sounds or general oddness abounded.  And my poor guardian angel! My mother’s grandmother had told her, and she passed it onto me, that if you began the Rosary at bedtime and fell asleep, your angel would finish it for you. Poor Phred must have covered 9/10 of every Rosary I prayed before I hit puberty. (Phred is my guardian angel. When I was a kid, someone got it into my head that guardian angels have names. I hope mine has a sense of humour.  

 But it’s a relatively new thing for me to ask the saints to pray for me. It’s really only been since I moved to this area. There are more Catholics around here, but I haven’t really become a part of my parish. Ironically, I know more people at the daily Masses in a neighbouring community, since so many older volunteers are Catholic.

Anyway, I’ve had St. Anthony’s statuette in a box since then, languishing on a coffeetable. I was looking for a good place to put it. I have the Holy Family on a bookshelf in the livingroom, surrounded by family photographs – which makes perfect sense the more I think about it.