What do you Think?

"You'll get your reward in heaven."  "Oh, he's gone to a better place." "And I saw all kinds of bright lights, different colors, through a tunnel of sorts; but then, I came back and that's all I remember."  "In my Father's house are many mansions."  Have you noticed that there are all kinds of references to heaven made by churchmen, but none of them ever talk about it very much?  When was the last time you heard a preacher preach a sermon about heaven?   "Oh, dem golden slippers."  "St. Peter at the pearly gates."  "Streets of gold."  "Swing low, sweet chariot!"

While I am no authority, I think most of the world's religions promise a better life after death, provided you try to live a better life before death.  But I don't think I have ever heard the after-life discussed from the pulpit in any serious detail.  I suppose that that's because no one can attest to the details of heaven.  That doesn't mean, however, that most of us have not wondered about it. Truly, faith in God and belief in an after-life are comforting when things aren't going very well. It was said that Albert Einstein was certain in his own mind that there is a God.  He, better than most, understood how perfectly the universe and all that comprised it worked together;  he said that there is no way that creation could have occurred by chance and for him, the complexity of all things was proof of a "higher intelligence."   When asked about a life after death, he replied that he didn't believe in that.  "One life is quite enough," he said.

For those of us who do subscribe to Heaven, there are surely a thousand questions.  Where is it?  Is it over-crowded?  Are the streets gold and is the gate made of a pearly substance.  Does God really sit on a marble throne (like Lincoln at the Lincoln monument in Washington, D.C.)?  Does Jesus sit at the right hand of God?  Do you ever run in to them on the street?  What happens when you marry a widow and you and she run in to her first husband?  How the hell's all that going to work?   Do we all stay in the ground until the "last trumpet" or do we make the trip as soon as we die?

I guess it's generally accepted that our bodies will not be making the trip.  Our souls, our spirits are what's thought to be immortal.   If that's true, there will be no more physical pain; nor any hunger, nor any need to eat food as we know it.  If our bodies remain behind, how do you suppose we'll recognize each other?  For that matter, without bodies, will there be any male or female.  One would suppose there'll be no need for children being born to populate the place; and if that's true, what about sex?  Will there be any?  Almost sounds like some of my favorite things are going to be left to poor miserable humans on earth.  Any dogs? Cats? Horses?  

A lot of this has been tongue-in-cheek.  A guy named Mitch Albom wrote a book, The Five People You Meet in Heaven.  It doesn't take very long to read.  The story is about an ordinary man who begins life with the same dreams we all have.  The world will be his oyster.  As time goes by, he meets the love of his life, and soon is blest with a child.  These things mean he has to "bring home the bacon" and so he gets a hum-drum job, the best he can find, at an amusement park.  Life marches on and he feels that he is a failure because he cannot earn enough money to give his wife and child the life he thinks they deserve.  Lots of days, he feels his work is not nearly so personally rewarding as the work others do.  There are many things he doesn't understand about life, causing him to be dissatisfied with things as they are.  He meets his demise in old age when one of the park rides malfunctions and he tries to rescue a little girl from certain death.

Almost all of our trouble comes from lack of understanding.  We don't understand other people, we don't understand disease, we don't understand other nations and religions.  Life is full of misunderstandings which lead to hard feelings, disagreements, strife, violence and war.   We suffer from horrible diseases because we don't know what causes them. 

Whatever and wherever heaven is, it may be nothing more than a universe of perfect understanding.  It may be a question of having our eyes and minds opened, so that whites no longer misunderstand blacks.  Men, women.   Protestants, Catholics, and vice-versa.  Jews, Muslims.  Americans, Russians and Chinese.   Greeks, Turks.  Cancer, researchers.  And on and on.   And if you think about it, if we all understood all things perfectly,  it might be heaven on earth, even if it does keep raining.

A Serious Matter

A lot of people who live here don't know what a wonderful place Bracken County is.  Of course, as always, it's the people who character a place.  In Bracken, you can paint a description of the folks there with a broad brush:  They work hard.  They buy what they need, take care of it, wear it out and buy another.  They pay their bills on time.  They save their money.  They hold their friends in high regard and seem willing always to extend a helping hand.  I never met a frivolous person in Bracken County.  In short, what you see is what you get, and what you see looks really good on the inside!

Not very long ago, a house lying fairly close to the North Fork of the Licking River burned in the middle of the night.  The owners, a couple residing there, barely escaped.  Neil Brumley and his second wife, Linda, had built the house just a very few years before the fire and designed it to their completely liking.  Earlier, Neil had lost his first wife after a long and happy marriage.  He is a farmer and also works in town at a Brooksville grocery.  He's the meatcutter.  He walks with a slight limp and is a Republican, the magistrate for his magisterial district of the county. There may not be a more popular person living in Bracken County today.  Neil is always ready with a broad smile and a twinkle in his eye, and when he's talking to you, you get the impression that you are the most important person in his life.

The Fiscal Court of Bracken County is made up differently from the Mason County Fiscal Court.  Here, we elect three Commissioner and they all run county-wide.  In Bracken (and in many other Kentucky counties), the county is divided into districts and each district elects a magistrate to the fiscal court.  Neil Brumley has represented the Milford District for a long, long time.  Altogether, there are seven or eight commissioners, I think, though I'm not sure about the number.  The Bracken Fiscal Court seems to address the weightier governmental issues in the county.

If you ask most people in Bracken County what they believe the county's greatest need is, almost to a man they will tell you jobs.  There are, of course, some service jobs in Brooksville and Clopay Corp. employs a number of people in Augusta.  Other than those, and seasonal farm labor, there aren't many jobs to be had.  So, a lot of people drive to Northern Kentucky or Cincinnati to work.  Like any other area, most folks would prefer to work closer to home, if good jobs were available.

For several years, the Fiscal Court has been considering the issue of county-wide zoning.  There have been meetings on top of meetings, and the closer the Court came to addressing the issue, the hotter it became on both sides.  As a rule, country people (and a lot of town peole) don't like zoning because it restricts what one can do with his property.   Nonetheless, zoning is an incident of modern life everywhere, and it is the conventional wisdom that Bracken County will never attract outside investment in plant and equipment without it.

On the first reading of the zoning ordinance, the magistrates divided evenly until Neil Brumley cast his vote in favor.  I suspect Neil didn't really like the idea very well, but he probably was convinced that without it, there could be no new factory in the Bracken County Industrial Park, no matter what the incentives.  Whatever else might be said, it had to be a hard matter for him to decide.

That night, Neil Brumley's home burned and with it, all of his and Linda' possessions, things which may have had significant monetary value, but undoubtedly things which are irreplaceable.  The FBI and the State Police, finding accelerant among the ashes at the home site, declared the fire to be arson.  No arrests have been made, although as is often the case, authorities probably know who did it;  they just don't yet have enough proof to take the case to the Grand Jury.

William Faulkner, famed Mississippi author, wrote a short story called The Barn Burner. It is a tale of a person or people who burn other people's property to settle differences, to settle scores.   Faulkner's acclaim probably arises most from his uncanny ability to shine a light on the souls of his characters, illuminating their most basic framework and revealing in clear and compelling style their shortcomings.  The barnburner character was the lowest of the low, because he is a coward and lacks the backbone to face his opponent.  Instead, he sneaks under cover of darkness, does his spitework and pathetically slips off into the night back to his lair, there reveling in his "victory."   

This is exactly what happened in Bracken County.  A man, simple yet strong, does what he believes to be best, and another man, a coward, cringing under the daylight, slithers after dark to where he can hurt the first man, and then slips away, steals away without ever summoning the courage to confront him.

Arson is a very serious matter.  Bracken County will want a serious penalty imposed when the offender is caught. Indeed, a serious penalty is absolutely apapropriate and called for.

Lang Lang

Cincinnati really is a wonderful city for the arts.  Major wealthy people and corporations generously support the off-broadway theatre in its quality productions, the Cincinnati Symphony and Pops, the May Festival, art museums and many other cultural activities.  These activities are loved and very well attended by people of all economic strata.  Some say it is because of the Germanic extraction, knowing how Germans love music and dance; however, there are a lot of names which sound other than German supporting and attending the functions.

Last Thursday evening, a Chinese fellow 27 years old played the piano with the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra on the stage of Cincinnati Music Hall.  If you've never seen the building, it's worth buying a ticket simply to see the inside.   Hanging from the ceiling is a huge chandelier that give off enough light to illuminate the whole place.   Before any performance begins, the chandelier is pulled up toward the ceiling and all the while, the lights are dimming until they are completely extinguished.    I don't know how many people the hall will hold on the main floor (orchestra seating) and the two balconies, but I am sure that the number far exceeds the capacity of the Mason County Field House.  And on Thursday night, there wasn't a vacant seat in the place.

The name of the pianist is Lang Lang.  That's it.  Nothing more.  I assume his first name is Lang, and his last name is Lang.  Strange, but true.  Anyway, this young man has been called the "hottest artist on the classical music planet" by the New York Times.  He has played in every major city in the world and was featured at the opening of the Biejing Olympic Games, seen by over 9 Billion people, worldwide.  He is short, shorter than most American men, and smaller in stature.  He has very black hair which reminds me of a buzz cut gone awry.  He walks with a bounce in his step, and from the moment he appeared on stage, you could tell he was brimming with confidence.

His confidence was utterly justified.  His selection was a Beethoven concerto for piano and orchestra.  Beethoven's music is not the hardest music written, but it is, nevertheless, very demanding.  With the backing of the Cincinnati Symphony, Lang Lang played the music as if, somehow, the piano and the orchestra were one.  It was seamless.  Like a great piece of ornate silk.  Even musical amateurs would recognize the performance as extraordinary.

There is a nice feature at the Music Hall.  My seat was on the right hand side of the first balcony, which means that you cannot see the key board nor the pianist's hands.  You can, however, see his facial expression. At the beginning of the performance on the piano, a large movie screen of sorts drops down from the ceiling above the stage, and cameras mounted above the artist can capture both his hand movements and his facial and body expressions as he plays.  At first, I thought this was distracting, but during the encore, subsequently described, it let you get the real feeling of the music and the artist, at the same time.

As the sound of the last note of the Beethoven faded away, there was an eerie silence, utter silence, in the hall, lasting maybe one or two seconds.  And then, jumping to their feet, the audience's applause was deafening, and continued for several minutes.  Lang Lang took his bow, and left the stage; he returned, took a second bow and left.  The applause continued unabated.  Finally, he returned, took a third bow, and sat down at the piano again.   This time, instead of the bombastic Beethoven, he played a Chopin piece in such a way that you felt like he was gently making love to the piano.  Most of the music was soft, a light touch, and rarely did a passage suggest urgency.  His hands moved above the keyboard and he never looked at where they came down, but his fingers were invariably on the right note at the right time.  There were notes, so soft and yet distinct, that made me marvel to think a human being could touch something, anything, with that much tender feeling.  It was simply the very best piano playing I have ever heard.

Thank you, Cincinnati; may Maysville take notice.

The Last Few Days

Last week-end started out with a bang! The Maysville High School Class of 1959 held its 50th reunion in Maysville. On Friday night, about 50 people gathered at our house on Jersey Ridge for drinks and hor d'ouerves (I know that isn't spelled right, but I can't find it in the dictionary)and had a really relaxed and enjoyable evening. Being exclusively limited to old people, the party broke up about 10:30 and everybody went home. The next day, the committee had organized a tour so that out-of-towners could see for themselves what changes had come over our quaint little burg. Leonard Hendrickson, a classmate who has lived in Maysville all his life said he saw things on the tour he had never seen before and was very enthusiastic. The tour was followed by a picnic lunch at the Riverpark; the weather could not have been more accommodating. Now that none of us have children at home, we can have our reunions in the fall of the year, when the weather is more to everyone's liking, instead of the brutally hot days of August we used to endure. Saturday night at Caproni's was wonderful. Food was plain and simple and tasted good. After supper, the program consisted of the roll call and, when your name was called, you were to stand and tell everyone about your life since 1959 and your fondest memory of dear old MHS. Some of it was hysterically funny, some of it was confessional and a lot of it, tongue in cheek. For instance, I remembered how I played on the championship team that went to the state tournament in 1959. Any of you who know me know that I have never been able to walk and chew gum at the same time, much less play basketball. Incredibly, you could see the looks on some faces as they tried to remember me on the team. Finally, Billy Rex Parker stood up and asked if anyone remembered McNeill playing basketball in high school. Of course, no one did. The next part of the program was the awarding of gifts to those who were chosen because of the distance traveled to get here, the number of grandchildren, and so on. Finally, when the door prize was awarded, Patsy Aldridge drew her own name. Everyone howled. To Amy: Dear, your father was a beloved member of the 1959 graduating class. In school, he was called Gus and I don't think he ever escaped it. He was born, I think, in November, 1941. That may not be right, but it seems like it is. His mother was a second grade teacher at Sixth Ward School (now a parking lot on Broadway St.) for years and years. She did not teach us, having started there the year we went into the third grade. She was just a lovely person. As I was celebrating my fiftieth reunion, my daughter, Laura, was celebrating her twentieth. Sort of a neat coincidence. On Monday morning, a group of classmates, including Jimmy Hart, came to my house to help return tables and chairs borrowed for the Friday evening gathering. He reached down to pat my dog, Earl, and Earl bit Jimmy on the arm, tearing skin and causing a lot of bleeding. We put peroxide on the wound and covered it with two large band-aids. We took the tables and chairs back, and all the while, I was absolutely dreading what I knew I had to do. After lunch, I took Earl to the vet and asked that he be put to sleep. The process is burned into my mind. Earl and I were taken to a small room that has a chair and a stool. A staff member came in and took Earl to, one, give him a calming shot and, two, to insert a IV in his front leg. When that was done, they brought him back to me and I held him on my lap. Dr. Biddle, son of Bob Biddle came in, explained what he was going to do, and with tremendous empathy, said he would wait as long as I wanted. The shot they had given Earl had made him sleepy so that he wasn't struggling or scared; he just had his head down on my leg, lying there. Finally, I nodded and Dr. Biddle inserted the needle in the IV receptacle. Earl never moved and died almost instantaneously. I cried uncontrolably. This was the second time I had been through this. The first time was with my dog Sam. My children gave Sam to me for my birthday in 1995 and he lived with us until 2008. He was a wonderful little dog and my wife and I loved him so much that our children got jealous, we think. Anyway, after thirteen years with us, he got to the point where he could barely see and, Dr. Biddle told us, that his heart was very weak. We always went for a morning walk, and toward the end, he would walk very slowly and without any sign of the pep which had so characterized his life. And so, we finally decided that the kindest thing to do for Sam was to let him go. Under those circumstances, euthanasia for pets is wonderful, because there is no pain or fear. Anyway, when Sam died, we got another dog, whose name is Fred. Fred is a good dog, but he's not the brightest pooch on the planet. He did want me to play with him all the time, and so I thought it would be a good idea to get him a canine playmate, which met with some serious opposition in the hosuehold. Nevertheless, I found a dog on line in a shelter in Dayton, Ohio, and in almost no time, Earl was residing with us. Really cute, scruffy dog, resembling the terrier breed. You can tell, their noses and mouths are a little long for the rest of their body. Earl loved to jump off the ground while walking or standing by your side, and he would usually give you a playful little nip with his teeth. It never hurt and you knew he didn't intend it to hurt. After I got used to this, I happened to look in the dictionary or on-line for a definition of a terrier dog. It said terriers are frequently small dogs, used for routing out rodents like rats and other vermin. The dogs are fiesty and fearless. This certainly was Earl's mantra; he wasn't afraid of anything, nothing! And he greeted everyone who came to the house with a fierce barrage of barking and jumping and had the poor laundry man scared out of his wits. Earl finally made up with him, but he never failed to announce his arrival. Thinking about it, it may have been an accident that Earl hurt Jim, but you cannot have a dog who reacts and injures another person. You just can't do it. I am incredibly sad about Earl and will miss him for a very long time. Pardon all this stuff. I just thought I'd tell you why I haven't been here in the past few days. Fred is Ok, but I think he's lonesome.

Next Week, Dear Reader

I know that thousands of readers have noticed the lack of any activity on the blog. To explain, I have been heavily involved in preparing for the 50th Reunion of the Maysville High School Graduating Class of 1959. About fifty to sixty people gathered here last night for fun and frolic (to the extent any of us have any frolic left) and it was a good time. Today, the class is meeting at the Riverpark for a lunch gathering, then naps, then Caproni's for the final convocation. While I'm not exactly feeling my best this morning, I can tell you very honestly that I behaved very much better this time than I did five years ago at these affairs. Well, enough excuses! I shall be back with a vengeance after the first of the week. Tootle-oooo, as my grandmother used to say.

Television and Fear

Over the years, television has provided the American public with a lot of entertainment, some of it of high quality. It's ubiquitous, but it has changed our country in some ways which are most unfortunate. The story about East Second Street sixty five years ago brings to mind certain unwritten rules in effect then. Children in our neighborhood who could be trusted not to run into the path of an automobile were otherwise free to do just about anything. From the early spring to the very late fall, children played with each other outdoors. Most of the mothers then were stay-at-home women who kept house, raised children, cooked and cleaned and generally worked awfully hard. So, they kept an eye on what was going on in the neighborhood and seemed to have a sixth sense when we were up to something we shouldn't be. I mentioned rules. When breakfast was over, children were free to leave the house and go anywhere we wanted in the neighborhood. And we could stay all morning. The signal for lunch was the whistle at the Pulley Factory, a sound that could be heard all over east Maysville. We were to be home within a very few minutes after the whistle sounded. And lunch was served. For a long time, we had our main meal in the middle of the day, as was the country custom. We called it dinner, while the last meal of the day was denominated supper. After lunch (dinner), some of us were made to take naps early in life, but later, the afternoon was totally free for play. I guess our stomachs told us when it was suppertime, because there was no whistle to announce that meal. There were, however, mothers all over the neighborhood calling their children to come home, wash up, and get ready for supper. After supper, it was back outside where we could remain until the street lights came on. In July, they didn't light up until nine or nine-thirty. And so, with brief interruptions for food and sustenance, our summer days were frequently thirteen hours outside. It's not that way anymore. Parents these days seem to be terrified, really frightened about bad things which could befall their children. There seems to be constant supervision, planned activities and almost no spontaneous creativity on the part of children. Mothers or fathers almost always accompany their children to parks and other places which might interest a child. If you talk to a mom about what she allows her nine year old to do, it's completely different these days and it arises out of her fear for the child's safety. I think this is an unfortunate result of the television set. Recently, the tv news has been flooded with coverage about the 11 year old girl abducted and held incommunicada for years by a perverted child molester. The story is the stuff of a horror novel and is undoubtedly true. But television makes it seem like the story arose in the next block down the street. When this type of news was reported in the newspaper, the effect was not nearly so sensational and there wasn't repetitive coverage all day long and from day to day. There is another story on television which implied that a child's grandmother had hidden her grandchild in a two foot wide room for two years, thereby shielding the child from one of its parents as a result of a custody fight. It's true she hid the child when someone she thought was a threat visited her home, but in those custody circumstances, this isn't all that unusual. But it is the intention of television, I think, to make such stories as sensational as possible. The point of all of this is that television has been extremely effective in scaring our population of things that are almost totally unlikely to happen to their children. You may not agree, and if you don't, I think the television has gotten to you. I know it's gotten to me. Maybe there's nothing we can do about it, but it is a damned shame that kids can't grow with a little more spontaneity, learning as they go. Not everything modern is necessarily good. And television is a first class example!

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