Down the road a piece...

It's funny, but I don't really have any outstanding memories about Thanksgiving except the times when my parents, my brother and I would venture from PA to Long Island, NY to spend the holiday with my aunt and uncle and there 7 kids, and my grandmother.  All I can say is that it always ended with all the cousins and my brother going out on the town after dinner while I(being the youngest), got stuck at the house, with the grown-ups. Good times.
I can share with you good memories about Indians, though.  The Native American kind, for all you politically correct people out there.  However, back in the 70's, they were just Indians, and my summers in Michigan were spent in Ojibwa territory at Camp Batawagama. The name is Ojibwa for "land between two lakes", the Chicagoan Lake and Indian Lake. It was there, in the beautiful woods, where I learned to whittle with my pocket knife, braid, shoot an arrow with a bow, dig a trench, pitch a tent, collect fire wood, start a campfire, make mountain pies and ate s'mores. I hiked, collected bugs and wild-flowers, and made all kinds of crafts.
I bought orange and grape Crush (in the bottles) and other junk food from the canteen with the money my parents gave me and gladly shared it with other campers. It was in the lake that I earned my advanced life-saving certificate, learned to scuba dive and row a boat and canoed off with my cabin mates and counselor for an overnight camping trip across the lake where we scared ourselves silly around the campfire listening to ghost stories.  And it was there at that blessed camp where I  got eaten alive by mosquitoes and deer flies, survived poison ivy, learned about nature and Indians and learned to cherish every folk song that we sang from the camp's songbooks after dinner.
Eager young campers would arrive on Sunday, get their cabin assignments, and then spend the next week making friends and learning to love the outdoors with the guidance of their camp counselor. Every morning, we'd all be awakened by a bugle blowing reveille.  We'd all get dressed and then meet at the front of the mess hall for the raising of the flag.  Every night, at dusk, we'd do the same thing for the lowering of the flag.  And then we'd sing "Taps" acapella, and later that night, when we were all in our beds, the bugle would send us off to sleep with the traditional version, reminding us that the day was done and all was well.
 Every day, for every meal, a cabin was responsible for "KP" duty; setting up the tables for mealtime, serving the other campers, and then cleaning up. No kid seemed to mind that they were actually doing chores. I know I didn't. I was just happy. We always started meals with the Doxology ("Praise God from whom all blessings flow...").  After lunch there was mail call, and we all anxiously waited for letters and care packages from home.  The best part of the day though, was after dinner, when we got the songbooks out and shouted out requests to Mr. Schulze, the Camp Director.  We'd sing songs like "500 miles", "Blowin' in the Wind", "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt."  My favorite was the camp's own song:
                               "Down the road a piece,
                              in the middle of the woods,
                              there's a youth camp, Batawagama.
                              Down at Indian Lake,
                              there's a camp that takes the cake,
                              it's the youth camp, Batawagama.
                              Now, if you want to swim or sing a song,
                              here's your second home,
                              just as sure as your born...
                             So, hail(hail), hail(hail), the gang's all here,
                             at the youth camp, Batawagama...
                             oh, B-A-T-A-W-A-G-A-M-A!"
Every Thursday evening, after dinner, we all got dolled up for the camp dance. There we learned to square dance, do the Mexican Hat dance and chicken dance, learned to polka and do the broom dance.
We all had a great time and no one was left without a partner.
Fridays were what made the camp what it was; the best camp on the planet. It was the night of the initiation of all new campers, held deep in the woods and officiated by an authentic Ojibwa Indian Chief.
After dinner, and if you had been a camper there before, you were given an Indian name and had your face painted to reflect that name. Then, after nightfall, the entire camp would gather on the shore of the lake, in quiet anticipation of the arrival of the Chief, in formal headdress, standing tall with his arms folded, in a canoe that was had a lit torch on the front of it being steered by an authentic Ojibwa warrior. In the distance was the beat of a drum...bum...bum...bum as the fiery canoe came into view.
Campers were not allowed to speak; it was a very sacred event that was to be respected.  When the Chief was on dry land, he spoke something in his native tongue, and then proceeded up through the camp,
and to the torch lit path, guarded by elder campers (you had to be 16 to be one). One by one, we all silently followed behind.  If you were caught talking, the "guards" would take you aside, and you wouldn't be allowed to attend the ceremony. But that never happened; are you kidding me? Miss the best part of the week? No way, not me.  I did as I was told and was led to a large opening in the woods with wooden benches surrounding an "altar" of wood that was blazing with fire and smoke.
Then the Indian Chief would dance around the fire, chanting and singing in his native tongue; it was magical and totally real.  This went on for a while, but when it was over, all new campers got to put a feather in their headband and could get their faces painted next year.
I truly loved those summers at camp. I still know most of the words to the songs I learned and sang every day. I thank God for those memories, for those experiences of wonder and discovery. I have to admit, that when it comes to Thanksgiving, I don't really think about the Pilgrims, but rather summers in northern Michigan, among the land of the Ojibwa and Indian Lake.
(scroll down for part 2)

camp batawagama...part 2...

And now, the rest of the story...

After reading my blog yesterday, the man (aka cliffy g, aka my husband) reminded me that we had figured out what had happened to the neighbor's bear. I guess that I was so traumatized by the recall of that unpleasant event, that I forgot about the facts that led to my official exoneration.
Here's the scoop: the culprit actually turned out to be the farm dog that lived on the farm behind us. He was a black lab who had a habit of roaming through the backyards of nearby houses, collecting trinkets along the way, and then hoarding them in his pen back at the farm. These "trinkets" took the form of newspapers, dog bones, dog toys; anything left laying around that he could carry in his mouth. So, it wasn't really a stretch to think that the dog could have taken the bear. And the more I thought about it, I do now vaguely remember seeing paw prints in the snow and then on the neighbor's porch. I'm pretty sure that I mentioned that fact in my voice message.
Months later, my husband actually asked the girl from the farm if she had seen a stuffed bear up in the dog's pen, and she said yes, there was a stuffed animal up there. Ta da...exonerated by the clepto farm dog. I don't know if the neighbor ever found out, but I know that I didn't tell her. I guess I must have chosen not to get involved..."Mrs. Kravitz" must have taken a holiday.

RIP Mrs. Kravitz...

We have had an ongoing battle with mailbox terrorists and their postal jihad for over a year now. We're pretty sure it's kids from the local high school who play a certain sport, and ever since I ask the coach to talk to his players last spring, we haven't had any more attacks on our mailbox.
Until last night. I came home from work, after 11pm, and saw remnants of pumpkin splattered all over the road before and after our driveway. I got that dreaded pit-in-my-stomach feeling and sure enough, our mailbox was gone. I found it about a yard away from it's post, bloodied with pumpkin pulp and smashed in on one side so severely that it popped the back off.
One thing that was different this time was that both of our neighbors' mailboxes were hit too.
Oddly enough, I somehow felt better; less personally attacked this time. It appeared to be a random act of vandalism; a crime of opportunity. I know it's not nice to be happy about the misfortune of others, but I can't say that I'm not relieved.
I did call the one neighbor last night to let him know that his mailbox had be knocked down. The other neighbor's mailbox was down, but someone had propped it up next to it's post, and I know that they go to bed early, so I didn't bother them at such a late hour. The neighbor that I did call came out to see the damage. I told him that it looked like the mailboxes had been hit by pumpkins and we called the police because our mailbox was always a target. He acknowledged that he knew ours was always getting hit. And that's when I got a little irritated. I don't know, it was something about what he relayed to me when he said that. I took it to mean that yeah, we've known about all the attacks on your mailboxes, but we never say anything because we choose not to. Me in my paranoid delusion also took it to mean that this stuff always happens to us, and never them.
OK, here's the Mrs. Kravitz connection. I used to pride myself in being like "Mrs. Kravitz", the nosey neighbor on the 1964-1972 hit TV show "Bewitched." Except that I, in my self-appointed community watchdog status, stick my nose into the affairs of others because I am trying to help them...to be neighborly.
And in last night's case, I was doing just that; looking out for the interest of my neighbor. I put aside our relational awkwardness(long story, don't ask) to notify them of their downed mailbox so that they wouldn't be shocked in the morning to find that it had been hit.
After I got back to the house, I couldn't stop thinking about what my neighbor said. And then it hit me; the memory of an earlier incident and the hurt that came with it. About 7-8 years ago, as I was pulling into the driveway, I noticed that the neighbor's front door was wide open. So, me being "Mrs. Kravitz," I went up to the door, stuck my head in the doorway and said "hello?"
No one answered so I just closed the door and went home. I did call to leave a message on their answering machine to let them know that their door was open and that they should check to see if everything was OK.
Well, the neighbor lady called back and asked if I took a stuffed bear that was in one of the front rooms; it was an heirloom from her grandmother and it was missing. I remember feeling like I had just been smacked across the face. "What?!" Here I had tried to be a responsible neighbor and instead of a thank you, I get accused of theft. I remember being stunned, humiliated and deeply hurt by what she had said. I had not, nor never have seen, that stinkin' bear in my entire life and I would have never--EVER--committed unlawful entry and theft and risk being charged with felonious activity which would have not only embarassed myself and my family, but would have cost me my job if I had been convicted of a crime...and all for a stupid stuffed animal! Geez Louise, people!
The old me would have done whatever I could have to prove that I did not take that bear, but I remember being so devastated by the accusation that I just left the matter alone. The NEW me, however, would hold my head up high, because I know(and certainly God knows) for a fact, that I did nothing wrong except try and look out for the well-being of a neighbor. I had nothing to hide and no need to take something that was not mine. I am not about stuff.
But when I was reminded of that memory last night, A sickening revelation came over me. Oh my gosh, my neighbor probably thinks that I'm the one who hit his mailbox! Either that or I brought this upon his mailbox just by association. These Jedi-mind tricks are messing with my head! I feel as if I'm being sucked into a vortex of insanity where right is wrong and wrong is right, and I am so terribly misunderstood.
I'm tired of it all. I'm tired of caring and having it backfire on me. Lots of other people don't care, so why should I? Because, dang nabbit, it's in my blood. It's an automatic reflex that is going to be hard to control. I'm going to have to willingly make an effort to not get involved but realistically it is going to be easier said than done. But hey, if others can do it, then so can I.
So, as of today, it is with sad regret that I must announce the official death of "Mrs. Kravitz," the nosey neighbor. I will miss her, but not the headache or heartache that came with the job.

Misfits are people too...

The Christmas season is soon upon us and with that comes the showing of every Christmas-related movie or animation possible until the blessed holiday has arrived. I, personally, have a love-hate relationship with "Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer." I love how the story ends with Rudolph being elevated to first reindeer position in the pack because of his "unique" quality. All of the other reindeer(no pun intended) get put in their place and Rudolph gets the admiration of Santa and gets the girl at the same time. Sweet!   

What I hated about the story was just how down right horrible it was to witness--in a Christmas animation--made for TV--geared towards children--Rudolph being unloved by his dad and not supported by his mother! And as if covering his red nose with a bunch of mud was going to make things better. Jeez Louise. Very, very traumatic to watch as a kid. But the story redeems itself by showing how Rudolph's unique little facial feature helps to save Christmas for everyone. It would have been cool to see Rudolph telling off his dad, but after all, it was a Christmas show, and it would have clouded the true meaning of the story.

And then, to make matters worse, viewers get to watch as Herman the elf gets bullied by his boss and the other elves because he doesn't want to do elf stuff. His heart just isn't into it and you can tell because he's not very good at making toys; it's not what he wants to do or be. He wants to be a dentist. He's passionate about teeth and dental care. He's read books about all things dental and has natural talent for the profession.

Conformity. That's the issue, and it still plagues mankind today. Especially in the church. Your specific gift, talent or ability may be given to you by God, but it may not be good enough for the church.

I call it "cookie cutter" Christianity. You must be a certain way, depending on what leadership decides what you will be. Or do. You may be just perfect in the eyes of God, but the church(in general) has standards that you must measure up to in order to be allowed to do anything for the church. It's so stupid and all the church does is shoot itself in it's own foot. And people are miserable; you can see it in their faces. So instead of a growing, vibrant body of Christ that is equipped with the ability to be all things to all people because of the vast variety of God-given abilities of it's members, we purposefully stifle the church's potential to breathe life into a depressed and dying world that longs for hope again. Now that's truly, truly tragic. The church would rather be stagnant than come alive and be a living fragrance of Christ and be used by him to bring about revival. Why Christians continue to cut their noses off to spite their face is beyond me. As John Wayne so wisely once stated: "Life is tough, it's even tougher when you're stupid."

Just think about what would have happened if Rudolph and Herman had stayed put and accepted their lot in life.  What would have happened if they would have let go of their inner passion to want and to be more?  I'm telling you what would have happened...a major crisis of worldly proportion when those kids who worked so hard to be good all year long did not receive their gifts because Santa's flight got fogged in or, even worse, when Santa's sleigh crashes and his frozen dead body, along with all of his reindeer, and shards of wood from his decimated sleigh, are found by some family who was going over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house that Christmas day. The world would have been in utter turmoil.

Not to mention the fact that Santa and all the elves would have to deal with the consequences
of eating a diet high in sugar with no preventative or acute dental care available. Come on, who else in the entire world would be in the greatest need of a dentist then a population of people whose diet consists of cookies, milk, candy canes, egg nog, sugar plums and fruit cake? I'll tell you, if it wasn't for Herman's passionate self-study of dentistry, all those elves would be busy making wooded dentures instead of toys. Not to mention, that they all would probably die sooner secondary to disease that can come from untreated dental issues.

And let us not forget the discovery of true happiness when you are allowed to be what you really are meant to be; so beautifully portrayed by the most famous elf of all...Buddy(aka Will Farrell.) It was obvious to everyone that he was indeed NOT an elf, and the more he tried to be one, the worse he was at one. 

In his heart, Buddy was an elf, but physically he was human. Only when he embraced that fact and had his wonderful adventure in NYC, was it clear just how special he truly was. And not only did he help Santa, but he restored a broken family, and got the girl. See it pays to be who we really are meant to be. Not some mass-produced item made on an assembly line, but an individual crystalline snowflake, delicately designed by a master craftsman, made to go here or there, directed by it's maker.
                                       
So it is with great honor that I accept my misfit status. After all, Rudolph, Herman and Buddy share that fame, so I guess I'm in good company.