A Crisis Of Credit, Identity Theft

It is nearly impossible for me to write anything anymore. I have overdrawn my checking account; I am deep in the negative. There are little slips showing up in my mail box: the bank wants its money. I dig deep into my pockets, I search beneath the cushions of the sofa, I paw through the rejectamenta of my car's glove box. Nothing but a few coins.

Surely the bank will not care if I tape them to a card and toss it in the post.

____________________

Perhaps I am exhausted by a particular pleasure. It's a sordid one, I admit, and one thoroughly pervasive in our culture. It is the pleasure derived from criticism, of reading criticism, of being a critic. It is the fatigue that befalls the cynic, particularly the reluctant cynic.

But maybe it's not about criticism. Maybe I am tired of defending what I believe. Maybe I am worn through, having given way like the denim that covered a little boy's knees. Or maybe I am empty, not because I have given too much away, but because I can't find anything to replenish my mind. In this case, it's not what comes out of a man that corrupts him. What corrupts a man is that there is nothing going in.

Perhaps.

____________________

Of course, the problem lies with me, within me. I am a fool for looking "out there" for things to fill the void. The poets and prophets know better (or so they say) and I should too, as I've read their couplets and been burned by their ire. To look elsewhere than myself is to cast blame, to look for a target onto which I might cast aspersions. It is to out-source, if you will, the problem, the cause of the malaise. My grief is not, ultimately, rooted in injustice, or in the vapidity of presidential campaigns, or in the obscenities of culture. My grief is mine: I am the source of my weakness. For I have, in part, put too much meaning, too much import and value, on things outside myself. Such objects of devotion are indeed idols, and they may take the form of real people, like a spouse or a president; or they may be ideas or ideologies or promises uttered by a candidate reported to be as good as Christ.

Indeed, I DO place too much meaning on things. I once was rejected by a woman -- a woman! -- because she thought I held sex in too high esteem: She chided me that sex was "too meaningful" for me. I recall at my 20th high school reunion a conversation I had with an old friend, Helen. She told me that in high school I scared women off because, as she said, "you wanted to get into their heads, and not their pants." How could I reply that I thought that was what women wanted?

I confess my guilt. I have put my hope and trust in things.

_____________________

What does it mean to be happy? Is it enough to to get up in the morning and drink tea while watching the day's birds gather outside on limbs and lawn? Is it enough to ask God to forgive me, again, for forgetting that He is not an idol, a talisman, a magic lamp? And is it enough to say little prayers, just little ones? Is it enough to ask God questions in the morning, and then, beneath the deep night's full moon, ask the same questions again? Does a loving father ever tire of little talks with his children? Is he deaf to the chattering choruses of "why, why, why?" Does he grow weary of giving answers?

In all my years loving birds, I've never heard one bird change its song, nor have I ever grown weary of hearing the same winged symphony. Let the chickadee sing the same song all day, for it comforts me. The crow soothes me. The oriole and the rose-breasted grosbeak bring me no small joy.

Of course, I correct myself. There is one bird I know that does change its song. I will not mention that bird here, for its name almost suggests harassment. But I love that bird's nocturnal tunes, though its voice is that of all other birds (and other similar sounds) and not its own. Perhaps today I am like that bird -- that voice of many voices -- calling out in the night, trying out many songs, hoping to land on one that is, in the end, the voice I thought I had.

And I wonder, in the end, if happiness is really rather simple, and it has just one voice: Gratitude.


Peace.

BG

©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Preservation And Defense

Not long ago, two old farmers - a brother and sister - moved out of their family farmhouse: the last two surviving members of the Welch family had stayed at home as long as they could. They were each nearly a century old when they died a few miles down the road, beneath the flourescent light buzzing over a nursing home deathbed. But before they left this life, they bequeathed their farmhouse, and all of the surrounding land, to a conservation group: the old siblings did not want their legacy to fall into enemy hands.

Adjacent to the Welch's homestead, just east of the old rooming house, stood a clutch of barns. Inside one barn could be found the initials, carved into pine or painted in stove black, of every farmhand that passed through the farm dating back to 1865. It was clear that not a few workers took jobs at the farm several years in a row; others would be off to fight in some great war, never to return. There were chains and old scythes hanging in rusted silence; there were old tins on the wall; a set of old oars stood in a corner, crossed. It was a hall for the silent past, but a past that was not so silent if one but listened.

After the old couple died, I would walk the forsaken farm, taking pictures here and there. The photo above was taken along the northern wall of the old house, just off the ell. I could not help but take the photograph -- with the old lamp and bulb, the paper-wasps' nest tucked beneath the shade, the flecked paint, a lonely window and the ghostly imprint of old shutters -- all calling me to remember. But what seems silent is not at all; and what seems old is still rather new: the tap of hands on a window flung open, the smell of fresh paint on a horsehair brush, the piquant air of harvest. I hear children nearby, the shouts of farmhands heading to town with a wagon-load of milk; or the muted thud of boots beneath a dim lamp during heavy snows.

The conservation group which inherited the land, in response to fears and anxieties and sundry other modern maladies, decided that the best thing for the preservation of the old regime was for the new to vanguish the past. So the fire department was called. The volunteer fire corps practiced in the light of burning barns. They rescued smoke and soot. They aimed their hoses only after all memories had disappeared in the heat of a spark fanned bright by legal arson. Later, a bulldozer would level the old farmhouse. Soil was pushed here and there beneath the row of singed catalpa trees; a little monument was erected to remind stray visitors of the monuments that were burned and buried.

Occasionally I return to the old Welch farm. Nothing much remains, of course, but a few flecks of paint, a shard of glass, an ember pressed into soot. And the wasps nearby.

Peace.

Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

Waking Up During The Fall

It was but a glimpse, and even then it was but a glimpse of a silhouette. It was a shimmer, a sylph; a vapor of joy and mirth in the night. It came and went like a scene between buildings spotted from the window of a speeding train. It was there, and then it wasn't. And yet it remains. Indelibly.

As I traveled into town the other night, a little after 8:00, I zipped down Concord Street with little in particular on my mind. It was a typical fall night, the edge of frost scraping at the windows, at the mums in planters, at the pumpkins on lighted front steps. Leaves piled in a light breeze along the curbs; woodsmoke curled around hedges and jumped over eaves.

Suddenly, as I approached the town funeral home, its lights on inside and out, a little girl, not more than 7 years old and wearing a little dress and overcoat, leapt off the funeral parlor's front steps and skipped toward a car at the curb, its rear passenger door swung wide open to receive her. There was glee, there was merriment; there was a pure and innocent joy in her step, the angle of her arms, the bounce of her hair. It was clear she felt free, happy, even relieved: nothing could encumber her.

But then I noticed, as I moved closer and past, that coming out of the funeral home, trailing behind the little girl, was a middle-aged woman carrying a huge funeral bouquet in a vase. She was saying goodbye to somebody, she was moving slowly; there seemed to be someone else in the foyer, another woman, more flowers, a man in a suit. There was no one else, no crowd, no line; no long queue of grief flowing down the street, like I had so often seen when some prominent person had died, or some shocking tragedy struck Peterborough. And as I readied to turn round the old library, I knew I had seen the closing moments of a wake, of calling hours: there would be a funeral or graveside service tomorrow, I knew; the flowers would be brought from one place to the next.

Who had died? Was it the little girl's grandmother, her great-grandmother? Was it her papa? Or was it someone she was supposed to know, someone in a long line of family that she knew by blood but not by face or name? Perhaps it was her little brother, or her little cousin, who had died at childbirth or because of a miscarriage. I could not know.

But it was the leap and the skip, the movement alone -- that sign of life -- that I know, and shall never forget. I do not know the little girl's name, nor do I have any idea what she looks like, blacked out as she was by the porch lights behind her and the lights shining on a funeral home's sign. There was light in that darkness, no doubt. But it did not come from any bulb or any flame. It came from a little girl, leaving death behind, leaping toward the unknown, free to be, to laugh. To swing her arms.

To make my heart skip a beat or two as I turned a corner, moving on.

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes -- All Rights Reserved.

"But Most Importantly, Our Sons"

He is 36 years old. He still lives at home with his parents. He lives near a ravine, Huntington Gorge. And he has had something of a sick fantasy. At least, that is my guess.

The sick fantasy is to snatch a woman, beat, rape and murder her; and then, after putting her pants back on her body, the fantasy is to wedge her between rocks at the bottom of the nearby gorge, cover her with some debris, and go home to bed. Everyone, perhaps, will think that the victim fell in the dark, perhaps too drunk to know where she was, lost in an alcohol haze having taken a ride in some taxi who-knows-where†.

The fantasy became reality for Brian L. Rooney on October 7, between the hours of 2:00 and 4:30 in the morning. And the sick, twisted fantasy became a nightmare for 21-year-old Michelle Gardner-Quinn, a University of Vermont student hailing from Arlington, VA. Her parents, who were visiting UVM for Parents' Weekend and who were with their daughter the night she disappeared while she walked down Burlington's most public street, made tearful pleas for Michelle's safe return, but to no avail. Police later found the man who assisted Michelle when her cell phone's batteries died; he had loaned her his phone as she chatted with friends, trying to hook up with them several blocks away on the same street; the man would hear that she was fully alone, and the door was open. No doubt it was kindness, capricious to the core, that he used to entrap Michelle. A store surveillance camera would capture him walking with Michelle along the sidewalk; there seems to be no tension between them. But darkness often appears as light; evil is often hidden behind goodness. A predator had his prey, and a young woman had no idea.

Hikers, six days later, would find her in a lonely ravine.

THIS IS WHAT WE NEED TO HEAR

I need not over-explain the following quote. Just know that I believe it is one of the most important statements to be uttered in a long time; the context makes it nearly over-powering. I have strained on this blog to get close to the lesson that follows, but I have merely groped in the dark towards the heart of the issue. What follows, really, IS the heart. Let me simply let you read the quote by Burlington, VT police chief Thomas R. Tremblay when he spoke at a press conference Wednesday afternoon:

"Being aware that crime can occur, anywhere, to anyone, is the first step in crime prevention. However, we cannot let these terrible crimes paralyze us in fear. We must demand our freedom from violence and crime. We must also renew our commitment to ending violence against women, violence perpetrated by men – in the form of domestic and sexual violence.

"As a community we must move beyond "victim blaming" and direct more efforts at those who are responsible for the violence. As a society we must do more to educate boys and men to stop acts of violence against women. We should talk with our friends, our families, our children – certainly our daughters, but most importantly our sons … "[emphasis added]

Our sons, indeed. We might want to pray for them as well.

Peace, at least for one day. And may mercy, peace and comfort fall on the family of Michelle Gardner-Quinn, and even on Michelle herself. Oh, how we pray there is more to life than this.

†I want it to be understood that I am not suggesting that Ms. Gardner-Quinn was drunk, or that she deserves any of this, or anything of the sort.

©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

[Photograph of Burlington Police Chief Thomas R. Tremblay with portrait of Michelle Gardner-Quinn taken yesterday, as Chief Tremblay made his statement quoted above. Photo by Toby Talbot, AP. Image, and story, can be found here.]

Technorati tags: Michelle Gardner-Quinn, UVM, Violence against women

Interceding On Our Behalf, With Groanings Too Deep To Be Uttered

There is a horse-and-buggy, and strange folks with black cloth and black hats, and some with beards, and a child running with flowers toward a deep blue dream. From some cold grey pasture (it was green this morning), with dirt on his boots and mud-caked cheeks, a man steps forward and, taking off his hat, bows before a weeping mother and father. He stands erect, though a little bent, and looks into their eyes, eyes filled with flowers and children and blue and dirt and the teary flash of a gun. He says, “We will forgive your son.”

A dog passes by, sniffing for a little girl whose last words of the schoolday were, “Please, shoot me first.” Mothers and fathers -- and several small girls -- collapse at such lessons.

But these strange images all look the same to us: black-and-white on a horse-and-buggy, a triangle flashing warnings. We barely slow down, unless we have friends visiting from faraway. That movie with Harrison Ford was as real as this: we are witnesses to the futility of innocence. And we drive home, thinking we got the picture.

The full moon falls from the sky with nary a word. But the internet and TV are all a-chatter. The world would do well to drape itself in black for a while, seeing in the dark fabric the brilliant tearing flash of forgiveness that cuts its way through an Amish field not far from Paradise. Forgiveness bearing glad tidings, once twitching with doubt on the tip of a trigger. The big, sad bang which started it all.

"Pray for me," he said†. We pray, irrespective of the time, or whether it's too late. And now Amish families gather coins and cans, raising funds, not for the victims, but for the murderer's own family, left shattered beyond imagination. The rest of us are just confounded by such grace.

Peace everywhere, if for just one minute.

[†"He asked the children to pray for him, and that's kind of interesting because he said he hated God," Rhoads said. "He must have recognized the faith in them, God in them." -- ABC News]

©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

amish, murder, forgiveness, grace