Breaking Bread (a Trailer Park Tale)

Providentially, though our family was uprooted both emotionally and physically by our move to Trailer Village, we were plunked down in the vicinity of a pair of God’s quiet servants.  A few doors down from our 'new' home, on the opposite side of the street closer to the park entrance, lived Jimmy and Jeanine Williams.  Two things I remember clearly about this older couple: they introduced my mother to the local Assembly of God pastor and his wife, and they introduced our entire family to the spicy pleasure of greasy tacos.  I remember the former because we started attending church, a turn of events that profoundly affected the rest of my life.  I remember the latter because -- for reasons known only to the Creator -- memories often travel on the back of food.

It seemed to me that Jimmy and Jeanine were a good deal older than Mom, but by how many years I can't say.  As I was barely school age, all adults were old.  To me they were ancient -- ideal grandparent figures.  Jimmy had finished a 20 year career tour in the United States Marine Corps.  As Trailer Village was less than a mile from the back entrance to Camp Pendleton, any number of residents had connections with either the Navy or Marine Corps.  Both Jimmy and Jeanine had gray or graying hair.  Jimmy's was getting thin.  Both wore glasses, both were solid and stocky.  At some point, the Williams noticed the new family down the street and opened their hearts and home to a noisy, awkward group of kids and their mother.  Tacos at their home are one of the first meals I remember.  Other meals from my early childhood were more in keeping with my Mom’s Wyoming farm heritage.  I remember meat and potatoes and canned vegetables.  Consequently, tacos were a foreign and exotic treat.  There we would sit, all huddled around the tiny, circular dining table in the Williams trailer.  How they managed to fit in five additional people is a wonder.  

The ingredients were in various bowls in the center of the table.  The process was simple: take a tortilla and load it up.  Wonder Bread was my frame of reference, so the concept of a tortilla was baffling at first.  Tacos can cover a whole gamut of ingredients; the Williams variety was quite simple:  corn tortillas heated in some kind of oil until hot but not hard, ground beef (not lean), cheddar cheese, tomatoes, and lettuce.  Jimmy, Jeanine and Mom also made use of something called ‘hot sauce’, a pungent reddish-brown liquid in a small bottle.  A sample of the stuff warned me off for years.  Although middling on the scale of hot sauces, to my tongue it was fiery.  My alternative salsa was ketchup, no doubt repulsive to purists (and to me now), but ketchup went on a LOT of things in my childhood.  In those days, cooking oil usually meant lard or Crisco.  The Better Homes and Gardens cookbook recommended meat 'with good fat marbling for enhanced flavor’.  Cheddar -- as it is now -- was a rather oily cheese.  This made eating tacos an oily, messy proposition.  While munching on one end, the other end had to be held over the plates (usually paper) so the combined greasy residue from the meat, tortilla, and cheese dripping from the other end would be safely collected.  Each bite squeezed several drops out.  I found it fascinating to aim for the same spot, so that by the end of the meal, I had a nice, round puddle which congealed into an opaque yellowish-white mass.  It was fortunate that none of us were aware of the contribution such a meal would make to our cholesterol levels.  The pleasure of eating is vastly diminished when every bite is evaluated for fat (saturated or not), sodium, sugar, carbohydrates, and calories.  To this day, tacos remain a favorite meal, though long ago I graduated from ketchup to Pace Picante sauce and more recently to a delightful home-made salsa.

Simple hospitality.  Never overestimate the impact of a friendly meal or two on a small child.  My journey towards heaven started out on a road paved with greasy corn tortillas.  

Belated Mothers Day

This entry was intended for Mother's Day.  But a week or so before Mother's Day, I pinched a nerve in my neck.  It was probably the result of seasonal brush pruning on our back hill.  I must confess that I am not much for whacking away at spring growth, but the fire ordinance requires it and so I get out each year and do my duty.  Somewhere along the way, my neck rebelled, though I cannot pinpoint an injury 'event'.  In any case, the pain got bad enough that I missed a day of work and actually went to the doctor, as no man should ever do.  At this point, with a continued regimen of Ibuprofen, prescription muscle relaxant, hot showers, neck exercises and lots of time flat on my back, my condition is much improved.  Enough so that I can actually think about doing something I enjoy.  Although at the moment, my grandson is trying to help me type, which makes blogging a challenge!

Without further ado, and so I can pay my grandchildren proper attention, here is my tribute to a some very special mothers.

THREE MOTHERS

Your hair is gray, your home is empty.

Still, you start every morning 

with prayer for your children, 

and their children

and their children's children.

Some nearby, some far away,

always in your heart.

Though you have toiled for years,

your hands are not idle,

you do not ask for leisure.

Instead, you spend your time

with boys and girls who need a grandma

telling stories, playing games, doing crafts;

writing to missionaries

who so rarely hear from home;

finding a place of service

wherever you are.

Your step is slower, your smile just as ready.

Though the years run to their end

and many who started the race with you

have gone before to their reward

You keep fighting the good fight, 

Greeting the Creator

of the new day.

Another day to love, to serve, to pray

My mother.

In the darkness before dawn,

you rise to prepare, 

with little thought for yourself.

Your hours and minutes 

are full to overflowing.

Like birds in the nest,

a house of girls clamor:

Food for the mind.

Food for the body.

Food for the soul.

The bounty of your womb and your heart

stretch the limits of energy, of patience.

Your daughters grow 

in grace, in wisdom, in stature.

They show the depth of mother love

in unthinking reflection,

still drawing life from you

though no longer infants.

Happy and wholesome, 

roots sinking deep

in the rich soil of family.

And when evening comes, 

the day's toil ceases.

With grateful heart you go to rest,

knowing tomorrow will come,

another day of hidden service.

My wife.

Your eyes sparkle with

the fresh discovery of mother love.

New life has blessed your marriage:

the miracle of children.

A little girl, with impish grin and new words every day.

A little boy, crawling everywhere with boundless energy.

And I see a young woman,

learning the richer joy found

in the daily toil of endless nurturing.

Pouring your life into the lives of your offspring.

The small attentions,

touching, holding, cradling,

gentle words, firm words.

Smiling at small victories,

always guiding, always loving.

Seeing your own mother

in the new light of your shared mission,

the unsurpassed beauty of motherhood.

My daughter.

That First Trailer

Even though I was only 4 years old, I did notice some unique features about our "new" home.  Hey, it was new to us.  Of course, the outside was aluminum, painted a slightly oxidized lavender and white.  At 8 feet wide and 32 feet long, it was definitely smaller than our old place.  But, it DID have a raised foundation.  Well, actually, just a collection of concrete pylons placed at intervals along the frame with threaded steel brackets to level the trailer.  Simple wooden steps led to the only door.  I remember crawling under those steps and no-one would know where I was.  For a kid my age, the pleasure of peeking through the small gaps between the 2x4's, watching people come and go or creaking up and down the steps oblivious to my presence was a rare treat. I had a sense of both omniscience and invisibility.  The only problem with invisibility is that it makes mothers worry.  I got into a trouble at least once for hiding out there just a little too long. 

Inside, the walls were a honey-colored wood paneling that flexed if you leaned on it.  Sturdy stuff.  Another cool thing about this trailer was that it had holes in the roof.  It isn't what you are thinking.  There were a couple of hand-crank ceiling vents, that would open up a few inches to let in fresh air and a glimpse of the sky.  I have never had hand crank-ceiling portals in a home since.  (We did have real holes in the roof of our next trailer, but that is another story.) Sitting on the hitch on front of the trailer was a small roundish steel tank.  I found out later it was where the gas came from for the stove.  One of the big events of trailer park living was when the propane truck with its BIG tank would come around to fill up all the baby propane tanks.

The back of our trailer was up close to a steep bank planted with ice plant.  At the top was a hedge of oleanders, a drainage ditch, and the road that led to the entrance of Trailer Village a few hundred feet from our place.  The bank was perhaps 5-6 feet high and I could see traffic through the gaps in the plants.  I developed a habit of amusing myself by tossing small rocks up onto the road until the inevitable happened and I hit a car going by.  I dashed into the trailer, filled with certain dread that a car with a dent or cracked window and a livid driver would be pulling up in front of our home any minute.  The car never came, and in the future I limited my rock-throwing to other venues. 

So, there we were.  One young mother and 4 small children living in less square footage than currently makes up my living room or the train car I ride to work most mornings.  Where did we put everybody?  I remember my brother's small crib up against the wall in the living room that also doubled as bedroom for Mom, myself and my little brother.  Our two older sisters got the 'real' bedroom, which was as in the back.  What little furniture we had seemed more than adequate in the narrow confines of the trailer.

For children, geography is destiny.  Adults and circumstances determine your neighbors, your school, your home.  On that little street in Trailer Village, I would make my first friends.

Only Today Matters

My 94-year-old aunt had a stroke yesterday.  Her husband (my Mom's brother) had gone out for a few minutes and came back and found her unconscious on the floor.  Now she lies in a hospital bed surrounded by machines and strangers.  Her breathing is regulated by a ventilator, her vital signs monitored on an array of devices, her nourishment is liquid.  Her eyes opened when my wife and I went in to visit last night, but her face made no expression.  Whether because of the stroke or her weariness or the tubing in her mouth I don't know.  One can only wonder what lies on the other side, much as with an infant.  Her body is small and frail, her arms bruised and broken from the fall.  Her trademark red hair is showing gray roots and I know if she could speak, the spunky lady I know would be distraught at her appearance.

So, we prayed and then my wife talked quietly to her.  Conversation is not easy for me in the best of circumstances, so the notion of a monologue with my stricken aunt left me tongue-tied. But my better half is able to express love and concern and cheer and compassion without needing a response.  Out of the abundance of her heart her mouth speaks.  I just sat and held my aunt's hand and she feebly returned my grip.

After awhile, I went out to call my mother and my sisters to tell them what little we knew.  Since my uncle was not there when we came in, there was very little the nursing staff could say about my aunt's prognosis.  Still, a stroke for a woman of 94 years and poor health to begin with clearly means the long-term prognosis is not good.  As I sat with her, I was reminded that the long-term prognosis for my body is limited also.  I just have few immediate indicators of how short my time really us.  I am just a vapor in the scope of eternity.  But today I have another day to live. God help me to expend each minute purposefully.

What am I doing in the theater AGAIN?

OK, I already did a movie review this month.  And, really, I do not see that many movies in the theater.  Honest.  My wife and I have had gift passes since Christmas (see, we DON'T go that often).  But, we just saw a movie I need to talk about and that you should see:  October Baby.

There are many reviews.  I quickly read a handful just now and few stick to evaluating the movie on how well it tells a story.  October Baby has touched a nerve.  There is often a hint of anger shown by reviewers, the kind of passion that indicates an unpleasant truth has been brought out of the closet and quickly needs to be shouted down and dismissed back to where it came from.  The truth that October Baby gives a voice to is that many women who have lived since Roe v. Wade have suffered, suffered deeply, mostly in silence.

October Baby, unlike the vast majority of faith-based movies produced in my lifetime, is an artistic success in its own right.  It isn't perfect.  But, there were not any moments where I said to myself, "So, I get what they were trying to do, but that was really awkward."  You know the feeling.  Where a well-intentioned movie is so bad that you wouldn't ask someone who is not in our 'Faith Club' to see it.

I cried.  I am a father who regularly disappoints his daughters during movies because they are bawling their eyes out while I sit there apparently unmoved.  It takes an incredibly powerful movie to turn off the switch in my head that defies the movie to transport me beyond the fact that I am sitting in a dark room with a  bunch of other people eating junk food watching a large, moving two-dimensional picture enhanced by surround-sound.  I am very aware of the technical presentation of the movie.  Can't help it.  October Baby took me beyond that.

I am glad I went with my wife.  This is primarily a young woman's story, but also the story of several other women.  I was glad I could hold her hand and be thankful that the story was not her story.  But, I came away wondering about all the others who live this reality.

It was also the story of a father who, like me, while trying so hard to do what is best, fundamentally fails so often to understand his daughter and finds the only path back to her heart is to humbly ask forgiveness and the chance to try again.

And that is October Baby's message: forgiveness is the path back to wholeness.

Lent Retrospect

As a far-from-liturgical Christian, the Lenten season (40 days from Ash Wednesday until Easter) was mostly a mystery to me.  I saw it as a quaint ritual practiced by folks in those other Christian streams who did not benefit from the Reformation.  But, I have begun to see the need of more spiritual preparation for Easter than a vague hope that the church musical or pageant would be good and that someone would get me some robin's eggs candy.  The past couple of years I have attempted, with varying degrees of success, to commit to some form of self-denial as a means to focus my attention on the deeper meaning of Easter.

This year in particular, what I perceived as 'giving up' of something I valued proved to result in less time wasted, greater joy, reduced anxiety.  It may become a permanent change.  The hidden benefits of self-denial...

The Hunger Games Movie - True to the tale

MOVIE - THE DIFFERENCES

Since my original post on the first Hunger Games novel, I have completed the trilogy and seen the Hunger Games movie with my 19-year-old (who completed HG trilogy in a weekend!).  I have been grinding away at a review for over 2 weeks since.  It at last occurred to me why this has been so difficult.  Most of what I think about HG I have already said.  And, while turning a book into a movie often means compromises, with HG Movie the essence of the story is captured, even enhanced.  Where it leaves out subtle details of background and character, it gives full dimension to sounds and images.  It is one thing to read about the exotic appearance of capital citizens.  It is quite another to see on a big screen the vibrant, contrived individuals of the capital compared with the drab, downcast sameness of those in District 12 where the grit of coal dust seems to permeate everything.  In the book, Katniss is enthralled by the costuming and food, which makes her seem the immature teenager.  In the movie, much less time is devoted to those preparations, we see the end results.  Result: a more mature characterization of Katniss, especially given the gravity of her situation.

Of course, at some point, those sent to the arena have to start dying.  And when they do, it is shocking.  Still, compared to the descriptions in the book necessary to generate the same level of horror, the gore in the movie was minimized without diminishing the tension.

The biggest change from the book is that the movie audience does not live the story through the eyes, ears, mind and heart of Katniss.  We are only able to interpret Katniss based on her actions, which often seem very measured with occasional outbursts of passion, and her words, which are few.  It allows the other characters to be seen without the filter of Katniss' interpretations.  Rue is precious, magnifying the tragedy of her participation in the games.  President Snow, Effie Trinket, and Caesar were also particularly notable.  Katniss, though, is still central, and dominates not through force of first person narrative, but by a convincing portrayal of a deep resolve to persevere to an unknown end without becoming a tool of the Games.

SUPER GIRL?

Hunger Games gives a nod to the pervasive 'strong girl' cultural meme -- the compulsion to show women as able to compete physically with men.  The reality is much different.  In sports, world class women competitors are at the level of high school sophomore boys.  In the military and police, the rate of injury for women is much higher.  The chance of a female surviving The Hunger Games is actually quite remote.  Though Katniss scores the highest initial ranking and is the 'star' of the games, HG shows much of Katniss's survival is circumstantial - the 'tracker jackers', the tribune from D11 who saved her, Peeta's early diversions.  And, while competent, Katniss is limited and vulnerable.  That makes her believable, someone you hope can overcome the odds.  She is a benefactor of grace.

CENTRAL QUESTIONS STILL CENTRAL IN MOVIE

The same questions hovering over the book remain as The HG movie ends with the consequences of victory still uncertain for Katniss and Peeta.  What makes a person chose (as Katniss and Peeta do) to live or die for the sake of others rather than choose to survive at any cost?  Where does that will come from?  A message, if not THE message, of Hunger Games is that there are people and causes worth dying for and even if your cause fails, the attempt is worth the cost.  Watching The Hunger Games, I was reminded of this by Malcolm Muggeridge: "…we are given the choice of Love or power.  The way of Love is the way of the Cross."  (Confessions of a Twentieth-Century Pilgrim).

President Snow's observation on hope was telling.  For those in power, a little hope for 'the masses' is good, too much is dangerous.  What is it that people yearn for, hope for?  Which raises a question for the real world: Are we feeding our children into a hopeless system where image and entertainment are more important than meaningful relationships and true purpose?  Where adults look on while children are destroying each other or destroying themselves?  What proportion of the world's children would even have the time to consider the importance of a book or movie in the context of the bitter day-to-day struggle for food, shelter, survival?

SHOULD YOU SEE THE MOVIE?

There is considerable angst among Christian movie reviewers over whether Hunger Games will push, pull or lead 'young people' in a bad direction.  Have we read the same Bible?  It is full of violence and betrayal and sin and darkness.  Of course, there is also hope and forgiveness and redemption.  But what Christian has not been in the position of Peter or Judas and to some degree betrayed their Savior and felt the same despair?  Should we leave out the story of Judas or the book of Judges or half the stories in Genesis?

I see much more integrity in those few brave souls who feel that as followers of Jesus they cannot waste precious time indulging in movies or other trivialities.  They see both 'entertainment industry' and 'Christian movie reviewer' as oxymorons.  And I admire their stance.  Deep down, to my dismay, I suspect they are right.  

However, if like me, you have already  ingrained yourself in the habit of a family movie night or are trying to connect with the cultural influences of a younger generation, then by all means, see The Hunger Games.  See it with a teenager or several.  Have the discussion about violence and betrayal and sin and darkness and hope and forgiveness and redemption and the way of Love and Who it is that shows us that way.