Cherith’s Brook — PID pulls into a rest stop

FOR THOSE who listen to PID Radio, you may have noticed that Derek and I have taken a hiatus from producing daily PIDcasts — what we lovingly call our ‘blathers’. I’ve received numerous emails from concerned listeners since we made that decision, so rather than send individual responses, let me share here what Derek and I have decided is best for PID at this juncture.

A Tear In My Mind’s Eye

It’s hard to remember now that Nicole used to be shorter than I am! This was taken at the “Bailey Reunion” near Terre Haute, Indiana in 1998. Derek’s grandmother was a Bailey — in fact, Nicole was very nearly named Bailey.

---

FAMILY REUNIONS are a treasure trove to any writer. I’ve lost count of the number I’ve attended, but many of them have special sections in my generally disorganized mind. Picture a massive walnut table (I love walnuts) scattered with an assortment of manila file folders, each one marked with a year of my life. Inside, you’ll find a list of favorite songs, addresses (I moved frequently — often every year — doesn’t everyone?), and hosts of names, some with corresponding photos, others whose photos have either disappeared or been misfiled. The table is dusty, but the folders are well-thumbed. Among these treasured memories are those pages marked ‘Family’.

Another birthday arrives, and it’s time to reflect

Even as a toddler, I was pumping the locals for information. No doubt, I wrote it up and reported the news to my cadre of dolls, obediently lined up on our sofa to provide my audience.

---

AS THEY SAY, “TIME FLIES” — or perhaps, the older I get the more I attract flies. Either way, the past 54 years have truly flown by, and this seems like a perfect opportunity to consider the changes I’ve seen since those early days back in Indiana.

If you’re anywhere near my age, then you’ll surely agree that nearly everything we knew as children is gone, replaced with a less personal, less caring world grown too bright and too busy for Sunday afternoon naps. My mind loves to unfold and review those memories stored so long ago in those innocent 1950s.

During the lazy days of summer, my dad took us (mom and all six garrulous kids) on Sunday drives nearly every weekend. We’d visit my aunts and uncles, join in on picnics, and wander the valleys surrounding our modest two bedroom home (yep — two bedrooms for a family of eight). Dad drove one of those station wagons with the mock wood paneling on the sides. He smelled like Old Spice, and he’d drive a bit quicker over the little hills in the one-lane road — just to hear us squeal with delight as our stomachs flipped.

The Ferguson Clan moved as a herd, six girls and two smiling parents, proud but weary. Mom and Dad stretched a dime to the tensil strength of a dollar, and we giggling girls never realized how poor we really were.

Television replaced radio shortly after I arrived in 1952, so I recall Saturday evenings gathered around a 9-inch screen with hi-fidelity sound watching Frankenstein and The Wolfman turned our squeals to terrified screams. We’d each get one bottle of Coca-Cola, and Fay would pop corn, which we’d devour during commercials.The following Monday afternoons might find me back in front of the ’scream screen’, munching on a toasted cheese sandwich, watching fifteen minutes of Bugs Bunny before Mom chased me outside where I’d meander the meadows, chasing frogs and pretending to be a princess.

My mother worked off and on, but for the most part, she spent her days with us, and I learned to love watching her sparkling blue eyes. Large families weren’t unusual then, and family reunions often included fifty or more children — a raucous bunch of cousins with tanned legs and empty pockets, running, laughing, and enjoying the feel of rocks beneath our barefeet and dirt beneath our nails.In sickness, in health; in triumphs, in disappointment; through lean days and fat, we drew closer together, and we remain that way still. Our faith roots grew deep within well-tended hearts; no matter what might come, we knew we had God and each other.

Since those days, I’ve watched the American family diminish, not just in size but also in heart. When did this idyllic world change? When did innocence die? Perhaps, it started in the middle 1960s — perhaps on November 22, 1963, when a shadow group assassinated an American president — a blood sacrifice on the 33rd parallel.

Since that ritualistic event, childhoods have been reshaped — and each passing generation has grown smaller and more distant. Families scatter on weekends, coming together on stressed-out weeknights around extracurricular activities rather than home-centered ones.Children have abandoned the playground for the PlayStation. The family cars commute to sterile offices and return their weary drivers to packaged dinners accompanied by mind-numbing, digital television. Gone are the days when the medicine cabinet held only aspirin and cod-liver oil — stocked now to near-bursting with prescriptions for every family member, labeled with familiar names like Ritalin, Lexapro, and Prozac.

In fifty years, America has gone to sleep. We have become a nation of disinterested zombies. Just like in the monster movies that used to frighten me so. However, this monstrous trance-formation has taken place — not on that flickering 9-inch screen — but in widescreen, horizon to horizon, Post-ModernVision.Where will we be in another fifty years? I shudder at the thought, but no matter what horrors society might bring, one thing has not changed — will not change: God. He’s the same today as He was yesterday. He loved us then, He loves us now. He gave us free will, and look what we’ve done with it. The world has all but replaced Him with Science.

What of the post-modern monsters? Need we continue to sleep while the monsters roam? Is it too late? Perhaps not — perhaps, small steps could eventually return us to that bright path of wakefulness — to those days of running feet and dirty fingernails, and honest, innocent laughter.

Start this weekend. Spend time around a puzzle or board game, play a game of catch, then load up the car, and take the family for a drive through the countryside.And be sure to drive fast over those bumps.

Self-Image and Society’s Expectations

My dear mother took this photo of me back in 1978. On the back, she wrote a personal note where she calls me her “little pea pod”. I had no idea then just how ‘little’ I was, because I was dieting even then. As I recall, my goal was to weigh 99 pounds (I probably weighed 107 or so here).

---

WHILE shopping at our local supermarket last week, I took a few minutes to peruse the magazine rack. Few places in our post-modern world so reveal the mixed message that our society sends to women. Here you’ll find periodicals specializing in fitness, feminity, and food — often in the very same magazine. One such woman’s journal reveals diet secrets, tips for surviving a one-night stand, and the world’s best chocolate cake recipe — all in the same issue.

Flashback to 1978.

The Fool on ‘The Hill’

Well on the way, head in a cloud; The man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud. And nobody seems to like him. They can tell what he wants to do. And he never shows his feelings. But the fool on the hill sees the sun going down, and the eyes in his head see the world spinning around. — “The Fool on the Hill” (Words and Music by Lennon and McCartney)

IS IT JUST ME, or does George Bush’s self-satisfied smirk grow more irritating with each passing day?

What galls me the most is how, only three years ago, not only would I have defended that smirk, I even liked it a bit. Chalk it up to personal growth and an eye-opening ride since then, but, these days, that grin gets my goat.

Now, before you pin me down to one side of the aisle or the other, let me share my voting history with you. Back in 1992, despite years of conservative thought, I voted for Clinton — then in 1996, I once again cast a vote for Bubba, regretting it sorely within months. You see, once ‘lame-duck’ Bill knew he’d no longer need to run for public office, his true colors (primary and otherwise) emerged. By the middle of 1997, America had gone ’special prosecutor’ crazy, polarizing into opposite lines like middle schoolers at an eighth grade dance. Meanwhile Bubba et al stepped up to the international trough without fear of reprisal.

Why didn’t he worry? Havana Bill knew something the American voter didn’t — the Democrats’ dance card had run out. Washington New World Order fiddlers had created a brand new dance, and only certain ‘former democrats’ were invited. Long before the first hat hit the ring for 2000’s election, those carefully orchestrated, second term Clinton scandals assured the Neocon men and women of a first-row seat at the aforementioned trough. Goodbye, donkey. Hello, elephant.

Yes. Me, too. I saw it coming, but I didn’t even flinch. Dutifully, as if programmed, I punched chads with Elephant stripes. Bubba’s party wasn’t getting another minute with me! I’m a conservative, right? So, George Bush is the man!Enter the new president — grinning like a lemur.

Cue the ticking sound, and advance the calendar to 2006. America’s fighting men and women are pumped into Afghanistan and Iraq like so many bus tokens, while their stateside families and neighbors grumble over gas and mumble over meals. Washington pronounces the economy healthy, and we all know better, yet we trudge on. Like Scarlett O’Hara, we choose to ‘think about it tomorrow’ once the kids are out of school and we’ve paid down those bills. A new brand of beer will help dull that stab of guilt. A newer car might ease the pain at the pump — a new car with a hefty price tag. Feed the machine, don’t ask questions, and never question the government.

And that lemur grin widens into a crescent moon.

Another election is in the wings. Who will be the fool this time? I’m leaning toward the middle, certain that it’s a more independent place, far from the polar dance lines of right and left. But is this my own, original thought, or someone elses? Is there a moderate tempo striking up in the band of Red-White-and-Blue Fiddlers?

And the president grins like the fool on the Hill.