HILARIOUS OR BLASPHEMOUS

According to the newspapers I read, the debaptizing mania is growing like crazy. I'd not heard of it before, but apparently it has been around for a couple of years and when I read the first article I nearly died laughing.

In some places a "mock" ceremony is held in which a "mock" officiant uses a hairdryer that has the word "reason" painted on it to symbolically blow away the waters of baptism on those who have given up on religion or the church. It is called "debaptizing. Sometimes there is another part of the ceremony, in which the newly debaptized person eats crackers spread with peanut butter as a way of "desacramenting" themselves. Once the ceremony is finished, certificates such as the one above are awarded.

One newspaper reported that last summer a town in Ohio experienced a lighthearted gathering of atheists called an "Atheist Coming Out Party and DeBaptism Bash." Some participants felt the ceremony gave them a chance to spoof all the silly things that they once but no longer believed.

One fellow mailed his debaptism certificate to his old church and asked to be dropped from its baptismal record. The church told him that he was all wet. They would not remove names from registers but would place a note alongside his name that he had left the Roman Catholic Church. The priest added "I hope that God surprises you one day and lets you know that He is quite well."

Apparently debaptism efforts are not limited to the United States. "More than 100,000 Brits downloaded debaptism certificates from the National Secular Society between 2005 and 2009," and upwards of 1,000 Italians did so prior to Italy's "Debaptism Day" last year, according to Italy's Union of Rationalist Atheists and Agnostics.

I found this whole "goings on" very funny, and I burst out laughing when I visualized the hairblower part of it. And of course personally, I don't believe debaptizing has any real efficacy any more than does one religion's belief in proxy baptisms. However, I do feel that there is a somewhat tasteless element to the debaptism practice that is bound to irk a bunch of people and drive another group of people to their knees in prayer for what I suppose they would consider "these heretics."

However, I really have to look at this as a clever spoof of a religious ritual, maybe not in totally good taste but funny nevertheless. What'd'ya think?

AH, YOUTH!

From a local newspaper:

THIS WEEK'S QUESTION:
How do the values of today's youth differ from those of previous generations?

ANSWER FROM A TWENTY YEAR OLD MALE UNIVERSITY STUDENT:
We are more conscious of the world, more willing to try to influence it positively, more tolerant of difference and more active in our communities than previous generations were.

Certainly we are more enaged than our parents were. We are also the most diverse generation in American history, and our ethics and values reflect that.

We're also very different from our parents in that many of us recognize that we will probably not enjoy the bounty and excess that they enjoyed.

We are going to have to survive in an America where living within your means is encouraged and where success is measured less materially than it was in the past.

So there!

KEEPING IT SIMPLE, STUPID!

What you are seeing above is one-half of a yard. The other half contains at least as many gee-gaws as this half.

I took the picture one morning on a little walk around our apartment complex, looking to see if most of the residents were in compliance with the most recent set of rules inflicted on us. (Well, that's not exactly true: the very most recent rule is that we could not use water from the outside spigots to water our flower beds and to insure that we didn't, they put caps or locks on the outside water faucets.) The rule pertaining to our yards was precise - no lattice work, only 2 flower pots on the porch, no roses, no vegetables, no decorations on our porch, no wreaths on the doors, no this, no that.

However, our management only makes rules. They do not enforce them except on a whim. So there are many buildings (12 apartments to a building) that have not had their water faucets capped. Why? Who knows. When the rules pertaining to what was permitted on the porches and yards went into effect, some people pulled all their non-conforming plants out, tossed away their extra potted plants, and took down their door wreaths. Others, such as the one in the picture above, didn't. And apparently management does not care.

But aside from all that, my teeth nearly fell out of my mouth when I saw what the tenant in this apartment thought was cute and appropriate. Once a week when the mowers come she must bring everything in; once they leave it goes out again. I am assuming the tenant is a "she" but it is always possible it is a "he." Nevertheless, and aside from whether management cares or not, I was dumbfounded when I saw the scope of this person's decorations. I've seen it at Christmas, and it changes to all manner of Christmas items - sleds, sleighs, elfs, presents, ornaments, reindeer, santas, dolls -- you think of it, there will be one there!

It made me think of when I had a interior decorator in to help me refurbish my living room many years ago. First thing she told me - and I've always remembered - is that she works on the "Keep it Simple, Stupid" theory -- that less is best. It is hard in a tiny apartment to think of "decorating" and definitely in my place now there is WAY too much. But it's not there for any decorative purpose; mostly it is there because we have no other place to put it and we're not ready to get rid of it yet.

So when you get right down to it, you can't question what some other person thinks is appropriate. It may look bizarre to you, but if it pleases the person, so be it!

A RECIPE FOR ALL TIME

I was brought up on Joe Jost's Polish sandwiches and pickled eggs. At least two Saturdays each month, my dad would walk a few doors west from his appliance store on East Anaheim Street in Long Beach to what he called a "beer joint" and order a sandwich and egg for himself and for whoever happened to be at our house that day. Having a "Joe Jost's" (which always meant the sandwich, the egg and a batch of pretzels) was a staple of our lives.

When I became of age I introduced more than one date to this great little "beer joint" - although to call it a joint really does it an injustice, making it sound a little unsavory, which it definitely is not.

The last time we were there I mentioned to Jerry that I was eating Joe Jost's long before any of the young men working behind the bar were even born. Sadly, because we live about an hour's drive from Long Beach now, we aren't able to simply pop in for a yummy Polish sandwich and pickled egg - and a cooling brew. So it was with great pleasure some time ago that a friend sent me a recipe printed in the Long Beach Press Telegram for "Joe Jost's Pickled Eggs" that was supposed to be an authentic recipe. Well, I doubt that it was, but I tried it and the recipe definitely was a keeper.

So today I'm sharing that with you. It is simple enough to make often. In fact, I think I'll swing by the market today and pick up what I need to make another batch. Why don't you join me?


JOE JOST’S PICKLED EGGS

8 eggs
1 jar (12 oz) yellow chili peppers
2 T pickling spice
1 C wine vinegar
1-1/2 scant cups water
1 teaspoon turmeric
2 teaspoons salt

Hard boil the eggs.
Mix remainder of ingredients.
Peel eggs and put in liquid while still warm. Don’t refrigerate.

Keep in sealed jar for 2 days. Serve.
The marinade may be used again.

THE SHIRLEY STREET GANG

In the early summer of 1959 my kids’ dad and I decided it was time to buy our first house. With baby #3 on the way we needed more space than an apartment was able to provide. We wanted a third bedroom and a fenced yard. And we really wanted some playmates for our kids.

At the time, Joe was driving a Coca Cola truck in the Costa Mesa/Newport Beach area, so it seemed logical that we should house-hunt in Orange county. We discovered a new tract being built in Westminster, near Garden Grove, and there we found exactly what we needed at a price we could afford.

The little house we picked on Shirley Street had 1140 square feet, with three bedrooms and a big back yard. The selling price was $15,250 and since Joe was able to use his VA loan, the monthly payments which included principal, interest, taxes and insurance would be $99. To qualify for the 30-year loan Joe had to be making $345 a month in, and luckily we barely squeaked through. In late summer our house was ready for occupancy and with the help of our friends and family we carted load after load of our goods from Long Beach to Westminster. We didn’t really have much in the way of furniture to move, so it just didn’t make sense to hire a moving van.

We lived in the Shirley Street house for five years before a job change took place that sent us elsewhere. But those five years were among the best in our lives. Most of the men of the families were, like Joe, vets of the Korean War. Most of us had pre-school or elementary school children, though there were a few teenaged girls just of the right age to baby sit. And many of us women were still having babies. Very few of the mothers worked outside the home. I do believe we were the last generation to be able to stay home and be a housewife without a guilty conscience.

We had an exceptionally compatible neighborhood. We had lots of block parties for the adults, birthday parties for the little kids, holiday parties – and especially big parties for one of the neighbors, Cliff Pike, who was still in the Navy and often went on another tour of duty. We partied him farewell and partied him welcome back. We developed a baby-sitting co-op which worked like a charm for a number of years. We belonged to PTAs together and for a while to the Westminster Women’s Club. To my knowledge we did not have any “Peyton Place” activities.

Now all this is not to say we didn’t have our little occasional problems. Politics was not much a problem until the John Birch Society era arrived; there were some mighty conservative stalwarts on our block and some bleeding heart liberals, so we all had to tread lightly for a while. Religious fervor to elect a Catholic president caused a few to feel somewhat offended, but these thing blew over without permanent damage. We considered these people our friends and we all remained friends.

Little by little as our kids grew older and our husbands moved up in their jobs, families moved elsewhere. However, a few stayed so many years that their houses were paid off.

The picture above is our Shirley Street group – minus a few who had moved too far away to attend – taken about 1985. As nearly as I can recollect, there were close to 30 children belonging to just those women pictured above. Over the years we had several reunions – and it was great fun to see everyone again. Most of us are still around, many of us stay in touch, and a few of us are getting into the great-grandchild era. But you’ll understand when I say that Shirley Street seems like just yesterday.

It was a wonderful place to be living in 1959.

LITTLE MISSY MAUD

One of my ongoing and never-ending projects is to figure out what to do with all my photographs - and then do it! It is a thankless job, for it seems the more I do, the more I do, the more I do….ad infinitum.

But once in a while I see something that takes me on a nice trip of reminiscing. Blogs often are made of these little serendipities.

When Jer and I decided to sell our house prior to going to Turkey I took pictures of each room to use in a little booklet I wanted to put in our entryway for “lookers” to take home with them, a visual reminder of what our house was like. The booklet turned out well and sure enough, the house was sold. Today I ran across those original photos and when I looked at the one above of our master bedroom, I had to do a double-take. If you look closely, you will see our little dog, Missy Maud, ensconced between the headboard and the pillow. It was her favorite place to sleep

I’ve isolated that little section so you can see her more clearly.


Missy was a dream dog. We got her in 1981. She was a “found” dog that was brought into the veterinary office where my cousin was working. Less than a year old, she was dirty and bedraggled, but she got a full restorative treatment from my cousin, who was the world’s most compassionate vet. After making all appropriate efforts to find who she might belong to, my cousin called me and asked me if I’d be interested in a cute little female dog that needed a home. I drove down to take a look, and here’s what I found.


I had never had a dog of my own. I took one look and Missy and I marched out the door together. She had to be integrated into a family with three cats. Luckily it was a good match and they got along well. She was smart and playful. She didn't make demands and she didn't bark all the time. The only problem we ever had was that she absolutely abhorred baths. When she knew it was bath time, she put on what I called her “hangdog” face.


It went on the minute she heard the water run and didn’t disappear until she was washed, dried and set down on the floor again to play. To make sure we knew how distasteful she found being bathed, the minute her little feet touched the water, she discharged a small poop. She did this for 14 years. Being quick learners, we always put a paper towel beside the tub and made quick use of it when the time arrived!

That was her only bad feature. As she got older and her mind got a little fuzzy, she began thinking that she owned the neighborhood. When I took her for walks I had to pick her up if I saw another dog being walked toward us. I’d hold her in my arms and cover her eyes with my hand as we passed. If I didn’t do that, she would puff herself up to about twice her size and act like an attack dog. Luckily she was small enough for us to do this to her, and there were never any untoward incidents. Except for the neighbors laughing at her.

In her 14th year she took sick and quite unexpectedly fell over dead from a stroke. It was hard to lose her, of course, but we had lots of good pictures to remind us of our time together.

I had forgotten that her favorite place to sleep during her naptime was on our bed between the headboard and the pillow.

ONE FOR THE OLD FOLKS

A Minister decided to do something a little different one Sunday morning. He said, "Today, church, I am going to say a single word and you are going to help me preach. Whatever single word I say, I want you to sing whatever hymn comes to your mind."

The pastor shouted out, "Cross."
Immediately the congregation started singing in unison, "The Old Rugged Cross."

The Pastor hollered out, "Grace."
The congregation began to sing, "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound."

The Pastor said, "Power."
The congregation sang, "There is Power in the Blood."

The Pastor said, "Sex."
The congregation fell into total silence. Everyone was in shock. They all nervously began to look around at each other, afraid to say anything.

Suddenly, from the back of the church, a frail little 87 year-old grandmother stood up and, in a tiny quavering voice, began to sing, "Precious Memories."