THE MORE THINGS CHANGE...

I just came back from picking up a few groceries curbside at Basil Bandwagon in Lambertville. It’s a very handy arrangement. I simply call it in, give them my credit card, call them when I get there, and someone brings it out to me. It’s the latest in 21^st century shopping, so to speak.

As easy and convenient as it may be, it has a downside. You can’t stroll the aisles like a true hunter/gatherer, and look over all the possibilities for a truly good shopping spree. There are options that you miss out on since you are not usually aware of a store’s complete inventory. Considering the fact that I frequently—no, always—end up buying more than I have on my list when I physically go inside, the upside is that I’m probably saving money on this newer version.

Anyway, when I was growing up, my parents did most of their shopping at Wills’ Grocery Store, up the hill at the South end of Main Street—in former years, long ago, the company store for the Star Glass Factory in Medford. When we would go there in person, I would go out the back screen door to the place where the glass factory once stood, and dig in the ground for bits of glass—and I usually found some. It was a great market for kids to go to, not only because of that, but because they had tin bins of cookies to choose your favorites from.

However, most of the shopping was done by phone. My mother would call in an order and the owner, Ed Wills, would write it down, and it would be delivered right to our house. Ed didn’t deliver it himself. He had a couple of men, brothers of his I believe, who would take turns delivering. They would come up the side walkway of the house with a cardboard box on their shoulders, walk into the kitchen, unannounced, and put the groceries on the counter and leave after a brief conversation. Then once a month, as far as I can remember, my dad would go to the store and pay for whatever we had gotten. Ed and his wife, Edith, kept a running tab, without the aid of a computer, and things were handled quite smoothly with cash only.

It brings to mind that old saying that “everything that goes around, comes around,” although that saying is usually applied to karma—that “as you sow, so shall you reap.”  But it can also refer to the idea that “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” 

There is a new day ahead that none of us, even the greatest experts among us, can tell what shall yet unfold in the nature of life. The best we can come up with is that things are going to be different than we have previously known them to be. While some, particularly Evangelical Christians perhaps, may look at this time as some version of an Armageddon, I seriously doubt that God has reached the limits of Divine patience—at least that’s my theological opinion. Otherwise, that would have happened a long time ago.

My image of God is not that of one who is into “slapping you upside the head” to get your attention, but rather of one willing to provide the inner strength, peace of mind and heart, spiritual wisdom, and emotional healing to handle whatever comes our way—if we are willing to take the time to pause and listen (also known as contemplation). We just need to trust and do it.

                             Just a thought.

Our Time and Place

   

 We used to play hide-and-seek on summer nights when I was a kid. We also made up our own games in the dark because it added a little variety and maybe made it a little more scary. Sometimes we would play at the Friends’ Meeting House up the street from where I lived and sometimes we would play at my house.   
     It seems to me now that those games went on for hours, but that’s probably not the case. Time always seemed longer as a kid. I think that was because we weren’t paying attention to the time or weren’t thinking that time even mattered. And as a kid in those days, there was a sense of timelessness when you were off from school for the summer. There were very few organized activities that parents would sign you up for—you were mostly just left on your own to make your own fun.

     The town I grew up in—Medford, NJ—was a true example of small town America in the classic Americana sense. We had a movie theater with a Saturday afternoon matinee, a store to buy comic books and candy in, a swimming hole and a creek to fish in, a woods to explore and play in, a five and dime store to use your allowance in, and a soda fountain with booths and a counter. On Friday nights, there was a dance at the Community Center, and before it became a legal issue, the firemen had an annual carnival with games like penny tosses and wheels to bet your money on.

     Reminiscing about these things lately during these pandemic days, has made me realize that time is more powerful than just the ticking of a clock and the flipping of the calendar. It moves us on without asking our permission. It changes us physically, mentally, and emotionally in many ways, sometimes subtly. It demands our cooperation in accepting the present for whatever it is—otherwise, be miserable or uncomfortable or melancholy.

     In his essay, Self-Reliance, Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events. As difficult as that may be, I suppose that that may apply to some extent to the present scenario we all find ourselves in, as unpleasant and uncertain ans restrictive as it may be. I want to be quick to point out that I don’t believe even for a moment that God has anything to with Covid-19. Here I am talking about the unfolding of human history. i.e.-I’m talking time, not situation.

     There have been a countless number of conditions that the inhabitants of this planet have had to endure that have impacted the joy of being alive. Some of them have been great in size and have been wide-sweeping; some of them have altered life as it was known in whatever era it was taking place; some of them seemed, I’m sure, like the end of all things good and hopeful.

     All I know is that this is my time and yours to be alive and walk our walk in this time and place. I say that it is more than okay to reminisce longingly and fondly of former days. It’s okay to complain once in a while. There’s nothing wrong with feeling sad or alone. Those are all human emotions that are part of who we are. BUT behind the scenes of illness and commotion and heartbreak and restlessness and worry appearing in our personal lives and on our TV screens and pouring out of our radios, there is still life. This is our time in the same way it was the time for parents and grandparents and ancestors for generations long ago.

     It is my personal feeling that as we experience this time and place, we have no way of knowing the future, but we do know ourselves and those we love and those by whom we are loved. Perhaps it would be a good and helpful practice to take pauses from time to time in our day, to stand or sit quietly somewhere for just a moment, take a deep breath, and think about the love we have known throughout our lives and the love we have in our lives today.

THE LUNCHBOX

        

If my dad were still living, he would be 111 years old. However he died in 1982, one month to the day that my first son was born. He unfortunately had to retire early at age 58 due to a heart condition. It was unfortunate for two particular reasons: (1) He loved his job as an electrician at SKF Industries in Philadelphia and (2) because, though he had a pension, he worried about money for the rest of his days trying to make ends meet.

       After all these years, I still have the lunchbox he carried to work every day. It’s on display in our corner cabinet in the living room where we keep some family artifacts. It’s gray metal with leather straps and with a lid that is shaped to hold a thermos. It’s rusted and worn—nothing beautiful about it, mind you, but it’s a treasure in its own right—at least to me.

       I remember playing with it when I was a kid, probably 7 or 8 years old. I’d carry it around the house pretending I had just come home from work. My parents would still be at the kitchen table and they would ask me how my day was, and I would complain that my boss, “Mr. Bleemy,” was grouchy and was yelling at everybody all day. And they would pretend to be sympathetic (with a slight grin as they looked at each other.) That was my “cute” era, I suppose.

       Anyway, I thought about that lunchbox the other day when I went over to the corner cabinet to put a CD in the stereo. As I looked up and spotted it on the shelf, I suddenly remembered its history and its meaning. I’ve shared a bit of its history, but its meaning is more than sentimental to me. It reminds me that in every life there are everyday objects that we carry or touch or use that symbolize that life is good.

       I can picture my dad sitting down somewhere in the SKF factory, opening his lunchbox, taking out a bologna and cheese sandwich, pouring coffee from his thermos into that thermos cap designed to be a handy mug, and thinking to himself that on Saturday maybe he’ll start the garden or maybe we’ll go crabbing in Tuckerton or maybe we’ll go to the beach. Or maybe he would simply be thinking about nothing in particular except that it feels good to sit down.   

       Then in just a little while, he’ll close the lid on his lunchbox, satisfied, and go back to work for a few more hours, nourished by the simple truth that those were a few treasured moments and life is good.