O' slightly more Aisterly speculation....

Some weeks ago I had an E-mail conversation with Alan McKinney that led me to find something in the Griffith's Valuation data. For those of you who don't know: between 1848 and 1864, all land was surveyed for the purpose of establishing the level of rates (local tax) to be paid by each landholder or leaseholder. It was later used as a means to help support and feed the poor in Ireland during the famine. If you earned more than 3lbs per year, which was later raised to 5lbs per year you were assessed a tax based upon this data.

Most of the Census data was lost when The Public Record Office in Dublin's Four Courts building complex was destroyed on June 29, 1922 during the Irish Civil War. Among the irreplaceable documents were the census schedules of 1821 through 1851, wills and administrations as well as almost a thousand Church of Ireland parish registers. Although some few fragments of these records did survive the fire, for genealogists their destruction is a great loss of data needed to construct relationships with their ancestors it was a genealogical tragedy and wall we run up against that stops the average researcher in their tracks. The rest of us have learned the hard way to rely on other sources. Tithe Books, Freeholder Polling Lists, The Griffith's Valuation Data, Etc.

What I found in the Griffith Valuation data intrigued me. I have been able to determine from the Griffith's Data that Alexander Gilmour/Gilmore did in fact live at the Killaloo Glebe. BUT I also found that an Alexander Gilmore lived at Mettican Glebe near Coleraine. There is also listed a Jane Gilmore too. There is however, no concrete proof to indicate that this is my Alexander, or even perhaps as I suspect his Father. The Glynn/Glenn family can also be found in this area in the data.

Now, My Great Great Great Grandfather Robert Gilmour's wife Mary Pollock emigrated from the Portrush/Coleraine area in 1846 at age 11. As a somewhat seasoned genealogical researcher I have come to realize that further research at a later date may very well prove what I am about to speculate to be proved as untrue. Yeah, but, the writer and novelist in me can't help but let my unbridled imagination run wild.

So here I go: It is possible, although unprovable at this point, that Robert, either visiting a Grandparent, or living there as a child if this Alexander was in fact his father, might have known his future wife Mary as a "childhood sweetheart" or playmate. AWW MUSH!

Yep! here it comes... Back story to the novel O' Wasterly Gale© possible inclusion more than likely, and in Ullans dialect:

Summer, 1846,

On the beach at Portrush, Northern Ireland.

Mary watched the sand squish between her toes.

"Doo ye think tha trip wil bae lang?"

"It's a weill-kent fact the say."

She lifted her foot, and pressed down again in a new spot.

"Ye'll gae ta Killaloo thon?"

"Aye, Mae Fathar weil moove frea this Glebe tae thon."

"Yae'll bae neer yer kin as weel."

"Aye."

Robert squished his foot into the place in the sand where Mary's foot had been.

"Ay'll miss yea ye kno…"

"Aye."

"Doo yea think yea'll 'member mea yince Ay'm gaen?"

"Shure an Ay weill, yer me ain dear pet yea kno…"

Mary pressed her foot gently down over Robert's and into the sand. A wave washed into the shore and swirled around their ankles.

~ ~ ~

Sorry, I just couldn't resist.


obeedúid~
18/Feb/08

Canticle of the sick and convalescing.

This beautiful photograph by Alan McKinney of his Beehives at Killaloo Glebe which has been on my desktop since he sent me the link to it, inspired at least some of the creation of this poem. Being home while sick on a snowy day and reading "Bog Myrtle and Peat" by S.R.Crockett in bed added to it as well. One of my favorite early morning hymns did the rest while roaming around my stuffed up head. Of it's meaning I am not yet sure. Perhaps when my head clears, the snow and ice melt and the birds of spring eventually arrive, the meaning will avail itself. Until then I'm taking the phone off the hook. I need some rest. Having written this out of my head, and taken some cold medicine, I should be able to get some sleep.

When from the heart we say:

Sometimes

when the waking bird does sing

immortal hymns fiercely tender

yearning yet unsatisfying

sweet in the mouth

but bitter in the belly

the dramas of life

express themselves

in endless words

Sometimes

I hear the hot thrill

of hopes mysterious

wild thoughts

that quicken within me

like rosy fingers of Dawn

melting into broad day

Sometimes

even as I rise

and move to the window

I grasp a hint of plot

know the thread of my story

every word of it in open air

outside for all to see.

• 
  

Somewhere

I wake before the bird

in the gloaming

wait expectantly

with careless wonder

gladly then, might I remember

immortal hymns of deathless fame

that make the waking bird sing

in the silent, stirless, windless night

Somewhere

the vision softly fades

as I return to slumber

listening to the scraping drone

of a snowplow

sick abed I dream of a bird

waking to sing with words

Somewhere

as the waking bird does sing

I hear soft murmurs

of daily conversation

when the cock crows

in the imagination of my heart

and the universe falls silent.

• 
  

Someplace

my blood is young

and red again

running through

misty fields

of romance languages

unspoken and unlearned

yet sung in light of day

by bird from forest edge

Someplace

I would know the hot thrill

of hopes mysterious

and feel rosy fingers

of rapturous Dawn

its dulcet refrain

of sunlight behind them

Someplace

I will know a joke

the little boy never understood

but I will only be sleeping

to dreams of a waking bird singing

immortal hymns fiercely tender

yet pure and entertaining.

• 
  

Sometime

perhaps the waking bird will sing

my yearning satisfied

the taste in my mouth

easy on the ear

my belly satiated

by sanguine farewell glimpse of eternity

as I slumber in a windowseat of dreams

Sometime

when all is quiet

I hear my father's voice

and squeal with delight

as he throws me up ashoulder

holding on tightly we climb uphill

out of the cool dark wood.

Sometime

I will carry my grandchild

as my father before

and pass on after a kind

good things gathered

from shores of memory

far across the sea of life

• 
  

Someday

like beehives covered in snow

I will sit motionless and pray

consciously waiting for spring

to the sound of a waking bird

singing of Ireland long ago

I shall see the land clearly

so well it comes alive

in the minds eye of my future

Someday

endless words must be abandoned

when they fall like rain over snow

turning to ice encrusted, gleaming

while the bird flies back

to sing of waking

in the present

Someday

my prayers answered

I will raise my voice to God

"when morning gilds the sky"

then I like waking bird will sing

the canticle divine

when night becomes today.

obeedúid~

13/Feb/08

My understanding of a Canticle being a chant of biblical or religious origin; that is how I came to label this poem as such. The 9-7-7 format is strictly of my own design. At one point each verse began with the word "Sometimes". I changed it to show progression of from.

The original was much longer and melodic in nature. The act of editing, cropping and tightening up unfortunately removed some of its flavor. This happens sometimes. I am not yet satisfied with it as a finished piece. I see it being paired down at a later date using only the most successful verses. A sequel may even be a possibility when I actually go to Killaloo.

Mark.
13/feb/08

You Just can't make this stuff up!

So there I was, on my day off last week, researching and reading newspaper articles on The Brooklyn Eagle On-line, trying to find anything about James Gilmour and his actions at First Bull Run. James fought for the Union, whether intentionally or not, to free the slaves and emancipate the Blacks.

While I did find a brief mention of his reported death at the Battle of Fair Oaks, I didn't find anything relating to his heroic actions at Bull Run.

I did however come across a series of interesting articles about a black man named "Robert Gilmore". My ancestor spelled his last name "Gilmour", same first name of Robert.

It seems that this Robert Gilmore was arrested for "Skylarking". My 1917 Funky Wagon-wheel dictionary defines "Skylarking" as: "being engaged in a bit of fun and frolicking." For this reason an Officer by the name of Redmond Joyce shot him in the back, while he was leaving the Tenth Precinct Station House without permission.

It seems Robert Gilmore was a communicant of the Fleet Street Colored Methodist Episcopal Church. The following is an excerpt from the article:

Officer Joyce was later convicted of shooting Robert Gilmore and there are a number of news articles culminating in the eventual suicide of officer Joyce a year of so later.

• 
  

It was at this moment that my phone rang: Mom was calling to say that in a stack of old papers she had found my Great Grandfather James Alexander Gilmour's Certificate of Marriage. He was the son of Robert Gilmour. I got in the car and went right over!

This is a copy of what she found:

My Great Grandparents were married at the Cumberland Street Presbyterian Church on Christmas Day 1888. 120 years ago this year! This must be where I get my sense of the Romantic I guess. I asked Dawn if she would marry me this Christmas. She's not going for it though. (...Yet...)

Notice please the name "Cumberland".... Interesting in that the Glebe House in Killaloo was located in the perish of "Lower Cumber"....

• 
  

Right underneath this document was my father's Baptismal Certificate:

Now the interesting thing to me about this certificate is that he was Baptized in the Methodist Episcopal Church. And, in the neighborhood that my Mom grew up in, the Methodists hated the Catholics, and the Catholics hated the Methodists. So much so that when I decided to convert from Roman Catholic to Methodist, and then follow the path to becoming a Methodist Pastor some years ago (I must clarify here, that as most of you are aware, I eventfully chose Certified Lay Youth Ministry rather than becoming an Ordained Pastor.) Mom was not at all happy about it. Over the ensuing years we have come to an understanding. Christ and his teaching, the following of his teachings, and living a Christ centered life is what we are about. We are one in the body of Christ and his teachings. I have raised my children in the church and when we look back on our heritage our ancestors were Lutheran, Presbyterian, Methodist, Methodist Episcopal, Roman Catholic. Christians; by what ever name you choose.

(I couldn't help noticing the irony that Dad was in fact Baptized as a Methodist, before the split between the Methodists and the Episcopalians....)

BUT WAIT! THAT WASN'T ALL!!!

Along with these other documents and some tin types which I will get to later (Mom keeps pulling rabbits out of the hat like this and there are more to come I assure you....) there was this tightly rolled photo with my father's handwriting on it that says: "Pollock Family of South Africa, Brother of Mary Pollock Gilmour".

I'll let this video show you the rest:



"Mary Pollock's Brother In South Africa."

Remember how I said that James Gilmour was: whether intentionally or not, fighting for the Union to free the slaves and emancipate the Blacks? On one side of the Ocean, one side of the family was trying to emancipate them, on the other side well.... They may have been in the picture, (25 or 30 ft. away of course.) but they were there to show the world of their success and wealth, not just good composition in the photograph by the photographer....

This is all I know about The Pollocks of South Africa, and until the other day I didn't even know that they existed at all. I suppose I should have known. These issues would have divided many families at the time. Issues of religion and race have done so from the beginning of time.

• 
  

Yeah, but, I still believe that we are all "...one in the body of Christ." I think thats what this little excursion on my day off was telling me anyway. I believe in the reconciliation of differences as well as the celebration of differences. Skeletons are simply what remains of what has gone before. The trick is, to build anew on the foundations left behind to us. Hopefully we will eventually build it right. And build it with LOVE!


You just can't make this stuff up!


PeaceOnYou!

obeedúid~

Oh yeah, COMING SOON:
Remember those Sympathy books
that you sign at the funeral home
when someone dies?

Well, apparently we have a stack of them....

This is beginning to remind me of Mary Poppins's Carpet Bag!!!

...into the light again...

Much has transpired since Christmas Eve. I am diligently working on the correspondence between Alan McKinney and myself to transform it into a readable narrative. It has been an Adventure that both of us will not soon forget! Patience, please....


Meanwhile, I received an interesting phone call from Mom the other day... Skeletons are stepping out of the closet and into the light again...


I require some AAA batteries to post my next blog and I intend to do so by this Sunday 20/Jan/08.


Documents are deteriorating and "the Skeletons are restless."


Stay tuned!

obeedúid~

BEST CHRISTMAS PRESENT EV-VER!

I startled everyone at Mom's house Christmas Eve with a "Whoop!" when I was checking out my brother's new Dell. I intended to show my brother Richard a map of Killaloo and it's environs I had been building in Google Maps, using Kenneth Allen's photo's from Geograph that I have previously mentioned and featured here in a blog back in June of last year. The map is in anticipation of our trip next year to celebrate my 50th birthday.

Then I noticed this E-mail:

to: obeedude@gmail.com

date: Dec 24, 2007 5:55 PM

subject: Glebe House

mailed-by: mac.com


I was fascinated to find your website Glebe Homie. This is because I bought the house previously known as the Glebe House which your site is dedicated to in 1999 and live here in Killaloo with my family.

The Church of Ireland had amalgamated several smaller congregations at the retirement of one of their rectors, and no longer needed the property.

Your home page shows a picture of the house roof in the foreground, taken from the roadside above. I have pasted on a picture of what it looks like from a bit closer up. Happy to send you some more if they are of interest.

It'll take me some time to read all of your blogs etc, but am working on it over the Christmas holiday period.

Best wishes

Alan McKinney

You can only imagine the look of glee on my face (and the dumbfounded looks on my family's faces) as I danced around my mother's living room after opening this E-mail!

The E-mail came with this photo attached:

Glebe House, Killaloo. © Photo by Alan McKinney

If you look at my blog header you will see a gray smudge on the left-hand side under the "G" and "L" in Glebe just beyond the tree-line. Little did I know that right there, in front of my eye's, hidden in plain sight was: the Glebe House!

Thank-You Alan!

"Merry Christmas! Pleased to meet you!"

obeedúid~

"Watts"-up obeedúid~ ??? (episode 1)

Friends have asked: "Whats up?" "No new posts... everything O.K.?"

I think to myself, New Job... Managing my kids lives... Second job and the long hours... well actually three if you count counseling and praying for friends and family... Christmas Rush season... only 1/3 of my gifts gathered so far... Life in general I guess.

Then I think, Life has always been full and you always managed to write before. Maybe I'm not up to it now. Maybe I'm not interested just now. Maybe, I need a break. But, this used to be my break....

Actually, I have been busy writing, more busy researching actually.

I had planned to do a transcription of the letters as a Christmas Gift Chapbook for friends and family. Then I found myself sidetracking and tangenting.

Right from the get-go.

Here's what happened:
The first transcription (not including the documents from my Great Great Great Grandfather Robert Gilmour's certificates in the Order of the Orangeman) is the hand written marriage certificate dated "Nov'r. 24th 1859."


Here is a transcription:

Certificate

of

Marriage

between

Robt. Gilmour

&

Mary Pollock

Nov'r. 24th 1859

This will certify that Robert Gilmour

and Mary Pollock were by me joined

in wedlock, Nov. 24th 1859, according

to the usage of the Presbyterian Church

and in conformity with the laws

of the State of Pennsylvainia

Signed,

Robt. Watts,

Pastor,

Westminster Church,

Philadelphia.

Given at Philad"a

Nov. 24th 1859

My Great Great Great Grand parents and their siblings lived much of their earlier lives in Manhattan before moving to 174 Claussen Place in Brooklyn. Robert and his family were Coopers in the busiest port city in America at the time. They started out life and business in "Americae" on Pearl Street just South of the infamous Five Points a few hundred yards south of the Five Points Mission that later replaced the Old Brewery Tenement.

You can click on this image to enlarge for better viewing;
the location is approx where the "t" is in "Pearl Street"
Map legend: B-3 upper right hand corner.
This map is a little newer than the time period and lacks some of my reference points, but I just love its look and style. The Brewery/Mission of "Gangs of New York" fame was located where the "r" is in "Park Street"

They were married in Philadelphia Pa. by Reverend Robert Watts, an Ulster Presbyterian transplant who came to this country from Moneylane, County Down during the famine/diaspora. Mary (Pollack) Gilmour was from Port Rush and arrived in this country with her parents at about the same time. Robert Gilmour was from Killaloo. What made them go to Philadelphia to get married ?

I suspect that Mary's father James Pollock was a member of Westminster and so they traveled there by train to be wed.

NOW FOR THE SIDETRACK TANGENT: As Robert Watts will be a character in "A Wasterly Gale" I have been researching him as well. Guess what, no surprise to me he was quite the character!

...this is what I have gleaned so far:

*WATTS, Robert, author, born in Moneylane, County Down, Ireland, 10 July, 1820. He removed to this country and was graduated at Washington college, Lexington, Virginia, in 1849, and at Princeton theological seminary in 1852. He entered the ministry of the Presbyterian church, established the Westminster church in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, in 1852, and became its pastor in 1853.

After the attack on Fort Sumpter in the spring of 1861, at the General Assembly of the Presbetyerian Churh in America, "The Irish-born Rev. Robert Watts of Westminster Church in Philadelphia reminded the Assembly that they “were indirectly called upon by venerable men to divide the Church.” Watts was convinced that the church might yet succeed. “There had been nothing yet to prove that the Old School Presbyterian Church has not in her ranks a conservative power, which might blend together in one Union the entire States of this Confederacy.” Further, Watts argued that scripture called the church to honor the civil magistrate, but it never required the church to pass resolutions of support. It is interesting to note that the only person to question the constitutionality of the Spring resolutions [contenting that they were unconstatutional and called for the Presbetyerian Church in America to indirectly devide into separate entities Union/Confedrate] was an Ulster Presbyterian (who would return to Northern Ireland to teach theology in the Assembly’s College in Belfast from 1866-1895).

In other words, as I interperate the transcrirptions of these proceedings, Reverand Watts wanted the General Assembly to take no action or not take sides, which would thereby force the Southern Presbeterates to take the side of the States that they were located in. I believe that he wanted them to remain nutral and above the conflict, hoping that the Church and the Country would yet avoide Civil War.

This is the title page of a pamphlet he published in 1861

…When conflict became unavoidable and war insued Reverand Watts:

...returned to Ireland, and he was installed as pastor in Dublin in 1863, and in 1866 was appointed professor of systematic theology in the Assembly's college at Belfast.

He later published "Calvin and Calvinism" (Edinburgh, 1866) ; "Utilitarianism " (Belfast, 1868); "What is Presbyterianism? "(1870) : " Prelatic Departures from Reformation Principles" (Edinburgh, 1871) ; "Arminian Departures from Reformation Principles" (1871) ; "Atomism" (Belfast, 1874); " Herbert Spencer's Biological Hypothesis " (1875) ; " The Doctrine of Eternal Punishment" (1877);" The New Apologetic" (Edinburgh, 1879) ; " The Newer Criticism" (1881) ; and "The Rule of Faith and the Doctrine of Inspiration" (London, 1885). (1)

Robert Watts made a name for himself in 1874 by replying to John Tyndalls famous address to the British Association for the Advancement of Science. Tyndall used his address to argue for the superior authority of science over religious or non-rationalist explanations.

Obviously conflict followed him...

G. Chambers of Drumahoe where are you?

G. Chambers of Drumahoe left this comment on my post about Geographing the other day:

"Came across your website by accident and believe it or not i live about 2 miles down the road from Claudy in a place called Drumahoe.
G Chambers"

...but neglected to leave me a way to get in contact. I would really love to converse via E-mail about some questions I have regarding some local points of interest. I plan on visiting Killaloo this coming year to celebrate my 50th Birthday. My brother Richard and I will be following the path of our ancestors back in time and there are some places and things we would very much like to see and do. I was wondering if Services are ever held in the Presbyterian Meeting house or the Lower Cumber Church of Ireland. I am a United Methodist Lay Minister and worshiping where my forefathers worshiped would be an experience I would very much like to have.

The Lower Cumber (Holy Trinity) Church of Ireland.

My Ancestor's, the Gilmour's lived and worked at the Lower Cumber Church Glebe as Coopers. Do any of the Glebe buildings still exist? It is hard to tell from modern day maps and the limited information available on the web.

Also, we think that our Great Great Great Grand Uncle by the name of James Glenn (by way of our family letters) apparently owned a Public House:

"you might call + see my Uncle Jam[e]s Glenn of the scribetree, it is of but little emportance but when you are there it will pafs the time."

We believe that "The Scribetree" was a Pub somewhere in the vicinity of Killaloo; perhaps at Brackfield, maybe in Killaloo itself, or even in the vicinity of Bonds Glenn.

I understand that the Pub in Bonds Glenn operated by "Robert Knobb's" has been in operation for 200 years or so. I am now drafting a letter to see if perhaps this Pub may have been owned by my Ancestor in the 1850's-60's.

Robert Knobb's Pub in Bonds Glenn.

If you are still out there and somehow read this post please contact me at obeedude@gmail.com. Any information, or direction that you could give me towards someone or some organization in and around Killaloo that might help us in our quest would be much appreciated!

Thanks!
Mark.

As stated previously these pictures were taken by: Kenneth Allen © Copyrighted and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

Remembering the face of my father,

on his 82nd Birthday.

I see yer face a craggy map, so that’s where I'll begin,

but in yer case no soggy pack, of when and where ye'd sinned.

Did ye set yerself a trap, and somehow catch yer evil twin?

As ye heard the heartstrings snap, inside yer corpse of tin,

were there ever years of crap, ye hid behind that grin?

I wear meself yer craggy map, remembering that ye've been.

I don at times yer handed cap, and dress it with a grin,

then twist me neck to hear it crack, the way ye did back then.

I am yer son formed of ye sap, so too me kith and kin.

I haven't got yer head's steel trap, much to me own chagrin.

I loved yer face, that craggy map, of where and what was then

but not a trace could I entrap, so took it on the chin.

It was yerself who set the gap, urged it close therein

an stepped out of the gifting wrap, ye ofttimes called yer skin.

By God's grace ye so unstrapped, an loosed yer cotter pins.

I walked along yer craggy map, to come to who I am.

I waded through the years of crap, I took it on the chin.

I did it with yer cradled cap, and tried me best to grin.

Now I course the one ye lapped, an wonder why so grim

I have at least yer handed cap, the man Jesus within.

obeedude 11/nov/07

~~~

In Steven King's Dark Tower Novels "Remembering the face of your father" is the path to your true self. When you screw-up, You have forgotten the face of your father. If you really want to insult someone, or point out that they have strayed from the path, you might say that they have done just that: "Forgotten the face of their father." Last week I screwed-up. My son and I both, will have some pretty ruff days to come as a result. My fault, not his.

11/Nov/07 is what would have been my fathers 82nd birthday. Barb's father passed away on All Hallows Eve. I just finished reading Steven King's "The Wolves of Calla." All of these things led into the writing of this poem.

While it is true that the poem contains elements of my father, his life and influence upon me, and the modified picture that accompanies it is of my father (taken in Ireland), the poem is not really about my father. Its about me screwing-up. Its about him never screwing-up in the ways I tend to screw-up. "the craggy map", the twin thing, the corpse of tin, are all elements of "The Wolves of Calla."

This version incorporates suggestions from the E.O.T.N.Poet's. The longer line length, etc. The change in the last line was of my own accord. It more faithfully reflects Steven Kings language in the series. The switch to modified 'ol English/Stage Irish is a recent thingie that resulted from having to force the "longer line length" into this column width.

When I complicate my already complicated life by my actions, whether it be by my ability to get myself involved in circumstances that are the direct result of my inability to walk away from helping others, or the piling-on that tends to accrue because I am so wrapped up in other's problems that I neglect my own housekeeping, I often take things out on myself internally. Not a good thing to do.

Somehow, with the passing of time, reading and praying, (...lack of sleep because of worrying...) or the writing of a poem, I find that God takes care of things anyway and all the useless beating-up on myself was unnecessary.

I tell myself that next time I will remember that. Invariably I don't. …Good thing God does that for me.

11/November/07
Markle.

Something Seasonal...

"Imagine if you will, ..." Stephen Crane goes to a Halloween Party, dressed as Edger Allen Poe, and when he gets there decides to pretend that he's Rabbie Burns....

Thats kinda what happened when I wrote this poem. I started it months ago when I was reading Crane, went back to it when I was reading Poe, and finished it while reading Burns.

The Crane language is still somewhat there, so to is the Poe influence, and every time I swear off the Braid-Scots something like this seems to channel itself on through.

Samhainn:

gaunt,

sooted figures

knick knock, knick knock!

tangled limbs

a motioning mass

knick knock, knick knock!

some pallid,

and in strange postures

knick knock, knick knock!

some for the Charnel house

squalling and squawking

knick knock, knick knock!

the tangled limbs

unravel feverishly

knick knock, knick knock!

twisting their fists

in tired eye sockets

knick knock, knick knock!

laggard and blind

the unfortunates rail

knick knock, knick knock!

others play mawbles

and wag thair tails

knick knock, knick knock!

the Listener awakens

from her long dirt nap

knick knock, step back

Open-up Auntie!

Tis batterin' door nicht!

knick knock, We'r bak!

Open-up Auntie!

We'v cum for oor candies!

knick knock, knick knock!

the Listener rises

approaches the door

knick knock, knick knock!

A'm cumin mae pritys

ar ye bak for so-moor?

knick knock, knick knock!

soory Ayam mae weens

bot ye've pickit mae cleen

knick knock, knick knock!

Aa A've got left

is 6 feet o 'ert

knick knock, knick knock!

yae an mae booth

atween…

knick knock, knick knock!

knick knock, knick knock!

knick-

obeedude 17-18/Oct/07

The original title was the colloquial "Hallaleen." The Festival of Samhain however is a celebration of the end of the harvest season in Gaelic culture. A modernized version of this festival continues today in some of the traditions of the Catholic All Soul's day, the secular Halloween, and in folk practices of Samhain itself in the Celtic Nations and the Irish and Scottish Diasporas. It is also observed by various types of Neo-pagans.

As it is set in the Celtic culture and not 20th century America as it originally started out, the Celtic title seemed more appropriate. It also doesn't give too much away right off. I liked the way it seemed to start out Trick-or-Treat and instead turned Ghost Story while I was writing it. Hope you did too. It sounds better out load. The Knick-knock battering on the door sound, that is actually scratching on the inside of the coffin, works best this way.

Happy Hallaleen!

obeedude 28/Oct/07

The God Wink

;)


The other night, I was leaving Nichol's/Smith's/Shop & Save soon to be The Voorheesville Hannaford, and for some reason I turned left. 98.9% of the time I turn right and go down Pine street on my way home. For some reason that night I turned towards the Church.

I then drove about 75 ft. down the road as it goes under the Train Trestle and STOPPED. I didn't know why I turned left, any more than why I stopped the car. An SUV was baring down on me with its High beams on and another car was coming out from under the bridge.

Then I saw in the corner of my eye, a small child (approx 3 yrs old) sliding down the leafy embankment and right into the street in front of me. He got up and walked right into the street! No awareness of the danger he was in what-so-ever.

The Car behind me stopped and I pulled forward out of the way. The driver on the other side of the road got out and picked him up. We called up the hill for his parent and he appeared within seconds with a panicked look on his face. All it takes is a second when you are looking the other way for a three year old to bolt. This Dad got lucky.

Well, I don't know about luck. I think I know now why I turned left towards the Church. Why I stopped without knowing why. Someone else was driving the car. Not me. This is why I have faith. There are no coincidences. Thats why there was no accident that night.

I believe. God Winked!

...excerpt from an on-going conversation... ...Out of context and from "Left" -field.... ...On my soapbox in the detergent aisle...

So I was in the store the other day, and a mother comes by with her two son's. The oldest (I would guess about 8yrs old) by my observation was very withdrawn and seemed to lack a self-confidence. As it happens, and happens quite often in the aisle that I work in, the boy asks for a Flashlight. "Mom can I please have this?" in his mousy little voice. I've heard this question hundreds of times, but never put more innocently. Usually its a demand, followed by a tantrum. Frankly, I would have bought it for the kid. His Mom's response however floored me. "No! I said no and if you ask again I will send you away to reform school. You'll never see me again and God will never forgive you."

O.K., so first I had to pick my lip up off the floor. Then, I found myself asking her in a tone not dissimilar to the same one adopted by the child. "Please don't say that kind of thing..." I pleaded. She responded with a foul mouthed tirade punctuated with "Whats wrong with me teaching my children by the Ten Commandments!..."

I couldn't help myself, I wanted to protect this kid, my backbone went up and I responded first with a dumbfounded look, then I said: "...I was a Scout Leader and a Youth Pastor for 12 years, and what your doing is not teaching the Commandments..."

(...and I'm sure I was still looking stupefied when I was done...)

I realized at this point as she began to get even more foulmouthed and proceeded to tell me she "...had been sent to reform school and it was the best thing that ever happened to her..." that I was never going to get to the idea that all she was teaching was fear!

My hands were shaking. My stomach was in knots and this was not the time or place for what I was doing. I walked away and took a break out on the back dock. If I had stayed things would have gotten worse. I turned the other cheek, and said a prayer for those two young boys. A prayer that they would not grow up and perpetuate what was obviously their inheritance from their Mothers parents.

When I was a Boyscout leader, the Boy Scouts were at that time pressured to remove all Christian symbols from their Chapels. This was done under the guise of "becoming more inclusive". So, we ended up with a Chapel that for all intents looked like just another building. No place special. No place to find God. (That is what it felt like to me anyway.) I questioned whether it might have been more "inclusive" to have added symbols of other faiths. "No, its simpler this way." was what they said.

Maybe, just maybe, the solution to the Bible in Schools would be to include the Koran, and the Book of Mormon, and, and, and, etc... It would not be the simple solution, but that is how we approached Confirmation in our Church. In order to be Confirmed, candidates had to attend worship services of five other faiths. It wasn't easy, logistically or thematically. But it gave them a grounding in their faith, and an understanding of others faith and beliefs as well. Hopefully, it fostered some tolerance too. All views on the table as they say.

Inclusive: including many things or everything, not excluding any...

...perhaps we should say: all-inclusive.

It shouldn't be all-or-nothing, it should be all-not nothing.

PLEASE... lets teach love. Not fear.


obeedude 14/Oct/07

Biblical counsel to a man of faith with writers block?

The Prophet Habakkuk.

Habakkuk* Ch 2: Vs 2&3

² Then the LORD answered me and said:
Write the vision;
make it plain on tablets,
so that a runner may read it.

³ For there is still a vision for the appointed time;
it speaks of the end, and does not lie.
If it seems to tarry, wait for it;
it will surely come, it will not delay.

O.K., O.K., so its out of context and obviously not what the prophet intended, (I've read the rest of this weeks reading and I have done so before so I am aware of the larger intent of the book) …but its what I needed to hear this week. Maybe that’s the point sometimes, as long as its not done on a regular basis or with the intent to proof texting.

Wait, ye man of faith, your faith has been increased, and so too your burden, all will be revealed at the appointed time. It will surly come, live by your faith, and you will endure.

*The Book of Habakkuk is the eighth book of the 12 minor prophets of the Hebrew Bible. It is attributed to the prophet Habakkuk. A copy of most of the book was found included in the Habakkuk Commentary among the Dead Sea Scrolls.

obeedude 07/oct/07