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So, we took an alternate route and wound up in the mountains. Look, the only other direction, really, is the ocean, and it's too far for a casual drive there and back in a day. A dedicated effort, sure, we've done it. But we were both too tired for that, and besides, there's a lot of flat and empty before you get to the ocean. So, mountains it usually is. Today, up on the Blue Ridge and down through the town that served as model for Andy's Mayberry. We saw many crafts barns, and at one place, in what looked like a faux forge, a man was sculpting a bear from a treetrunk with a chainsaw. "You made a bear!" (ob Buffy ref)
And then to a seafood place we've often passed by, parking lot full of cars. On this occasion the yen for seafood overcame the distaste for deep-fried everything. An indifferent salad of iceberg chunks and tasteless tomato squares and bottled dressing was followed with platters of deep-fried Canadian skinless flounder, oysters and popcorn shrimp, baked potato on the side. The shrimp batter was very oversalted. I rescued a few with tabasco, but gave up the effort as soon as I sampled the filet. Oh, quelle suprise! Tender, delicate, flaky fish with a thin crisp batter, three largish pieces. I managed two, traded a handful of shrimp for one of H's oysters--not bad, but not as good as the fish--and bequeathed the rest to H. He left the shrimp in favor of the filet. It was surprisingly very good.
There was a tricky moment during dinner however, when the family seated next to us reminded me that we were, after all, deeeeeeep in the Bibliest part of the Bible Belt.
Teenaged daughter: "I have to sing tomorrow night and I haven't picked a song yet."
Oh how I remember those church duets with Judy, or the trio, or the sextet, standing up before the congregation, or even pulled out of school for a child's funeral, being handed a familiar hymn because the director knew that at 10, 11, 12, we knew the words and our voices would fall into the familiar harmonies. Seasoned performers we were. It was given to us to understand that song was our witness for God. Mmm hmm. It was years before I admitted to myself or anyone else that it was all about performance. One voice in 500 of the champion high school chorus, one voice in 30 of the church choir, one voice in six, or three, or two, or even alone, in church or school or coffeehouse or around a campfire it was always about the performance. About the moment, the darkened space of auditorium, the electric crackle in the air, the risk of missing the troublesome note, the thrill of nailing it, the way the last note lingered in the still air before the applause. God was in the emotion of a good performance, the current between audience and performer, and the applause after.
So it was with amusement and kinship I heard the "can't wait to perform" in this girl's voice. And then in a tone of disgust she muttered something about "separation of church and state," and "some atheist idiot!" And her mother chimed in, "September 11 brought this country to its knees, where it should have been all along."
H either didn't hear, or chose to appear as though he hadn't. I rather deliberately pulled my triquetra pendant from where it had slipped inside my neckline to lie outside my shirt, and said quietly to H, "Talk to me please." His eyebrows went up in query. "Because I'm about to bitch-slap somebody." I didn't say it loudly, but I think they heard, because they were quiet for a few minutes, then changed the subject.
But I really wanted a challenge. I wanted to say, "I'll vote for prayer in the schools when your children pray my prayers. It doesn't matter if I'm Hindi, Shinto, Roman Catholic, Byzantine or Orthodox Catholic, Muslim, Buddhist, Reform, Orthodox or Conservative Jewish, Wiccan, Druid, Non-Deist Pagan, or member of the Cult of Froggy the Gremlin, if there is prayer in school, then ALL prayer--including an allowed absence for atheists--must be observed. And what would you like to do with the remaining forty minutes of the school day?"
But damn, they chickened out.
And then to a seafood place we've often passed by, parking lot full of cars. On this occasion the yen for seafood overcame the distaste for deep-fried everything. An indifferent salad of iceberg chunks and tasteless tomato squares and bottled dressing was followed with platters of deep-fried Canadian skinless flounder, oysters and popcorn shrimp, baked potato on the side. The shrimp batter was very oversalted. I rescued a few with tabasco, but gave up the effort as soon as I sampled the filet. Oh, quelle suprise! Tender, delicate, flaky fish with a thin crisp batter, three largish pieces. I managed two, traded a handful of shrimp for one of H's oysters--not bad, but not as good as the fish--and bequeathed the rest to H. He left the shrimp in favor of the filet. It was surprisingly very good.
There was a tricky moment during dinner however, when the family seated next to us reminded me that we were, after all, deeeeeeep in the Bibliest part of the Bible Belt.
Teenaged daughter: "I have to sing tomorrow night and I haven't picked a song yet."
Oh how I remember those church duets with Judy, or the trio, or the sextet, standing up before the congregation, or even pulled out of school for a child's funeral, being handed a familiar hymn because the director knew that at 10, 11, 12, we knew the words and our voices would fall into the familiar harmonies. Seasoned performers we were. It was given to us to understand that song was our witness for God. Mmm hmm. It was years before I admitted to myself or anyone else that it was all about performance. One voice in 500 of the champion high school chorus, one voice in 30 of the church choir, one voice in six, or three, or two, or even alone, in church or school or coffeehouse or around a campfire it was always about the performance. About the moment, the darkened space of auditorium, the electric crackle in the air, the risk of missing the troublesome note, the thrill of nailing it, the way the last note lingered in the still air before the applause. God was in the emotion of a good performance, the current between audience and performer, and the applause after.
So it was with amusement and kinship I heard the "can't wait to perform" in this girl's voice. And then in a tone of disgust she muttered something about "separation of church and state," and "some atheist idiot!" And her mother chimed in, "September 11 brought this country to its knees, where it should have been all along."
H either didn't hear, or chose to appear as though he hadn't. I rather deliberately pulled my triquetra pendant from where it had slipped inside my neckline to lie outside my shirt, and said quietly to H, "Talk to me please." His eyebrows went up in query. "Because I'm about to bitch-slap somebody." I didn't say it loudly, but I think they heard, because they were quiet for a few minutes, then changed the subject.
But I really wanted a challenge. I wanted to say, "I'll vote for prayer in the schools when your children pray my prayers. It doesn't matter if I'm Hindi, Shinto, Roman Catholic, Byzantine or Orthodox Catholic, Muslim, Buddhist, Reform, Orthodox or Conservative Jewish, Wiccan, Druid, Non-Deist Pagan, or member of the Cult of Froggy the Gremlin, if there is prayer in school, then ALL prayer--including an allowed absence for atheists--must be observed. And what would you like to do with the remaining forty minutes of the school day?"
But damn, they chickened out.