The Art Of Patience

A friend gave me this cross at church today ... it was handmade by an inmate at a local prison.  My friend had preached in said prison early this morning and the inmate approached him after the message, saying that he had made the cross from Dorito bags and wanted the workers in our church's prison ministry to have it.

My friend said he immediately thought of me and as soon as I walked into the sanctuary this morning, he handed over the Dorito cross with a big smile. 

For some reason it reminds me of the neon-outlined cross-shaped funerary arrangments adorning Juliet's crypt in Baz Luhrmann's production of William Shakespeare's Romeo + Juliet (Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes; 1996).

I held the cross in my hands and studied it.

This cross just has that same sort of offbeat pathos.

See, I work in the prison ministry at our church too.  I don't often go into the actual prison (I'm afraid if I do, they won't let me back out), but I spend a half hour or so each week grading the tests of prisoners who are enrolled in our church's various Bible correspondence courses.  Occasionally I'll write them letters pertaining to issues they bring up in their test answers, or respond to letters they send to us with questions that might have occurred to them as they (simultaneously no doubt) contemplate their yesterdays, today, and tomorrows.

It looks tiny here but the cross measures approximately 13 inches high by 10 inches across.  Besides being very strong and flexible, the intricacy of the work is amazing.  In addition to precise folding of the foil paper, some kind of stretchy string is involved -- which surprised me because the inmates aren't allowed to have much in the way of materiel.  Case in point: recently we were told that if we wanted to supply the inmates with religious literature (something we often do), we would be required to remove all staples from the bindings of pamphlets before sending them in to the prison denizens.  (I've got holes in the ends of my fingers from wrestling with stubborn staples that fight to stay where they are.  These staples want to go to jail.)

I held the cross in my hands and studied it today, and these were my thoughts:

Can you imagine having enough time at your disposal to design and make something like this?

Can you imagine having sufficient knowledge, not to mention patience and the inclination, to make something like this?

Is it possible that our inmates eat too much junk food?

Just kidding. 

I think whoever made this (and I don't even know if it was a man or a woman) has a fair amount of artistic talent.  I said a prayer for him or her today that, when released from prison, he/she will be able to use that talent to make a positive contribution to society and the arts.

And join us at church too, of course.

Viagra Falls

At the risk of being thought indelicate I'm going to tell you about this ... according to Reuters, a chemical company manager in Shanghai was this week sentenced to two years in prison for selling fake Viagra tablets.  In recent months, thousands of would-be lotharios had been taken in by the dastardly scheming of this remorseless Internet mountebank.

I know he won't be off to Lowe's any time soon to buy identical clawfoot tubs for us!

One would think his customers, were they able to locate him, would exact a revenge far worse than that meted out by law enforcement.

And I wonder if he ever learned the "Viva Viagra" song?  Or sang it with his buddies in a dusty old shed before peeling out on his motorcycle, bound for home and the lucky missus?

While we're ever-so-briefly on the subject, don't you love the Cialis commercials wherein the couple are sitting in the middle of a field, each occupying their own clawfoot bathtub?  Sometimes they are holding a big black umbrella aloft over the space between their tubs ... only it's not raining.  Is there water in the tubs?  I'm dying to know.  TG, pragmatist that he is, looks with great skepticism upon this ad.  I know he won't be off to Lowe's any time soon to buy identical clawfoot tubs for us!  One less thing to worry about!

But back to the Shanghai Shyster ... for me the burning question remains: now that they've caught him, is he locked up or locked down?

Sorry.  Couldn't resist, mate.

Out Of The Mouths Of Babes

Beware Of Shape-Shifting Luggage

While preparing a salad and some nice hot chicken tenderloins for TG's supper last night, I watched a few minutes of Airline ... you know ... the show that follows two or three actual airport dramas per 30-minute episode.  "Drama" is the operative word here too ... sheesh y'all.  Have you ever noticed that folks lose their tempers 75 percent faster in airports than in any other location except maybe at Wal-Mart?  What's up with that?  Case in point: the lady featured on yesterday's show who "lost" her "luggage."

There, innocently, sat the lady's suitcase.

According to the narrator, this apparently sane and sober woman was en route from New England to New Zealand.  Up Yonder to Down Under, as it were.  For some reason, while on a layover at LAX, she tried to claim her baggage which, according to her, had not actually made it from New England to LAX.  She was H-O-T, and by that I mean M-A-D.  While the poor guy behind the desk, one of Southwest Airline's finest, using a description of the lost item provided by its owner, valiantly and chivalrously attempted to locate her suitcase by calling airports thousands of miles away, the narrator informed we breathless and transfixed viewers that the bag in question was EVEN THEN going around and around, ALONE, on the snaky conveyor belt 30 feet behind the lady!  The camera followed its sinuous progress for several seconds before panning back to the irate customer.

"That's it," she fumed.  "I'm never going to use this airline again."  Her glasses had steamed over from the sheer heat of her intense fury by the time a courteous female Southwest employee tapped her on the shoulder.  Angry woman turned, looking as if she was ready to belt someone.  Professionally cool airline representative pointed toward the space between her feet and enraged customer's feet.  There, innocently, sat the lady's suitcase.

"What is that?"  Agitated traveler demanded.  "Isn't this your luggage?"  Longsuffering liaison pointed out.  "That's not my luggage," crazy lady replied.  "Read the label here," patient shareholder tried again.  "Isn't this your name?"  She read the customer's identification tag from the suitcases's handle.  Miraculously, the woman recognized her name.

"Can I hug you?"  Suddenly happy camper requested.  Hugs ensued.  Both parties appeared thrilled but I suspect each had their distinct reasons.

"She told us her bag was green, but it was in fact brown," original chivalrous on-the-ball male Southwest associate informed the camera.  "She didn't even recognize it when she saw it.  She was pretty mad but the suitcase was there the whole time."

Now where did I put my glasses ... oh!  They're on top of my head!  I forgot what they looked like.

The Moving Needle ... Right?

At 12:07 this morning, my youngest daughter Erica asked me to fetch a needle and thread. I knew she didn't want me to sew on a button because she's in Tennessee and I'm in South Carolina ... we were talking by phone, you understand. I had spoken with her earlier in the day ... twice actually, so I was somewhat surprised when my cell phone lit up and the screen indicated the caller's identity. I was still up and working at my computer, as was TG. But I'll bet you'd like to know why she wanted me to get a needle and thread! Okay ... I'll tell you. Mercy! You're more impatient than she was!

Erica ... was positively giddy by this time, clearly having stayed up too late and likely having consumed too much sugar and needing sleep ... or perhaps sedation.

Seems Erica had been talking with a friend who succeeded admirably in raising her (clearly very susceptible) consciousness to an old wives' tale/generational-prediction method wherein a person (male or female) dangles a needle over their outstretched arm in the vicinity of the wrist and waits to see what it "does." This will supposedly reveal to you the number(s) and gender(s) of your offspring, real or imagined. See, whether said spawn exist does not seem to matter; in this way you can determine important facts about the dependents you already claim (in case for some strange reason you are unsure), those in the gestational stage, and those who are destined to be born in the future. Just sort of an all-purpose tool.

(There's bound to be an infomercial out there somewhere for this ... $19.95 for your handy portable foolproof child-o-meter with no working parts that might break, and if you call in the next ten minutes you get two for that price ... child-o-meters, that is, not actual children ... plus $4.95 shipping and handling. For a needle and thread that's a steep price to pay, I know ... but this is a concept, y'all.)

Obediently I found a needle already threaded (this was a total fluke as I would rather chew shrapnel than perform the tedious activity known as sewing) and dangled it over my outstretched wrist. It wobbled some as I went still ... then it stopped moving ... then it began moving again. Erica told me to watch closely (what in the sam hill else would I be doing?). If the needle went in a "circle" it meant my first child was (or would be) a girl. I won't say the needle actually went in a circle but it tried to, and Erica said this "counted" as a circle. Luckily my first child was/is a girl, as both Erica and I know.

Shortly the needle slowed, then stopped. "Just wait! Don't move!" was Erica's directive. Bristling ever so slightly at the role reversal (don't I, as the parent, get to give the orders?), I complied and, sure enough, several seconds later the needle began moving in a "circle" again. It did this a total of three times (I am happy to report it did not scratch the names "Stephanie" "Audrey" and "Erica" on my arm ... that would be a little weird) before moving in a "straight line" in the direction of my extended arm. In case you were wondering, that indicates a boy ... Andrew, in my case.

How wonderful it was to finally know the number of children I had, and their genders! This has plagued me for years! It was the "not knowing" that has kept me awake so many nights. This is how I ribbed Erica, who was positively giddy by this time, clearly having stayed up too late and likely having consumed too much sugar and needing sleep ... or perhaps sedation.

"So, how many children are you going to have, and what will they be?" I inquired of my single daughter. (I need adequate lead time to prepare for these important events.)

"Nine," she said, seemingly unfazed by the enormity of that number.

The wonders of modern science! I am continually amazed. I'm off to Wal-Mart to buy nine sleepers (four blue, five pink), nine rattles, and nine gender-specific congratulatory cards. Maybe I'll buy a few extra needles too ... you never know when the grandmother of eleven (I already have two) might need to sew on a button.