Archive for the ‘family’ Category

DNA the best Way

April 1, 2019

The dispensation of DNA

is best when it’s done in an orderly way.

What’s needed is that any man who so yearns

should direct his emissions in loving terms

to the same loving recipient every time:

all his kids have the same mama on down the line.

So let the ladder of life, the DNA

be distributed in a family way.

From the itinerant visionary

LadderJ

to the coding contemporary,

DNAdubhelx

counsel the loopy adventurer with his genital arrow

to find motherly love in the strait and narrow.

So the resulting kids will grow up right,

and not be left in a social services plight.

You may think I’m old-fashioned in this,

but ’tis not a principle to flippantly dismiss:

The distribution of our precious DNA

is bestly dispensed in the family way.

Now if you guys think that I’m not cool,

well I AM cool, y’all. . . and no April fool!

Glass Chimera

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Appalachian Spring

March 17, 2019

We are reminded that life is good when bright sunshine lifts the  slumber out of these old brown hillsides.

We know life is good when ten-month-old granddaughter contributes smiles to our quiet enjoyment.

Then she leaps with joy in her jumperoo.

Just outside the glass door, Appalachian Spring bursts forth in sunshine, warmth, and quiet celebration of a winter that is gone, gone, gone, and again I say unto thee, gone!

Gone with the snow, gone with the tragi-tales of our human’s wintr’ous struggle . . . at least for a season, at least for today, at least for a few moments. . . while spring tumbles in outside . . .

And lo, what is this amazing sound on the  inside?. . .  here in the inside of our mountain home . . . Harken: Violins, clarinets! cellos, flutes, even trumpets sending out yon first tender shoots of sonorous celebration, as first strains of mountainside spring penetrate the forest floor outdoors, accompanied orchestrally by vibrant  woodwinds and reeds. They agree to ascend  in jubilant rondos, ultimately trotting toward some old Shaker praise.

Life abounds with simple gifts if you wait for them, and even more sweetly if you have worked for them.  Now we pause to appreiate their arrival as the shoots come burstin’ out all over!

Yes, Life is good when bright sunshine lifts the slumber out of these old brown hillsides.

And reflections unfold in memory of springs long ago. . . a different time, a different place. . .

Many and many a year ago I was a clueless college student way down south, down in the bayou country where the coming of spring was too soon overtaken by the fierce heat of summer.

I would escape the routinous sweating of  academic chores. Slipping into the cool music listening room at LSU Student Union, I’d request a big vinyl platter whereon was somehow wondrously tracked the sedate, celebratory strains of Aaron Copland’s masterpiece orchestral work—Appalachian Spring. At that time I listened to Eugene Ormandy conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra. This morning, however, the quick search lands us on:

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bMaAe2aH6pw   

AppSpring2

While listening, I am remembering . . . escaping through miracle of sound-tracked vinyl, that early-’70’s sweltering Southern day. I would dream, it would seem, of days ahead when I would experience Appalachian Spring, the real thing!

AppSring1

And now that I have seen, oh, forty-or-so of these Springs, as an inhabitant, I find myself once again sacramentally satisfied with the blooming outcome.

I was pleased when, 39-years ago, my chosen bride of Appalachia (a New Jersey transplant)  bloomed forth in her wonderful hips and delivered the beginnings of our family.

According to that first child’s  January birthday, it must have been about this time of year—early spring—when we conceived him.

Sap’s rising, yes indeed . . . was then, is now.

‘Tis true. Life is good when again you celebrate Appalachian spring’s crawling-in. The season sneaks in through splashing outside sunshine. While tiny granddaughter babbles here on the floor,  we revisit our  old musical companion once more: Appalachian Spring.

King of Soul

A Christian yankee in Pope Catolicas Court

September 5, 2018

How likely is it that  a Catholic-born, born-again Christian good ole boy from Carolina would ever wander into such a grotto of overgrown Catholicism as this?

SagradaEntrata

It did happen, today, in Barcelona. September 5, 2018.

Who’d’ve thunk it?

The Audioguide at Sagrada Familia Basilica requested that the listening visitor enter with respect.

Respect for what?

The incredibly modern-artistic classic-fantastic ecclesiastic  structure devoted to Christ and the Holy Family—Joseph and Mary—from which Jesus Yeshua HaMeschiah immaculate-conceptionally came?

Yes. As a Christian I entered respectfully, along with, presumably, all the other thousands of gawking, phone-clicking touristas and believers who darkened the door of Sagrada Familia Basilica today in Barcelona.

Respect for the Christ child who had been born to Mary back in the day of the Incarnation of the Word-made-Flesh person of Jesus Christ?

Yes, I entered respectfully.

Respect for the traditions of the the Catholic Church?

Not so much, having rejected that tradition in my born-again youth. Nevertheless, who am I, as a born-again child of God, to judge the spiritual legitimacy of this high-church, pope-revering institutional “etched in stone” architectural representation— possibly even faith-enhancing experience— of deep religious faith that I encounter and enter into here?

Gosh, guys, thanks for letting us in here. What a cool building! 

Meanwhile, back at the Cross. . .

SagradaCrux

Yep. I know that part. He died for my sins. Let’s not forget.

And of course, ascended into heaven and sits at the right  hand of the Father.

Yep, we can agree on that part. You gotta  believe it.

That’s the real clincher anyway, don’t ya think? The real tie-breaker.

I mean, who else in the history of the human race has made that claim and gotten away with it?

Like I said, you gotta believe.

And I, like, think I’m finding some common ground here.

Belief in the Resurrected Son of God.

Pretty amazing idea, really, if you think about it. You’d have to be crazy or Catholic or Christian to believe it.

And here you have it—“etched in stone” as the Audioguide lady voice says it . . .the story of how it happened that the Son of God Son of Man was crucified and then raised from the dead.

SagradaGospl

King of Soul 

The Parentals of Disney

December 23, 2017

The Disneyland idea was originally hatched in Walt Disney’s mind as an amusement for his daughters. Walt’s impulse to incorporate family togetherness into his life’s work  led ultimately to his developing Disneyland in Southern California, beginning in the early 1950’s. Later, in 1971, DisneyWorld in Florida became an eastward expansion of the visionary’s influence on us baby boomers, and beyond.

If you visit Disney World today, you will see that Uncle Walt’s original vision for facilitating family togetherness is still intact. In fact, it is alive, well and proliferating. A stroll through any one of the four theme parks on any given day reveals that people in the world today still lovingly maintain and extend their families.

 

 

 

 

 

Everywhere you look you see uninhibited Motherhood ripening and blooming; you find unfettered Fatherhood flourishing in spite of all the forces of modernity arrayed against us. But all those Mamas and Papas know that the real stars of this show are the kids; they’re all over the place.

Families

In spite of the free love movement of the 1960’s— and the stillborn ZPG zeitgeist, and women’s careerism, increasing wimpishness in men, birth control, the hefner hedonism,  neuterizing lgbtquidation and rampant ubiquitous debilitating online porno—despite all those developments that might have stricken us Boomers with infertility, we and our children have done quite well thank you.

If you don’t believe me, go to Disney and see.

Families love to come here to Disney in droves from all over the world and proudly wear their wholesome familihood, like badges of honor. The purveyors of Disney wonder cultivate a haven in which we parentals feel welcomed and affirmed in our natural roles as moms and dads.

Strollers

Here We are free to revel in our unadulterated fertility.

It seems that ole Uncle Walt understood this urge to procreate;  by building Disney for his daughters and then opening it to the world, he hath given us permission to revel in our parenthood, along with millions of other likeminded moms and dads from the far corners of the earth.

Family

And the purveyors of Disney culture understand that it all starts with love—a mutual love between a man and a woman. And then the love grows into offspringing children—one, two, three, however many pop out.

We discover here that there is no entity anywhere that can allegorize and romanticize love and procreation better than the Disney gang; and they’ve been doing it a long time . . .

Bambi

That’s the mushy sentimental stuff. But there’s also the economics of all these little faces. Yes, we are all consumers, and we don’t mind admitting it. Watch Dad whip out the wallet for a round of ice cream cones. Watch Mom stoop to conquer the sloppy fudge on those little faces. Watch ‘em as they buy Mickey ears, Cinderella T-shirts, light necklaces etcetera etcetera. Watch ‘em whip out the cards to pay the whoppin’ resort bill.

Disney is, like it or not, the mecka of the material world. Here we celebrate all that we hold dear: Makin’ Family and Having Plenty, if we can get it, for all the young’uns.

I’ve noticed on this trip that the Disney phenomenon is really a great paradox. Everything Disney does seems to be both politically correct and incorrect at the same time. You drive or fly here from far and wide via some internal-combustion machine; you settle into the groove, drive to the Magic or the Epcot or the Animal Kingdom or the faux Hollywood; then you are whisked through the parking lot into the Dream vortex on a green-engined roaring propane tram.

You gotta follow the rules, of course. Parentals know this. Stay behind the yellow line until it’s your turn to get on. Then glide, with your fellow World-travelers, through the asphalt aorta of this vast vehicular field of dreams. Then maybe you amble over to Epcot’s The Land and view a demonstration of sustainable agriculture, corporate style.

But hang around until evening and you enter into the questionable World celebration of fire and mist wizardry. Now a plethora of fireworks captures the World’s imagination, brilliantly proclaiming their politically incorrect carbon-spewing mastery over us awe-struck, wishing-upon-a-star gazers.

Dream on! It’s okay here. We are here in the deep, Deep South, far, far from myriad inside-the-beltway carbon-counters.

Behold those brilliant combustion trails zippedy-do-dah-ing through the rockets’ red glare! Streams and streams of smoke, trails and trails of fizzy-fire, sending out a message:

This here’s the land of the free and the home of the brave! Citizens of the World, this is the way we do things in America. Send us your prolific masses yearning to be free, and we don’t care if you call us middle class, or working class, or any old class you please. Please, please throw us in that briar-patch theme park!

We earned it.

See the signs. Copious consumption and emissions.  Read ‘em and weep, all ye bean-counters, all ye carbon-counters. This is what human beings do; we have kids and we have a good time.

So we’re politically correct and incorrect at the same time. Families always have been, always will be. We’re too busy living life to get hung up on the emissions. Leave it up to the experts to build a better mousetrap technology, and we’ll climb aboard if the budget allows.

Here and now at Disney, one minute we’re cruising through the tunnel of World brotherhood singing along with our fellow-travelers about how it’s really A Small World, after all.

Next thing you know, we’re whizzing through the roller-coaster ride and hearing B’rer Fox’s skedaddle rap that strives to entrap us in the dreaded . . .

Consumption!

Sho’nuff! B’rer Fox is out to get us, but I think we can outwit ‘im, because we are, after all, parentals. We’re watching out for our own.

Glass half-Full