Gospel
November 4, 2009
I don’t have faith.
Maybe God is laughing at me, because today I have to write about my relationship with religion. If I believed in God, I wouldn’t accept it as chance that when asked to get a random article from Wikipedia, Wikipedia came up with information about the Greek Gospel Book. I would believe that it was a message from above that I was forced to pay attention to, what? the first four Books that got the Bible going? But I don’t believe in God, so, in the definition of irony that I learned in college literature classes, it’s merely “a cruel twist of fate” that that’s what happened.
My parents did what they could to give me the chance to culture my own beliefs. Science got in the way.
My earliest memory of religion is that my dad was the organist for the Methodist Church which was two doors down from the house in which I grew up. Sometimes, whether it was on Sunday or on Wednesday practice night, I had to go along. Nothing was shoved on me, I was just present.
When I was old enough, I dutifully attended Sunday School classes. According to my recollection (35 to 40 years on by now), again it was mostly because I was a hanger-on to my dad’s obligation as organist rather than because of anybody’s rapture that I be indoctrinated. I don’t remember anything that was ever discussed in Sunday School; but I do remember that one time only, my question (whatever it was) was briefly the topic of discussion. I vaguely recall that shortly thereafter, my attendance was no longer mandatory or even expected from anybody’s point of view.
One of my fondest memories of familial bonding was when my mom attended the expanded, holiday version of the church choir to participate in the singing of Handel’s Messiah. (I’m quite certain that this was mainly because of my mom’s love of music.) My mom is an alto, I held my own in the same range; I was taking piano lessons by then so could read the music. And I have a good ear, so I could follow along otherwise. Even now, I must listen to the Messiah at least once in December. In general, baroque music is my favorite, especially Vivaldi.
As related in the orthodonture saga yesterday, at some point, I moved to a different state. I was pretty sure by then that I didn’t believe in God. But I did like my new friend a lot and I liked to sing, so I attended her Catholic church and choir for a few weeks. Even in my teens, I understood the concept of the old college try.
Faith was long gone. I can’t remember the last time I made the attempt. I think religion is fascinating, intellectually. And also architecturally. I have a recurring dream about the Methodist Church. I’m always trying to find a place to sit in the righthand pews on the south side of the room, without disturbing anyone too much. Maybe one time in 10, it’s on the lefthand side. If that is unsuccessful, then I’m transported to the balcony, where the Sunday School rooms were. If that doesn’t work, then I’m trying to make my way through the labyrinth of halls in the basement (which don’t actually exist), usually to find the bathroom. Then I wake up.
You can believe what you want to, and that’s fine. So do I.
[Thank you, Google Street View, for the images.]
Pearly whites
November 3, 2009
Toothpaste. I couldn’t do without it. Yes, it freshens your breath. Yes, it contributes to mouth health. But the real reason I couldn’t do without it is because I had braces for four and a half years.
When I was about 10 years old, my then dentist (a former Army man with hands the size of frying pans) apparently recognized that I had a small jaw. He recommended that I have four of my permanent molars pulled to make room for future endeavors in my mouth. The deed was carried out by an oral surgeon whose office was in a single-storey, red-brick building on the south side of the boulevard. When they put the gas mask over my nose and mouth to knock me out, I made it to 93 counting backwards from 100.
This was in the day when surgeons still used cloth thread to tie wounds closed. I can’t tell you how much mileage I got grossing people out with four spots of thick, black thread in my mouth. It was even better if I had just eaten lunch.
When I was 13, I became Metal Mouth.
The orthodontist confidently said, “Oh, it’ll take one year, maybe a year and a half.” Although he was a tooth professional, he was apparently unable to recognize that mine were rooted in cement. We began the ordeal. And when I say “we,” I include my parents, usually my mom. See, it wasn’t just going to the orthodontist. It was driving the 20 miles to the next largest city where that single-storey, red-brick building on the south side of the boulevard was located. This was the same city where my dad worked, so frequently we’d make a day of it, all of us driving over in the morning—my mom and I doing my time at the orthodontist’s, then spending the long rest of the day at my dad’s store. He sold pianos and organs, and as I was years into piano lessons, if nothing else, I could practice. Sometimes I goofed off and shakily rode a skateboard around the smooth-floored basement of the store.
Then, when I was 15, we moved to a different state. The metal bands still securely encircled my teeth with no sign of coming off. We had to find a new orthodontist. Now, the next largest town was 35 miles away. My mom and I engaged in orthodontic carpooling with an unfortunate classmate who was enduring the same trial as I. This went on for a couple more years. Every six weeks, my gums would ache for a week as I adjusted to the pull of the new configuration of tiny rubberbands. I knew I’d have a perfect smile one day.
Finally, when I was 17 and during my senior year in high school, it ended. The braces came off, and so did the glasses. I did have a perfect smile, I had become the swan.
But one thing that didn’t go away was my by then well-developed compulsion to brush my teeth for little or no reason. Thirty years later, it is still an overpowering urge.
It is as almost a postscript to all of this that I have realized what was maybe the more important benefit of having had those four molars removed at age 10—I am the proud owner of all my wisdom teeth. They never needed to be pulled because there was room for them to coexist peacefully with my remaining teeth. And in fact, I have a supernumerary fifth wisdom tooth in my upper right jaw which I am kind of proud of. I figure that’s why I’m so smart.
Childhood obsession
November 1, 2009
I did eventually develop the obsession with real horses at about age 10. Not flesh-and-blood beasts so much, but my imaginary stable full of the finest thoroughbreds, quarter horses, and Arabians a girl could dream up. I made incredible crayon illustrations of each horse, and on the back of the pictures, I kept detailed charts of their pedigrees. I’m sure that notebook is in my parents basement somewhere.
As for the cars and trucks, I’ll have to ask my mom whatever happened to those. I have a vague recollection that those were given up many years ago. But it was fun to remember pure, childhood fun today.
Photo came from here.
Kelly’s Unnecessary Blog 