THE "OTHER" GOSPEL, THE MEMORY OF THE BIBLE IN THE EYE OF YOUR CAMERA

The one I had was brown

Have you ever been on a pilgrimage?  Have you ever read Geoffrey Chaucer?  have you ever heard of the Pilgrimage to Mecca?  Did you ever ask yourself why Jesus, Mary and Joseph were 100 miles away from home when Jesus got lost?  How often do you, if ever, dream of traveling to your favorite religious site?
When you think of that, what is your first preoccupation, after money, of course?  Is it your prayer book or your camera?  
Why do I bring this up?  Because it came to me the other day when I though that it might be a good idea to dig out some old pictures and give them to our sons for Christmas.  So, of course, I dove into the box(es) of photos and the box(es) of SD computer chips to see what pictures they might appreciate more.  The emotion that overtook me while I was doing this was quite a surprise to me.  I decided that none of the pictures that I was viewing would be of any real lasting value to either one of them.  Why?  Because it struck me with some emotional intensity that what I was looking at was interesting, but certainly not engaging.  The exercise was rather fun, but did not rise to the level of awe before a family collection of treasure.  So, I stopped myself from spending any more time doing this.
It came to me that the truly meaningful pictures were VERY few and far between.  How many pictures of 3 and 4 year boys are meaningful?  There is one that I like, but I couldn't find it, so that was a disappointment.  Or was it?  It made me think of the picture that I took with my Kodak Box camera of old.  It was at Niagara Falls somewhere in the 1957 range.  It was one where I captured the boat, "The Maid of the Mist" floating at the foot of the falls and surrounded by a very clearly defined rainbow.  I admired that picture for a long time, but then I changed my domicile so many times during the passing years that all I have is the memory.  I have the memory, and nothing else, of my favorite picture of EFR Dion coming down the back stairs of our house on Hartford Street in South Hadley that I took with the same box camera by Kodak.  I remember it because it was February, a few days after he had announced that he had now lived longer than his father had.  I could go on for some time reminiscing about pictures that I remember and about pictures that were never taken.  Those that were never taken are still vividly present to me.  They move me as much as those that occasionally fall under my gaze.  Despite the convictions expressed here, I still find myself clicking away on special occasions.
In the introduction I asked about pilgrimages and what is the more important, prayer or picture.  I wonder what the right answer is.  It is impossible to go to a revered location on the planet without capturing the reality of it on camera.  I have my favorite pictures of places that I have seen only because I went there to pray.  I don't look at the pictures very often, if ever, but the fact that I stopped and captured a rare reality helps vivify my memory of it.  It is like multi-media impact on the brain.  It is rather certain to me that the effort that it took to stop, assess the angle of importance, check the position of the sun, wonder if I should have Belle there or not, should I activate the flash, how close do I want to get, portrait or landscape mode, etc.  All of this activity contributes in some way to the memory of the event.  In many ways it makes viewing the picture less important down the line because the memory is all the more explicit.
Think of it this way.  Mary and Joseph lost track of their Son one year during the annual pilgrimage to Jerusalem for prayer.  They didn't need a camera to remember where they found him.  I think that He never forgot it either.  We don't hear a single word about him for another 20 plus years, except that when He got back to Nazareth, he obeyed them and grew in age and wisdom.  Period.
Who needs a camera for that?

UNSPORTSMANLIKE CONDUCT --- YELLOW FLAG --- TEAM GOES HOME

I have to report on this story because there is something in my memory that has never gone away.  I have been told many a time to let go, but even if I let go, the thought doesn't leave.  I don't get upset about it any more, but I did for a long time.  Several decades ago I was able to leave the emotional reaction aside, but the memory comes back, with or without prodding.  I was having a good Summer in baseball.  I was playing on two winning teams with two groups of guys who were really fun to be with.  I don't know if they were fun because we were winning or if they were fun, period.  I do know that I am still close to one of two of them, so there is still something left.  Then came the round robin playoffs.  We actually beat a pitcher who was way above our capabilities, but on this one evening, we prevailed.  Then it on to the second round.  We got to the venue and our shortstop did not show.  Some of us had to play out of position.  Our pitcher was not on his game, but he was fancy footing it and doing all right.  We actually headed into the last inning ahead.  Then it happened.  I made the ereror that opened the flood gates and we were out of the round robin.   The story that brings all this back is the one that underlines this photo.   You can find it here.  The kid did something that he knows he should not do according to high school rules.  So he got whistled and did not get the score that would have won the game for his team.
This fellow will live it down.  He will go on to a productive life.  He will do all the things that other people do, and do them well.  Quarterbacks, even in high school are generally intelligent as well as agile.  He'll do all right, but I will assure you of one thing.  He will never outlive the memory.

D. B. COOPER IS BACK --- HIJACK A PLANE FOR $ 200,000.00?

Hi!  I'm back.  Yeah, my name is Dan and I, uh, took your airplane back in 1971.  I'm really sorry about the whole thing and I'm wondering if you'll accept my apology for the trouble you've been through.  So, uh, where do we go from here?
Well, Dan, there are a few little things that still have us puzzled, but when all is said and done, we really don't have much to go on before we accept your apology.  We've been through so many people that we've really kinda made up our minds that if we're sure that you're the guy, we'll be so happy we'll just shake your hand, congratulate you on a job well done and call it a day.  
Uh, that's real nice ta hear, but what about the money?
What money, Dan?
Ya know, the $ 2 hundred grand.
Oh that.  Well we found nearly $6,000 of that some time back, and we thought that was rather nice.  We thought it was a sure sign that you had checked out. Kinda nice that we were wrong about that, don't ya think?  
Well, yer right there.  So where do we go from here?  Well, what do you want to do?
Well, I kinda want to go to jail.  $200,000 didn't last very long and I'm sick and tired of living from hand to mouth and eating dumpster food.  
Yeah, yer right, 200 grand is not really a lot of money.  Actually, these days that's such small change that we can't put you in jail for that.  For us to put you in jail, you would have to be at about the $20,000,000.00 mark.  Now, that would be something we could do something about.  For that, we could roust about finding a nice warm cell and three square meals a day for you.  What we really suggest is that you find yourself a warm street vent from the subway, a pad and a pencil and write a book.  That will keep you busy and out of airplanes and in about five years you'll be rich.  So, on your way, Dan, and stop playing with chump change.
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I write about this because I remember it well.  It's weird to be able to remember things that are this old.  Weirder still, a lot of the stuff I remember happened 30 years BEFORE D.B. Copper.  WOW!!

MY MOTHER SAID, "IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, SEND ME HOME."

MARCH 6, 1946.  I'm in the hospital for banking a $0.50 coin in the wrong slot.  The pictures show the exact replica of the coin that I swallowed in the classroom of one of the most incompetent teachers who ever had access to the front of any group of students.  I am convinced, and I am not the only one, that she was more out of her mind than in it.  One time before this incident, JMT Dion was so fed up with this loonie lady that she told me "If she doesn't like it, tell her to send you home."  Well, wouldn't you know that the micro-managing, detail oriented, anal-retentive maniac complained about my manner of dress, again.  I gathered my testosterone all up in one big dose and said, "My mother said that if you don't like it, send me home."  You've seen the cartoons where Mr. Magoo slowly turns to a boil and then destroys everything within and without reach...I'm sure you have.  Well, that's what happened.  After she got done insulting me for using my mother's name in vain, she sent me packing.  I left, but I have to say, not happily.  Heck, at 8.5 years of age, I didn't know what was awaiting me at home.  But I had nowhere else to go, so home it was.  Much to my surprise, and relief, Ol' Mom was more disconcerted than anything else.  She couldn't bring herself to believe that I had quoted her.  BUT, when the telephone rang and the principal was on the other end of the line, MJT Dion knew that she had an interesting situation on her hands.  She now knew that she was going to have to deal with the head of household.  Yep, Ol' EFR Dion himself.  Heee!  Now, Mom and Paul were both in "No Man's Land."  It felt strange being in league with my mother waiting for the uncertain reaction of the MAN, the one with whom she threatened us all the time, "I'm going to tell your father."  
it was about 1:00 PM and there were at least five more hours left before "X" Hour.  I didn't know what to do, so I went to bed.  Around five o'clock I reported to my mother to help with the preparations for supper.  I could tell that by now she was fairly comfortable.  I never knew if she had telephoned her husband or if she was just sure that she had her story line down pat to take care of the situation.  Comes 5:45 PM.  EFR Dion gets home.  Pours himself his habitual double shot of brandy, has a seat and asks how the day went.  So, she tells him the story.  He puts his glass down, asks me if it happened that way.  I say "yes."  He asks if I can go back to school tomorrow.  "I say, I guess so."  He looks at us both, smiles and says, "I know you'll never do that again."  He knew! He knew. He knew that the teacher deserved it, but he couldn't or wouldn't admit it.
That teacher NEVER messed with me again.  Nor with my mother and father.  What a glorious victory!  >>>> But wait, that's just the beginning of the story.
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Four months later, the drama hits.
It is some time after the middle of February, late second week or early third week.  I'm sitting in the classroom with nothing to do, listening to the rant of you know who.  My right hand goes to my pocket and I feel the little pouch that holds my bus ticket money.  I feel something there and so I sneak it out, unsnap it [whaddya mean, zipper?] and find a .50c coin.  I take it out and examine it, and somehow I get oral with it and start to fondle it with my tongue.  I get wrapped up in the concupiscence of the sensuality of the moment and before you know it, the mass is in my throat and I am the victim of my own stupidity.  I have implanted a valve in an air passage that should not have a valve at that position.  I jump up, run to the teacher's desk, groan that I have swallowed fifty cents, and in the same motion, run for the door, open, turn left, run for the stairs. [I'm on the second floor and the toilets are three floors down, in the basement.]  I'm still alive and I'm still running.  The valve seems to be stuck in the correct position to allow some airflow.  But it hurts.  You know, the ridges that these things have.  I don't dare breathe too deeply despite the fact that I'm running and taking the steps two and three at the time.  I remember thinking to myself, "Wow, there's no one around, I'm all alone and I can't talk."  Just keep going, only two more flights of stairs left before you get to water.  I remember thinking that if I could get to water,  I might survive the choking bit because the water would make my throat a little bit slippery.  As it turn out, the theory was correct.  The source of lubricant was a surprise.  As I hit the cement floor of the basement and took the left turn through the door into the boys toilet, the coin triggered the vomit reflex that had not yet gone off.  Now the spasms came, strongly.  All that came was vile tasting stomach acid and whatever else more.  None of it came close to being spit out because the coin got wrapped up in the fluids, my throat got slippery and before I could spit anything out, everything kicked into reverse and without so much as a quick U-turn, went plunging down into the depths of my body. I stopped.  Stood there in disbelief and physical relief.  I was pain free and I was breathing normally.  I had a vile taste in my mouth and I was starting to shake all over.  A short moment after the reversal of my plight, the first grade children and their teacher were entering the building from recess.  They saw me in evident disarray and the teacher came to my side, put one arm around me and guided me to the water fountain.  I have to say, THAT felt GOOD.  I drank and was able to smile a bit.  She asked if I was all right.  I said I was.  She asked what had happened and when I said that I had just swallowed a .50c piece, she just nodded to be polite and turned around just as my teacher and the principal were arriving.  My teacher, yes, that one, was speechless.  I looked at her with neutral eyes.  The principal asked if I was well, and I said yes.  She ordered me to follow her and told my teacher to return to the classroom.
That's the first part of the story.  The hospital part comes next time after I think you've digested this part well enough.  Please permit me to say that there is not one bit of exaggeration in this relation.  I am living every moment so clearly that I am marveling at the power of human memory.  I think I am beginning to understand how the survivors of the Holocaust can remember the fugitive officials after decades of separation.  I have often wondered about that.  Tonight, I think I have a glimmer, faint, but sure, that it is possible.  Amazing!
A bientôt.

DO YOU REMEMBER HIM? HER? THEM? IT?

The past sometimes gets to be the present.  I have been having throw-back thoughts a lot lately and I have to smile at so many of them because they are downright pleasant.  Most of them have been about people, but in order to get the point across and get past the scantily clad females on Google, I chose to show a 1949 Hudson Wasp.  I won't bore you with how scantily clad can possibly be a logo for nostalgia.  But, I guess, on Google, when in doubt, slide anything into the open space.  Enough of that, already!
I'm sure so many of you think of people you knew when you were in school.  Since the names of the people I think of don't mean much, if anything to you, I'll just describe the characteristics that make them easy to remember.  So, the other day it was the girl in kindergarten who didn't stop crying for a week.  I remember her because she was very plain, and never got to be anything but "plain" as she grew up.  It took her a week to get over her separation anxiety and she lived a mere 100 yards away from the school.  She had a strange name, for us, since we didn't know Italian then.  Her name was Bella.  [With apologies to Antonio Phaneuf, my first cousin/quasi brother]  I think of him a lot.  Mainly I think of what he looked like when he was 17, and not 87!  I also think a lot about a bunch of cousins and quasi cousins that I went to school with.  They were a great bunch but I never grew up around them and the only influence they had on my development was the contact that we had in school.  We lived rather far apart, and they were second and third degree cousins, so we didn't have them in our lives at the first degree level, if you get my drift.  But I think of them a lot, and have been carrying them around in my head for about a month now.  [The Durand family, for those of you who know]  I think a lot about the first classmate of ours who died.  He was less than 20 if I remember correctly, and he died of natural causes, rather than of street violence or automobile accident.  He was followed by the classmate who had hydrocephalus [His cranium was enlarged due to poor drainage of fluid back into his system]  He had a hard time walking and he had a difficult time learning how to write.  He did surpass the first person to die by some years.  I have been thinking of my father's uncle Theo.  He is the person who had the gift of stopping bleeding.  He didn't have to touch the person.  All he had to do is to pray for the bleeding to stop, and it did.  He came to the United States one time [from Canada].  He was a huge human being.  A gentle giant with a booming laugh.  That was it.  I saw him twice for a total of 3 or 4 hours.  Never saw him again except in my mind, often.  Mainly I remember asking  myself what good was it to stop blood when the far away people like us couldn't reach him anyway?  I was not sassy enough in my childhood to ask him, but I was thinking of it, a lot.
As you know, I could go on about this for a long time.  But I won't.  I'm putting this before you to invite you to marvel at the wonder of our memory and the ability that we have to make the past vividly present in our lives.  I suppose that this too falls into the category of epistemology.  You remember that,right?  There are these moments in our lives when I think we have to stop and admire the mystery of what we are.  Not the mystery that we don't know, but the mystery that we believe in.  It is in this belief that we nurture the conviction of the truth about what we come to know about ourselves and about the rest of the humans with whom we live and by whom we are surrounded every day.  Now that I think of it, a 1949 Hudson with "step down into it" technology is a rather weak symbol of what I really wanted to express today.  But somehow it is better than the alternatives among which I made the choice.