Yarn Carnage

Dad really loved this story. When I first told it to him, he laughed in that hearty guffaw of his which I loved to hear. Still hear, in my fond memories. Of course, I didn't tell him the tale until 25 years after the fact, well after the parental statute of limitations on schoolboy mischief had expired.

Back at good old St. Hedwig on Detroit's southwest side, this was in the 1977-1978 school year, there were I think 26 of us Senior boys who had not earned the 1/2 credit of Art required for graduation. Someone in the administration had developed, or perhaps the course already existed for exactly such contingencies, something called Art Appreciation. It was kind of an Art class, though we didn't do much real Art. We read about artists, did reports on styles and types of Art, and made the occasional stab at what might in a stretch be called Art. Those projects were not much if any better than first grade macaroni art, but it got us guys off the hook for that precious half credit so we could graduate.

The instructor, who'm I'll call Miss Smith, had a large box full of yarn for use in classes where actual artistic endeavors were attempted. One day, she left the room for whatever purpose, and one of us yoyos (not me, honest!) opened the box and began throwing balls of yarn at the rest of the class. What followed was the delightful chaos of less than mature schoolboys hurling yarn at each other, bouncing each skein off one another's heads and laughing like idiots. Fortunately, someone was wise enough to act as lookout. With the cry, "Smith's coming!" someone held the box open and we tossed the yarn back in as quickly as possible. By the time she was back in class we were all back at our seats apparently doing our work.

This happened another time or two, with the same face saving result. The time after however, the guy tossing the yarn from the box took the tape off the end of each ball as he distributed them to the class. Miss Smith had taped the ends of the yarn to the skeins to know where they were, and of course to keep the yarn in order.

It goes without saying that Senior boys doing mischief cared little for such particulars. We threw the balls of yarn at each other anyway, ignoring that they were unraveling as we smacked one another in the head. This went on for about five minutes until the lookout yelled, "Smith's coming!"

We immediately froze, all stuck in place either while picking up a ball to throw, in the act of follow through after a delivery, or right before letting one fly. Only our eyes moved, roaming between each other and the massive yarn tangle we had inflicted upon the art room. Then, all of us, as if one thought, began frantically trying to roll up all that yarn; there were dozens of skeins worth strewn about. Very quickly realizing the futility of the exercise, we abandoned our cause, and stupidly jumped to our seats and went back to the pencil drawings we were supposed to be working on.

Miss Smith returned to spy the most magnificent display of yarn carnage imaginable. Lines of color, from pastel to primary, were strewn everywhere and in every hue: over the tops of cabinets, across her desk, even over the shoulders and under the feet of all of us students. I might go so far as to say it was a work of Art itself; you know, maybe we ought to have gotten assignment credit for it, now that I think about it. But we sat there working as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

"Would someone care to tell me what's going on?" Smith asked.

Can't you see? We're working on our pencil drawings. Practicing shading, just like you taught us.

Giving the silence a few seconds to itself she finally asked, "Is no one going to tell me what happened here?" What's to tell? We're doing our Art.

Seeing the futility of her situation, she calmly went and called for Sister Principal.

Now, Sister Principal was a old line, strict, authoritarian nun. She had to be, to deal with miscreants such as we senior boys. She entered the room and repeated both of Miss Smith's questions, with no further insight into the situation. She began slowly pacing the room, glaring in turn at every one of us. 

She intended to make someone crack.

You need to know here that I had kept myself pretty clean in high school. No detentions, no mischief, and I had decent enough grades. I was no goody two shoes, no brown nose who would rat anyone out either. I just stayed clean. I got along with everyone so far as I remember, with no real incidents. But I was fully participating in this fiasco. Willingly, I confess.

Sister continued around the room; we kept at our work, even subtly brushing strings of yarn off our sketch pads as we scratched at them. She wasn't going to break; neither would we.
The dismissal bell rang. We all started to put away our stuff and gather our backpacks to leave. Sister sternly announced, "No one is going anywhere until we get to the bottom of this. If no one speaks up, you'll all get two detentions: one for this, and one for being tardy to your next class." We slumped down into our chairs. This was going to take awhile, until Sister decided that the inevitable detentions were her only recourse.

Sister Principal continued her slow tour. She came around the table where I sat with about 7 other guys, giving the deep glare all around, stopping directly behind me. I knew it, I thought. I'm the first to be grilled.

The deafening silence seemed to take forever though it was actually mere seconds. Then I actually heard her open her mouth: here it comes. I'm on the spot. But she said, "You may go to your next class, Mr. Cosgriff. We all know that you would never participate in such nonsense."

What could I do? I wasn't about to rat the guys out, nor confess my guilt either. I slowly gathered my things, mumbled a quiet, "Thank you, Sister Principal," and went to my next class.

So my official record stayed clean. To be sure, there is a part of me who feels sheepish to this day. But the imp on my other shoulder does smile about it. And Pops thought it was a great story.

Ash Wednesday 2016

Today is Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent for Christianity in general, and Catholics in particular. It is a time of penance, something we all need. We all need to atone for our failures, for our sins.

Humanity is fallen; the world around us is fallen. That's why people do wrong, and genes mutate into cancers and such. Nothing in our universe is perfect, but there is a difference between we humans and the lower animals and inanimate things nearby. We can choose. We can decide whether to do well or ill. It is what makes us special, and separates us from all else.

But surely these next few weeks aren't for Christians alone? It would seem that no matter what you believe, or whether you believe anything at all, you would still think it a good idea to improve yourself, or to do good things for those in need around you. Even if you cannot bring yourself to believe in something beyond humanity or beyond the universe itself, you can still make the effort to make yourself a better person and enrich the lives of those whom you come in contact with day in and day out. It's the one area where the seriously religious and the secularists can surely agree with each other, don't you think?

So try to become a better person this Lenten season. Smile, help people, discipline yourself in the positive habits of mind and body. You might be pleasantly surprised as the good habits formed become a part of you. The folks around you may be downright shocked. And we'll all be the better for it.

Praying at the altar of science

We overvalue science in our modern world. We truly do. Oh, this isn't to belittle the great engineering feats which science has made possible, nor the advances in medicine which make our lives longer and healthier, nor even things such as television or the Internet which offer the possibility of making our mental lives better, even when they merely entertain. All of that is well and good, so far as they go. The trouble lies in the attitude that science makes us better simply because it's science. We act as though science has value, or gives virtue.

Not necessarily, if at all, can science do that. It may offer the opportunity to be a better, more virtuous people. But it does only that, and we are speaking somewhat anthropormorphically in attributing that much to it really.

Can science define or defend the value of a human life? Can it teach us that stealing is wrong; indeed, can it define theft? Can it say anything about our responsibility towards the environment or, more importantly, one another?

Obviously not. To be sure, it may tell us that if we continue on such and such a road we might drive ourselves into extinction. But that's all it can do. Whether we ought to do such and such else so that we will not become extinct is a question of value. Science only tells us what will happen should we construct a building without the proper strengths, or perhaps even what may happen if we continue on a certain course with no variation. It does not, will not, and cannot tell us what we should do with the information it supplies.

People make those judgments, and they are not argued in the realm of science. They're argued in the realm of philosophy, the realm where we might actually be able, by conscious debate and a reasoned consideration of who we are rather than merely that we are, conclude what are and are not good things to do. Science provides facts; however useful they may be, they are ultimately very rote and, by themselves, without meaning. We provide value and virtue. We are above science.

Science by itself lacks virtue. Those who pray at its altar pray to a valueless void.

A Sunday Catholic Rant

I long ago came to the conclusion that Vatican II was ill advised. I will not do what some of my traditionalist brethren have and call it a mistake; at some point Faith must direct to us that God would not lead His Church into serious error. That does not, however, mean that She will not occasionally employ less than ideal judgment.

The liberalizing effect of Vatican II has not been without noticeable waves of trouble. It does not seem coincidental that the drop in vocations began in earnest after the Council; The Dominican nun who was the counselor at my son's school has told me that the in the very first year after the changes of the Council went into effect candidates for the sisterhood in her Mother House dropped by well over three-quarters. Further, Mass attendance has slipped so far that many churches have closed. The question is, why?

Though there are other pertinent factors, I rather believe that it lies to a degree in the loss of the spiritual aspect of Catholic religious practice. We don't appear so interested in saving souls as we are in social justice (whatever that means) and just getting along. Not that justice and Christian charity are unimportant values. It's just that, social justice (if you simply must force an arguably pointless adjective in there) without regard for the soul is an empty vessel. Feeding the hungry is one of the key callings of our faith. Yet to feed only their bellies cannot nourish them in the wonders of Heaven or necessarily set them on the road to a fruitful relationship with God. It only maintains a body which, on its own, will eventually rot, and nothing more.

I attended a Tridentine Mass for the first time awhile ago and was struck by the the mysticism of it. It was as though something magical was happening: bread and wine became the body and blood of our Lord. It wasn't just Christ sharing a meal with his friends, as some Vatican II supporters seem to feel of it. It was a true miracle in action. Similarly, there was the Divine Mercy chaplet and exposition of the Blessed Sacrament after Mass yesterday in my parish. I felt that same profound mystery as I did at the Latin Mass.

So I'm thinking we ought to get back to a greater emphasis on tradition rather than appeals to modernism and being relevant to this age (whatever that means), and I am seeing signs of just that. Latin is creeping back into our services, and Catholic prelates are calling out Catholic politicians who don't act Catholic. We are not far removed from the pontificate of John Paul the Great, who had encouraged a return to the old values and norms while working for meaningful dialogue among faiths and nations, an ideal Benedict XIV built upon and which Francis I, despite media insistence otherwise, supports himself. There are even indications that vocations are slowly rebounding.

The future, then, is not so bleak as it may seem to a few of my fellows. We simply must get back to the old idea that if you want people to sacrifice you've got to give them something worth the sacrifice. If you want people in the pews you must appeal to their sense of the spirit. Even if all you want is an end to hunger and have decent shelter and health care for all, you need an appeal to the eternal aimed properly at both the servants of the poor and the poor themselves. You must speak to the soul. The rest will take of itself.

A little Cherry Chocolate Chip for Breakfast will do well

February is almost anything month. Of course all months are these days, as everyone it seems tries to get this or that cause which is precious to them somehow highlighted. To be sure, I'm not saying that any of this is wrong. But it does seem to have, perhaps, the tendency for all these causes to be drowned out in the din of competing virtues.

In February, the big ones still get their due. Valentine's Day has been around awhile, as have Washington and Lincoln's Birthdays (boiled down to a bland President's Day as it is) and Black History Month. Nothing really wrong with any of that. Then Groundhog Day has cut a niche for itself in February 2, though it's an admittedly tongue in cheek, uh, holiday. It's all in good fun.

But can these more established ritual dates compete with the likes of Create a Vacuum Day? Or how about Ferris Wheel Day? Then there's what may be my favorite, Do a Grouch a Favor Day. It's February 16; I expect many favors.

If you're so inclined, you can view a fuller list of February remembrances here: http://www.holidayinsights.com/moreholidays/february.htm

Why read the list? Because who would want to miss Hoodie Hoo Day, or Public Sleeping Day?

Yet my favorite February day could actually be today: Eat Ice Cream For Breakfast Day. So I'm off to breakfast. So long!

But get your kites ready. Monday is Kite Flying Day. Honest.

Ben's Gamble

Now Ben, he was a true son of the South, being born in Alabam awhile back. He was lanky; he was several hands high as horses be measured, a tall drink of water in the local tongue of the American South. Like many sons of Dixie, he came north after the War, seekin' work in the Northern Industry which at the time prospered. In his case, fortune led him to Detroit, Michigan, to a job at one of the now Big Three auto makers. That was a blessing for him, as in the quick years after his arrival he had acquired a family, a wife and three kids as I recall, which he needed to manage through his labor. He had also acquired some 60 year ago as a friend me Pops, Bill Cosgriff.

Now the economy, it likes to act on its own every so often. When that happens it puts a hurt on industry, the car makers so much as anyone else. So his company, they go and lay him off. Tell him the layoff is for about three, four months. Look for a letter they say, to tell him when he might return to his toil.

Now Ben, he figures he and his blessings might as well spend their downtime with kin in Alabam. Makes sense, of course: might as well show off the family by being with them, you know, for a minute. So he packs up everyone in the old sedan and goes south.

That were no easy trip by car back then. Two, likely three days, depending on a lot of unforeseen factors. They was the roads, many two lane blacktop and of dubious quality, and there was the cities and towns which one had to plow through, there being no superhighways as we are all familiar with these days. And unknown backups delaying traffic. And car troubles; there was no 80,000 mile guaranteed tires in 1955. And you slept in your car to save money on motels. It was a journey in them days, a true journey.

Yet they make it, and they settle in with family grateful to see them. Then in six weeks a letter arrives, demanding Ben get back to Detroit straight away, as his job had returned to necessity.

The two, three day journey begins again. They arrive safely in Detroit. Ben finds lodging in me Grandpa Joe's rooming houses, good enough for a short spell until Ben's income allows them to stay in a home. Ben dutifully reports to work on Monday morning. But the line foreman, he has no clue to what he's to do with Ben. He sends him to his supervisor.

That man, he has no clue either. So he recommends Ben up the next step of the ladder, who himself has no clue. He says Ben ought to commute with the shop foreman, who sends him to an assistant plant manager, who sends him to the plant manager. Who after due consideration with the proper authority grants him a new layoff notice.

So Ben proceeds this time down the ladder of authority, telling each and every one of them effectively and emphatically what he thinks of his treatment in this debacle. He causes them each to understand exactly how wrong his situation was and how deeply he did not appreciate it. He imparts upon them how truly in the wrong they all were with him and his situation.

"Bill', he says to me Pops after regaling him with his tale of woe, 'When I was done tellin' each and every one of them how I felt, I was paid off, laid off, told off and run off. That was how complete my damage was."

But that is the damage you must complete against the devil, lest someone misunderstand your plaint. Ben, he got that satisfaction. And may the Lord bless him for it.

Hell and the petty bureaucrat

"Who can endure a doctrine which would allow only dentists to say whether our teeth were aching, only cobblers to say whether our shoes hurt us, and only governments to tell us whether we were being well governed?" -C. S. Lewis

This isn't the quote we were seeking. Yet it will have to do, and is a decent enough lead in to the subject we wish to address today. The quote we wanted, and we confess right off that this will be a horrible paraphrase of it, dealt with Lewis, speaking through his famous character Screwtape, on the power of bureaucracy. Lewis seems to fear not the Hitlers of the world, but the mousey little bureaucrats who actually run so much of it. He despises the small, well manicured, spectacled man in an office who will not allow another man, a fellow citizen, the right to chop down a tree on his own land to make boards to fix his own steps (or outbuilding or some such) without the proper permits and permissions.

Such folk can so easily be made to appear comic; indeed, Douglas Adams (if we may cross reference the views of a devout Christian with those of a rabid atheist) makes light of them rather well in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Unfortunately, such an interpretation isn't so useful as that of Mr. Lewis. The bureaucrat is far more dangerous than funny. And the government is brimming with them.

We have witnessed both attempts and triumphs by similar elected politicians (and all too often merely appointed civil servants) to force people to drink no more than 16 ounces of a soft drink at a time. We see leaders who don't want to find any trans fats in our food. We find officials who don't want us mowing our lawns or filling our cars with gas on ozone action days. And you don't even have to go to the newest suburbs to hear wails against urban sprawl. Yet what might these all have in common with Hitler?

Only the simple fact that they're all arguably tyrannical people committing arguably tyrannical actions.

Liberals cannot, or choose not, to see this. Overt and powerful evil, yes, they recognize quite readily. But who wouldn't? Hitler, Mao, Stalin; only a true fool could not see the threats they were. Yet our leftist friends do not see the petty tyrant. The truth is, they encourage him. Or her, lest the speakers of the v-word be insulted by a mere masculine reference made with no intention to offend.

To be sure, any one of these actions seen by itself doesn't seem so bad. Some of them indeed may not be bad. Any one by itself might even simply be a misplaced emphasis, may only be mere stupidity, or may even be honest good intention. It is all too easy to say of any individual person or instance, they mean well. Still, the question rarely asked is whether any of them ought to be the province or persons of government and the bureaucracy at all, and if so, which ones really.

What is also overlooked is that no matter what they mean, they may be a symptom of a greater disease. Every petty action by every petty official seen against the big picture demonstrates that small evils may lead to larger ones. Little Hitlers may one day become big Hitlers. It may well be, it likely as not is, that not a one of these people understand that their little sin against their fellow man can lead to far worse sins against him or the world.

Skin cancers by and large are the most curable of cancers. Yet if one ignores the blemish on their arm, thinking that it's nothing and could not possibly come to harm and thus pays it no mind, what will happen? Several years later doctors will be telling him that they can do nothing for him. But if he had done something about it when he first noticed it...

This is not to say that every bureaucrat or indeed every liberal thinker (in the modern American sense of the term anyway) is an evil person, or that every act of theirs must lead to tyranny. But it is meant to caution us that sometimes things do go in directions which we cannot immediately envision, that we are responsible not only for the direct effects of our actions but also for the sometimes unpredictable consequences of them, and that the road to Hell is indeed paved with the best of intentions.

None of that will matter when and if an American or Canadian or British Hitler rises to power. Yet the truly sad thing is, should that actually happen, no one will claim to have seen it coming. They will be all too correct.