“Don’t eat this fruit,” started with Genesis. Nursery tales have Peter Rabbit stealing from Mr. McGregor’s garden. Most coming of age books in the early 20th century, especially if about boys, contain a least one sequence when they sneak into someone’s orchard and swipe apples. At some level, even among the most generous of us, we feel if it is our tree, the fruit it bears is ours. I first felt this affront of my ownership when we moved on Rice Blvd. Outside the kitchen window was a good size plum tree. Through the spring we saw blossoms, green knobs, slight changes in color. By early June, they were almost ready. We made a week-end trip to San Antonio. When we came back, stems were bare or the fruit pecked and left to rot. Squirrels and birds were the culprits. To say I was offended is to put it mildly.

In my walks this summer, I’ve found two examples of trying to protect street side trees. Just around the corner from us, the house has recently landscaped with Louisiana iris, day lilies, and a small tree. As I repeatedly circled the block, I finally realized it was a beginning peach tree. One little bloom, one tiny peach. About the time it got larger and was that glorious mouth watering color of summer delight, a sign appeared. PLEASE LEAVE THE PEACH FOR OUR CHILDREN TO PICK. A later walk showed the peach was gone. The two resident girls were bringing in their bikes one afternoon. “Did you get to pick your peach?” The older scowled while the younger stomped her foot. “NO! Someone got it” I could only hope it turned to dust in their mouth.

The other example I think was to deal with winged and furry creatures. Down the sidewalk ahead of me I noticed an unusual glistening in morning light. I’m not sure of the tree. Around every small possibility, maybe thirty or more, some one had placed a zip lock bag. I guess they serve the same purpose as netting on a tomato plant. The message is sit there and drool. Just don’t eat the produce. Unfortunately, my walks are a random ramble, so I may never know if the owner’s efforts were affective.

Mixed with the desire to enjoy our own fruits is the pleasure we gain to offer by our choice with open hands. Hoarding can sour the harvest. A children’s share song is “The man who has plenty of good peanuts, and gives his neighbors none, Shan’t have any of my peanuts when his peanuts are gone.” The boy across the street brought me two pods of his purple okra. I have my own fruits to share. They are not visible and others never snatch them from me. If I make them available, though, they multiply, and there are enough for everyone.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance. Galatians 5:22-23

Newton’s third law of motion:  For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.  During this week, that has been my stable point for some linguistic, philosophical, and theological thoughts. What I’m trying to say now is mostly for me.  I just need to sort and this is my means. I do have some unmoveable beliefs, yet I am also a Jewish rabbi:  On one hand and on the other. In the midst of moral, economic, and health decisions causing pronouncements to be made, I am inclined to look at the other side to find balance. Part of my search involve those verities we call proverbs or adages.  Choose your favorite.  Too many cooks spoil the broth/ Many hands make light work.  Look before you leap/Strike while the iron is hot.

These ruminations started Sunday with a good sermon based on Jeremiah 29:7 -‘ Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile.”  We are all in exile from what we thought was normal.  Then the pithy saying was “Bloom where you are planted.” The truth in that is doing your best may lead to survival, yet may not be the end of the story.

Charis parable.  A friend gave me some ground orchids with the advice they would spread and give purple delight.  I did some reading and planted them. For two years they produced a bloom, yet nothing like what was promised.  I went to my always next step for puny plants. I moved them.  And lo, it was like a miracle.  The foliage was green and lush and the many amethyst blossoms shone across the whole yard. They had bloomed where they were planted.  They thrived in the right conditions.

I’m trying not to shrivel in these days. I am seeking actions and words that help me and all around me.  Deep inside I know these are not my best blooms, yet they are an offering of possibilities. What I question leads to a right decision and the surety to continue on an opening path.  Or another opposite:  Doubt is the beginning of wisdom/Faith will move mountains. Doing my best where I am, leads to God’s next statement.

For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil.

Jeremiah 29:11

Not official, yet these words are part of the pledge of the postal deliverers. Snow and gloom of night are in there, but the first two are especially true of Houston. I don’t know where you are in life with communication.  I’m right there with some next step items.  No Instagram, yet e-mail does get the word said quickly.  Some use that option or maybe have moved on to texts or some other vocabulary I don’t know. An excitement builds in opening the mail box or hearing a plop on the floor by the door that a faint bing doesn’t begin to match. So cheers for the United States Post Office even as it struggles.

Benjamin Franklin, the crusty pithy colonial Renaissance man, was first connected with a  postal system out of Philadelphia in 1753.  In July, 1775, a colonial postal system was begun with his being the first postmaster general.  For a good part of my life, mail was a way to communicate.  School children were taught the proper way to write various letters from obligatory thank you notes to business letters. Mail came twice a day and once on Saturday, and special stamps were needed the the missile went by plane.  The Post Offices in towns were almost as important a gathering place as one of the local stores.

Letters were treasured.  They contained important news or words of love to be gathered and tied with a satin ribbon. Today these are considered primary sources for any historical documents. In my mother’s bottom bureau drawer were a gathering from her grandchildren over the years.  A single crayon mark from a young one and several lines slanting downward across a  page telling about a school occasion from a pre-teen boy. Doug gave me a notebook with letters I had written him during an around the world trip thirty years ago. I had to plan ahead for them to reach the receiving point when he was there.

Times exist when the old fashion term of  “I take pen in hand” is still appropriate.  Can one express proper concern for a death or tragedy in a technological manner?  A gift thoughtfully chosen and specifically given almost requires the same attention in a thank you note.  Yes, in these days of separation and quarantine I have typed a keep in touch comment and hit return. More and more though, a note is written when I need to know a person I love picks up the envelope, looks at return address with anticipation, and what my hand sealed their hand opens for their eyes to read what my heart wrote.  Even that doesn’t replace the closeness we yearn for.

Though I have much to write you, I would rather not use paper and ink, but I hope to come to see you and talk with you face to face, so that our joy may be complete.

2 John 2:12

 

Fess up now.  If you have either lived with a person who owned a pick up truck or were yourself that person, the bottom line is it had only a marginal connection with transportation.  The relationship was one of love. Backing it smoothly into a parking place causes people to stop on the sidewalk and watch in admiration. No one leans casually against the rolled down window of a coupe to have a conversation. The one handed wave of a hatted driver to another is most impressive from the height of a F-150 while cruising down an almost empty highway in West Texas. To discuss them one uses words like torque, payload, rugged, capable, and that favorite of teenage boys – dually.

Vehicles in our family were gender specific. After a misadventure with a Simca, the elder of the men bought a blue long-bed (another definitive word) to make the run to the chemical plant.  Fondly it was spoken of as the Blue Whale. In the no seat belt era, two young boys, a wife, and a driver could fit across the front seat and try to avoid bruises from the gear shift. It had a trailer hitch just in case, though the in case never came up.  Its most famous uses were to put boys and friends in the back and bounce around some land we owned west of town and to make exciting trips to the town dump with a load of whatever.

Listing in order doesn’t matter. In ensuing years, one teen made a trip  to Maine to work for the summer.  He had a rumpled second hand tan short bed made for adventures.  Some nights it was his bedroom on the journey north.  He came back with a visor sticker that acclaimed: This Truck Made It To the Top of Mt. Washington. Those words gave me bonus points with 4th graders when I had to borrow it for school one day.  In spite of scruffy appearance, it was broken into and stolen twice.  The last time it was returned with a bed full of pumpkins. Had it been especially chosen for an October nefarious activity?

Equal time now for the other boy who is most hard core about trucks.  At this point I have lost track of the number.  Truck #?  is large enough to pull a travel trailer needed for various work occasions.  The most memorable bemoth was purchased with gains from his first job, a massive black two seater designated as The Beast.  It was so high it even had an extra step to reach the running board in order to grab the hand pull and hoist yourself up to the shotgun seat.  It’s very size required reverance.

When I started this I knew there was no Biblical connection, yet maybe there is.  Every trip on the freeway has some truck with family belongings stacked in the bed. These are either tied down or covered with a flapping tarp.  People up front have been called to go forth, and though love may have originated the purpose of purchase, transportation is what is required, and the time of camels has passed.

So Abram took Sarai his wife, and Lot his brother’s son, and all their possessions with them which they had gathered.  Genesis 12:4

For most of my life, food, especially fruit,  appeared in season and was grown locally.  Oranges came from Buras in Plaquemines Parish.We drove down in early December to buy a crate. One of them was a treat in the toe of my Christmas stocking.  I knew of cherries, yet never ate an uncanned one until I was a sophomore in high school, and we took our one vacation trip toward the northwest.  The highlight of any year was April and May when strawberries came in season in Tangipahoa Parish.  I don’t like the artificial flavor; however, homemade ice cream, sliced over hot pound cake, and just held by the stem for a delicious nibbling while red juice dribbles on your chin is akin to the ambrosia of a heavenly meal.

The season was coming on when we drove out of town (not difficult to do) and saw workers in the field bending over green plants, turning back leaves to find the red ripe berries.  One had to have light hands and a good eye.  Ripening stops when they are picked and they are fragile to ship, so a perfect careful choice was necessary for each berry.  Workers took their field baskets to the sorting sheds where another group carefully divided by size and ripeness. Those worthy to be sold to commercial buyers were packed in a crate, sixteen pints in two layers.  Less than their best went to be sold at a roadside stand.

In Hammond ,through the month, auctions were held in the Log Cabin, a structure near the railroad station.  A farmer would declare how many crates he had ready for shipping. Stores and distributers would make bids with the auctioneer fanning the price until a gavel ended that lot.  Daddy taught sons of farmers, so he would drive out, lean on a fence, make a deal and bring home a crate from that morning’s picking. When I taught in the northern part of the state, Daddy would put a crate on the last train and call me to be at the station at daybreak.  The redolent smell of ripeness filled the space between the clerk’s hands and mine.

The heart shape of the berry adds to its attractiveness.  Chocolate covered strawberries are as good as roses for Valentine’s Day. A Cherokee legend matching Adam and Eve says the couple quarreled, and the woman angrily walked out.  The man could not catch up.  To slow the woman down, the Great Spirit had berries grow along her path. Because she stopped to pick and eat, the man could catch up.  Her anger forgotten, they returned to their home where they lived out their days in peace, happiness, and love. With year around availability, all sorts of good things can happen.

And God said, “I have given every green plant for food…..and behold, it was very good.”

Genesis 1: 30 – 31

I arrived to today’s topic by several paths. One is a pronouncement I made after moving to a smaller house.  No gifts that require display space, or hang on walls, or fill bookshelves.  My plan is not to leave sorting requirements to my heirs.  Sideways, another  path is my continued digging in Spanish.  Like many an 9th grader, one year of Spanish was enough for me because I didn’t like the teacher.  (Consider this a belated apology.) After going to Peru, I started doing little bits, and what I really do well with is cognates – words that tie to another language’s word.  Not really close, yet regalo meaning gift made sense to me – something regal and special. Then I thought of what around me is a delight because of matching what I am, or its amazing usefulness, or just being quirky enough to bring a smile.

The matching me gift is a two plant greenery that was sent three years ago after David’s death.  It was from a teaching friend with a card that said, “I know you like things that grow.”  It just fit on the corner rim of my bathtub and has created a daily spa atmosphere. The amazing usefulness gift is the yellow plastic.  My son drawn to gadgets saw this on a TV ad.  It helps pop vacuum lids on various jars.  It is a real boon for arthritic older hands. Though not used daily, I still reach for it several times a week.   The quirky take on a strawberry appeared in the lunch box of a tutoring student.  She would place the prongs over the hull, push down the green stem, pull up and have a strawberry ready to pop into a waiting mouth. I thought it would be useful.  For me, a knife works better, but I smile every time I open the drawer.  

The best part of these mentioned is the call to mind of the giver as I notice or reach out to use.  So it is with my day of gratitude.  I live in a neighborhood of easy outdoor walking, I have children on the block to visit with even if six feet away, my needs are easily met, and daily, my health is still a gift.  All of these were provided by the One who has known me before I was born, who has provided the desires of my heart, and who gives the surprises that create joy in my day.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above and comes down from the Father of lights.  James 1:17

A real truth is all of us are different, thank goodness.  Some of us see more problems than solutions.  Some forge ahead, maybe causing confusion, yet feeling better for making progress.  Some whine, and some find rainbows. In history, times have been demanding, and some have survived:  God’s intervention, blind luck, grit and determination. My hold on to is my daddy’s life.  He was born in 1894 in Zwolle, an almost town in Sabine Parish near the Texas border.  Stories abound.  I just want to share barebones, and you review your history or your right now and find the hand holds that today needs.

Zowelle was about as backwater as one could get.  The family was four boys and three girls.  The mother and two girls died in the 1904 flue epidemic and the last sister in 1912.. Sabine Parish had no high school, which began in 8th grade at that time, so Joe went to DeSoto parish taking his 8 year old brother with him.  He milked cows to pay for their room and board. When he went to LSU, Horace came along and went to the lab school. Joe had a job as a waiter in the cafeteria.

The decades of the twenties and thirties were up and down – maybe more down.  He served in WWI, came back, married.  He managed to go back to LSU and get a Master’s Degree in Agriculture.  I roamed the stacks of LSU library and found his thesis. Through the Depression, he and my mother moved four times as schools where he was principal failed.  There was the flood of 1927 that wipe out belongings and a fire that was the only incident my mother would never talk about. A dear story is Horace’s illness after a botched appendectomy and how the family cared for him over distances and time until he died. Finally they came with me to Southeastern College in Hammond.  We rode out WWII with rationing and no car.  The salary wasn’t much, but “payment in kind ” was part of the package, so we always had meat and a vegetable garden.  After his retirement at 65, he worked at a sporting good store to earn enough quarters for Social Security.

What do I distill from this life?  You might as well be truthful about hard times.  I know these stories because they were interspersed with tales of joyful occasions. Make a budget.  Not having the money was never taken as failure.  We could or could not do whatever depending on cash on hand. Keep family ties strong. Even if long distance calls cost, Sunday nights were a time to check in and family visits took precedence over all trips. Do good to others as you can.  The Homer story will take a full blog.  Less long are memories of meals, a place to stay, an offer of time to help. Joseph Alfred Wedgeworth took what life offered, dealt with what came as was needed, trusted God to be with him, and left a shining inheritance.

If a man dies and has no son, he shall cause his inheritance to pass to his daughter.

Numbers 27: 8

and the next word is “helps.”  I believe because I am of the generation who carefully peeled aluminum foil from gum wrappers, rolled into balls, and turned in for the “war effort.”  In 1948, thousands of Texas school children donated nickels and dimes to moor the Battleship Texas near San Jacinto Park.  Granted it recently was moved on for one more reconstruction, but it wouldn’t have reached this point without help half a century ago. So, in the backwaters of this virus, volunteers are doing their part to help, unbeknownst to most and only a sentence in a paragraph as recognition.

Let’s start with me.  Like most of us, I am very aware of food and financial crisis, more than any one person can solve.  Our church, though, offered to take part in a larger effort to make masks to hand out to whoever needed one.  Sure, I can do that.  I have a sewing machine, years of experience, and another group was doing the little bit of cutting and delivering.  Well, it turned out to be a nine step process that took longer than I planned.  I finished my thirty-five yesterday.  The grand total, though, was 10,000 from me and a few others.

In various places, volunteers have put on their masks, gone out in public, and contributed their efforts.  Some have sorted cans for a food panty while others have stood behind card tables at a drive through delivery of that food.  Being paid does not make any easier the task of teachers moving into a new mode of educating children who have been thrown into a new way of learning. As her gift, my cross the street 6th grade neighbor spent all afternoon drawing pictures and writing encouraging words in the street for passing cars to read.  Blessings on the meme creators who in the midst of a stressful day cause me to laugh.

In the mix are those who write notes, send e-mails, and encourage those who can’t be with quarantined loved ones. This doesn’t even touch those who by their professions have given more than a little bit.  Their dedication and efforts have saved lives and, hopefully, bought containment time while other search for a vaccine. If we all served alike, many tasks, large and small, would be left undone.  And thirty five people would be maskless without me. Find your bit!

^” But that doesn’t mean you should all look and speak and act the same. Out of the generosity of Christ, each of us is given his own gift. ” Ephesians 4:11 The Message

Back in the far reaches of your mind is a small almost atrophied brain cell holding a memory of “The Lady or the Tiger”  Do you remember now? It’s the one where the prisoner must choose a door to open.  Behind one door is a tiger ready to spring. The other door if chosen correctly will reveal a beautiful woman.  At that point the story ends and an adept English teacher would start a what will happen next discussion. A satisfactory solution has never been reached.  That reminds me of this week.  In some places by various orders life will be resumed in some form.  Whether that proves a good decision or not remains to be seen.  So, just crack your door and consider.

I feel a little like our cat Ferdinand as a kitten.  An open door was a call to freedom.  Once    out,

danger lurked and people were calling his name, and he would end up climbing a tree for safety.  If I wear a mask, options are available. I can eat out in some places instead of pick up if I still distance myself.  Maybe I can go to Walgreen’s or Office Depot. After all they have been texting me daily so I will know what deals I am missing. I keep thinking, there are no guarantees. So, I’ll just cautiously go for my usual walk and let some one else experiment.

Life needs us to be in the midst of it  Various workers will prepare themselves and return to a sanitized office. Any chance of a paycheck for some will over ride that fear of infection. Stress and unknown still exist for children and school and who will care for them if both parents work. Knocks on the door and a call to open up come from many sources.  Only one I trust.

Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears my voice and opens the door I will come in to him and eat with him and he with me.  Revelation 3:20

You do realize this could go on forever.  A gentle reader’s response to last week was about his perceived idea of Louisiana fare, and he felt some favorites were left out. This won’t make amends, but will broaden the base.  Noted, in my family of origin, the one I joined by marriage, and the six individuals that comprise our core now, food is an engaging topic. The meal of the moment is prime focus sprinkled with memories of past successes and suggestions for the future.

First, like most states, Louisiana has a variety.  North Louisiana had dirt farmers living o garden fare.  The ankle of the boot nearest Mississippi had “soul food” with maybe a coon thrown in after a night of hunting in the Catahoula Swamps. I grew up in the Florida Parishes, a mixture of Spain from the east and creole from the west.  We had Italian settlers with St. Joseph altars and spreads laid out as thanksgiving for deliverance from famine. Do your own drooling over New Orleans favorites before moving to the Atchafalaya Swamp with maybe an alligator added to the mix. I didn’t know what a brisket was until I moved to Texas, but I knew how to cook a venison backstrap.

The question was asked about coffee, obviously not by a local.  Tea was offered only iced.  The choices were sweetened or not. I had my first cup of coffee when I was seven and at home with the flu. Dr. Gautreaux made a house call. After he listened to my chest, we sat around the kitchen table.  “Give that child a cup; it’ll loosen that cough.” Our house wasn’t a chickory fan.  Community Dark Roast was made in an eight cup drip pot that was always on the stove. Mother boiled water in kettle and poured it in the top over the grounds a cup at a time.  It was then heated before serving.  Lukewarm coffee was an anathema to hard core drinkers, good only for pouring down the sink and trying again.

The discussion could go on.  Would that I could hear each of you tell your favorite, your “comfort food” that brings the warmth of smells and taste, and the sounds of convivial laughter. Three courses or a bowl of soup, coq au vin or cinnamon toast, each creates longing for the being together where and with whom it was served.  The Israelites were rescued from slavery, drudgery, and lashings.  Yet, all was forgotten for what they remembered of Egypt.

Would we have died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate bread to the full.  Exodus 16:3