Still a Boy at Heart?
Still a Boy at Heart? Mischief.
This story begs repeating. It is from the perspective of a child still inside me. It is true.
A Road Side Attraction
Somewhere along the farm belt of the central northern United States along the roadside of a major highway there started popping-up large yellow billboard signs. I am embarrassed to report the sophomoric, more likely resonating with late middle school boys, vulgarity in those signs promoting a visit, not to Jupiter or Neptune but to ‘Uranus.’ Uranus, turns out to be the name of a fudge factory off Exit 1x, to be exact. Anyone who has learned about the planets has been forced to learn to put the accent on the correct syllable, but it is far too much giggly fun, when we are kids, and want to say it as we do. Can you recall the day in grade school class when we reviewed the planets? “U’ran’us.” Oh, please.
So driving by a series of these signs as an adult, I shook my head and quietly laughed at such a truly American allowance for low-brow advertising, the crude humor allowed for commerce, in the environs of the Bible Belt. Bold, premeditative attention seeking advertising.
It reminds me of a similar billboard on the way to North Carolina beaches, but to avoid litigation, I will paraphrase, ‘Visit ... Eat Here and Get Crabs.’ Somehow, that sign always brings back my mother’s warnings about toilet seats in public venues!
I find eating delicious crabmeat best enjoyed when the meat is taken from a can not from the exoskeleton of the actual crustacean. Yes, the beach can be the best place to get fresh ‘crabs,’ and crabs are delicious when fresh.
It is clear in my mind. I can picture myself in the family car with Mom and Dad up in front. The kids are in the back and we are heading to our vacation, when suddenly this sign for fudge jolts our sensibilities. The peals of childish laughter. The awkward predicament of the parents. We would be old enough to enjoy the easy slip into modestly forbidden language. Not really profanity but medical language about usually unmentionable body parts normally addressed with quaint euphemisms. Far too good fun to resist.
No, I did not stop to sample the sweet delight, but somehow the experience had stirred something in my memories of childhood. As I drove past those advertising signs toward Wyoming, there was more than one, these thoughts and related feelings retreated into my subconscious.
It was on the return trip from Yellowstone—and then much later, back home in the safety of friends—when the mischief I attribute to that approved roadside offensiveness, surfaced in me.
Gethsemani
I went to the Gethsemani Monastery in Kentucky to see the same scenery at the actual place where Thomas Merton lived, for many years as a monk, and wandered and worked. In the reception area of the welcome building there was a movie playing in a darkened room. The video showed monks in full habits with books, reciting, or singing. A wide well lighted display hall had pictures of the grounds and mounted excerpts of spiritual thoughts on the walls. It was here in this hall on a small table that they offered a booklet and pamphlet for ‘Free,’ but, of course, a donation seemed appropriate, and a donation box was present. I picked up a book of well-bound and nicely printed spiritual writings submitted by associates and supporters of the monastery, then I turned to go outside and to other buildings because I wanted to find a quiet spot to meditate. I wanted to share in the history of the feeling of the sanctified sense of quiet listening, by quietly listening.
There was a modest sign posting “Silence Starts Here” to the side of the entrance to the central buildings. I childishly broke that silence immediately to excitedly comment on a Camino de Santiago seashell hung on a string around the neck of, as inferred by the suitcase, a retreat participant. The retreat dormitory was to the left of my direct line to the main narthex and nave. We exchanged a few words of fellowship in pilgrimage and ended with ‘Buen Camino’ which is the traditional encouragement offered to all fellow pilgrims on the Way.
Continuing on, the sanctuary and the chapel were refreshingly simple and functional but not austere, perhaps elegant in their simplicity. I chose the smaller chapel which had sturdy wooden chairs placed in semi-circles facing a simple altar, for a period of meditation. The windows were fitted with an extra pane of some transparent medium giving the effect of minimalistic geometrical stained glass, mostly transparent ‘glass’ with some blue pieces near the top and along one side in an abstract arrangement. The sun was shining through.
I had read some of Thomas Merton’s books, ‘Seven Story Mountain,’ and his translation of Chuang Tzu. I was in the process of spending more time in silence and solitude, meditating. I was trying to adhere to practices rather than admonishments; I was practicing kindness, compassion, mercy, forgiveness, and lovingness. It seems necessary to apply those practices to myself first; not out of selfishness, rather for familiarity with the process.
In the monastery gift shop, the only items for sale other than books and religious paraphernalia were products like jams and jellies from far-flung affiliated spiritual communities, and yes, locally made fruitcakes and fudge. It was out-of-season for fruitcake being a warm, muggy June, so I looked at the many flavors of fudge in the refrigerated display case. I noted that they had a bourbon flavor appropriate for the monastery’s location along the Bourbon Trail in Kentucky, but I chose raspberry, and I thought of ways to serve samples of this confection to my Christian Men’s Group. I decided on toothpicks, a pocket knife, and paper napkins.
Trying to avoid the hazards and crowds of the days just before the 4th of July, I continued for two days through the Blue Ridge Mountains then on to intimate and slower secondary back roads and into gentle green sultry rolling piedmont and fields of my home in Virginia. It would be a week before the Friday meeting of the Men’s Group where we could discuss our lives, and religious and sometimes spiritual topics. I have been relegated to the category of mystic as talk leaves me cold—when the direct experience of the miraculous awaits an open heart and mind.
I can honestly say that my question to the men was not more than a spontaneous attempt at humor based on the interesting quirks of concrete versus symbolic language, double meanings. Of this mischievous attempt at what some might call slightly irreligious humor, I am guilty, but, in defense, with no malice aforethought.
After washing my hands and after taking a handful of small paper napkins from a dispenser of the coffee shop, I sat down at the round meeting table with four or five men (we come and go). I took out my yellow pocket knife, opened the Trappist fudge made by the sacred hands of renunciates, and started to slice off a long suitable strip of creamy brown fudge. I divided the strip into equal small parts and placed toothpicks in each wafer. Then I turned to get the attention of the men… creative childish memory raised its ugly mischievous head and I started with…
“This is the fudge made by Trappist monks at Gethsemani, and I view it as being infused with something sacred….”
“But please help me, if wine is the blood, and bread is the body, then this fudge is… (I tilted the loaf for a better view of the deep chocolate color)… and the youngest member of this group of elders said, 'it’s his…' “
No, I am not going to repeat what he said, even if you keep me imprisoned in a chicken coop. And so I never actually said the seemingly obvious punchline, but I had thought it, and with all due reverence and humility…and with a coprophagous grin (Yes, this word is the only correct word in this situation.) I derived joy from the predicament. This mischief was grounded in love, the kind of love that we learn as we raise new borns.
I do realize, and humbly understand, that some subjects of humor can cause sensitivity and offend people who believe, but may not live wholeheartedly in God’s grace and the love of Jesus. ‘Lest we become as little children…?’ From those concerned, I request mercy and forgiveness.
Can we believe that some ten-year-old boys, at least a few ten-year-old boys, even boys from good families and with Sunday School experience would, if they knew of the story of the road signs, get the humor right away? Those boys might also struggle with their youthful, ebullient sense of independence expressed as rebellious mischief. They might turn toward the sky, and for only the briefest moment, wait in anxious anticipation for the searing chastisement of divine lightning bolts, before chortling to themselves again, and maybe again. I know I did.