When you tell the truth...

people are going to hate you.

It's that simple.

And when they find that truth through a Google search, they will resort to anything to supress it.

Including censorship.

Now, I don't know how he managed it, but the subject of one of my blog posts has tried to do so. The title is gone? It's back. I'll check it every day, and replace it every time.

Have a nice day.

Upon the Dream of a Dead Friend

I didn't go to his "funeral." I put that in quotes because there is no body and there will be no grave. For all I know he'll end up in a coffee can in someone's coat closet. 

I thought about remembering him by donating to a charity in his name, but that's hard when you have little money. 

I thought about putting some flowers on the beach at the lake up the street. He loved that lake. He told me he loved swimming in it and floating on his back, looking up at the sky on a summer's day. But we're a long way from summer, and the people around here are likely to take a bouquet of flowers and stomp it just for something to do. 

I fell asleep in my chair and dreamed about him. I was in a ghost town, but instead of a Wild West setting, it was built  high and precariously on the side of a mountain. The sky was a warm, buttery yellow and the clouds were like big puffs of marshmallow fluff. (It's always all about food for me.) I felt no fear as I walked along a narrow path from one dilapidated building to another. I looked down and instead felt wonder, daring. 

One building was completely open on one end, with big plank steps leading up into the front room. Old oak boards and wavy glass windows made up the walls. The view was even more magnificent from here. 

He came around a corner and smiled at me. 

"Are you dressed like Han Solo?" I asked,  laughing. 

"They were all out of wizard robes."

"Who was?" I asked. 

"The wardrobe department."

I never said my dreams made much sense. 

"I'm sorry," I apologized quickly, remembering our last exchange had me scolding him for being too familiar. 

"Stop beating yourself up over that. What if we had gotten closer? I'd have still died. And then this would hurt more."

"I don't think that's possible."

"You know the truth, but keep most of it to yourself, ok?"

"Yeah, sure. Who would I tell?"

He laughed at me, knowing better. Knowing I've got a vengeful streak and access to social media. 

"Are my parents around here?" I asked. 

"Yeah, but you can't stick around too long or they'll make you stay."

I didn't ask who "they" were, and besides, what if I wanted to stay?

"I'm going to make this place into something nice," he said, surveying the structure in which we stood. I realized this was his house, and it was just beginning to be built. 

I started to leave and he said, "That was me on the stairs."

The dream ended. 

My sister's dog  Muggs had been barking a few nights ago at something, someone, unseen on the stairs. 

Maybe this was my mind's way of processing grief. Maybe it's wish fulfillment or the culmination of tearful conversations from the last five days. I don't know. It made me feel better, and it made me feel worse. 

Goodbye, friend. You can drop by for another visit anytime. But I have one rule for ghosts: please just stay out of the bathroom. 

Calvary Lutheran Holding Mission Quilt Open House

Imagine something that you made, actually put your hands and skill to, is sent halfway around the world. Picture that creation bringing comfort to a stranger while they journey from their war-ravaged home to a new life in Germany, or France, or Ireland. For the Calvary Women of the ELCA, and their Love Day group, it's reality. They have been creating mission quilts for nearly 50 years. The 78 quilts they made last year were distributed to the refugee program in Syria.

On Saturday, October 10, they will be hosting a Mission Quilt Open House from 1 to 4pm. The theme is Touch our Quilts, Say a Prayer. Visitors are encouraged to tour the Narthex Welcome Center and Worship Sanctuary, view the completed quilts, touch them and pray for those who will eventually receive them.

The quilts are constructed with donated fabric and materials, and the ladies meet the first and second Tuesdays of each month to work on them. They exceeded last years tally, completing 100.

The group works in conjunction with Lutheran World Relief to distribute the quilts to those in need due to natural disasters, civil wars, economic strife, or other life shattering events. Recipients can use the quilts for many purposes: warmth, shade from the sun, a soft place in the night, a baby carrier, a way to transport goods or belongings, a market display when spread upon the ground. Most importantly, the group says, it's a reminder that someone cares.

After the open house, the quilts will be blessed during worship service on Sunday, October 11.

Calvary Lutheran Church is located at 1301 Williams Street, Angola, IN.

Hanni-blast

I've been a Fannibal for a long time. A fan of the movies. A fan of the books. And lastly, of the show. If you've only ever watched the show here's a synopsis from a girl who'd like to think she's kind of an aficionado. 

The books are in this order: Red Dragon, The Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal. (Leaving out Hannibal Rising as Thomas Harris was kind of forced to write it) 

In Red Dragon, Hannibal Lecter is 41 and already locked up in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Will Graham, the man responsible for his capture, comes to him for help in catching (you guessed it) The Red Dragon.

In The Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal is still incarcerated, and helps Clarice Starling catch Buffalo Bill, a serial killer. (See a pattern?) Unless you recently sustained a head injury, you know from their first meeting that Hannibal & Clarice got a little thing for each other. He escapes, and writes her a love note, telling her "some of our stars are the same."

So is it a big surprise that at the end of Hannibal they (16 year year old spoiler alert) end up together? Nah, not really.

Am I making fun? No way, these three books are some of my favorites of all time. A creative marvel as they feature one of my all-time favorite characters. A serial killer who only kills the rude and is so charming that he wins over a by the numbers FBI agent. 

So when the show started, I was stoked. My sister and I always enjoyed the movies, even going to see Red Dragon in the theater. ( a chore for an introvert like me) Hannibal was a Christmas movie tradition for us for a couple of years running. (Cordell!!)

But...but...after three seasons the show, in my sad opinion, is finally, mercifully drawing to an end. Will Graham was never friends with Hannibal, nor was Hannibal in love with Will. Hannibal was kept in a grimey, lonely cell. He rarely spoke to anyone. He never held dinner parties inviting Jack Crawford, or slept with Alana Bloom. Who's really a man. Alan. He didn't run off with Dr. Bedelia because she didn't exist, nor hold Abigail Hobbes hostage because she didn't exist either. Will Graham was never suspected of murder or incarcerated. Dr. Chilton was not killed by Dollarhyde, Freddy Lounds was. Oh and he was a he. Confused? Yeah. Me too.

Confused as to why the show went this way at all. Three awesome books would've made for four seasons of a thoughtful, accurately adaptated TV show. Isn't it easier to do things right?

It's almost like watching the Harry Potter movies out of order. 

 I'll miss Mads Mikkelsen. But no fourth season is ok with me. Bryan Fuller won't get a chance to mess up Clarice Starling, who would somehow become a male Pacific Islander, and Jame Gumb, who would magically transform into a big fat lady making a skinny guy suit.

BREAKING NEWS

According to a reliable source a man barricaded himself into the Angola Wells Fargo Bank, claiming to have a bomb. Further details as they emerge.

This SUV said "Special Ops"

Mob Mentality

Think back to grade school. Maybe it's hard for you to remember back that far, but not for me. When you were bullied, it's hard to forget.

I was made fun of for a lot of reasons - being too tall, too fat and too funny looking. But it took just one scumbag to come up with the insult that stuck - Mutt. Soon many of the kids at Pleasant Lake Elementary to started calling me that, screaming it at me on the playground. I wanted to crawl in a hole and never come out.

You see that's how kids are - they have a huge capacity for cruelty. They copy each other. They follow the herd for fear of rejection or retaliation.

It didn't get any better as I got older. It only took one jerk to start calling me Fugly. He was no prize himself, but soon all his friends, male and female, started calling me that, too. Fugly rang through the terrazzo tiled halls of Angola High School. I wanted to go home, go to sleep, and never wake up.

You see that's how teenagers are - they have a huge capacity for cruelty. They copy each other. They follow the herd for fear of rejection or retaliation.

Years went by and my sister bought our great grandparent's house. It was a dream come true as the place had been a haven for us both. But it only took one crazy, jealous neighbor to ruin it. Screaming insults, starting hideous rumors, stalking, following, harassing, issuing death threats. And is it any surprise that others followed his lead? Stealing one tactic after another from his play book?

You see that's how the small minded are - they have a huge capacity for cruelty. They copy each other. They follow the herd for fear of rejection or retaliation.

So what's the answer? In grade school, I retreated into the pages of books and the pixels of computer games.

In high school I sharpened my wit and my tongue, pointing out the flaws and shortcomings of the bullies themselves. I was voted class clown by my freak and geek counterparts for doing so. 

Now? I don't handle it as well. With age, my Irish temper has reached nuclear levels. But my theory is this - something about me makes the slope headed losers of this world want to pick on me. I think they're jealous of anyone who's smarter, of people who are good at something, of those they think have it better. I am smarter. I'm a pretty good artist and writer. I have it better because I'm not operating through the fog of ignorance.

I can only keep being me. And feel thankful each day I'm not like them. Because although retaliation sounds sweet, it never works out. No, the best punishment for the people who've hassled me in the past is this - they have to get up in the morning and look at themselves in the mirror. They must hate what they see, or they wouldn't lash out at others.

The Forgotten, The Disrespected

Right in the middle of town lies Old Angola Cemetery. City founders were laid to rest here. Civil war veterans, too. Over the past 10-20 years, it has fallen into disrepair. It comes under the jurisdiction of the Pleasant Township Trustee, Craig Rice. Cemetery maintenance has never been high on his list of priorities.

The old cemetery has a very bad neighbor in Univertical, helmed by Chuck Walker. His company has always pushed it's spare junk up as close to the fence as possible, causing quite the eyesore. Now he's taken down the chain link fence surrounding the place and has started constructing a building as close as possible. Boards and construction waste have been haphazardly flung onto people's graves, and the grass has been trampled flat.

Where does this disrespect end? Will Walker be allowed to pave the cemetery for parking? Grind the headstones up for gravel? Walker has threatened to move out of town, taking his 60 (wow) jobs with him. Is this why he was allowed to do this? He stomped his size 7 fine leather loafer and threated to close shop?

Angola was founded by go-getters. The bold and the brave. In the ensuing decades, residents have become more and more complacent. The "oh well" attitude is like an epidemic. But we all deserve a pleasant place to rest our bones, somewhere for our loved ones to come and remember and maybe leave a memento on our final resting spot. Anyone unfortunate enough to have a loved one interred in Old Angola now has to put up with the sights, sounds and smells of a factory, now just mere feet away with no buffer. And nothing stinks worse than disrespect.