Month: July 2022

           I debated for a while what I wanted this week’s post to be about. A couple ideas were tossed around on subjects ranging from ghosts to other things that fall into roughly the same category. Ultimately however I decided to hold off on that and wait for a more appropriate time of year to post something like that, and a source close to me suggested I might want to discuss this next topic as it is somewhat similar to the immediate predecessor to this post: funerals. 

Perhaps it is just because of the nature of my father’s side of the family, but I have really come to hold to the belief that funerals really should be celebrations of the deceased’s life, and being more about bringing a family together, if not a community. Additionally, this side of the family also believed that humor and laughter shouldn’t be put aside at funerals, rather embraced. One such funeral I remember that the relative in question had left instructions in her will that she wanted as many people at the service to wear “sparkles and bling” so that “everyone would look fabulous” in the church. Apparently that memo missed my household…or perhaps some people within it just chose to ignore it as “sparkles and bling” weren’t their style. There was, however, a piece of my clothing that was commented on prior to the beginning of the service.           

At the time my favorite dress shirt had a deep purple coloring. I distinctly remember this funeral occurred at some point in the season of Lent within the Catholic church, as the clothes covering the altar were purple; and a shade very similar to what I was wearing. One of my father’s cousins had walked up to me and said, in as serious a tone as could be: “Hey man, these people are depressed; we’re at a funeral and we all need some cheering up; why don’t you go stand somewhere by the alter and we’ll all take turns guessing where you are.” Upon hearing this, I replied: “Oh, yeah, I’ll stand right in front and look like John the Baptist.” While he was the only one to make such a request of me at the funeral, he certainly was not the only one in that kind of spirit. I have heard the only difference between a funeral and a wedding for that side of the family was the attire one wore as well as how many people were being celebrated, and I think this story perfectly captures that sentiment.            

After nearly all funerals for that family came a coalition at a restaurant the deceased particularly enjoyed in life. Also included in that relative’s will was a starter for what food would be served: shrimp cocktail, good scotch, and good hotdogs. No, that’s not an error; she requested good hotdogs to be made into a little appetizer at the coalition. Say what you want about that family, but they do know how to do funerals. 

           Mind, that is not a template for what the average funeral for them looks like, apart from adding their own brand of humor such as the guessing game with my purple shirt. At the coalition dinner for another relative, a story was told about the sons-in-law (I hope that’s the plural) of the deceased taking care of his house while the man in question was in the hospital following a car accident. For the record the car accident was several years before his death, so this story will not be sad in that sense. The uncle invited them to help themselves to his wine cellar as a thank you for taking care of his affairs while he and his wife were recovering. So, they decide to take him up on it and fetch a bottle of wine from that cellar. 

Once they poured this wine, they assume it has gone bad due to the brownish color it appeared to have. Under this assumption, they of course dumped out the contents of the bottle, not wishing their father-in-law to return home to spoiled wine. They opened another bottle only to discover the same brownish color. So, they dumped that one out as well. The next one they judged to be an acceptable color, so they drank that one. When going to the hospital the next day, they informed him that there were a couple of bottles that had gone bad, as they had a brown hue when poured. My father’s uncle was horrified to find out they had poured two bottles down the drain, as it turned out the wine was called Brunello, which roughly translates to “little brown,” and was fairly expensive. How does this relate to the funeral? His daughters called up the pallbearers at the coalition and told this story after handing each a wrapped gift which was clearly a bottle of wine. Upon opening it, they found a bottle with the label “cheap red wine” on it, and his daughters explained “Yeah, Dad thought this was the only wine you all could really appreciate.” I can only imagine that uncle was looking down laughing his ass off.

            There are certainly other shorter stories, such as the odd combination of serving Armenian food to honor one of the in-laws of this family at an Italian restaurant, to the vehicle carrying my grandfather’s casket speeding at the intersection of the church because he always believed it was too slow. My own father, although still very much alive, has indicated he wants a combination of an Irish wake where everyone tells joyful stories of when the deceased was alive with a New Orleans jazz funeral. As for me? Yes, I’ve still probably got several decades before any arrangements need to be made in terms of my own funeral, but right now I think the band Dropkick Murphy’s gave me the perfect idea for that occasion:

“You can stack me on a pyre; soak me down with whiskey

Roast me to a blackened crisp and throw me in a pile

I could really give a shit; I’m going out in style.”

Perhaps there were other ways of titling this post, but I poured over the idea for the better part of the day without coming up with a viable substitute for this name. The title “Take Me to Church” after the Hozier song just seemed like I would be trying to convert the reader to my personal religious views…at least I thought it did. Famous quotes on religion such as Friedrich Nietzsche sounded a little too nihilistic to accurately portray my thoughts on this matter. As I stated, I am not trying to persuade anyone to think as I do, merely explain the importance, and the dangers of it.
I grew up in a traditional Roman-Catholic Church, with both sets of grandparents devote Christians. Indeed, for most of my adolescence, I went to church and never questioned belief in the traditional Judeo-Christian God. I never questioned faith in something I couldn’t see because I had been told for many years that it was the main truth in the universe. So what changed? 
I got older, and I finally got teachers who didn’t just read to me about Socrates but encouraged me to start questioning authority figures. I began to understand that true wisdom must come from many sources, not just one narrow dogmatic view. I began to look at, not just the plain history of the Catholic church, but also all the atrocities committed in their God’s name. I began to see the true bigotry of those in the church, how its leaders tried to ostracize those who identified as any of the LGBTQ+ community. As much as those same people claimed we are all God’s children and that He has unconditional love for all of us, they apparently didn’t believe that we should afford that same unconditional love to our fellow brethren.
Don’t misinterpret this as that my claiming that I have not attended any religious services since that reckoning. I still attended church services and other religious events to support family members, immediate or otherwise, in their spiritual beliefs. A few months ago, I even attended my brother's wedding, which was a traditional Jewish wedding in the wishes of his now wife’s wishes. On another occasion I even seriously debated getting into a relationship with someone who was a practicing witch. Their name? That’s irrelevant, as is the fact that nothing ever came of this, although their religion played no part in the outcome of that interaction.
I believe organized religion offers some a feeling of belonging and sense of purpose, however it is not without its drawbacks. If there is anything within their specific text that preaches hate, it will always be exploited and used as justification for a religion which idolizes love to start preaching hate. Furthermore, I see it as inevitable that those in positions of power will abuse it if given the chance. A religious leader near where I live recently stepped down from his post as a leader due to the police reopening an incident involving children he was linked to that happened years ago. As long as there are people like that engaging in religious leadership, I refuse to be a part of it.
So we come back to one question which no one may have wanted answered; what are my philosophical beliefs? Earlier I stated that I don’t believe in God in the conventional sense. In a way, I see God as time, but it is more than that; I see a divine path all events must follow. I see God in the mushrooms I see growing out of what seems like nothing. I hear God in the trickling of a stream in the woods. Now, anyone who might know me says I of all people should know that God is more than that because of what happened to me; something countless people have referred to as a miracle, but that is for another blog post. God is not dead, as Nietzsche claimed so long ago, but He is dying. Our world is dying, our empathy for those less fortunate than ourselves is dying, and I don’t know if the remaining ‘faith’ the world has left is enough to save Him.
Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps when I meet my maker, I will hear them rant at me for being a heretic. If caring about those the church would see me turn my back on, then I welcome the title. All the better to distance myself from a group of people with that much of a questionable reputation. But what my philosophical beliefs do encourage me to do is care for those that life has not been kind to here and now. I believe this world would be a much better place if people cared as much about it as they do about its creator.

For any French speakers who might come across this, I apologize. As I believe I stated in a previous post, it has been some time since I spoke French in a classroom setting, so the grammar might not be correct. While I struggled for most of the day trying to decide if I did want to write another post about France so soon after my previous one, but I decided in honor of Bastille Day, it was the least I could do to honor the French blood flowing in my veins.

Many of you, like myself, may have neglected keeping up with your French vocabulary since being required to learn it for some form of academia, for which I do not blame you. English itself is very difficult, and I am still learning new terms such as pogontomy (the cutting of a beard), something I always end up regretting. The title of this post translates to “Mushrooms, Champagne, and Swords!” and you might be wondering what those three things have in common, to which I answer this: they all revolve around a restaurant that my family has grown fond of over the past few years.

The owner of the restaurant ties in the last two subjects in the title, and I would bet money that a reader of this post can guess the specialty of his chef. A year ago, my parents went took a mushroom foraging class with this chef and had a mushroom themed meal afterwards. How do I know the specialty of this chef is indeed mushrooms? Months later, a number of us went to a dinner and wine tasting at this restaurant, where the chef had prepared a multi-course meal with each dish involving mushrooms. Yes, even the dessert included a candied mushroom, and within a few weeks, I myself will be going on a foraging expedition with this chef.

As I have said, the owner ties in with the subject of champagne and swords, and the answer is simpler than one might think. No, he is not an expert fencer hailing from the Champagne region of France. Rather, he is the only man I have seen perform something known as champagne sabering, a practice dating back to the Napoleonic wars where soldiers would cut the necks of champagne bottles to open them. I have seen him saber a champagne bottle twice as of this post, and up until recently he was the only person I knew who could do something like that. More recently, I spoke with some of my father’s relatives, and learned that one of them had gotten a champagne sabering kit when he traveled to Champagne. In his words, he’s “100% when it comes to sparkling wine and cider, 50% when it comes to champagne.”

Perhaps when I return to France, I will visit Champagne and get my own starter kit for champagne sabering, as my father’s relative did. Perhaps one day I will be ready to try and get certified to sell wild mushrooms within the state. Just prior to writing this post, I am about 20% done making flash cards to study for the certification test. Who knows? I might even hire the restaurant owner to saber a champagne bottle at the release party for my first publication. Or maybe I’ll hold off until the second, while I had not seen the bill when he performed it at my brother’s wedding, I doubt it was that cheap. Regardless, all of what I have written about today will have an impact on my future, and I myself am eager to discover what role they will play in the times yet to pass.

No, dear blog readers, I don’t have covid; at least not yet. Actually, it’s fairly remarkable that I haven’t had it yet given that I lived with two separate people who had it one week apart and I still haven’t caught covid. Especially then, the precautions I took (and still do take) might seem a little extreme, but not without its reason. There was a point in my life where I knew everyone who cared about me had to see me on a respirator in a hospital. Despite the low probability of that happening with these newer variants, I’ve still no desire to risk something similar coming about due to covid, mainly because I know if it does grow to be that bad and if I pull through, I will never hear the end of it.

In a previous post I discussed how my resolutions for 2020 had to be altered to fit in with the unforeseen events the future would present to us all. Well, two years of trying to (and successfully, so far) avoid a potentially lethal virus seems to have reverted my demeaner back to its usual hermit-ish ways, and I’ve learned to accept that fact. Circling back to the title of this post, given the name of this blog, it was inevitable that at least one post would reference another Warren Zevon song, but I think it captures the essence of what I wanted this post to be about: being content with being alone.

I’ve heard that the right person won’t find you until you’ve learned to really own who you are by yourself. In fact, that was on the top ten list of do’s and don’ts for writing power couples put out by an author I follow on YouTube. Each partner was good on their own, but better together. That’s why I see being alone as a good thing; it presents an opportunity to grow and really find out who you are as a person. Like all things, however, it requires balance with something else. I’ve seen couples who try doing a little too much together, and it didn’t really work out, or if it did, the success was a result of what others were doing behind the scenes trying to clean up the personal drama that was brought into it. That is the reason why I wrestled with the decision to stop working with the theater I had been volunteering with for years after I thought there was a future where I was with someone I met through doing that type of work, which ultimately proved unnecessary due to reasons I’ll not get into on here, at least not in this post.

Whether or not one day, I’ll find that warm hand waiting for mine remains to be seen. I know I still have some work to do on myself in regard to trusting others and finding motivation to be…sociable, but I am working on those issues in my own way. Until I am ready, I guess I’ll just have to learn to live as the song states: “Splendid Isolation, I don’t need no one… Don’t want to take up with nobody new, Don’t want nobody coming by without calling first, Don’t want nothing to do with you.”