Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage [There is a pleasure in the pathless woods]

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
   There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
   There is society where none intrudes,
   By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
   I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
   From these our interviews, in which I steal
   From all I may be, or have been before,
   To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

   Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
   Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
   Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
   Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain
   The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
   A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,
   When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
   He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

   His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields
   Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise
   And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
   For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise,
   Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
   And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray
   And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
   His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: —there let him lay.                                               

                              Lord Byron, 1788 - 1824

Harvest

I committed my first sin in a church. But in my defense, I must proclaim that had I not been exposed to such a rigid environment that demanded unnatural conformity from a toddler, the said event might well have never happened. And the fact that the awareness of transgression awoke in me during a worship service makes me highly suspicious the self righteous were at least in part responsible for my illicit behavior. So this leads me to the conclusion that author of sin is in fact religion itself.

I’m not sure if I was old enough to walk when I entered into the world of ill repute, but without a doubt, I had mastered the art of crawling. My initiation into the immoral occurred at Cedar Hill Baptist Church, a white wood-framed house of worship that to this day still stands atop a hill overlooking rolling fields of rich Kentucky bottomland. My dad grew not far from that sacred spot that put me on the road to ruin. He was certainly not a churchgoer by anyone’s account. His interests in spirituality were limited to spirits of the liquid form, preferably whiskey. Nor was my mother a fan of churches. Her family had a small business, and she was left unimpressed by the fact that the faithful often tried to renegotiate their bill after the work was done. One of her favorite sayings was, “I wouldn’t trust a preacher or a deacon any further than I could throw ‘em.”

So I don’t know for sure why they attended church on the day I officially became a sinner. But judging from all the stories my mother used tell about my father’s drinking and carousing, I assume she was praying a little religion might settle him down a bit. My mother always found it hard to believe that I could even remember the event at all, seeing as how I was not much more than an infant at the time. But it is as clear to me today as it was that fateful night I sat on the floor beneath a wooden pew near the back of Cedar Hill Baptist Church. I nestled in, as children do, and hid directly under the seat, my mother’s feet in front of me, making a cave of sorts to protect me from the strange surroundings. The constant chatter of conversation gave way to the roar of what I now know was a preacher blasting out a sermon. This foreign world quickly became very boring, so I explored my new surroundings.

There wasn’t much to see in my immediate vicinity, so I peered off into the distance. That’s when I saw my first object of lust: a man’s brown fedora hat. It was lying on the floor next to the feet of its owner, who was sitting in a pew in front of the church. I don’t know why, but I had to have that hat. There was nothing special about it at all, especially in that day and age. It was typical attire for men in the late 1950s. But once I set my eyes upon it, I could think of nothing else.

Between my objective and me was a jagged path of dangling legs hanging from under the pews like bowling pins, several purses and sweaters and jackets were strewn about. I waited and listened to the roar of the speaker, and the echoing shouts of the congregation. When they grew to an ear screeching volume, I glanced up at my mother. Much to my liking, her eyes were fixed straight ahead. I shot out on all fours from under the pew; I weaved and bobbed between people’s feet and purses and garments. In no more than five seconds flat, I descended upon my destination. Without the slightest bit of hesitation, I snatched that hat and made my way back through the appendage jungle.

I curled quietly once again beneath the pew, safely behind my mother’s nylon covered legs. I held the hat before me, admiring its soft luster. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I put it on my head; it fell over my eyes. Its velvet like material felt warm and closed off the world around me. Everything became quiet, dark, still and serene. I could’ve stayed there forever, comforted in the bosom of my sin. But sin is only fun for a season, and then the harvest comes.

Without warning, my mother jerked the hat from my head. A hushed rustle of whispers filled the room. I leaned out and looked up. Everyone seated in front of us had swiveled around in the pew and starred down at me. The preacher’s shouts were oblivious to them now; I was the center of attention. And I did the same thing Adam did after he tasted the forbidden fruit and God came looking for him: I snuck back beneath my mother’s legs and hid under that pew. But with one quick swipe of the hand, my father grabbed me up and threw me over his shoulder.

My mother used to love to tell the story of how I stretched forth my arms toward the congregation and screamed, “Help.” My plea was answered with roars of laughter as my father carried me out the front door to execute judgment on a poor sinner such as I. 

                                        Copyright © 2001 Bernard Mitchell Plumlee, Jr.

The End of Easter

I had no idea Easter was approaching until I saw a facebook post about Good Friday. That was last week. Today is Monday; Easter came and went without much fan fair at all in my home yesterday.

Easter did not come and go so quietly when I was a child. It meant my sister and I waking up and finding Easter baskets beside our beds. My mother always made sure mine included a chocolate bunny because she knew I loved anything and everything chocolate. After we pillaged our plastic covered baskets full of enamel eroding, sugar-filled sweets, we went to the front yard and hunted for well-hidden Easter eggs. It was all very festive. My mother made a really big deal out of it, but she made a really big deal out of every holiday, even President's Day, and every birthday was celebrated with all the jubilee of the Fourth of July, with cakes, candles, flashing cameras, decorations and even occasional fireworks and then the grand finale concluded at a restaurant where my mother always recruited the waiters and staff to sing, Happy Birthday, to the guest of honor.

So Easter wasn't all that big a deal in comparison to other holidays and birthdays. We never attended church. As a matter of fact, I was in my mid-twenties before I learned that Easter had anything to do with church, or that church and anything to do with Easter. My wife at that time had seen fit to reform me of my pagan upbringing and promptly woke me early one Sunday morning with the surprise announcement that "we" were going to church. It wasn't Easter, it was about two or three months before; but she, with the help of the Good Lord, I assume, saw to it that my churchgoing became a weekly event.

And when Easter rolled around, I even talked a friend of mine into attending church services, too. He came to our house so he could ride with us. Before we left, we sit in the living room and talked. He said he had grown up in church but had not gone in quite sometime. Out of curiosity, I asked him why churches celebrated Easter. He chuckled and laughed, thinking I had made a joke. But then I asked again, "No seriously, why is Easter such a big deal to churches?"

He stared at me in disbelief, his mouth agape. "You really don't know, do you?" Then he proceeded to tell me that churches celebrate the resurrection of Christ on Easter Sunday.

I felt really stupid. It was one of my best Forrest Gump moments.

The years passed, I raised two children with annual Easter baskets, egg hunts and church services. Then I got divorced, my children became adults and now have children of their own. Somewhere along the way I realized that my first wife, the taskmaster who had made me get up on Sunday mornings and go to church, was gone; I no longer had to adhere such a strange tradition, not on Easter or any other time. I should probably add that I always thought Easter services were a bit strange. I was never comfortable attending them. They seemed like such a gimmick, a put on. And even the pastor always preached about the "Sunday morning glories" who only blossomed twice a year, at Christmas and Easter. In others words, he politely called them hypocrites when they were not there to add money to his purse.

I've been remarried now for nearly two decades. My wife and I attended church for a while; I suppose there was a time when it was beneficial for us. But there was a lot bad that came from it, too. Maybe we were both becoming adults together and seeing the church charades for what they actually are, but that's another story that'd be best covered in another blog, or a book. I dare say, it would be a scandalous book.

But getting back to my Easter story, it's been several years now since I attended a church. And I really have no recollection of the last Easter service I sat through. And I felt no need or desire to go yesterday, but I did think about my grandkids, and how I didn't get them a basket with a chocolate bunny, and how I wasn't there to watch them hunt for eggs. I felt a bit guilty about that. Childhood only lasts for so long and then the magic is gone forever. My mother tried her best to hold on to that magic. She never attended Easter services that I know of. All that grown-up pomp and pageantry and women desperately trying to out-fashion one another were far too removed from glistening child-eyed wonderment for her.

But I've got to admit that even the secular celebration of Easter seemed odd to me when I was a little boy. I remember distinctly asking my mother several times who Peter Cottontail was, and being even more confused by her rabbling answer. So there is no conclusion to what I'm writing about here, no right or wrong as to whether or not I should've gone to church yesterday or been there with my grandkids to hunt Easter eggs, assuming that they did. I'd like for them to keep the magic of childhood alive in their hearts as long as they can. If it takes believing in Peter Cottontail hopping down the bunny trail to make their hearts thump a little faster, then so be it. But it is a bit sad that Easter felt just like any other day to me yesterday. So maybe this is a confession of sorts. It felt akin to a funeral as I lay in bed last night and realized my childhood days are gone forever. And I couldn't help but wonder if I'd been better off to have followed my mother's example and never attended Easter services or joined a church. Even on into her 70s, her eyes still glistened every time she spoke about the Easter Bunny. I think she believed in him with all her heart.

I wish I could.

Questions

Can the dead see their tombstones? 

Do they look up through the miry clay

And see the marble and granite 

above where they lay? 

Does the stone hold them down,

or is just the calm or  turmoil or torment 

that keeps them in the ground? 

Do they know where they lay?

Can they feel?

Is anything real to them?

We'll all know the answers soon enough

but maybe we'll forget the questions

Hopefully they won't matter.

                                               Mitchell Plumlee (c) 2015