Category: Uncategorized

Talks about the group being appreciated this month and why.

Probably a couple of paragraphs at most.

By Reverand George Yandell, Rector

Nancy Womack and I were backpacking in the Smokies in late fall some 37 years ago. We’d hiked up to Parson’s Bald for the first night’s camp. The next day we hiked on the Appalachian Trail over Gregory Bald toward Russell Field. It was a cloudy, cool morning. As we hiked near the bald, we passed under ancient oak trees, their leafless limbs looming above us. Out of nowhere, a great gray owl flew silently onto a gnarled old branch right above us. We stood without moving, as he looked at us and we at him. After a bit, we started hiking slowly past the oak. The owl flew on in front of us and lighted on another high branch above the trail. We approached his perch, and again he sat motionless, watching us. This pattern continued for over 20 minutes. We were the only humans anywhere around and he the only other being we encountered.

After the encounters, we paused in the trail, silent for a bit. As we sipped from our canteens, we grinned at each other, then started laughing with delight, then babbled to each other- “Can you believe…… Did that really happen….. What must he have been thinking….” We agreed it was a series of mystical encounters.

As we resumed hiking, the views from the top of the bald extended limitlessly for 360 degrees. I felt so grateful to be right there with Nancy (my cousin and Godmother). When we got to the Russell Field shelter, we went through the pattern we’d followed so many times before- gather wood, get the fire going, lay out our sleeping bags, walk down to the water pipe in the side of the hill, fill our water bags and canteens, back to the shelter as the mist drifted down, attach our ponchos to the chain-link bear guards at the open side of the shelter to shield us from the wind and rain. Then we sat at the fireside and sipped Merlot as dusk settled in. As far as we knew there were no other humans anywhere near us.

As I recall now, we didn’t talk much through dinner. It felt to me that there was nothing much to say. Then as we slipped into our sleeping bags, Nancy said aloud, “Thank you, George for getting us out on the trail for this incredible day. And thank you God, for the wonder and awe you offered us.” We both said, “Amen,” and drifted off to sleep

By the Reverand George Yandell, Rector

The gray kitty was on my lap as we sat on the side porch at dusk last week. We watched the shadows creep over the yard. Then a tiny light drifted in front of our perch- a lightning bug. As it flew slowly up and down, I thought, “This is last lightning bug we’ll see until next summer.” Gray kitty couldn’t confirm my assumption, but I sensed he agreed. We’d watched them all thru’ the summer, sometimes 20 – 30 drifting in front of us.

Each evening I’ve been trying to spy Saturn in the early night sky to the west. The trees make it hard. And each morning before dawn I’ve been out to view Jupiter riding high above, the Pleiades and Orion framed against Jupiter’s path. Venus is so bright in the eastern sky she shines through the leaves on the oak trees. Haven’t been able to find Mercury yet- the ‘blue wall’ of Mt. Oglethorpe obscures its rising against the brightening dawn.

Maybe it’s because I’m getting more sentimental as I age past 70, but I am driven to feel and see all I can of nature’s glory. I often hear Amos’ words in my head when I’m stargazing: “The One who made the Pleiades and Orion and turns the deep darkness into the morning, and darkens the day into night, who calls for the waters of the sea, and pours them out onto the surface of the earth, the LORD is his name.” (Chapter 5, verse 8.) Amos must have felt small in the face of his musings under the star-lit sky like I do.

Those of us who live out here in the mountains are blessed, aren’t we? And so are our creature companions.

By the Reverand George Yandell, Rector

Absolutely           

I’m not up on current trends, but in a number of interviews on NPR in the past weeks, and on the Late Show, when the interviewer/host asks questions, the interviewee often has responded, “Absolutely!”

Example (made up by me): “In your research you’ve discovered that cats like catnip. Is that true?” “Absolutely!” the interviewee responds, with vigor.  Exactly what’s absolute about that question?  Do the cats respond by touching a button labeled ‘Absolutely true’?  Do the cats prefer catnip over everything else, including tummy rubs?  “Absolutely!” I doubt it.

The Microsoft dictionary here on my computer has this definition: “Used to emphasize a strong or exaggerated statement.” My American Heritage dictionary defines it this way: “Definitely and completely; unquestionably.”

So what part of the catnip question is strong or exaggerated? It’s a QUESTION.

Absolute Vodka came to mind. On its website, it offers an answer to the question:

Is Absolut Vodka and its production process vegan?

YES. All Absolut products are absolutely vegan, thus they do not contain any animal products and no such products are used in the production process. We do not use any animal derivatives, either directly in the product itself, or to filter the product. We do not use bone chars in any process. And no catnip. (My insertion.)

So Absolut vodka is also absolutely everything.  What’s going on with this superlative? 

As a preacher, I often check the Bible for information and clarity. “Absolute” and “absolutely” do not appear in the Bible as per Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance of the King James Version.  (If they did, they’d sit between Absalom and absence. They’re not there.)

I recall that Jesus said something about yes being yes. I looked it up- Matthew chapter five has Jesus giving a sermon (on the mount) with follow-up statements and illustrations.  5:33ff speaks of swearing:

“You have heard that it was said in ancient times, ‘You shall not swear falsely, but carry out the vows you have made to the Lord.” But I say to you, Do not swear at all, either by heaven, for it is the throne of God, or by the earth, for it is his footstool, or by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the great King. And do not swear by your head, for you cannot make one hair white or black. Let your word be ‘Yes, Yes’ or ‘No, No’; anything more that this comes from the evil one.”

Whoa. That’s pretty absolute.  Uh oh.   George Yandell

By the Reverend George Yandell, Rector

Commissary

In mid-August 1991, my cousin Nancy and I rendezvoused in Butte, Montana.  We planned to take three days to acclimate to the altitude before we began our 12-day Sierra Club backpacking trip in the Pintler-Anaconda Wilderness area.  That hike was to take us up to the continental divide, then hike north from high-country lake to lake with a mid-hike supply.  Dr. Wayne Chamberlain was the guide and leader of the trip. (An anesthesiologist from Helena but who hailed from Memphis, where I lived at the time.)

The day before the hike, the trip leaders descended on our motel with all the food supplies.  Nancy volunteered to have the loads of freeze-dried food brought to her hotel room (next to mine) and help sort it out.  I had no idea what that entailed.  They got started sorting the food into separate packets for each meal for 18 people for 12 days.  That meant 36 large parcels with more than 72 packets labeled by day and meal. We each ended up carrying @ 15-20 pounds of the ‘Commissary’- the food, the cooking pots, the water bags.

The sorting day was August 19. There was no room for me in the sorting space, so I watched TV- special coverage of the fall of the Soviet regime. Boris Yeltsin was standing on top of a tank in front of the Soviet Parliament building.  I rushed into Nancy’s room to tell the team what was happening. Nancy turned and said, “Don’t disturb us- this is very difficult work here.”  She shushed me with vigor. 

Only after we were 3 days on the Skyline Trail did I realize how intricate the sorting was.  A few times the bags labeled ‘Breakfast day 3” or “Dinner day 6” did not contain what they should’ve.  (I never suggested to Nancy that she could have been at fault.) Sometime after the mid-point in the hike I mused that Boris and Nancy had a common trait- neither was reluctant to take charge.  I understand from long-time parishioners who knew Nancy well (she was Sr. Warden for Holy Family when the initial property purchase from the Griffith family was arranged) that they respected her for how devoted she was. And willing to take charge.

By the end of the hike, Nancy had apologized for abruptly shutting me off.  And she appreciated that Wayne and I had brought our fly rods- many late afternoons we caught enough cutthroat trout to augment the groups’ high-carb freeze-dried food.

I imagine we each have commissary items that equip us for our paths through life.  That we’ve sorted out what’s important and what’s not. I credit Nancy for helping me yield to tackle what’s critical to the well-being of the team.  It’s a long hike we’re on together.  G. Yandell

By Reverend George Yandell, Rector

Feasting

Each spring I watch to see how the service berry bushes are doing.  Three of those small trees are planted in front of the gallery, and 30 of them encircle the ball ground just west of the nave and parish hall. (Planted there with donations for Holy Family’s 30^th anniversary celebration.) The trees begin to produce their fruit in mid-spring.  A few weeks ago I saw the first of the little greenish berries, and yesterday after the 10:30 service, I saw them turning a rose color and thought, and “It won’t be long.”

Just now I went to the nave to remove the celebration frontal from the altar. Stepping out to the car, I beheld the beginning of the spring feast- the red-eye vireos had begun to harvest the berries with gusto.  Normally the small, dull green red-eye vireos are reclusive, living in the tops of trees.  From early spring into the fall, I’d heard them repeating and repeating their call, “Here I am, where are you……” yet never saw them.  I spied my first one 4 years ago while hiking near our house after years of searching.

But now a flock is descending on the service berry bushes with gusto.  It seems they abandon their normal shyness for a huge feast.  It will continue for a few days, if past springs are any indication.  By the time they’ve filled themselves and flown away the concrete is littered with the remnants of their flurried gorging.

They seem like us a bit, I think.  How ready am I to throw off the long covid-inspired retreat and let loose with friends. Maybe not as frenzied as the vireos, but certainly as hungry to celebrate the ripe fruits of the season and offer thanks. 

Come on by the nave and watch the vireos.  Soon they’ll be back in their haunts, hard to spy but present none-the-less.  Crying ceaselessly, “Here I am, where are you.”  G. Yandell

The Rev George Yandell, Rector

The Key of Earth

In 1978 I heard a remarkable song on the FM jazz station in Metro Washington D.C. It was ‘Common Ground’ by Paul Winter on the album of the same title. The DJ gave some background on the album- it featured songs of the humpback whale, the African fish-eagle and a Canadian timber wolf named Jethro. (I kid you not.) The animals’ songs were woven into compositions by Paul Winter and others. Two days later I had the album. I was entranced by the recordings. Reading the liner notes I saw the name of the cellist- David Darling. It rang a bell. Turns out I’d read in National Geographic some years prior about a scientist named Darling who’d been doing pioneering recordings of humpback whales- Jim Darling was his name. David was Jim’s older brother- the connection jumped out at me- the early hydrophone recordings of the humpbacks must have captured David’s attention and he linked Paul Winter into the research. (David died just two and half months ago at age 79.)

The album featured Darling, Paul McCandless (oboe) (both original members of the Paul Winter Consort and later members of Oregon- I heard them in concert in early 1979) along with Steve Gadd (drummer for Chick Corea, Paul Simon, Donald Fagen and Walter Becker, Aretha Franklin, Carly Simon, Bob James, Nancy Wilson, Joe Cocker, and Eric Clapton to name a few). And Paul Stookey of Peter, Paul and Mary. An eclectic assemblage of passionate artists.

Winter and his colleagues discovered an amazing thing: the songs of the humpback, timber wolf and fish-eagle were all the same key: D-flat. Winter says in the liner notes for the song ‘Trilogy’ (which features all three animals’ songs without accompaniment): “I’ve enjoyed speculating on whether this is a lucky coincidence, or a gift from the Muse. I was told by a teacher once that in some esoteric systems D-flat is considered to be the key of the Earth.”

In the notes for the song ‘Wolf Eyes’, Winter writes, “This song was inspired by a magnificent Canadian timber wolf named Jethro, and by the extraordinary wolf music I have heard in the wild… The closing duet was recorded live at the North American Predatory Animal Center in the California Sierras. Ida, the wolf who sang with me there (on my alto sax), is pictured on the back cover.” He writes in the notes for ‘Ocean Dream’: “This song is a fantasy inspired by experiences I’ve had playing saxophone to grey whales from a small raft in the Pacific off Vancouver Island with the Greenpeace Expedition of 1975, and later from a rowboat in Magdalena Bay, Baja California, as part of a film about whales.”

In July of 1994, I was lucky to be with my daughters on a whale watching trip out of Northeast Harbor, Maine. Bob Bowman captained the small ferry/mailboat with about 15 of us on board. We motored out toward Mt. Desert Rock Lighthouse, 18 miles from land. The wind was calm, the water glassy. We spied a lone puffin paddling along- everyone got their cameras out- that tiny bird was evidence of a recovering puffin population on the islands near Acadia.

Captain Bowman talked with local lobstermen, asking about whale sightings. We could hear one of the lobstermen responding over the radio, “We’ve seen two humpbacks spy-hopping about two miles from you- you might motor toward them.” Sure enough, as we drew near the location, two humpbacks surfaced and swam near the boat. After a few minutes, they dived. We waited, motor off. Then one of the whales rose up on the port side of the boat- all of us moved to that side- the whale was about 12 feet from the rail, vertical in the water, looking at us. On a whim, I moved to starboard by myself, leaning over the side. The second whale was deep below me, coming to the surface. Over the clamor of the other group, the whale surfaced 5 feet from me, his huge left eye on level with my own. I was entranced. It seemed everything went silent in reverence. In his/her eye, I saw and felt the presence of an ancient, sentient being. He/she stared at me for over 30 seconds, then slowly subsided under the surface.

I’ve not felt the same presence since. An out-of-body connection to one of the largest most majestic creatures ever to live on earth.

It’s now thought that not only male humpbacks sing their intricate, repeating songs, but that females sing at lower tones only now being recorded and studied. Makes sense to me- why should only males get to sing? George Yandell

The Rev. George Yandell, Rector

Southernisms

Not sure why, but some of the most striking, hilarious expressions have come to me from a few wonderful southerners. They made Lewis Grizzard seem tired and bland.

Annie Lee Brown, Guest House Manager at Virginia Seminary, former house mother for the Delt Tau Delta’s at Auburn: “She was going down like the wreck of the Hesperus.” “He is like a lost ball in high weeds.” “He is one egg short of a dozen.” “He’s like a blind dog in a meat house.”

Rick from Americus GA during Emory days: “When they were giving out brains, you thought they said ‘rains’ and you ran for cover.” “When they were giving out noses, you thought they said ‘roses’ and you asked for a big red one.” “When they were giving out looks, you thought they said ‘books’ and you asked for a funny one.” And more.

I was a young deacon, 26 years old, assigned to Church of the Holy Communion in Memphis. Bowlyne Fisher (priest, Ph.D., hailed from Henning TN) associate to the rector, introduced me to the lore of Memphis. One afternoon, standing at the picture window of his 8th floor mid-town apartment, he pointed to the street below and exclaimed, “There’s Prince Mongo.” I said, “What? Who?” Bowlyne said, “Yeah, he’s a fixture here. Has a bar down near the river. Get’s raided pretty often. Claims to have been born on the planet Zambodia around 333 years ago.” This man in a big late model convertible, top-down in winter, parked, got out and started walking down the street. He was wearing fluffy white leggings like a Zulu warrior. Bowlyne said, “He always wears goggles and a long white wig in public and wild clothing. He lives about 3 blocks from here.” Prince Mongo had run continuously in every Memphis mayoral election since 1978, sometimes intermittently running for Mayor of Shelby County. In the 1991 mayoral election, Prince Mongo got 2,000 votes, which put him in third place. Bowlyne summed up Mongo, “He’s out of his green leafy tree.”

During Lent we were sent to Montesi’s Food Store to get some last-minute items for a Lenten Supper. Walking through the parking lot a woman in big new Cadillac whizzed by us and parked close to the store in a handicapped parking spot. She leapt out of her car and raced into the food store. Bowlyne turned to me and said, “Must be mentally handicapped.” Other of his sayings: “All his leaves aren’t raked into one pile.” “Always off-key in the band in his head.”

I miss these people – can’t imagine how they became such comedic sages. I guess it’s in the water we southerners drink and the company we keep. George Yandell

The Rev George Yandell, Rector

Earworms

I owe Bill Pattillo for giving me that word “earworm”. He used it with me about 10 years ago- it describes that tune you can’t get out of your head- it keeps burbling up from your inner self, taking residence in your ear AND IT WON’T QUIT. Knowing the syndrome has a name does not keep me safe from its assaults.

Don Henley’s song ‘This is the End of the Innocence’ is the worm that’s been plaguing me for weeks. Why? My subconscious has yet to tell me. I’ve been playing it in the car, resonating with the lyrics, trying to expunge it. But my hunch is that I am longing for the earlier times when covid hadn’t struck and we could be together in what now seems to be gauzy, blissful times in the sun. Oh no, not “We Had Joy We Had Fun We had Seasons in the Sun—” stop it!

Another earworm has taken up permanent residence in my subconscious- it’s the tune ‘Kingsfold’ from our hymnal. That tricksy part of my psyche defaults to it unbidden in quiet moments. That tune is used in two hymns- this is one I seem to prefer: Hymn 292

“Oh Jesus, crowned with all renown, since thou the earth hast trod, thou reignest and by thee come down henceforth the gifts of God.”

This second portion of the verse bounds and rebounds around in me: “Thine is the health and thine the wealth that in our halls abound, and thine the beauty and the joy with which the years are crowned.” To me it’s almost a reminiscence of pre-covid times. But that’s too simple an explanation, isn’t it?

It could be that I sang it in the boys’ choir on Sundays during the fall. It could be that it’s a most singable, lovely song. But that’s the thing- I CAN’T KNOW. It just starts up like a holy jukebox with only one disc.

The juke box in our house at Emory always contained Led Zeppelin’s song “Black Dog” even when other titles were switched out. “Hey, hey mama, said the way you move. Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove.” I could always tell upstairs when David came back from class. He’d cue up that song in the huge party room downstairs and start blasting out the lyrics with Robert Plant at top volume. Maybe I should seek him out and suggest it become an earworm for him. Would that be fair? Can one remove the worm in thine own ear by infusing it in the ear of another?

Googling ‘earworm cure’ yields this and many other results:

5 Ways to Get Rid of Earworms: According to Science LISTEN TO THE ENTIRE SONG. Earworms tend to be small fragments of music that repeat over and over (often a song’s refrain or chorus). LISTEN TO A “CURE TUNE.”. The same study also found that some subjects used competing songs, or “cure tunes,” to control their earworms. DISTRACT YOURSELF WITH SOMETHING ELSE. … CHEW GUM. … LEAVE IT ALONE. … Hmmh- don’t seem like cures to me. They’re just substituting other activities until the dreaded worm slinks back into my ear again. Oh well, here’s one for the road: “All the leaves are brown….” Come out, come out, wherever you are. G. Yandell