thisendoftheswamp

On Saturday, The Squire and I went to the memorial service for one of the finest men we have ever know, my brother-in-law, George Stiegler.

Karl gave a wonderful eulogy for his stepdad, thanking him for all the material things he had given him – the chance to live in a nicer neighborhood, to go the private schools – first at Emanual Lutheran and then at Mt. St. Joe’s, and finally Penn State. But he also gave Karl a firm sense of being loved, and that his mum was loved as well. There was no more shouting, no more door slamming, no more hiding under the table. Even though George was about to be an empty nester, with both of his own children ready to fly on their own, when he married my sister, he accepted Karl as his own child, and that didn’t change even after he and my sister had Brian. Karl was never the “stepchild”; he was simply one of George’s children.

Of course, it wouldn’t be us – mostly me – if things went according to plan. In spite of Brian having sent us several emails outlining the plans for the day, including the fact that the burial would be a 9:00, with a private brunch to follow, and the memorial service in the afternoon, yours truly somehow got it into her head that the burial would be at noon. We actually arrived at the cemetery office at quarter to twelve and paced back and forth for a while. When the clock chimed 12:15 I asked the receptionist if she knew anything more than we did. Ah, yes, the burial had been at 9:00. She did not tell us that the brunch would be held there, so we dashed off to the church, expecting to be late for that, too.

As it turn out, the memorial service was at 1:00, not noon, so at least we were on time for that!

George had picked out his own hymns, which included the Navy Hymn, Eternal Father. This hymn was played at my dad’s funeral, and to this day I come completely unglued when I hear it. Fortunately, The Squire warned me, and I sat on the outside of the pew, so I could leave the service unobtrusively. I stood in the ladies’ room, sobbing into a hanky. Twenty-five years – you’d think I’d get over it.

After issuing Winter Storm Warnings that amounted to nothing for weeks, we finally got some snow. We woke up this morning to about three inches of the stuff. The condo crew is already out – it’s only a little after 6 AM – plowing the roads and using the blowers on the walks. Sleeping in isn’t an option, but Boris and I can always take a nap later.

The forecast is for more snow between 9 and 11, and then more snow later on this evening, so I suppose they’ll be back at it tomorrow.

I did take a cup of coffee out to the fellow who was doing the walkway in front of our building. One of our grandsons used to be a lineman for Baltimore Gas and Electric, so we have a soft spot for the guys and gals who have to work in this sort of weather. I always add cream and sugar; if you drink your coffee black you can still drink it doctored up, but if you take your coffee with cream and sugar, there’s no way you can tolerate it black.

When I was trying to come up with a title for this picture, I was reminded of the story of Dives and Lazurus in Luke 16.

Lazurus was a beggar who lay at the gate of Dives mansion. Every day Dives stepped over that poor man and never even gave him a crumb. When Lazarus died, he was “carried to the bosom of Abraham” but when Dives died, he went to Hell, From the depths he could see Lazurus and Abraham afar off and asked for mercy.

He was told, “There is a great gulf between us, and no one can cross from one side to the other. You had everything you wanted when you were alive, and Lazurus had nothing. You had Moses and the prophets to tell you how to live, and you ignored them.”

Essentially, you chose your path, and this is where it took you.

A few days ago, I overheard a gal telling some of her friends about her adventures making pesto.

The recipe is a simple one, garlic, olive oil, pine nuts, fresh parmesan cheese, and basil.

FRESH basil! This poor thing didn’t know there was such a thing as fresh basil and had managed to purchase three full cups of dried basil, which must have cost a fortune, and made the world’s worst concoction. Her husband said it tasted the way a fart smelled.