Petticoat Lane - London

Years ago, when I was training at Guy's Hospital in London, I managed to get the keys to a small flat in Wentworth Dwellings overlooking Petticoat Lane. Getting the keys was the operative point, for without paying the key money, which was £200, a small fortune back then, we would never have been able to move in. I shared the flat with Stephen Milner, a very bright lad who was also studying at Guy's, who eventually became advisor in surgery to the British Army. Anyway all that aside, we had a lot of fun living over the Lane, and this poem will give you a flavoring.


PETTICOAT LANE
If you go to the Lane ov a Sundy,
You never know wot you'll find
'Cos there's row after row of barrers
An' stalls wiv people be'ind.
They'll sell you most fings for a penny
'arf a quid or a dollar or two,
It really don't make any difference
So long as you keep passin' fru.

'Tween ve barrers all mixed up wiv people,
To a tune or a well know rhyme,
There's a band of colourful beggars
Beatin' out double quick time.
Those barrers are loaded wiv bargins
Fings you won't see again
"So hurry up love if ya wannit
Come on now it's startin' to rain".

Who'll buy this fine set of china
It's goin' fer two poun've lot
At only a fird of the shop price
'Cos it's not in a fanciful box.
Now Lady jus' try a tomato
'Ave you seen 'em like this one before
You really can't go wive out buyin'
They won't grow 'em like vis any more.

Any shirt ’ere for a smacker
For one fifty I'll let you ave two,
They'll fit any neck that you, Sir
So you really can't grumble can you.
These coats are of genuin' leaver
You don't ave to check em ya know
If you ave any doubts jus smell vis one
Oh! I'm sorry that's only fer show.

The Lane is just bulgin' wiv people,
Of every persuation an hue,
But I'll tell you who gets a good look in
It's either a Paki or Jew.
The Lane is terrible 'igh brow,
Wiv it's delicate nosh from Marks,
You can when it's closed on Shabbes
By the place where the Daimler parks.

Above the Lane live the locals
They know it all this cocky crew
And no matter whatever your business
They'll tell you a thing or two.
They know the chap sellin' razers
At only three bob a shot
And the drunk from the Salvation Army
Who'll pick up old apples and grot.

I live in a dwelling in London
My window looks over the lane
And the noise wakes me up in the morning
But really I never complain.
I can sit in my bed and just listen
All cozy and never alone
With thousands of people parading
All mad, an' right outside my home.

It's a real old edjamacation
To come and live local 'ere
Wive the Cockneys all cheeky as sparrows
And 'apply the whole bleedin' year.
So when you come to the Lane of a Sundy
Be grateful and never forget
There's a lot goin' on all around you
That you 'aven't fort ov yet.

From the book  "Nearly Jewish"

Dominion Over The Earth - The Cypress Tree

We are not all Jack Bauer of "24" fame able to save the society from a fatal attack from terrorists. Yet each of us has the opportunity that was given us since the time of Adam to have dominion over the earth and be responsible for its care. Jack has some serious choices to make when he decides who must die for the greater good of his cause. On a much smaller scale we each have the opportunity to make the world a better place by interceding when we can to keep the world around us beautiful. My friends Al and Francine Ramseyer have a wonderful view over the "Jewel City" Glendale, and just beyond their home in a neighbors garden, the vista includes an elegant Cypress tree which is host to a profuse Morning Glory.


The Cypress tree,
Lone sentinel at the end of the mountain ridge
In the neighbor's garden,
Stands over the Jewel City at sunrise.

The house shadow
Shades the Morning Glory soon to open
With the striking light
As the choking weed takes the guard unawares.

The Gardiner
Whose gift it was to name all things in his dominion,
May choose either
To cull the rampant profusion or wait and watch the marker die.

NSM 3.15.2008.

R. V. Tucker DDS - GOLD ONLAYS A Limerick

Dr. R.V. Tucker

One of the greatest dentists of our time












A Washington dentist named Tucker
Who made inlays on which folks ate supper
Said, “Fear not if your row
Of teeth show the gold’s glow,
When you’re smiling just make your lips pucker.”

Dr. Richard V. Tucker is arguably one of the finest dentists of our time, and has spent a lifetime advocating the use of fine gold inlays and onlays to restore the teeth. Nothing, even today, has come close the longevity of gold as a dental restoration. No composite resin or cast or carved porcelain can claim to come close to the long term success enjoyed by this style of treatment. Some might complain that upon opening their mouths the gold work could be seen, or that a flash or gleam of yellow metal might mar their smiles. But with careful case selection and even more skill in the designing of the shape of the cast filling, it is quite possible to conceal the show of gold. My poem is just an attempt to glorify this art form and immortalize Doctor Tucker.

courtesy of Dr. Scott Parker DDS

Here are some examples of what the best looking gold inlays are like from the hand of one of my peers Doctor Scott Parker DDS of Redmond Washington. At the time of writing he is President of his local R.V. Tucker Study Club.





courtesy of Dr. Scott Parker DDS

Highland Games in Fresno

A Lament for The Games At Coombs Ranch

For William S. McLeod Jr.

For years, I well remember, in the middle of September
When the Californian summer lingers like an endless song,
Near that central valley city, where the grape vines look so pretty
And the broad San Joaquin River ambles silently along.

Where fields rise above the banks and great oaks grow in ranks,
And the grass is green and flat beneath their shade,
At a ranch called “River Bend” owned by Dennes Coombs, a friend,
Great schemes to hold a Highland Games were laid.

Well, Dennes Coombs and Truman Campbell, round that ranch they took a ramble
With Ms. Dunklee and Bill McLeod in tow,
And it was agreed together that right there in clement weather
They’d host a Games to which the folk might go.

Looking back they got it right, for this very bonnie site
With its lawns all sheltered by the tall tree groves,
Proved to be a prime location, where without hesitation
Stout hearted Scots folk came with friends in droves.

















Vendors came one day early to avoid the hurley-burley,
And set up their pavilions and their stands.
With all kinds of things for sale, ghillie brogues and coats of mail,
China crocks and books and Celtic wedding bands.

















First thing the trucks appear with the athletes and their gear
And weights and cabers lashed up to their hitches
Through the day they’d show their form of Scottish stealth and brawn
Sending awesome weights a hurtling down the pitches.


















You could buy your tartan kilt, or a sword with basket hilt,
Or a Kitchener pith helmet like a Sahib,
Or a jacket and a bonnet, with you family crest upon it
To make your first foray in Highland garb.

























Then came the pipes and drums, and they filled the air with thrums,
Their music stirred the blood within the vein.
Marches, jigs, Strathspeys and reels, had us kicking up our heels
As they paraded down the field and back again.

The clans folk also came, of the blood and of the name
Who raised their tents beside the glen in rows,
Men sported badge and kilt, and wore bonnets at a tilt
And the lassies had their hair in tartan bows.

The children they would play in the river through the day,
Where the shallow water rippled by the weirs,
Catching tiddlers and frogs or making dams with rock and logs
While the lilting skirl of bagpipes filled their ears.


















At noon when colors advance and we all would get the chance
To cross our hearts and pledge our promise true,
Star Spangled Banner we’d chorus and the Flowers Of The Forest,
And we’d tear up with emotion at the view.

For the ranks of Highland Men were parading through the glen
In their tartans with their banners flying high.
And the pipes and drums played loudly and the gazing crowd stood proudly,
With the sparkling glint of tears in every eye.

But one day Dennes lost his ranch and it was said we’d lost the chance
To hold our Highland Games some made remark,
But hats off to Fresno City who rose up for us in pity
And let us have the games in Roeder Park

They still tell this tale today, with longing hearts they say,
That the story teller keeps it in his quiver,
And the legend lingers on in our hearts and minds and song,
When the Games were held at Coombs Ranch by the river.

















Neil Stewart McLeod

Stabbing Haggis

The art of redefining the contour of fine silver trays is one that is more particularly Scottish than, perhaps, any other nationalities. A reputation that the great halls of silversmiths in London and Sheffield are prone to envy. Whether this skill blossomed from an innate sense of impecunity, or from the natural latent genius for which we are so proud, is left to conjecture. But the fact clearly remains that more pierced silver is to be found in Scotland, and in Scottish enclaves than any where else in the world. Why you might ask has this unusual specialization developed? Well the answer lies in the frequency with which the haggis is slain in late January each year.

Scotland is famous of course for her two principal exports, its brains, and the antidote, whisky. It is the fortification with the latter in preparation for the "Address To A Haggis", that is, in all likelihood, responsible for the abundance of perforated chargers. Armed with dirks, it is not uncommon for exuberance to foreshadow good judgment in the lavish swing that plunges the blade into the warm and reeking bladder, which yields sweetly allowing the tip to score and skewer the entire table display through to the richly varnished table boards beneath. If the knife can be retrieved, the tray will need treatment with planishing hammers and silver solder before the buffing wheels on the lathes can retrieve its former luster.

Nor should you doubt any part of this report, for every word of it is as true as the light of day. Examination of old copies of the 'Daily Breeze' from 1988 will reveal an account of a similar occurrence, when, before the Royal Scottish Country Dance Society, Tom Girvin, that well known radio personality, had difficulty removing his dirk from the haggis for exactly the same reason. Years later Tom's offer to have the tray repaired was declined in favor of its value as a memento of that valiant stab.

No you might say, this cannot be the case, such a fabrication, such whimsy is more than is creditable. Yet I can tell you with no exaggeration, that in 1997 I stood right beside Joseph McClure Swindle, who, suitably reinforced with fifteen year old Talisker, slew the haggis at the Castaways one Burns Night. Joseph spouted forth,

"His knife see rustic labour dight,
An' cut ye up we ready slight,"...

and as he did so, he rammed his huge dirk down through the haggis tray and all. Paul Dimond, the British Consul General, and his lady Carolyn, were there to witness the thrust, as were the gathered members and friends of the Los Angeles Burns Club. The stage was set, and what a night it was. Later, after the loyal toasts, the "Immortal Memory of Robert Burns" was given by Ann Dwyer who, to our amazement transformed herself into Ann, the serving maid at 'The Globe Inn'. Her performance transfixed us, as she related "from personal experience" her encounter with the poet who used to frequent the inn. Richard Nathan, the editor of “Mad Dogs” where this story was previously reported, gave the toast to the lassies, in a highly controversial parallel between Shakespeare and Burns' view of the fairer sex. Ah! but the answer probably lies right there, that it is in an attempt to impress the "lassies O", that we get into these predicaments of masculine excessiveness in the first place.

If you live in the Los Angeles area you can see the Haggis slain in true style at Lawry’s Tam O’ Shanter Restaurant, on Los Feliz Boulevard, on January 22nd, 23rd and 24th when I shall be performing the ceremony six times each night, and cutting up Chef Ivan’s excellent Haggis. There will be piping from Harry Farrar, Highland Dancing and saucy ladies singing Burns’ songs.

Slaying the Haggis

“Fair fa your honest sonsie face,
Great chieftain of the puddin’ race”

Here we go it is Burns Season.
Every year, one month exactly after Jesus’ birthday, on January 25th Scots and Scotiaphiles around the world celebrate the birth of Scotland’s most famous poet, Robert Burns. They do so with a fervency that will rival even the Russian’s love for their poets, and with good reason. Robert Burns leaves us with a legacy of over six hundred songs and poems that epitomize the most sensitive heartfelt wrenchings of the common man, and contain what is arguably the greatest satire and story telling ever penned in the English or the Ayrshire language.

We are slaying the haggis again. The Haggis Slayer, the dirk I have used for over twenty five years to cut open the haggis will be put into action twenty times this season alone. I believe it will have been used to “slay” one hundred and eighty five haggi or what ever the word may be to pluralize haggis. This must be some sort of record.

Last night at the Athenaeum Club, that august edifice at the California Institute of Technology, the Haggis was slain and “Tam O’ Shanter”, the Burns story of the wild ride on a stormy night, was recited in its totality. The venue was elegant the wine excellent and the haggis remarkable. Kevin their chef has developed his art to the point where I can confidently say he is giving the renowned Chef Ivan of Lawry’s “Tam O’ Shanter Restaurant” a run for his money. It was good, very good, and served with bashed neeps and tatties. Hats off to Kevin.

Chevron Needs Help

The lingua franca is disappearing. Trying to make allowances for immigrants by accepting a lower standard of English usage is destroying the language on both sides of the equation. It is dummying down the whole country to accept a new substandard of abbreviated jargon which leaves everyone hampered, handicapped even. Our children (not mine) are feverishly thumbing their way through digital cyberspace on their text messaging devices, using the latest hip short cuts to express their notions that only the esoterically advanced have even a hope of comprehending.

On the one hand we have Andrei Codrescu the Romanian essayist and poet who has come here and mastered the language to the point where he teaches English and uses it with remarkable eloquence. On the other we have corporate representatives who do not check and never even conceived of the idea of reviewing something or having someone else check it before hanging it out for all to see, and for the most part never even notice its ignorant comedic offensiveness.

It is enough to make one “real angry”. Leaving the L Y off the end of the adverb is so commonplace now that I hear school teachers at the private school, from which our two youngest have now been removed in favor of home schooling, trotting out this qualifier routinely. For example, while driving back to Los Angeles after our Thanksgiving in Redding, we saw this sign at the Chevron Station in Pixley. Ironically there was a help wanted sign at the entrance. Look again and see how many errors have been made in this simple attempt to be helpful. This is the side of Chevron Corporation we see directly dirty lavatories and runaway inflationary priced fuel, all run by semi illiterates. You would think that there would be an established protocol for all signage at a corporately sponsored facility.


The price of the gasoline is sky high, but the standards are rock bottom. All that matters is the dollar $ign.

“Door Locked When Occupied” would have been cheaper. The final tragedy is that some one engineered the sign. Our standards are surely under attack.

Saying Good Bye to Los Angeles

How often do we who live here in the City of the Angels have to feel that ache when some one we have grown to love comes to the point where their life is taking them in a new direction. They are leaving our city. We know they will remember their days here. This is my farewell to them all. Here is a sunset shot for them looking west from my dental office on Sunset Boulevard.


TO TOAST FAREWELL
In the evening,
In London or in Budapest
Where warm nights rarely hang so still,
And when at dusk
The slipping sun reaches out,
Blood-red behind the wisps of clouds,
The gathering gown,
Deep night settles on
The remnants on another distant day,
You will remember
How the thick orange sky
Sank beneath the silhouette of tall palms,
Where warm sands
Edge out the Pacific's rim
And The City of Angels becomes a memory.


And when gathered
In high-draped halls
At table or beside the fire,
Contented then,
As talking bubbles
With thoughts you love to share,
When practiced tales,
The patch work of experience,
Delights the company with your wisdom,
Will you then
Fill up your glasses
With wine as red as any sky we've known,
And raise a toast
To friends so far away
In places where perhaps you’d rather be?

Waiting For Geppetto

Geppetto the carpenter, Pinocchio’s famed father- For Francoise whose daughter Maelise dances ballet with our daughter Maran, and whose sad chair went to Doctor McLeod's hospital















My arm is split, my legs are weak,
In fact they come apart,
You really shouldn’t sit on me
Unless you’re strong of heart,
And you should really understand
My useful days are done.
I’m waiting for Geppetto,
I’m praying he will come.

There was a time when I was new
A long, long time ago,
We left the wood shop in a cart
Six chairs in a row.
We even had a table
That came with us in the set.
The wanting of Geppetto
Had not dawned upon us yet.

Now I am old and broken too,
I’ve been fixed at many points,
And hard and crusty lumps of glue
Are bunging up my joints.
And should you sit upon me
I fear I’ll fall apart,
I’m waiting for Geppetto
To bring to me his art.















Geppetto, he could mend me
He’d bring out clamps and glue
He’d clean the crust from out my joints
And make me good as new.
So as you go about your day
Where ever you may roam
If you see Geppetto
Have him come and take me home.

Ninety And Still Driving

For the ninetieth birthday of Beverly Morsey, my patient and friend for thirty years, who at eighty eight, queried when submitting to significant dental care, “Am I going to be able to have my golfing lesson afterwards?” She remains an inspiration to us all!

If I were turning ninety, and my friends were gathering near
It would be a grand occasion that would be very clear
And I’d say, when the cake is cut, with my glass raised to toast
That of all my life’s occasions this one I’d remember most.
I’d tell them I’d recall this day for my whole life, I guess,
Which, if I were young, might be a phrase that would impress.
Then I’d thank them all for coming and for making such a fuss,
And in a quiet moment, I’d thank God for all of us.

I have been to lots of birthdays ever since I was a child,
And some of them were swell affairs and others were quite mild.
There were many for the six year olds, and for the sweet sixteens,
I still wish I were twenty one, but only in my dreams.
There were parties for the thirties and the forties don’t you know,
And lots of folks they’ll make a splash on reaching the ‘Five O’.
After that they’re not so many, though of course they still come by
And I recall I thanked The Lord when I reached seventy five.

I’m ninety and still driving, in fact I’m going strong
If you want to shop or go to lunch, why yes, you come along.
I don’t take any chances I just try to do it right,
Although I’m getting nervous when I have to drive at night.
I have some pals who ’tween themselves they privately have joked,
About the folks they know who had their licences revoked.
And should they pine to be behind the wheel again, I’d say,
“If you want to keep on driving I’m not standing in your way.”

I’m ninety and still driving, next time we’re on the links
Take care who you bet on, or you might be buying drinks
I may not make a birdie every time I take a swing,
But if I make a hole in one, I’ll dance the Highland Fling.
There may not be too much time left, and not a lot to waste
I’m picky what I choose to do, it must have style and taste.
With golf lessons and painting and shopping I feel grand,
I think I may have just enough for what The Lord had planned.

Neil McLeod - 9.1.2007.

The Good Doctor Isidore K.B. Kwaw M.D.

This extraordinarily well qualified compassionate physician provides emergency care at his "Urgent Care" facility at 9201 Sunset Boulevard. I meet a lot of doctors one way any another, and I share my respect for this colleague so that we all may benefit.











Isidore K.B. Kwaw M.D.


Doctor Kwaw’s a physician of note,
An amiable, affable bloke
Who labors away
Be it night time or day
For the patient whose arm might be broke.

If a fellar falls flat on his face
And needs his neck put in a brace,
If he’s cut and he’s bleeding
What ever he’s needing
It’s to Doctor Kwaw he should race.

For the Doc will ride in on his bike
If you’re names Thomas or Dickie or Mike,
And he’ll do what it takes
To patch up the brakes,
Or a wound from a sword or a pike.

There’ll not be a word of dismay
No matter how sad your array,
But with kindness and skill
He will fix you until
You’re fit to get back in the fray.

So you don’t have to have it said twice
Should life deal a blow that ain’t nice,
If your bladder is burning
Or tummy is squirming,
See Kwaw for a fix in a trice.

Write Me Some Lines

for Terry Becker a visiting emergency patient 9.7.2007

















A patient who said just to tease
While I fixed his teeth up, Sir, please,
Write me a few lines
Mid the groans and the whines
For you, Sir, it should be a breeze.

THE SONG OF THE CAURIE SHELLS

There is a legend that if you should gather twelve caurie shells on the coral beach, the fairy folk will weave a spell that will bring you back to Skye.



There's an island I know made of heather and peat
Where the mountains rise sheer from the sands,
And out in the loch there are seals at play
While the mist hides the craggy headlands.

My love for the island is calling me back
To the land of my tartan my home,
To the Waternish beach above Suardal,
It's there in my heart that I roam.

There to the west a trophy you'll find
Blessed with its own special spell.
The great old Dame at the Castle
Knew of this magic well.....

They say if you go to the Coral Beach
With the wish in your heart to remain
On the isle with the mist and the magic
You shall come to this island again.

You must go to the beach with your wishes,
When the tide is low look and find
Twelve wee shells of the Caurie
On the beach there all at one time.















So take the road north from the Castle,
Go to Claigen below Beinn Bhreac,
Then follow the path by the cliff tops
To the beach there away to the left.

There look with you love for an hour
While the tide is out lying low,
For the wee crinkled shells of the Caurie
Till you have all twelve in a row.















Then look to the loch and the shoreline,
And south where the great Tables lie,
And imagine the lofty pinnacles
Of the Cuillins against the wild sky.

In your heart you've cemented the blessing
Of the peat and the heather and moor,
And by keeping those twelve little Cauries
You will find your way back to the shore.

So remember the Old Chief who called you,
To come back to the Isle, with a sigh,
And your treasure will guide your steps swiftly
Back home to the Isle of Skye.

3.1.1983.

Called to Torah - Bar Mitzvah

For a son who is being called to the Torah this year October 6th 2007

Show me a dark-eyed handsome lad
Whose face is like the full moon,
Whose long eye lashes when his eye flashes
Might cause a maiden to swoon.
I’ll show you a mother like many another
Whose anxious heartfelt pride,
Is reaching out with love not doubt
To the son who is leaving her side.

Show me the diligent Torah scholar
Who is ready to hear his aliyah
And rabbi-willed his heart is filled
With atavistic fire.
I’ll show you a father standing tall
Part of a line of tradition
Ready to make that minyan call
To a son that has come to fruition.

Show me the throng filled synagogue
Ranked on both sides of the aisle,
When gabbai or rabbi stand by his side
To prompt with a word or a smile.
And I will show you a family
Who are moved by the moment to sigh,
As he takes his place in that long long line
And never an eye will be dry.

I am the mother who like any other
Has a heart that is filled with pride
Who bore the dark-eyed handsome lad
That stood by the altar side,
Who answered the call to Torah
To consider the question “Why”,
We follow in this long tradition
And it’s hard to keep my eye dry.

Like the Roman Catholic Confirmation service which takes place when a boy reaches the age of fourteen or so, the Jewish Bar Mitzvah is a sort of coming of age and is a celebration for the family and the community of a young man’s right of passage. The candidates answer the call (aliyah) to read a passage from the Bible (Torah-the first five books or Pentateuch) and explain its meaning. In so doing they publicly display that they are mature enough to understand the laws and traditions of society and why they should adhere to them.

This is and age old process, and in Jewish culture qualifies them to participate in the minyan, the communal prayer in which at least ten men are to be present, and at which matters of significance may be discussed. Any parent will naturally feel a deep sense of emotion when witnessing this religious service, and in western culture a great deal is made of the occasion to include family and friends in what can be extravagant festivals.

A mother asked me the other day if I would write a poem for her son who was about to answer his call to the Torah. She is confident that he is
going to do a good job, and she wants to express her love and admiration and pride for him as he comes of age, already committed to following his father’s career as a cardiologist. This then is my offering.

Neil McLeod 8.26.2007.


Gabbai - The Gabbai the rabbi's assistant stands next to the Torah reader holding a version of the text with vowels and trop markings

A Grandson's Wish

for Alfred Weinstock my dear colleague and brilliant periodontist, who pined for his grandfather’s stories, but was always disappointed not to hear more. He remembers that the Cossacks rode through his village and trampled him down when he was a boy in Poland.




Grandpa tell me again


Tell me about your childhood Grandpa
It’s something I long to have told.
Tell me about your shtetel Grandpa
Tell me now before you’re too old.
Sit down and draw upon your pipe,
Send smoke rings above Shabbes board
Tell me of when the Cossacks came
Trampling through in a hoard.

Grandpa, I love your old stories,
No one could tell them like you,
Not even our Yeshiva Rebbe
Tells stories as real as you do.
Yet every time that I ask you,
You say with a nod and a sigh,
“There’s really not much I can tell you!”
Though I see the tear’s glint in your eye.

Grandpa, I stood by a grave side
A son wore a black coat all torn,
And a widow was decked in a black lace shawl
To hide her face so forlorn.
Then I thought that they’d never hear them
The stories that their grand papa knew,
So Grandpa please tell me your stories
Before this evening is through.

All Those Books

Down From The Shelves
A self criticism















My friend Andrew Ettinger can’t remodel his house with all the books in the way so they have to moved out by the box load to a neighbors garage temporarily. The impression created by viewing the piles reminded me of my own unsorted collection which prompted me to consider just when I might get around to tidying it if ever.

The books, jammed and squeezed
Seem to have tumbled from the shelves
Into waiting piles,
Ready for the packing boxes.
Pictures and statuettes
Hover with clocks and cannon.
Binoculars and speakers,
Not a nook left, a complete wall
Cluttered behind the settee.

Endless broken intentions
Wait to be reposited in a neighbors garage;
Time waited not.
A cascade of unmanaged treasures,
Each with a mortgage,
An unredeemable debt of time,
Life’s lease is too short.
So to the boxes of consignment they go.
This year, next year, sometime,
Never to be opened again
Until one day, inherited or sold,
Each one’s brilliance will shine again
When fingered by curious grandchildren
Or a shop customer
Who will thrill as you once did
When first you deemed the text
Worthy of a place on your shelves.

A Traditional Toast to the Bride and Groom

Last New Year's Eve, in Redding - California, Cory proposed to Brittney. This was the second time I have seen proposal on the stroke of midnight. Previously it was when Beth and Seth Carlson got engaged as the new milenium broke. So twice makes it a tradition.

For Cory and Brittney Fator















Twice is always I’ve been told,
Twice makes it a tradition,
Twice upon the midnight stroke
A suitor made petition.

Twice upon the midnight hour
As New Year’s bells were peeling
I have seen a young gallant
Set his love a reeling.

Twice with pounding heart and bold
In fates uncaring face
I’ve seen the question “Will you?” asked
When all might see disgrace.

And yet the moment was not lost
The bold hearts found their favor
And with the nod and answer, “Yes”
Their path was bound forever.

Twice I’ve seen the light of love
Sparkle in their eyes
Those pretty maids whose open hearts’
And trembling lips reply.





















I have seen the goblet raised
And proffered to its prize
The ring linked to the chalice stem
Before her very eyes.

And all of us will tell the tale
With pride and admonition
How our young lads should never fail
To follow this tradition.
















From thence to church to stand before
Our pastor, who’s commission
Is to anoint their heads and bless
This marriage - that’s tradition.

Let us toast the damsel
Who said yes to this young man,
And the mothers and the fathers
By whom it all began.

So stand with me and raise a glass
With each one by your side
And toast the health and happiness
Of our new groom and bride.

Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls
To Brittney and of Cory

Dr. Neil S. McLeod 7. 29.2007

The Cutty Sark Burns

I am mourning the near demise by fire of the Cutty Sark the fastest tea clipper ever to ply the seas between Britain and the Far East. She brought tea from China, and later wool from Australia, home to the waiting buyers at astonishing speeds. The life aboard ship must have been grim for those whose backs were being broken to win the race.

My great grandfather sailed to New Zealand in 1872 aboard the first composite built tea clipper, the Wild Deer. She was Scotland's answer to the American fast clipper designs. This ship was so successful that she was the basis for the design of the Cutty Sark.


Cutty Sark













Of Ships and the Sea

Sing me a song of fine old ships
Of fine old ships and the sea,
With hulls that ply the rolling waves
Like a claymore flying free;
With hulls that ply the rolling waves
And built of wood and steel,
That rise up like a cathedral
From a massive bolted keel.

Sing me a song of hardy men,
Who toil in the shipwright’s trade,
Who bend their backs from dawn ’till dusk
By whom these ships were made.
Who bend their backs with saws and nails,
With red hot bolts and steel,
And build the ships from bilge to deck
On a massive bolted keel.

Sing me a song of men that sail
In ships on the seven seas,
Who ride the waves in storm and gale
And laugh at the ocean’s breeze;
Who ride the waves in rain or shine
In ships of wood and steel,
With hulls that rise like a great church roof
From a massive bolted keel.

From massive bolted keels they rise
These ships of wood and steel,
Built by men who toil all day,
With muscle and sweat and zeal.
Built with the shipwright’s craft and skill
For the lads who sail the seas,
Who ply the foam in a hull for home,
And laugh at the ocean’s breeze.



Wild Deer











This image from the Turnbull Collection in the National Maritime Museum in San Francisco was taken on the day my great grandfather made landfall at Port Chalmers in New Zealand in 1873.

Religious Harmony

When my niece Bailey was just going up to university at Thomas Aquinas College in Santa Paula, that’s in California, I went rootling around the book stores that punctuate the heart of the Ventura area for a copy of Khalil Gibran’s “The Prophet”. It has long been one of my favorite texts, crammed full of clever whimsical and profound truths that are fun to quote like:

“... thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words may indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly.”

My thinking was that it would be a resource for those mellow moments that I remember occurred for me when I was at Guy’s in London, and that she might find some inspiration in it. Of course the book did not just fly off the shelves at me which might have been disappointing had the habit of nosing around dusty volumes not become a passion, pheremonically impulsed as a pig might rut out a truffle. In one of the numerous forays I glanced upon “Rhymes of the Old Cape” by Joseph Crosby Lincoln, and, thinking it might have been about South Africa, I browsed through a couple of well constructed poems and thought that at $1.50 I could risk the chance of finding at least one poem I liked.

It is now three years later and Bailey is about to graduate and launch on a new career as an operatic soprano. Opening the book the other day I found that it related to that other cape, south of Boston where Province Town dominates the north returning peninsular, Cape Cod. The book is quaint and filled with treasures, and one in particular has made all the effort worthwhile and not the least wasteful of my energy. Here is Mr. Lincoln’s delightful and hard hitting testament on getting along. I can not help feeling that if we as a nation could have found more common ground between us and been united in our efforts for Christian outreach, there would be a lot less problems in the world. In the back of my mind somewhere there is the conviction that al-Qaeda would not have become so entrenched in Afghanistan had we sent in missionaries to fill the vacuum left by the retreating Russian Army.


WASTED ENERGY

South Pokus is religious,--that's the honest, livin' truth;
South Pokus folks are pious,--man and woman, maid and youth;
And they listen every Sunday, though it rains or snows or shines,
In their seven shabby churches, to their seven poor divines,
Who dispense the balm and comfort that the thirstin' spirit needs,
By a-fittin' of the gospel ter their seven different creeds,
Each one sure his road ter Heaven is the only sartin way,--
Fer South Pokus is religious, as I started off ter say.

Now the Pokus population is nine hundred, more or less,
Which, in one big congregation, would be quite a church, I guess,
And do lots of good, I reckon; but yer see it couldn't be,--
Long's one's tweedledum was diff'rent from the other's tweedledee.
So the Baptists they are Baptists, though the church is swamped in debt,
And the Orthodox is rigid, though expenses can't be met,
And the twenty Presbyterians 'll be Calvinists or bust,--
Fer South Pokus is religious, as I said along at fust.

And the Methodist is buried, when his time comes 'round ter die,
In the little weedy graveyard where no other sect can lie,
And at Second Advent socials, every other Wednesday night,
No one's ever really welcome but a Second Adventite;
While the Unitarian brother, as he walks the village streets,
Seldom bows unless another Unitarian he meets;
And there's only Univers'lists in a Univers'list's store,--
Fer South Pokus is religious, as I think I said before.

I thought I'd read that Jesus come ter do the whole world good,--
Come ter bind the Jew and Gentile in a lovin' brotherhood;
But it seems that I'm mistaken, and I haven't read it right,
And the text of "_Love_ your neighbor" must be somewhere written "Fight";
But I want ter tell yer, church folks, and ter put it to yer strong,
While _you're fighting_ Old Nick's fellers _pull tergether_ right along:
So yer'd better stop your squabblin', be united if yer can,
Fer the Pokus way of doin' ain't no use ter God or man.

Joseph Crosby Lincoln

A First Christmas in Koru, Kenya - A Memory

A First Christmas in Koru

The picture shows a family group with friends in1951. My father is holding me in the back row and Alan is wearing the bib trousers center front. Yvette is sitting in the chair with Roida and my eldest sister Flora is to their right in the center.

When my mother became very ill with malaria in our first year in the Kenya colony, and my father was away, my brother Alan and I celebrated Christmas with the Langs, two older sisters who lived across the road. They kept a traditional holiday.

It was Christmas Eve and for two little boys
All was not well, for they’d left their toys
And their baby sister and mother at home
And with local neighbors were lodged alone,
To share with them the holiday season
And though they did not know it this was the reason.
Their mother who was the best house keeper
Who washed and cleaned, there was none neater,
Who sprayed pyrethrum every night
And made sure the screens were all shut tight,
And who knelt by the beds, head under their nets,
And said prayers and kissed her darling pets,
Had herself by the Anaphalis been bitten
And with waves of fever her body would sicken.
And so it was they were lodging away
From home and family that holiday.

Now the neighbors, the Langs, lived just over the street
Where the old tree branches in the center would meet
And doves could be heard in the afternoon
Cooing their soft almost sorrowful tune.
These two older dames now lived there alone
Their family and husbands had long since gone.
Their house was filled with things small boys admired
Nicknacks and treasures in a life time acquired.
On a carved wooden side table set by the wall
By the front door as you enter the hall
Was a little brass ash tray from the Arab bazaar
And horse brasses, mementoes from England afar
Enamel pill boxes perhaps from Limoges
A framed photo of a soldier with ribbon in rows.

Now when those boys arrived they were welcomed and fed
Briefly shown round the home, washed, and then put to bed.
How they missed their mama to kiss them good night,
To kneel and say prayers and to tuck them in tight.
And when at last good night had been said,
And they were both snuggled safe in a bed,
They each mumbled softly their own quiet prayer
And asked God to guard them and protect them there
While they were sleeping until the dawn
And bless them with presents on Christmas morn.
And in the room with door shut tight
And the crack at the bottom was the only light
And by it they could see in the gloom
The dressing gowns on the hooks in the room,
To the sound of the crickets comforting song
They drifted to sleep before very long.

When first light came on Christmas morning,
Before the sun was up with the dawning,
There never was a boy more frightened,
Who round his head his blanket tightened,
For he saw he thought at the foot of his bed
By the door with a bulging head,
Some creature unbeknownst to him
Hard to discern in the light so thin,
Standing silently lurking there
With a glint in its eye with the soundless stare.

Then he called to his sleepy brother and said,
“What is that there at the end of the bed?”
But he could not get his brother to rise
He could not get him to open his eyes,
But he peered again just a little bit longer
And it seemed as the light was just getting stronger
That what ever it was that was there by the door
Looked just a bit different than it did before,
Now he wasn’t quite sure and he’d had such a shock
But could that thing hanging there just be a sock?
A few minutes more and the sky was brighter
A rooster was crowing and the room was lighter,
And he saw with relief and surprise on the door
Two stuffed stockings that were not there before.

At once he saw the mistake he had made,
That the socks were the gifts for which they had prayed.
And soon both were up and were trying to choose
From each of the stockings just who’s was who’s.
They each had a trumpet with a shiny horn
That had glinted like eyes in the early morn,
There were oranges, sweeties, pencils and nuts
And a pen knife that looked like it actually cuts.
Leaving their bedroom and shouting with glee
They ran to the parlor and there saw the tree.
So this was the first Christmas they would recall
And the stockings are what they’d recall most of all.

The First Thanksgiving
An answer to Dr. Clement Moore - for my American family














The first year was over, they'd settled the land.
Now Plymouth was home to a small Pilgrim band
The good ship "Mayflower" had long since sailed away,
As each one prepared for the Thanksgiving Day.
Governor Bradford had made his decree.
"All must make ready a festivity.
The Lord, in his mercy has smiled on our plight
Our harvest is good, and our cause it is right.
Through winter and sickness, for all these months past,
We've toiled and we've labored, 'til now at long last
There are crops in the pantry, and beer in the keg,
So each as we're able, make ready I beg."

Some men to the woods with musket and snare
For duck, goose and turkey, wild deer and hare.
Some to the long boats with hook, line and reel
For sea bass and cod or even an eel.
Some to the thickets, to bring extra wood
For each stove and fireplace in their neighborhood.
And some to fetch trimmings like corn cob and leaf
So each table is set with a cheery motif.
The womenfolk pounding make ready the grain
From the indian corn which they found when they came.
No butter was churning, no milk in the pail,

For they brought no cattle when first under sail,
But there was soup in the kettle and flagons of ale.
There was peeling and slicing and kneading and baking,
There was mincing and roasting with chopping and grating.
And sifting and searing, and spreading and smearing,
And wonderful dishes to eat kept appearing.
Then barrels upturned with planks on the tops
Made tables they covered with fine linen cloths.
All is made ready, the guests then appear,
Chief Massasoit with braves to the rear.
These were the natives whose help they derived.
And without their assistance none may have survived.
They gave them the corn which grew better than wheat.
And taught them that fish made crops tall and sweet.
After their chief, came a proud delegation
It seemed there advanced, the whole Wampanoag nation.
The Pilgrims, astonished, just welcomed them stay
And join in the feast they were sharing that day.

When all were seated at table and board,
Governor Bradford said, "Let's praise the Lord."
Doffing his hat and with eyes raised to heaven
He gave thanks to God for the blessings He'd given.
And barely had echoed the solemn "Amen",
When the village of Plymouth resounded again.
There was sniffing and smiling and clanging and clinking
And shouting and passing and eating and drinking
'Til everyone feasting was filled till replete,
And gave groans of approval for good things to eat.
Then after their meal there was smoking and toasting.
And singing and chanting and laughing and boasting.
And piping and drumming and dancing and reeling
And jigging and clapping, a wealth of good feeling.
In soothe, for three days there was nothing but cheer
As Christian and heathen* gave thanks for the year. *Indian

They crossed the Atlantic, they braved the wild seas,
Faced winter so harsh it brought them to their knees.
During this time half their number had perished,
But they never lost sight of the quest they all cherished.
Their harvest was taken, their laboring done,
In sixteen hundred and twenty one.

Since then every year, though the decades roll by,
As November days shorten with cloudy grey sky,
When Warblers and Martins have flown t’ward the ring,
And the fields lying fallow are waiting for spring.
It is then that we gather on Thanksgiving Day,
Surrounded by loved ones we bow heads and pray.
Remembering the Pilgrims whose struggle and toil
Won them Freedom and Justice on this foreign soil.
Our tables are laden with turkey and hams
Sweet corn and turnips, potatoes and yams.
Cranberry jelly and stuffing nearby
Freshly baked bread and of course pumpkin pie.
From ocean to ocean across this great land
From the shores of New England to the tall Redwood stand,
We pause to forgather with family and friend
And thank God for the goodness, may it never end?


Dr Neil S. McLeod - November 21, 1991

* Indian may be sustituted for the word “heathen”, which is not supposed to imply barbarian just a non-Christian

Veteran's Day

A Man Who Will Listen
A story from Ian MacLeod of Western Australia - He was approached while wearing his father’s battle medals by an old soldier at a parade for Veterans.

You look like a man who will listen
The old veteran stammered to me,
There’s something I really must tell you
For it has been bothering me.

It has been bothering me, mister,
Since that day on the Kokoda Trail
When we stumbled into this encampment
Where this Jappo was dying and pale.

I minded the booby traps round him,
With deft fear a crept in to find
The slice from the calf of his oppo,
He’d eaten, goin’ out of his mind.

It was tragic, that bastard was dying,
Yet I could not leave him alone,
For he’d tell that my troupe had been through there,
Then the whole Jappo Army’d have known.

So I put my gun up to his temple
I paused ’fore I let the shot go,
And that Jappo he smiled as if grateful,
And that’s what’s been botherin’ me so.

I see by the salad you’re wearing
Your heritage leads you to know
There are things that a man can not answer
That just go on botherin’ him so.

So I told him, “You did him a favour.”
“You spared him a death of regret.”
“For instead of dying a coward
You made him an honorable vet.”

Then the old soldier’s brow seemed less furrowed
His distant eye fixed firm on mine,
And he thanked me for lifting the worry
That had bothered him, such a long time.

The Cobbler's Son

Ohannes (John) Makhdomian has been repairing my shoes for thirty years. He has a shop in the Farmers Market on Fairfax. He is famous now for doing a wonderful job at a fair price.












When my shoes need mending
I take them round to John
The cobbler in the market
For he can mend what’s wrong.
The shelves around his little stall
Are lined with paper bags
All waiting for their owners
And marked with paper tags.

I shake his hard-worn leathern grip
As he hands my shoes to me,
I know they are perfect - I don’t doubt,
As I ask him for his fee.
Then taking out each shoe,
I admire all that I inspect,
It’s not for need I pass the time
It’s done out of respect.

His eyes seem grey and sorrowful
They thinly veil his woe,
And when I ask he tells me
It all happened long ago.
It’s been eleven already
He’s getting out next year
My son, he got into a fight
And I’m left working here.

It was at a birthday party
When he was seventeen
But a boy lay bleeding, dying,
Before he quit the scene.
They had an altercation
My son put in his boot,
Then his friend drew a knife out
And stuck it in, the brute.

He wrote me saying the other day,
The chance to change he’d take
He said that he was sorry
That he’d made a big mistake.
So perhaps he’s learned his lesson
Perhaps it’s for the good,
I saw the tear so close to flood
And then I understood.

I understood the roughness
Of the stubble on his face,
And the disappointed sadness
When a father feels disgrace.
His teeth they all need mending
Like shoes all worn and torn.
His self esteem all cut away
His heart’s wrent and forlorn.

So when my shoes need mending
I take them round to John
The cobbler in the market
For he can mend what’s wrong.
I won’t take them elsewhere
His work is neat and good
For a bond has grown between us
And that is understood.

Old Glory Faded
For City National Bank, and any one else who flies our nation’s flag and forgets to take care of it.
















Sing this to the old tune and see how you feel:
It’s a sad old flag, a tattered old rag,
Forgotten neglected and torn,
A symbol of the land we loved
Once pride of the place I was born.

I really hate to see Old Glory faded
Greyed and tattered fluttering at the mast
Denied the respect and stature of the past
In our country where the values are all jaded.

That it would now seem fit to pass a law
Forbidding us from burning that prized symbol
Speaks volumes to the force that makes me tremble,
Detracting from the praise it had before.

Where are the boys and girls who gave their lives,
The men and women who stood proudly to salute,
With patriotism undaunted, hearts resolute.
Tell me in this land the pulse still thrives.

Along the boulevards that crease our city
Hanging there neglected and torn
Forgotten, ignored and forlorn
You’ll see our nation’s flag and it is a pity.

At dawn no veteran’s chest to swell with pride
At sunset, no guard to draw it down,
Just lip-service lighting from the ground,
Something in our spirit seems to have died.

Sing it to the old tune and see how you feel:
It’s a sad old flag, a tattered old rag,
Forgotten neglected and torn,
A symbol of the land we loved
Once pride of the place I was born.

A Kirkin' O' The Tartan

The Kirkin’ O’ the Tartan
Saturday November 4th 2006
Photo courtesy of Karen Johnson














Why do we do this?
Why did a small group of Saint Andrew Society of Southern California members get together in the sanctuary of St. Barnabas the Apostle Anglican Church to have Fr. Scott Kingsbury officiate over and bless our tartans. Well let me give you a few reasons as I explained to the congregation when I was acting as Tartan Master.

Tradition
For sixty five years American Scots have been taking their tartans to church to be blessed. It is an American tradition to hold this ceremony, and it has now spread around the world. It was established in 1941 by the then President of the Saint Andrew Society of Washington D.C., the Reverend Peter Marshall, Pastor of the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, and later Chaplain of the Senate; The Kirkin’ O’ The Tartan was held at several different churches until 1952, then was settled at the National Cathedral. By now it is a tradition. Certainly since I started going to these services in 1976 I cannot remember a year when there was not a Kirkin’ somewhere in the southland. This is the first reason why we kirk the tartan, it is a tradition.

Hereditary Pride
Scottish folk have looked back longingly at the gems that fill out the sweet memories of the ancestral homeland. The little treasures like the piece of tartan hidden away in a family bible, or wrapped around a bairn to keep it warm against the ‘cauld blast’, or setting of the wedding dress. With it come the stories, the tales of home and the well remembered songs. Our fondness for and our pride in our heritage is another reason to celebrate the tartan.

Contrariness
Deep down in the heart of every Scot there is a resentment at being told that you must do or must not do something. It gets up our noses. Particularly if the command comes from someone we don’t respect. We have been told that we were forbidden to play the pipes, forbidden to ware the tartan, and forbidden speak our native tongue. We were even forbidden to bear arms. It therefore gives us particular delight to be able to parade our tartans in true style, especially when accompanied by the pipes and drums. It appeals to the contrary nature which I believe lies just beneath the surface within us all. If only for our Contrariness we Kirk the Tartan.

Patriotism
Celebrating our Scottish heritage is really a form of American Patriotism. Consider the contributions made by our countrymen to this American nation. Half the signers of the Declaration of Independence, more than half the Treasurers, and at least half of our presidents have been Scots or of Scottish decent; and that is just scratching the surface. We already know the Englishman’s nightmare is the constant confrontation with Scotland’s contribution to practically everything that is familiar that he uses in his day to day life. Much the same could be said of the multiplicity of the influence we as a group have had in America.

Since the early Colonial times, Scots, hard working and hard suffering, migrated to the Appalachians, invested in New Jersey, fought in the seven year French-Indian War, opened up the heartland, and felled the trees. They were doctors and teachers, trusted managers and accountants. They were governors, and cabinet members, lawyers and judges, prominent military leaders like Crockett and Grant, and inventors and scientists like Robert Fulton and John Muir and Alexander Graham Bell. They are the writers like Washinton Irving and Edgar Allen Poe and Herman Melville, they are the newspaper magnets who started The Boston News letter and the Chicago Tribune. They are the businessmen who invented meat packing, and the industrialists like the steel manufacturer Andrew Carnegie. They are the singers and the artists, designers of the cable cars. There are the Scottish Societies like the Burns Clubs and Clan Associations, and there are the ministers like Witherspoon who provided the framework for our constitution, and John Lloyd Ogilvey, Chaplain to the Senate who guided our nation’s leaders in prayer. It is out of patriotism that we gather today to sport our family colors.

Fun
Oh! and one more reason. It is fun to gather together, and bring these symbols of our heritage and present them to the maker of the Universe, and ask Him to bless us who wear these colors, and to keep His hand on our shoulders and guide us, and to provide for us as He sees fit
Jabez - 1 Chronicles 4:9-10.

A Toast to the Tartan

Here’s to the Tartan
The blue the green of it
The fighting sheen of it;
The yellow and red of it,
And every thread of it.
The fair have sighed for it,
The brave have died for it,
Foemen sought for it,
Heroes fought for it,
Honor the name of it,
Drink the fame of it.
The Tartan.

After Murdoch MacLean

The Last Smile

Dr. William Wanamaker M.D. my patient and friend who sponsored me into the Royal Society of Medicine.
1.21.1917. - 29. 8.2006.





















I’d really like to say something about our old friend, Bill,
Who latterly had answered to the sobriquet of “Will”.1
I’ve known him nearly half my life, twenty years at least,
Since the days when he was spry and wore his suite well creased.
I would pass him smiling, grey haired and eminent, in the hall
A man loved by his students and his patients and by all.
And he would crack a beam at me and with a wave say fawning,
“Why don’t you take an aspirin and then call me in the morning.”

One lunch time he regaled me, his face a brace of smiles,
Of the morn when newly qualified and attached to the Argyles,2
His batman drawing a smart one, whose boots shone like molten tar,
Said “Sir! The C.O.’s compliments, he wants to see you in the bar.”
“The Bar?” said Bill, astonished “the clock has not turned ten”,
“Do you mean to say he’s there already drinking with his men.”
“Aye Sir!” he said quickly, “That’s the message that was sent.
You’ll find him ’cross the p’rade ground, inside that greet big tent.”

Bill pulled himself together and straightening up his tie,
Said “Thank you Corporal. That will be all. I’ll see you by and by.”
Then our Navy Lieutenant3 stepped out to choose his course,
The parade ground was enormous it took five minutes to cross.
By the time he got to t’uther side he was puffed and red of face
But he braced himself for action as he approached the place.
And then between the guy ropes he saw as he raised the flap
The bar ...with every drink you’d want, even beer on tap.

“Ah Doctor! Good to see you. You will have a drink?”
Said his new commanding officer, at which Bill paused to think.
He glanced, and all about him, this salad chested throng
Were clinking slantés4, before noon, at a bar ‘a mile long’.
The entire mess was getting legless in that vast tented hall,
“It’s hard to fathom how the Army got things done at all.”
His comprehension floundered as this scene he surveyed
“I don’t know how they do it,” he said, “with two drinks I’d be flayed.”

Now many years have come and gone since that time we recall,
Bill was married, had a family, ran a practice, did it all.
And in his setting years he did not let it fade away,
He kept himself together, fit and active every day.
’Till one day on the tennis court his ticker gave a jolt,
It couldn’t take the strain, it wasn’t anybody’s fault.
They put him on some pills and then he fell and broke his leg
The trouble was he had to spend a lot of time in bed.

The last time that I saw Bill, I’d come round to clean his teeth
As he lay thinned and failing on the med-bed neath the sheet.
His front room had been converted to be his private ward,
And a nurse was there attending the man we all adored.
And when the brushing and rinsing was over, which he hated
To find respite for him now that this torment had abated,
I recounted my memory of this story for a while
And was rewarded for my effort by the breaking of a smile.

In that moment all the trauma and the hardship seemed to fade
For an instant he was there once more standing on parade.
For a moment it felt as if a burden had been lifted
With that smile the feeling in the room for all of us had shifted
It was his last, for I am sure that he didn’t smile again
Never cracked those well worn teeth the way we knew back-when
It was his last! But I shall keep it in my treasure box at home,
A memory of one of the finest men I’ve ever known.

1. Will as in “Will” Shakespeare whose Globe Theater was rebuild by Sam Wanamaker, Bill’s brother
2. The Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders - A Scottish Regiment
3. Recently qualified and newly commissioned in the Navy
4. slantés, - plural, slanté vah good health - Gaelic

Strengthening Your Spiritual Walk

Every now and then, the fervor of the ‘born again’ gets up my nose. I believe I am actually jealous of the acuity with which they can trot out the exact time and date when they were saved, the moment they met Jesus. They have had a spiritually transforming experience which has changed the course and the meaning of their lives. I can not say that!

It is not that I am non-believer, I have always been a believer, some times not a very good one. I just do not know when exactly, in the years between three and six, the effect of a Catholic upbringing took seed. Whether it was it the teaching of the Lutheran missionaries in Koru or the nuns in Nairobi I can not recall. It just all made sense by the time I made my first confession and received my first Holy Communion at the age of seven.

In 2004 we participated in the Billy Graham Crusade here in California. It was held at the Rose Bowl, that huge stadium in Pasadena. When the time came to make the altar call, thousands, I mean thousands, went down to receive the Lord and accept Christ. The whole field was covered with new Christians and those greeting them. Each one of the recipients will remember the time and date. I had already received Christ years ago, I was confirmed at fourteen, I stayed in the bleachers with my Christian buddies and watched enviously as hoards of others made that new commitment.

Yet upon reflection my walk was strengthened that day, just as it was this weekend in Forest Home when with my family I returned to the San Bernardino mountain retreat where Billy Graham preached so many years ago. This time we heard the Reverend Mark D. Roberts who led us in an intensive on the Psalms.











So what is the point now that you have got this far? Wherever you are in your spiritual walk, I feel confident that like me you will be strengthened by reading and trying to get the feel for the Psalms. Even the longest ones can be read in a few minutes and there is such a lot of inspirational truth in them. Mark D. Roberts has a new web presence called The Daily Psalm and I recommend it. You’re already sitting in front of the computer; this a great way to start each day with time-tested spiritual inspiration. It can really stop the “born again” from getting up your nose!