Thoughtful Thursday: epitaphs

On Tuesday this week I spent the better part of the day downtown, reporting some depp depos.

Although it was hot and humid -- hello? August in South Carolina? -- after being sprung from stale, airless conference-room jail I took a walk in the cemetery of the First Presbyterian Church.

Just because I knew it would make me happy.

I've shown you pictures of this gorgeous place before.

But you've never seen these pictures because I just took them on Tuesday.

An interesting 'taph in my opinion, this next, adorning covering nearly every inch of a most large and busy stone. 

I wonder how many people are buried there! I count, like, fifty names.

The thought of a grave crowded with in-laws makes me claustrophobic and nervous.

But I do love me some Kipling! What cadence; what simple majestic rhyme! A distinctly redeeming quality in this case.

I don't know how they chose which words of Kip's poem The Palace to carve into the stone, or what all the ciphers mean. I've given you the unabridged poem beneath the picture but you certainly don't have to read it.

Photo Jennifer Weber 2010

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When I was a King and a Mason -- a master proven and skilled --
I cleared me ground for a Palace such as a King should build.
I decreed and cut down to my levels, and presently, under the silt,
I came on the wreck of a Palace such as a King had built.

There was no worth in the fashion -- there was no wit in the plan --
Hither and thither, aimless, the ruined footings ran --
Masonry, brute, mishandled; but carven on every stone: 
"After me cometh a Builder. Tell him I, too, have known."
Swift to my use in my trenches, where my well-planned ground-works grew, 
I tumbled his quoins and ashlars, and cut and reset them anew. 
Lime I milled of his marbles; burned it, slacked it and spread; 
Taking and leaving at pleasure the gifts of the humble dead.
Yet I despised not nor gloried; yet as we wrenched them apart, 
I read in the razed foundations the heart of that builder’s heart. 
As though he had risen and pleaded, so did I understand 
The form of the dream he had followed in the face of the thing he had planned.
When I was King and a Mason -- in the open noon of my pride,
They sent me a Word from the Darkness -- They whispered and called me aside.
They said -- "The end is forbidden." They said -- "Thy use is fulfilled,
"And thy Palace shall stand as that other’s -- the spoil of a King who shall build."

I called my men from my trenches, my quarries, my wharves and my sheers. 
All I had wrought I abandoned to the faith of the faithless years. 
Only I cut on the timber -- only I carved on the stone: 
"After me cometh a Builder. Tell him I, too, have known."

~Rudyard Kipling~

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I confess I liked this simple 'taph better:

Photo Jennifer Weber 2010

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Not to mention the poignancy of THIS and THIS:

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And the sweet sorrowfulness of the simple OUR TWIN BABES etched into a little listing cross:

Photo Jennifer Weber 2010

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I wish you a thankful and thoughtful Thursday!

What's left of it.

Wordless Wednesday: new reflecting old

Main Street ~ Columbia, South Carolina

Photo Jennifer Weber 2010

Pack mules to the left of me, carrier pigeons to the right

So today I took my life in my own hands and went to the post office.

Something I rarely if ever do. I mean, I am sure it has been at least eight months since I visited a post office.

As a general rule I make TG go in my stead. He seems to be better at it … but not always.

If he isn't available to do my bidding I shoot an e-card or e-mail through cyberspace, or I dispatch carrier pigeons, or I send up smoke signals. 

In desperate situations I consider pack mules, asking the whole time, where is the Pony Express when you need it?

Because usually I'd just as soon deliver a message or gift in person by crawling on my knees with the piece of mail clutched in my teeth, than play post office.

Where, I am told and I firmly believe, bitter bureaucrats go to torment and be tormented.

A Girl's Gotta Do What A Girl's Gotta Do

But sometimes you have no choice but to take a package to the post office. Today was one of those days for me.

I had, in fact, two padded mailers to send. One to New York and one to Washington (the state). Plus a card going to Georgia (stamp affixed), and a Netflix postage-prepaid envelope. 

Simple; right? In and out. I had seven dollars and change in my wallet. Both padded mailers were very light.

Shouldn't be any reason to break out the old debit card.

As it turned out, if the post office had their way, I'd have to hock my jewelry to send those two bubbles-are-heavier bubble mailers, and throw in my firstborn grandchild for collateral.

But that was not all! They wanted my sanity too. Granted that commodity is thin on the ground and I cannot imagine what use the United States Postal Service would have for it, but do not doubt me: they wanted it.

If you've been paying attention, you know I am a forthright individual. If you're around me for five minutes and don't know what I'm doing there or what I want, it's because you're either not conscious, not interested, or not listening.

AH! Listening! That provocative concept rears its empty head again.

Step Right Up And Be A Postal Victim Customer

So I wait in line and when it's my turn I go up to the counter. Nice black guy there. I hand him the stamped envelope and the Netfix envelope and he knows what to do with those, so that's that.

Then I hand him the first of my flat padded mailers. The small one, going to Zuzu in Washington. I doubt it weighs eight ounces; it contains a copy of Reach Out, Columbia (Zuzu wants to read my article) and a decorative Z about the size of a deck of cards.

I leave nothing to chance; it's past four thirty and I'm in a hurry to get to the bank. That's assuming I have any money left when I leave the post office.

So I go into my song and dance: Hello, here you are sir, cheapest rate possible please, it's not time sensitive, there are no hazardous materials, absolutely no funny business, no insurance necessary, thanks ever so!

He ignores me and, reaching out to this little screen thingy on the counter near me, turns it around so that I can see what's on it: a list of mailing options and prices.

You're On Our Turf Now, Muffin

But! I begin.

He silences me with a hand. Ma'am, he says, if I want to keep my job I have to show you all of the options and you are required to point to the one you want.

But! I try again.

Again he interrupts me. Ma'am, he says slowly, I know you told me how you wanted to send it but if I want to keep my job, I am required to show you all of these options and you have to specify which one you choose.

Okay. I look at the options.

The first one -- his finger is near it because, from across the counter, he's pointing at it for me -- is twenty-six dollars and change. 

Yes. Twenty-six dollars to send an eight-ounce padded mailer containing a three-dollar gift from South Carolina to Washington State.

Of course there are cheaper options … lots of options, in fact, all marching down the little screen for me to choose from.

The last one is two dollars and fifty-eight cents. Cheapest rate possible, nothing hazardous, no insurance, just git 'er done. Exactly as I requested in the first place.

I choose that one. For all I know, it will make its way across the country on the backs of geriatric elephants. Or in the clammy paws of specially-trained ferrets that eat only rare purple sunflower seeds grown organically in Fiji during the rainy season in odd years, harvested before sunrise on days ending in the letter Y.

But I doubt it, for the low price of two fifty-eight.

I'll Take The Prize Behind Door Number Three

We go through the same rigmarole for the second padded mailer -- the large one. It's even lighter than the last, because it contains only a baby outfit and two cards.

The postal worker tells me again that if he wants to keep his job, I have to point again to the option I want from the little screen.

I begin to wonder if the Postmarauder Specific is watching from behind a curtain like in The Wizard of Oz, or from a shadowy booth like the diabolical Banker on Deal Or No Deal.

Okey-dokey then. I play along and it sets me back two thirty-eight. I could've spent twenty-two dollars for that if I'd wanted to ... it was one of the tantalizing options.

But that is not all!

Our man for all reasons tells me once more that he must detain me further or lose his job. This time he winks conspiratorially and adds that he still has "one in school." 

HAHAHA! Trying to get sympathy from me with that old saw? He'll sooner coax coconut milk from a bowling ball.

So I just look at him because I am fresh out of packages. And cash. Don't have much time left, either. I wait to be told what I must do next so that he does not lose his job because of course, why would I want that to happen?

It was simple! I had to be coached through a few more major decisions: Did I want or need stamps, postcards, or a money order? Was I in the market for a time share on a post office box?

How about filet of ferret, medium well, with a side of freedom fries?

Like, by now I've been in the post office for fifteen minutes and I've been put through my paces several times with much finger-pointing, and against all odds I am still in my right mind -- or what passes for that in my case -- but I need to be prompted to ask if I want to buy stamps.

I told him no but I said it better than that. You'll just have to imagine the terms I used.

And now for a he is (still) not here rant

It's possible I'm overreacting in this particular situation, but I doubt it.

If you think I am, feel free to say so but don't judge me.

On Sunday afternoon I got a call from a ranking person in the United States military.

He had a Biblical name. Old Testament. Which is good because he certainly isn't one of the Wise Men.

This person was calling from the base where my son serves one weekend per month in a reservist capacity, plus extra duty as required.

The arrangement has been in place for three years.

And yet, at least a dozen times within those three years, someone from the base -- which is not even in the State of South Carolina -- has called this house in an official capacity, wishing to speak with my son.

Who has not lived here since July, 2007.

Who in fact lives in that other state where he is a college student, and where he regularly reports for duty at the base which is a scant thirty miles from campus.

To top it all off, this weekend -- as in, Saturday and Sunday   -- was a drill weekend for my son. Meaning, he was on base all day both days.

And yet Sergeant Biblical-name-I-won't-mention called here and asked to speak to him.

I admit, I got a little animated.

Sir, I said. My son does not live here. He has not lived here since his country sent him to boot camp on July 17, 2007. 

Ergo he cannot be reached at this number. Ever. Literally, when he is here it is only for a day or two and even then, the only way to be sure you'll reach him is to call his cell phone.

The number of which has not changed in, like, forever.

And which I can only assume you have on record.

Can I in fact assume that? Would it be too much to ask that after all this time, you have his cell phone number on file? Would it?

My son lives in the state where you are sitting right now. (I continued.) He is a full-time college student. But because this is in fact his drill weekend, he is more than likely on base as we speak.

As in, the same base from which I assume you are calling.

And yet you are calling here to speak with him.

Why? Why? I demanded to know. 

The military person offered an excuse.

(Of course! What else?)

This is the phone number we have for your son, ma'am, he said.

But! I reminded him. Every single solitary time you have called this house since July of 2007 asking to speak to my son, he has not been here because he does not live here.

And every time you have called here, I have told you -- sometimes patiently, more often impatiently because you don't seem to be listening -- that he does not live here and that the way to reach him is by calling his cell phone.

Can I get a HUA?*

I didn't say that last bit about getting a HUA, but I wanted to. I should have.

(For all I know, my son could have been sitting right beside this guy. Heaven knows they see a whole lot more of him than I do but apparently, to them, he is invisible.)

In conclusion I stressed one last time: please make a note of my son's cell phone number and please be aware of where he lives. I've told you so many times now, I've lost count. 

And yet consistently, you call here and ask for him.

And so I repeat: He is not here.

He has not been here since early March, and that was only for thirty-six hours.

He will not be here for any significant length of time in the foreseeable future.

And when you call here like brainless dolts and say his name, it only reminds me how much I wish that were not the case.

*Heard, Understood, Acknowledged.

By all means let's talk about it

Photo Jennifer Weber 2010Not quite sure what this is about, but people everywhere talk to me.

I was shopping on Saturday at Burlington Coat Factory. I was at the front of the store standing just on the inside of a floor-to-ceiling window feeling like a ham in an oven as the heat streamed in like you wouldn't believe, and I was admiring headbands.

Only, every single time I even touched a headband, two or three fell to the floor. Not to mention, the sun was blinding me.

Now, I almost never pick up stuff I don't drop. I am too busy picking up what I do drop, to concern myself with what others drop, or with what drops by sheer accident.

And that counts, if something falls off a rack to the floor when I touch something else in a retail situation, why, I leave it there. 

Pay me to pick it up and I'll pick it up but I assure you, you are as likely to get that opportunity as you are to look up and see airborne swine all wearing matching headbands.

I Talk To Someone I Sort Of Know

So anyway, there is an older lady who works in the accessories section at BCF and I often converse with her when I am there because I always visit that department.

(I like to try on the hats but it was much too hot for that. All the winter hats are in -- felt and fur and such -- but when it's 96 degrees outdoors and the humility is just as high, you don't try on winter hats.)

But anyway, I was dithering over the headbands because I needed a few new ones, and several fell to the floor, no fault of mine.

The lady I told you about before came over and we were discussing the practicality and stylishness of this certain hair doohickey, and just basically getting caught up since the last time we talked.

Whereupon she turned to where someone had pitched a whole bunch of accessory type stuff on the ledge of the huge window, and she started grousing about how folks don't do their jobs.

Then she saw the tangle of headbands on the floor and she turned to me -- no, wait; I think her back was to me the whole time -- and she said, "Did you throw these on the floor?"

No I'm Not Four, That's What You Are For

Ahem.

Did you throw these on the floor? It had all the earmarks of a sideways rebuke.

You know, I like being treated like family while shopping in a store but there's just something about being talked to like a naughty four-year-old that doesn't sit well with me.

But I didn't flare up at that lady; she's old and the old often speak to the young in that manner. Plus she works at the Dutch Square BCF and that's quite the cross to bear if you get my drift.

So I lied. Not sure if I get any points for this, but I was real polite about it.

"No ma'am," I said with respect the way my mother taught me to do if I didn't want a whipping. "They were all like that when I walked up."

Then I felt sort of bad for coloring the truth so I added:

"But to be brutally honest, if you just touch one, all the ones beside it drop right off."

She grunted in what I took for agreement and we spoke no more of it.

I got two nice headbands -- one is fancy, plain black, but the other is multicolored and I think you would like it -- before moving on and selecting a necklace.

Aisle Thank You To Move Out Of My Way

So then I went to Wal-Mart after groceries, and when I turned in at the aisle where soup is kept, it was positively clotted with employees.

I was the only customer interested in the wares on that aisle, apparently.

Photo Jennifer Weber 2010There were two huge rolling rack type things stacked with boxes, and there was a big mess of some kind in the floor, and I could barely get by.

The three stockholders -- two guys and a girl -- were whooping it up and laughing and generally having a special social time as they "worked."

None of them acknowledged me as I angled my shopping cart this way and that, just desperate for a box of dry french onion soup so that I could get out of their WAY.

I was almost to where I could reach around the big rolling thing and grab the box of soup mix when one of the guys spoke to me.

And this is what he said, in a very courteous manner, not at all smart-aleck:

"Hello ma'am, how are you today, I didn't mean to ignore you."

Well, then, what in the sam hill DID he mean to do? Because he did ignore me, until I was practically on my way home.

Not that it matters, and I told him so. What I actually said was:

"Oh, don't worry; I'm used to that."

Which was nearly as much of a lie as the one I told the lady about the headbands, because nobody ever gets used to being ignored, least of all me.

Results Guaranteed But Not Typical

In other news … as I picked up a box containing a tube of triple antibiotic at Wal-Mart today, my eyes fell on a product I didn't know existed:

Wrecking Balm.

It fades your tattoos. Fifty bucks a pop. I don't know how many pops are required until the tattoo is gone.

The web site is weird, too. All sorts of testimonials from folks who were skeptical at first but are now true believers.

Like the guy who had a solid black eight-ball inked to his ankle. It's just a shadow now, thanks to Wrecking Balm.

Your results may vary.

To me it begs the simple question: Why get the tattoo in the first place? Why? 

And from the looks of things here lately, some people are going to have to soak in a vat of that stuff up to their earlobes in order to put the quietus on all the tats.

Seriously. I cannot imagine what would induce me to get a tattoo.

That is all!

Happy Sunday.