Spare Parts

 

In a corner in our basement there was a handy but ugly shelf unit screwed to the wall. When an insulation crew came to upgrade the house, the unit had to be taken loose. The shelves were good quality pine planks, and the uprights nice wood. Rather than reinstall it, I took it apart. It yielded several screws and fittings, and a couple of pieces that could be turned into picture frames. For now, though, they are all “spare parts”. The metal ones have been chucked into a drawer.

Several modern nations are not much more than artificial administrative zones in the world. Like Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union that came apart in the 1990s, and Sudan more recently, they lack a central “magnetic” reason to continue as one unit. They come apart, like my shelf, into “spare parts”. Maps get redrawn and enclaves, like Nagorno–Karabakh, separated from Azerbaijan by Armenia, and Shakhimardan, separated from Kirghizstan by Uzbekistan, come into existence. Land is only land, but it is often inhabited. Which government, if any, gets to tax the land and its inhabitants, is one question. Who, if anybody, cares for the people is another. When people become spare parts, refugee crises like those in Europe and the United States come to the fore.

Disintegration is not just a political thing. It happens in academic, commercial and ecclesiastical structures too. Schools close, leaving alumni as “spare parts.” Businesses go bankrupt or are bought asset strippers, making former employees, pension plans and no-longer-productive facilities redundant. Churches split. Some members go here, some go there, others go nowhere. Whatever the reason for the spit, faith becomes a spare part. An economy goes bust, mortgages don’t get paid, and entire neighborhoods empty out. 2008 may seem far in the past, but it was only a decade ago.

Family life can be fractious. Families sometimes have property, but always have people. When a former partner or a child becomes a spare part, you don’t just chuck them into a drawer.  Sadly, institutional homes, the foster care system and various forms of incarceration have become our societies’ spare parts boxes and closets.

At times, people might be metaphorical spare parts, but they never belong in junk yards. Refugees from the chaos that is Guatemala, el Salvador and Honduras need the humane treatment they can receive in the United states. Refugees from the chaos that is Syria, Eritrea and vast stretches of Western Africa need the humane treatment they can receive in Europe. Refugees from Central Asia need the humane treatment they seek in Australia. But they’re not getting it. The world’s spare parts drawers, on the Southwestern US border, in Libya and on islands that Australia has rented in nearby poor nations are wrong.

David Alexander resides in Holland, MI after 39 years in Taiwan.

Brilliant Disguise

Claude Gillot [CC0]

A woman of my acquaintance once related that when she a senior in high school she made sure that she had enough blouses and shirts so as never to have to repeat wearing the same thing “on top” during a month of school days. It had something to do with being “one down” to other girls in her class in other areas, and enabled her to not add another demerit in the relationships.  When she arrived at college where all were strangers to each other, she relaxed a bit. She began purchasing certain items in her wardrobe from thrift stores, and looked at clothing more as “costume” than as “status marker”.

A guy I knew was in an amateur play. His part, though major, began in the second act. I went to the dress rehearsal. Seated there, in an almost empty hall, I was joined by someone I didn’t recognize. It was my friend, in costume as a man from the 1930s and in makeup to create the illusion that he was about 20 years older. Only upon hearing his voice could I discern his identity, and I was embarrassed. His costume was a brilliant disguise.

To a certain extent, we all go through life costumed and in makeup. We dress “up” to seem something that we’re not, and we “make up” to conceal things about ourselves that we want others not to notice. We’re not necessarily trying to deceive anyone. We may even tell ourselves that others prefer us to look or act differently than we really are. But unless we’re professional actors, we’ll inadvertently leave clues that expose us.  Maybe it won’t be noticed. Maybe our brilliant disguises will maintain the illusion we wish to create. Hopefully, we won’t fall for them ourselves.

David Alexander resides in Holland, MI after 39 years in Taiwan.

When You’re Alone

 

 

 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D

A few months ago we’d been away for the weekend. After returning on Monday, I learned of an evening lecture to be delivered by Garry Trudeau, the Canadian cartoonist, in a town about 35 miles away that same day. I phoned the box office and learned that some tickets were still available. I wanted to go, but my wife was tired from the trip and wanted to rest at home. We agreed that the other could choose their own activity, so I loaded up the car with Bruce Springsteen CDs from the library and was on the way.

We’d only moved into our big old house a couple of weeks earlier, and neither of us had spent an evening alone in it. As the sun went down and things got darker and quieter, she noticed all of the noises that this place makes. As it cooled, various things creaked. When the furnace came on, there were audible clicks and whirs. Old windows rattled in the wind. She discovered that we hadn’t purchased a house, but a symphony!

When we’re alone, we are spared the annoyance of a companion’s quirks. Those quirks and our responses to them can drown out the wilder wanderings of our own imagination. Some fortunate people are either brave in the face of perceived threats, free of flights of fancy, or too dull to even imagine such things. Depending on the circumstances, maybe you’ve met all three, maybe you’ve been each of these, or maybe you’ve worked out a way to avoid being alone.  

David Alexander resides in Holland, MI after 39 years in Taiwan.

Sealed for your Protection

Image by https://pixabay.com/users/Clker-Free-Vector-Images

Since 1970 in America, the Poison Prevention Packaging Act has resulted in certain household chemicals and medicines being harder to get into. A doctor prescribing for an adult in a home where there are no children can request that meds be put into an easy-open container. Without that request things are automatically difficult to open. Pharmacies have a tool for removing the “safety device” from pill bottles for the sake of elderly people whose doctors did not ask.  Consumer products regulated by the act, however, come only with the protective closures. Some bear the happy notice, “sealed for your protection.”

In 1984 a criminal or criminal group in Japan extorted money from a candy manufacturer by going into shops in Osaka and introducing sodium cyanide laced packages of chocolate randomly onto shelves of that company’s products. Using the name “The Monster with 21 Faces”, the terrorists then sent letters to the candy company, to police and to newspapers proclaiming the deed. Stores removed everything with that brand name on it from the shelves and the maker recalled vast amounts of candy to the factory. After several weeks without solving the case, a police commander in charge of the investigation committed suicide. No suspect was ever caught or convicted of the crimes, and the identity of the Monster with 21 Faces remains a mystery.

Having lived overseas for most of the past 40 years, we were not up to date on consumer product developments. In Taiwan we cleaned the floors with a bucket of soapy water and a rag mop. On one of our periodic sojourns in America we were introduced to a wonderful product for floors. It was lightweight, equipped with a bottle of cleaning fluid and a battery-operated sprayer. It initially took a while to figure out, but eventually became our preferred tool, especially after we purchased a home with hardwood floors.

But the cleaning fluid was not, as they say, “cheap”, and the cap on it did not unscrew for refilling. I once attempted immersing it in soapy water and squeezing out bubbles, assuming that it would draw in my own mix of cleaning fluid on the rebound. It didn’t.

A couple of weeks ago, when the fluid ran out “mid job”,  my frustration with the system moved me to action. A large pair of channel lock pliers got the cap off of the bottle. A mild soap refilled the thing, and the cap was snapped back on, looking a little bit worse for the wear from the pliers. BUT, it worked.  After I finished the floors, I hung the thing back up on a nail in the broom closet. I haven’t looked under it to see if there are leaks. Perhaps it was sealed for the closet’s protection. But I’m beginning to suspect that it wasn’t sealed “for our protection” so much as for protection of the manufacturer’s profits.

David Alexander resides in Holland, MI after 39 years in Taiwan

Old Paint

The original uploader was H2O at English Wikipedia. [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)%5D

The American Paint Horse that combines the form of a western stock with a pinto horse spotting pattern of white and dark coat color. In a way similar to how people might refer to their cars as “a Ford” or “a Chevy” or “a Dodge”, not bothering to give model or name, some folks have called their horses by name. “I have a pinto.” “I ride an appalosa.” “I’m looking for a Clydesdale.” Johnny Cash sang,

I ride an old paint, I lead an old Dan
I’m off to Montan’ for to throw the hooley ann
They feed in the coulees, they water in the draw
Their tails are all matted, their backs are all raw

Of late, I’ve also been involved with old paint, but not the equine kind. Three years ago, my father-in-law was cleaning out his basement and garage. I agreed to deal with the paint cans for him. Some of those cans went back to HIS father-in-law’s time. What had dried out, I ditched. What had not yet dried out, (I could hear sloshing when shaking the can), I kept. Last Fall a number of additional cans came my way. Again, the sort was based on what sounded “sloshy”. And when I purchased an old house, my collection grew with the cans found in the garage and basement. But the weather turned to winter, and painting season sort of ended. So all of those cans sat until a few weeks ago.

It’s now summer. I’ve no excuses.

I found screens for the porch windows in a rear recess of the garage. But their frames were a shade of brown that hadn’t been seen on the house for a LONG time. A can of old white enamel solved that. The city housing inspector sent a note saying that the garage windows were not up to code. Inspection revealed flaked paint and broken panes. Again, the can of old white enamel came into use. Insulators drilled holes in the inside walls of the house to shoot them full of cellulose. After patching, some sealer from my father-in-law and other paint acquired when I purchased the house “made it happen.”

I bought some decorative glass panels at the Habitat for Humanity Re-Store and assembled a lamp (sort of) from new lumber. It was raw. But stain and other products found on the shelf plus part of a can of varnish have helped. The can I chose proved not enough to finish the project. No problem, there was another one at hand.

Over the past several years it became my habit to purchase cheap brushes and to just chuck ’em into the trash when finished. Washing brushes is such a chore. But this time I invested in good ones, so washing has become necessary.

Today I had a surprise. I went looking for the can of paint to match a couple of upstairs rooms where I’d patched the plaster. No such luck. Bought some new paint. It’s pricey. I’ll leave it to my son, or to my son-in-law when the time comes. I hope it hasn’t dried out by then.

I’ usin’ old paint, I dip an old brush
I go to Ace Hardware to get some more stuff.
I cover the patches I’ve put in the walls.

In bedrooms and closets and all down the hall.

David Alexander resides in Holland, MI after 39 years in Taiwan

You Know by the Way they Look

Within seconds of meeting a person, we’ve already assessed their gender, race, age, social class, and many other personal characteristics. We also have a sense of whether we like the person, and whether we can trust them. Our social intuitions work rapidly, and they’re fairly accurate, although they’re far from foolproof. Some people claim the ability to discern others’ state of health, trustworthiness or sexual orientation “just by looking at them”. The US Department of Homeland Security has guides to recognizing terrorists on its web page. At Union Station in Chicago, where both Amtrak and local commuter trains begin and end their runs, an announcement comes over the public address system several times an hour urging travelers to be diligent, concluding “If you see something, say something.”

I was in a different train station a few days ago, the one at Liberty International Airport in Newark, NJ. I had arrived by plane and was purchasing a train ticket to get to New Brunswick. It had been a while since I last paid New Jersey Transit train fare at a kiosk. I took the path of least resistance, punching the button for a one way adult fare.  A kind Jersey Transit employee, stationed near the machine to help confused travelers such as myself, stepped in. She had looked at me and discerned an error that I was making. Before I could charge things to my credit card, she reset the purchase and had me select the senior citizen’s fare. It saved me $3. The next day, returning to the airport, I was able to get my ticket at the reduced rate without help. I’m grateful that the attendant could tell, just by looking at me, that I qualified for something special.

About 5 months ago, at the stage where, were I still in Taiwan I’d’ve thought to have my hair cut, I decided to let it grow. It now curls past my collar in back. In a couple more weeks I’ll be able to tie it into a ponytail if I wish. I think it makes me look a bit younger. It reminds me of when I wore it quite long in my 20s. Now I’m wondering if I’ll have to dye it.

David Alexander resides in Holland, MI after 39 years in Taiwan

If You Didn’t Live There, You Wouldn’t Have That Problem

Photo by MH. Alavian on Unsplash

 

Relatives who relocated “out West” were in town last week. We met at my mother-in-law’s apartment several times. On one occasion their adult son, a single guy who still resides in Michigan was with us.

The relatives, including their son, are not particularly loquacious. One is an M.D. who has been trained to listen. Another is a counselor, superbly inclined both personally and professionally to listen. They carefully consider what they are about to say before it comes out of their mouths. When they speak, it’s usually something worth the time and attention it takes to hear, understand, and apply to one’s own situation.

I’m from a different region and cultural background than the family into which I married. We are compatible to the degree that opposites attract. They are comfortable to watch golf on TV and be quiet while someone in another state is lining up a putt so as not to make him or her miss. Quite in contrast, I’m usually looking around for things on which to comment or calling up things recently reported in the news upon which to profess my opinions.  

Around the living room that evening, such talk as there was ranged far and wide across several topics, things like favorite ice cream flavors, the weather, the Detroit Tigers’ recent bad luck and such. My own electric bill had recently, so I chose to bring that up and complain about how it is computed. I’d gone on far past the extent of anyone else’s interest in the topic when my closed-mouth brother-in-law chose a nearby posh neighborhood to use as an example and said, “If you didn’t live in East Grand Rapids, you wouldn’t have that problem.”   

I have many privileges. Except when camping, I’ve never had to spend the night farther than an arm’s reach from electricity. I’ve always had the resources to pay the power bill. Given that folks in Puerto Rico are still depending on little gas-powered generators and my friends nearby suffer power-outages after storms, my own whining and complaining are just ways to draw attention to myself.

I’ll try to keep that in mind, and I need to send a thank you letter out west.
David Alexander resides in Holland, MI after 39 years in Taiwan

The Happy Bus

 

For about the past 20 years I’ve returned every four or five to Rutgers University in New Brunswick, New Jersey to speak at or do research projects in the library of the theological seminary that sits in the middle of the campus. Those visits have often required one or two overnights, which I customarily spend at the University Inn.

Rutgers is spread out. The College Avenue campus, where the theological school sits, is a couple of miles from the Cook College campus that hosts the Inn. No problem. Eve when I was a seminary student taking a course or two at the Labor Studies center on the Cook campus, I rode the shuttle bus. It still runs. I know the route, climbing on and off as if it were 1979 again.

A few years ago one of my visits coincided with Spring break. Not only were there almost no students on campus, there were hardly any buses!  I learned how to walk the route from one campus to the other, and when the weather is good, it’s a pleasant stroll.

Back at Rutgers again recently, I walked both directions one day. The following morning, being expected at a morning reception followed by a ceremony, I thought to walk it again.  I checked out of the inn, and bag in hand started for my destination. Looking over my left shoulder, though, I espied the bus. It had just stopped and taken on a few passengers. A wave at the driver and a short jog had me on a soft seat in air-conditioned splendor.

Whether the bus itself or its other passengers felt any happiness, I did. The walk is pleasant, but I was in my “ceremony shoes”. I felt better for not having to travel on foot.  Perhaps better than a “happy” bus, I should think of it as a “happily met” bus.

David Alexander resides in Holland, MI after 39 years in Taiwan.  

Girls in their Summer Dresses

Photo by Amy Kate on Unsplash

During the last few years before my retirement the office next to mine was occupied by college staff member, a single woman about 25 years my junior. She was friendly (all of the time) and cheerful (much of the time). Frequently the first time we met in the morning she would greet me with some comment about the shirt that I was wearing. That embarrassed me, not because I didn’t like her to comment on my clothes, but because I hadn’t even noticed what she was wearing.  One day, though, I got to the comment first. She had on a striking print blouse cut in what I supposed was a Singapore style. I told her that I liked it and mentioned how good she looked. She thanked me and our conversation went on to whatever it was we usually would talk about.

But rules change, I was informed soon after we retired. We were visiting some friends in New Jersey. They are a couple about our age who have become guardians of their grand-daughter, who is about 12.  On Sunday morning as we prepared to go to church she came out of her room in a beautiful outfit. I complimented her on it. She thanked me, and I thought “that’s that.” The lecture came later.

 

I had committed a serious faux-pas. My spouse taught me that a man is NEVER to comment on a woman’s appearance or clothing. This basic life principle was later confirmed by our adult daughter over the phone. What I had assumed was an innocent affirmation of a young girl’s ability to choose clothes well was akin to verbal assault! The law has been laid down. It seems to go like this:  

1-  Don’t say anything to a woman or to girl about the clothes she is wearing.

2-  Don’t say anything ABOUT how nice any woman’s outfit looks to any other woman or girl.

3-  Don’t even NOTICE that a woman’s attire is attractive.

I may only comment regarding women’s clothing on mannequins, on hangers, in catalogs or in magazines.

On a beautiful Spring weekend in the middle of May, I was on the campus of Rutgers University in New Jersey. Graduation celebrations were in progress. The separate ceremonies of the different residential colleges and graduate schools were taking place all over the place. Rutgers’ graduation gowns are scarlet. Splashes of it on the green swathes of campus lawns and in the groves of trees were everywhere.  The weather was bright and sunny, perfect for being outside. Wearing a long red robe, though, is apparently a sweaty business. Many of the graduates were strolling about with robes unzipped or folded over their arms. Both men and women had been wearing lightweight clothing under those robes.

Old man that I am, the sight of girls in their summer dresses brought a smile to my heart. Though moved to speak, I said nothing to them (of course). I entrust this report of my feelings to you.

David Alexander resides in Holland, MI after 39 years in Taiwan

 

 

 

 

 

A Weighty Honor

Photo by Charles DeLoye on Unsplash

In the guises of retiring teacher, friend of a graduate and alumnus, I’ve attended three graduations in the past 12 months. Graduations aren’t just about degrees. It seems that at each one several special prizes and awards are presented to students, major donors and other friends of the schools. At the one I attended this afternoon, the man who gave the main address received the Doctor of Divinity degree (honoris causa) before his speech was delivered. The people who decided ahead of time to give him that must have been very confident that his would be worth the hood and other things with which he was presented.

At the school from which I retired last year, prizes included many things in boxes, the most coveted of which took the form of i-pads. This week, at the school from which I graduate 39 years ago, awards and prizes to students were distributed during the baccalaureate ceremony the previous evening. These all seemed to fit into business-size envelopes. They looked like checks. At my friend’s graduation last week, prizes were given in folders like those typically enclosing diplomas. They looked like certificates. I hope the folders included checks, too.  

This morning at the event I attended, 4 weighty awards to alumni were given. These had been announced at a reception the day before, but were not presented then. Recipients only learned that the form of the award would be “a surprise.” One award was for a life of service leadership. It went to a member of the class of 1953. Another was for significant service in the area of pastoral care. It was presented posthumously, because the recipient had died 4 years ago. His contribution was meaningful and definitely needed to be recognized. Better late than never, it was accepted on the man’s behalf by his widow. A third award was to the woman who is the pastor of a church in Harlem, NY with a history that stretches back to 1664. She spearheaded a multifaceted project to find and bring to notice that congregation’s African Burial Ground, over which a bus terminal had been built some decades ago. Listening to her tell the story of putting together the project was exciting.  

I also received an award. Mine was for “Long Term International Service.” Our awards did not come in envelopes or in folders. They are elegant glass sculptures that will look great on a windowsill where sunlight can shine through them. Just before he handed the award to me, in a low voice, the president said, “it’s heavy.” He wasn’t joking!

Returning home afloat on the kind words, best wishes and congratulations received, I remain anchored. If for no other reason, it’s because I have a 30 pound piece of glass in my carry on bag.

David Alexander resides in Holland, MI after 39 years in Taiwan