I can remember chuckling in high school when Mama informed me they wouldn’t be out too long — just long enough for her and Daddy to cancel each other out at the polls.  Even though they could have both simply stayed home, since they often negated each other, they NEVER did.  Mama was red-headed; half Irish and half French with brown eyes and lived in a genteel, southern home in Ferris, Texas.  I can remember high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and exquisite, thick textured wallpaper in the dining room with roses on it which my grandmother adored.  Mama’s clothes came from Neiman’s and the majority of her relatives were well-off.  However I have learned that this definition is definitely subjective.  For many around the world that means clean, running water, and electricity.  Mama had a beautiful baby grand with which she was gifted at the tender age of ten, and my grandfather owned the town drug store.  He was a pharmacist.  When Mama and Daddy met in high school it was a classic story of “the boy from the other side of the tracks.”  Despite my father’s lack of money, every weekend he brought my mother a corsage until my grandmother asked him to please stop doing so because their refrigerator was full.  When my father served in Korea for two terms (eight years) they sent my mother off to an aunt and uncle in Florida during the summers.  Since her aunt by marriage got an invitation to Princess Graces’ wedding, I’m going to say she was wealthy.  During those years Mama would not be swayed.  Her heart and loyalty remained with my daddy.  When he was home for good and they were dating in college Mama said Daddy HUMILIATED her by driving to pick her up for a date with this enormous Republican billboard he’d somehow fashioned and affixed onto the top of his car.  During all their time together I’m not quite sure if they ever voted the same.  But somehow, they always entered the polls smiling at each other, hand in hand.  For them, religion was their unifying factor.  Despite how passionate one or the other ever became in politics they never made it personal.  Little did I realize it was due in part to the great respect they had for one another.  I cannot ever recall my father trying to belittle my mother; nor can I ever recall my mother haranguing my father about his beliefs.  I always assumed if I got married my husband and I would agree politically.  After all, in the seventh grade I broke up with a a boy whom I ADORED simply because he preferred Coca-Cola.  I said it could never work since I loved Dr. Pepper (“Texas water,” and the oldest “soda” in the nation, by the way.)  I have always been interested in the Civil War but I never could grasp how family could turn against family.  I think I get it now.  The thing that saddens me is I believe our country has reached another great divide.  Allow me to dispel some stereotypes:  Republicans are mostly white.  My daddy grew up in a place in the early 1930’s with the dubious distinction of proclaiming it had “The Blackest Land and The Whitest People.”  Both of my father’s grandparents, who reared him, were full-blood Native American.  His best friend was an old black man with whom he loved to go fishing.  My father said one of the scariest sights he had ever seen was witnessing the crosses the KKK burned on the old man’s lawn.  The town paster was enrolled in the KKK and never even knew it; apparently it was for his “protection.”  To be a red man is to neither be wolf nor dog.  Somehow his family was accepted by whites but they also had fellowship with former slaves.  In Korea my father fought alongside black and Jewish men and he was respected by all — including the whites and the Koreans.  Daddy once told me he watched a man die just to keep the American flag from hitting the soil.  He was very conservative and worked fervently for Barry Goldwater.  Mother’s family were long time southern Democrats who spoke highly of the WPA.  Frankly, I stilll think most of the lovely things this country has is due to that project.  This summer we stayed for a night in an historic Mississippi “Inn” which had really been a plantation.  The hired help was so very black I remember actually feeling self-conscious; no inter-racial mingling there.  I had a deep conversation with this man who could have stepped out of an old Shirley Temple film.  He told me he supported Trump and proudly listed the reasons why.  My husband was blessed to come from money but he has often spoken of “Limousine Liberals.”  I am not criticizing him for that; I am simply describing how he views things.  You cannot guess what political party I am.  I am certainly for birth control but against abortion unless it comes down to the baby or the mother.  I think we should have a flat tax.  My father taught me that no one “deserves” anything; so we are not entitled to what the rich have.  I was also brought up by my mother to protect the innocent.  When I was younger things seemed so black and white; no pun intended.  Big government, in my opinion, can be scary and yet having American citizens go without basic necessities is also frightening.  So then who is right?  What constitutes “big government” and what constitutes “necessity?”  Forgive me, dear readers, far and wide.  This will be the first time in almost six years that I shall not attribute a quote (because I cannot be certain of its origin, although it is thought to be Native American).  “What if I told you that the left wing and the right wing belong to the same bird.”  So I am posting a picture of our wolf dog Shadow.  It has been said one can see their soul in the eyes of a wolf.  I would encourage you:  try to see someone’s “ayes” through their eyes.

October is my favorite month for many reasons … it is when my birthday falls and it is also the month in which my beloved father shares his birthday with my precious only child.  He passed away before he ever even got to meet my husband.  Autumn is such a fleeting, magical time.  For me it is a chance to revel in the bright Harvest Moon, to savor the scent of hay, to hear the music in the sway of rustling corn stalks, to feel slightly chilly temperatures at night, and to rhapsodize about the glorious color changes in the trees.  It is a time to give thanks to Mother Earth for her blessings and to remember we are a part of her.  I am not a great artist but in my early twenties I discovered the delights of creating one’s own Jack-o’-lantern.  The carving of vegetables has been a common practice in many parts of the world.  However, it is believed that the custom of making Jack-o’-lanterns at Halloween began in Ireland.  In the 19th century turnips were hollowed out to act as lanterns.  They were said to represent supernatural beings that were used to ward off evil spirits.  Over the years I have found that life is very much like carving a pumpkin:  maybe you are given a “perfect” one and the carving is easy; maybe one is a little skewed by how it grew in the patch and it requires more time to properly take shape.  I have found the key in carving your own pumpkin is that it lies with the carver.  Your gourd may very well be imperfect:  maybe the stalk on top is broken for all to see; maybe it doesn’t have a lot of seeds on the inside but no one can tell; maybe it has gotten dented or scarred along the way.  Regardless of the pumpkin you were dealt, I believe you can always carve it into something which brings you joy.  After all, isn’t life what one makes of it?  One can focus on the blights or choose to create character and beauty from them.  I am no Martha Stewart, but the pumpkins I have carved over the years have brought me contentment and I have learned something from each one.  Sometimes they have been perfectly symmetrical; sometimes they have looked a little wonky.  Sometimes I have compared mine with others and felt it wasn’t enough.  Regardless, I believe we all have a chance each year to make our own proverbial pumpkins better — both inside and out.  The French novelist and playwright of Guadelopean origin, Simone Schwarz-Bart, said, “Only the knife knows what goes on in the heart of a pumpkin.”  God has given us free will to carve out our own destinies.  In that carving, we can either focus on the best or dwell upon the worst.  What does your Jack-o’-lantern reflect this year?  Each one of those glimmers and grooves, regardless of how they got there, make it unique.  How we choose to carve out our souls with what we have been given makes us who we are.  You don’t need fancy tools; you just need the willingness to work on it.  Never stop trying; never stop striving; never stop believing.  Your light may serve to shine a way for others.  No matter what the circumstances:  I pray you never feel too old, too “good,” too sad, or too afraid to continue to carve out your own pumpkin.

I realize that the more I write the more apt I am to repeat myself.  However, I do not believe I have written about Valentine’s Day.  I do not like the term “V-Day” just as much as I detest the term “Turkey Day” when referencing Thanksgiving, observed in North America and Canada.  Given that I am now blessed to have a world wide audience, I am not quite certain if every country even observes Valentine’s.  However, I feel there may be certain cultural parallels.  On the surface, Valentine’s Day is a chance for school children to send notes and/or candy to their classmates.  It may be as a friend or as a sign one person is smitten with another.  As one grows older it becomes more complicated.  “It is just a commercial holiday used as an extortion attempt for a guy to buy a girl flowers and chocolates and take her out to eat,” says every crummy guy whom you should not be dating.  While I did have a few memorable, chivalrous Valentine’s Day dates involving surprises, lovely meals, white teddy bears, and red roses — they were few and far between.  I have probably said countless times I am a hopeless, incurable romantic.  Call it Freudian, but I must have gotten it from my daddy.  Every year without fail he would bring Mama and me a fancy heart-shaped box of chocolates, cards, and little stuffed animals.  Then he would take us both out to eat.  As I got older I realized they should be alone more, but often times that only served to heighten my loneliness.  Once I had a boyfriend show up three hours late (after our dinner reservations) and with three red carnations.  Growing up poor I understood the expense of flowers; conversely it also made me realize their import.  Mama told me once that every week when they were dating Daddy brought her a corsage.  She was quietly disappointed when my grandmother asked him to stop bringing flowers because she had no more room for them in the refrigerator.  I grew up watching my father write poems to my mother; leave her love notes on the refrigerator, and treat her like a queen whenever he could.  At a precocious age I started voraciously reading historical romance novels.  I am sure I have quite literally read thousands.  Then there was the handsome, strapping blond Air Force guy who brought flowers for my mother each time he came over to pick me up for a date.  He was a creep who would ultimately wind up cheating on me.  Ironically the one truly romantic guy I dated, who took me on the best, most thoughtful dates, was just not someone to whom I was amorously attracted.  Ultimately, I was incredibly blessed to marry the man of my dreams.  However, I have discovered he shows his love in different ways.  He does the dishes, helps with the laundry, and tells me he he took out the trash for me.  I have never uttered a WORD of my hopeless romanticism to our daughter.  By kindergarten I discovered she was exactly like me and since that tine I have strived to neither discourage her (so as to crush her spirit) nor to encourage her (to set her up for disappointment later in life) in that respect.  Most importantly, I know our child sees the love between my husband and me; just as I did with my mother and father.  However, I discovered she has been quietly coaching her daddy upon how to be more romantic.  “Daddy, you said Mama looks beautiful but you didn’t LOOK at her!!”  “Daddy, tell Mama she made a wonderful dinner.”  She has simply taken it upon herself to point these things out on her own.  As this Valentine’s Day approached she proclaimed we had not had a date in “ages” and proceeded to instruct her father to make reservations for a nice restaurant.  Somewhat at a loss, he came to me and asked where I would like to go.  I told him it was not “my” dinner but “ours” so we should select something we both would enjoy.  It turns out this was our best Valentine’s Day date ever, and I knew I had my little one to thank for it.  On the way out they handed me a red rose and I told my husband he should give it to our daughter.  She was SO delighted!  Wrapping her little arms around his neck, I heard her whisper, “I love you Daddy!”  She then proceeded to whisk me away to hear all about our date.  The history of Saint Valentine is muddled.  Some say the third century priest defied the Roman Emperor Claudius II and performed marriage ceremonies in secret when it was said that single men made better soldiers than those with wives.  Others suggest he may have been imprisoned and killed under the same emperor for attempting to help Christians escape harsh Roman prisons.  One legend claims he actually sent the first “Valentine” himself after falling in love with a young girl — possibly his jailor’s daughter — who visited him during his confinement.  It is alleged that before his death he wrote her a letter signed, “From your Valentine.”  Regardless, I find love is the common denominator in all three of these stories.  I have known the undying love of my parents, both of whom have passed away.  I have known innocent love which painfully failed, passionate love which did not last, and one-sided love which remained unrequited.  The Saturday Evening Post writer Franklin P. Jones once said, “Love doesn’t make the world go round.  Love is what makes the ride worthwhile.”  And so, dear readers, I encourage you — whether it is the love of God, a friend, family, a spouse, a child, yourself, or a beloved animal — make the ride worthwhile.

My father was born in 1932 and was reared by his maternal Choctaw grandparents in a town called Greenville, Texas.  Daddy grew up neither wolf nor dog, having a foot in both the white and non-white world.  His dark blue eyes allowed him to pass for anglo despite his dark red skin.  I always found it incredible that my father lived just about an hour north of Dallas and yet it was so rural he attended a one room school house.  He spoke of gathering wood for the stove which heated it, and of outhouses located close to both the school and church.  By stark contrast, my mother, born just two years later in Oak Cliff, (now a part of the city of Dallas) grew up with electricity, plumbing, and gas heating … all of which we now take for granted.  When I was a kid I remember my folks taking me to what used to be called Old City Park.  I have proud, fond memories of my father being the only one who actually knew what all the various outmoded materials were as well as the functions they served.  Growing up he had actually used much of the farming equipment and even knew how to churn butter.  A friend whose boy is in the same class as my girl asked if we might be interested in going together for a Christmas event at the place my daddy so loved, now called Dallas Heritage Village.  It is nestled quietly in a shaded, almost hidden part southeast of downtown Dallas’ looming skyscrapers.  Home to Dallas’ first city park in 1876, it also housed the city’s first zoo, and concerts were given in the bandstand just as they were on this fine evening.  Donkeys and sheep and chickens all mixed with old English carolers, mariachis (my favorite) and old-timey storytellers.  We all had fun going around the park, and I found myself attempting to show my little one the same things my father had once shown me.  For instance the way a water pump functioned, how metal is forged, and what a hitching post was.  I tried to impress upon her that millions of people in other parts of the world still live by burning wood and gathering water every single day, and I am glad it gave her pause.  Potable water should never, EVER be taken for granted.  Safe running water is an even greater privilege with which we are blessed, yet rarely give it any thought.  Stewart Udall, the American Secretary of the Interior during most of the sixties, is quoted as having said, “Plans to protect air and water, wilderness and wildlife are in fact plans to protect man.”  I became inwardly embarrassed by my own disconnect with life’s basic necessities and the lessons my father taught me.  I do not want that for my daughter.  Rudimentary survival skills like growing vegetables have become something with which many are unfamiliar.  As we were there stepping back in time I wished so very much my folks were still living.  They instilled a love of knowledge in me and could have taught their granddaughter so much.  The annual celebration was entitled Candelight:  history, tradition, reflection.  As the sun was setting, real candles inside glass votives were being lit.  They hung daintily from metal hangers protruding several feet above the ground, and lining the park’s inner perimeter.  I told my little one what a luxury candles were for so long and about a profession which I realized no longer even exists — lamplighting.  I was so grateful my friend thought to include us, and I could not believe my husband and I had not been back since having our daughter.  Vowing to make it a regular tradition, I want my child to know how to carry her own water … and to light the way for others.

November 11 is a day in which the United States designates to honor military veterans.  It is a happier holiday for me than Memorial Day, as that is a time for recognizing all who were killed in the line of defense since the “founding” of this nation.  Today however is a day which honors all persons who have served in the U.S. Armed Forces.  It coincides with Armistice Day, commemorated every year on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, marking the end of World War I.  Armistice Day is celebrated by countries all over the world.  My father was proud to be an American, and he was deeply patriotic.  This picture here is of one of the little flag pins he always wore on his lapel — far before it became fashionable.  I can remember seeing him proudly don it every day ever since I was little.  My father joined the military right out of high school in order to pay for his college education.  He and Mama were high school sweethearts:  she, the prettiest girl in school who shopped at Neiman’s, and he the dark boy from (literally) the “wrong” side of the tracks.  My father fought for eight years in the Korean War.  During all that time he wrote my mother faithfully and sent her back beautiful gifts “from the Orient.”  He got her porcelain china for when they would marry, ivory (before everyone realized how cruel the elephant trade is), semi-precious jewel sets with tanzanite and tourmaline, and pearls.  What my mother really wanted was my father.  He signed up for his second term without even asking her and she had been waiting for him for four years already.  My mother’s family took it as an opportunity to send her to Florida during the summers, where she stayed with her very wealthy aunt and uncle as they threw party after party to introduce her to “society” boys.  Her Aunt was invited to Grace Kelly’s wedding and when their first child was born Aunt Phil sent a mobile she’d made from the rare shells of Sanibel Island.  They were held together with fishing wire and hung gracefully in varying degrees from driftwood she’d found.  Princess Grace was so enchanted by her thoughtful gift she’d handwritten her a thank you note, which her aunt framed and, Mama said, kept in her guest bathroom.  Meanwhile, my father was working his way up from the lowest level soldier in the army, a Private, to what I believe is called a Specialist.  I am embarrassed to admit I know very little for two reasons.  One:  my father did not brag.  And two:  any discussion of his time at war upset my mother terribly.  Here is what I do know … he was, at some point, stationed out of Fort Sill Oklahoma and became blood brothers with a Comanche in a very elaborate ceremony by the man’s father before they were shipped out.  I know my father was captured and had his feet frozen.  He and two other low-ranking men (they had already killed their Commanding Officers) escaped into the snow in the dead of night wearing only their Long Johns … each going a different direction.  My father was able to piece together he was wandering for three days before the Greeks (and our allies) picked him up.  He told me he was so grateful they took him to a Norwegian hospital.  There they plunged his feet in ice cold water and he said they slowly warmed them up over the course of two days.  Daddy said an American hospital at that time would have amputated them both right away.  For the record, my father’s feet always turned a bit bluish in the winter … but he had all of his toes and his feet.  Daddy died next to my mother out of the blue of a heart attack at only 66 years of age.  At aged 28 I found myself without my greatest mentor and was left with the responsibility of caring for my widowed mother, who was lost without my father.  I made sure he received a full military burial complete with a 21 gun salute.  I was so very proud he had a Seminole pallbearer, as well a black one, a Jewish one, and white ones.  Men from all over came up to me and told me of my father’s bravery, and of how he never lost a man on night patrol.  He became a sharp shooter (sniper) I believe thanks to him growing up with his full-blood Choctaw grandparents.  Sometimes he had terrible nightmares and once I saw a wicked looking scar on his chest which he said came from a bayonet; meaning he was in hand-to-hand combat.  I was told he was the first man to become an honorary citizen of two countries and he simply sent his Greek Medal of Honor home to my mother.  The only way he ever told me about his time at war was when I asked why he didn’t like certain things.  He said he could not stand the sight or smell of barbecued chicken because he had so much of it in their MREs (Meal, Ready-to-Eat) and he also had to have his back against the wall whenever we went to a restaurant.  He said he just didn’t feel safe if he could not survey the room.  The American politician Charles B. Rangel said, “To honor the legacy of veterans and the democratic principles they fought for, I am glad that I introduced the Korean War Veterans Recognition Act which was enacted in 2009.”  My father always said it was “The Forgotten War.”  I believe that anyone who has endured the horrors of war, whether it was during the Holocaust or Vietnam, can never forget.  Let us always remember and honor both the known and unknown, all of whom have their own stories which may have tragically become lost over time.  God bless and keep all of our soldiers this and every Veteran’s Day.

I have often wondered why Dallas would make all their Oktoberfest celebrations in September.  The journalist in me would normally research this to death.  The Dallasite in me just figures it is because they cannot possibly compete with the biggest state fair in the United States, which runs the month of October, and garners 2.25 million visitors each year; the Texas State Fair.  I am not really a huge beer drinker, but I enjoy getting out as temperatures start to cool … sort of.  It goes from being 105 to maybe 95.  Still, to me it hopefully signals the imminent beginning of autumn, which is my favorite time of year.  I was born during this season, and my late father and my little girl actually share the same birthdate.  I also love a good culture festival:  we have attended German, French, Irish, Mexican, Greek, and collective “world fests” which have celebrated cultures from India to Persia.  Oh!  And we love Chinese New Year and the Japanese Moon festival.  As Episcopalians we celebrate English holidays that are liturgical.  With each passing year I find we enjoy celebrating others.  As a teenager I grew up on the pow wow set, honoring Native American cultures, which are as vast and varied as they are similar.  This past summer in South Carolina we had a great time celebrating Africa’s traditions and arts.  It never ceases to amaze and humble me by how many similarities there are between cultures.  The Brazilian novelist Paulo Coelho said:

Culture makes people understand each other better.  And if they understand each other better in their soul, it is easier to overcome the economic and political barriers.  But first they have to understand that their neighbour is, in the end, just like them, with the same problems, the same questions.

And so it is with that spirit that I embrace celebrations of different cultures from all over the world.

I have always been interested in the etymology of phrases, and I recently had the epiphany that a lot of our common idioms are Biblically based.  I can assure you I am not trying to proselytize; I can only write about that which I know.  I was aware that a “doubting Thomas” is referred to as someone who is a skeptic; one who will not believe without direct personal experience.  It comes from the Apostle Thomas who refused to accept that Jesus was resurrected from the dead until he could see and feel Christ’s wounds received on the cross for himself.  I also knew that to “cast the first stone” referenced Scripture.  John 8:7 says, “When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, ‘Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.'”  Those are the words of Jesus Christ.  My Daddy always told me to “go the extra mile.”  I had no idea that was based in Scripture.  In Matthew 5:41 Jesus declares, “Whoever forces you to go one mile, go with him two.”  “Pride goeth before a fall” is rooted in Proverbs.  In chapter 16 verse 18 it says, “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.”  To “wash your hands of the matter” stems from Matthew 27:24 which reads, “When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing, but that rather a tumult was made, he took water, and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, ‘I am innocent of the blood of this just person:  see ye to it.'”  This was when Pontius Pilate, the prefect of the Roman province of Judaea, demonstrated his objection to Christ’s crucification.  Researching expressions I knew and used unearthed a whole lot more.  “Hold your horses” is predictably American in origin; a term that arose when “settlers” and gold miners were traveling westward across America via the horse.  By the 1840’s in the U.S. that phrase came to mean to restrain oneself.  The term “close, but no cigar” is said to have started in the mid-20th century at American fairgrounds when they gave cigars away as prizes.  I have always been tickled by the phrase “long in the tooth” for someone getting older and “not playing with a full deck” to describe one who is perhaps slightly crazy.  I frequently use sayings like “cough up,” “fishy,” and “jump the gun.”  Others have made their way into my vernacular curtesy of my mother, who would say “fire” for heat and “blinky” for when milk went bad.  Maybe at this point though I should just let sleeping dogs lie; I think perhaps with some of this, the cat’s out of the bag.

I have always loved libraries.  In college I relished the feel of being surrounded by the hush and the smell of old tomes.  One of my earliest memories is in elementary school when we were ushered into our library and introduced to the awe-inspiring card catalog.  For those of you too young to know what that is it was back in the days before computers were prevalent in our every day lives.  I can almost hear an audible gasp from somewhere.  Anyway, it was this massive piece of furniture with tons of little square drawers.  Inside the drawers were cards containing bibliographic information, including the title of the book, the author’s name, and approximate location on the library shelf.  I did some research and discovered that around 1789 the French began collecting books from churches and decided to use them to build a system of public libraries, including creating an inventory of all books.  The backs of playing cards were used to write each book’s information.  Leave it to my beloved France!  Around the mid-1800’s Melvil Dewey and other American librarians began to champion the card catalog because of its great expandability.  In some libraries books were based on size or the author’s name.  Dewy devised a decimal system where books were organized by subject and then alphabetized by the author’s name.  Each book had a “call number” which identified the subject and the location.  The decimal points divided different sections of the call number, which matched a number written on the spine of each book.  I can remember the librarian telling us we would need to know this our entire lives.  Since telling my six year old about it she has begun referring to everything in my childhood as “the olden days.”  (I predict her mind will explode when I explain to her about corded phones.)  Of course now libraries have replaced card catalogs with online public access which is digital.  My shock came when the hubs and I attended our little one’s book fair at her school and I could not find a laptop or a desktop anywhere.  Gaping like a slack jawed yokel, I stumbled into my discovery:  iPads were affixed conveniently on pillars around the library.  It is the first time I have actually felt old.  Like a cat staring at a shiny object, I felt compelled to take this picture.  I never could have forseen this day as I stood on that shag carpeting with my bell bottom jeans all those years ago.  I can still remember the feel of back-breaking weight of all those heavy books crammed into my backpack.  Now each child at her school has an iPad which contains them all.  The Norwegian historian Christian Lous Lange once said, “Technology is a useful servant but a dangerous master.”  I hope we never stop using actual books.  It’s more than the rustle of a page or the creak of a spine but I cannot precisely put it into words.  However I also love to read digitally and it is much better for the environment.  It is also very convenient.  At least people are still continuing to read; now it’s just a whole new world.

For those of you keeping track, you will have noted I have been behind on my blog since summer.  I dislike not writing in a timely manner and think I have stumbled onto a case of writer’s block.  So I decided to get current and then work my way back.  As I checked the date I paused when I realized today was Friday the Thirteenth.  I do not consider myself to be superstitious.  I have owned black cats, walked under numerous ladders, and have opened too many umbrellas inside to even count.  The thirteenth day falls on a Friday at least once and year and can happen as many as three times annually.  But why the superstition?  One suggested origin occurred on this very day — a Friday the thirteenth in October — only instead of 2017 the year was 1307.  This is the day the Knights Templar essentially fell.  The order was founded in 1119 and remained overtly active until about 1312.  A Catholic military order, its role was for the protection of Christian pilgrims.  At its peak, it consisted of fifteen to twenty thousand members; ten percent of whom were knights.  They also went under the Order of Solomon’s Temple and the Order of Christ.  Their motto:  Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy Name give glory.  They wore distinctive white mantles with red crosses and were the most skilled fighting units of the Crusades.  In addition, the order became among the wealthiest and most powerful.  Non-combatant members managed a large economic structure throughout Christendom.  The Templars could pass freely through all borders, were not required to pay any taxes, and were exempt from all authority except for that of the Pope.  I was taught in college they developed innovative forms of financial techniques that eventually became the foundation for the world’s banking systems.  The knights also built fortifications across Europe and the Holy Land.  King Philip IV was deeply in debt to the order and, it is said, took advantage of the situation to gain control over them.  On this day at dawn in 1307 he had many of the order’s members in France not only arrested, but tortured into making false confessions, and then burned at the stake.  I found this quote quite profound from the Irish journalist Marguerite Gardiner, the Countess of Blessington, who said:  “Superstition is only the fear of belief, while religion is the confidence.”  So why did I hesitate to resume writing in “real-time” today?  Was my fear rooted in the belief that I wasn’t doing things in their perceived order — a superstition of sorts?  Perhaps.  I will say my writer’s block has been resolved and taking this silly picture for today’s post gave me another topic to write about; stay tuned … In the meantime, I would much rather place my confidence in my faith.