Posted in church

Where do the ashes come from?

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Photo by Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash

The tradition of receiving ashes on Ash Wednesday in the shape of a cross on the forehead is a tradition that dates to the 11th century church. They are a visible reminder that the wages of our sin is death, but by Jesus’ death on the cross, we have life. This worship practice kicks off the season of Lent, during which the church focuses on the suffering of Jesus for us.

I don’t remember ever having ashes on Ash Wednesday at the church my family went to when I was growing up. We were always members of a Lutheran Church – Missouri Synod congregation, and in the 1960s, the practice of receiving ashes on your forehead was a Roman Catholic tradition, and therefore one to stay away from.

I am not certain, but I believe the first time I experienced ashes on Ash Wednesday was in 1997 at our church in Florida. That was a time of restoring some ancient traditions in worship. The first time I did it, no one had saved any palms from the previous Palm Sunday. But surrounded by palm trees and palmettos, it was easy to gather up fronds to burn into ashes.

The first time around, I used a pan from the kitchen and set a bunch on fire. I had to throw out the ruined pan I used and the kitchen smelled horrible for a few days, but I had some ashes to use. I began saving the extra palm crosses from Palm Sunday that year. The trick is to remember where you have them stored away to use a year later.

That first year, someone asked me, “Whose ashes are those?” I would always explain where the ashes actually came from as well as their significance.

A colleague suggested baking the palm leaves to dry them out before burning them. Great idea, except the kitchen still smelled bad for a few days. This time, I took them outside to burn on some aluminum foil. This worked much better.

One year, I ordered some online. The ashes were very fine, much finer than I had ever been able to grind them up. This worked well, but I still felt like homemade were better.

The next year, I found the palm crosses, dried them thoroughly, burned them nicely, ground them up into a very fine ash. Best batch ever. Biggest batch ever. A little bit goes a long way. So I saved the ashes in a little jar I kept on my bookshelf. They lasted for years.

So when someone asked, “Where do the Ash Wednesday ashes come from?” I only had to point to the jar and say, “Right there.” But then I would explain the tradition and the process.

After retiring last summer, I didn’t think much about Ash Wednesday ashes until last week, when the church office manager called and asked, “Where did you get ashes? And do you know where the leftover palms are?”

Well, I explained, “if you can find the palm crosses from last year, you’ll need to bake them, burn them, and grind them up. Or you can just order some on Amazon.”

“I think we’ll order some this year.”

Posted in Food

The joy of grilled cheese

Posted on by William Douthwaite

“What do you want for lunch today? How about a grilled cheese sandwich?”

My four-year-old grandson exclaimed, “Yes!”

A few minutes later, he bit in and with a giggle, stretched out an eight-inch string of melted Colby-jack cheese. He did this over and over, enjoying every bite and every inch of the cheese.

So I’m wondering, “Why is a grilled cheese sandwich so good?” It is so good that there are restaurants dedicated to nothing but grilled cheese sandwiches.

When one of my daughters was playing high school lacrosse, I volunteered to work the concession stand. My job was to make grilled cheese sandwiches. Equipped with a loaf of white bread, a stack of Velveeta slices, margarine, and a spatula, I was in my glory. These items were very popular on cool spring evenings when fans just couldn’t endure another foil-wrapped hot dog or hamburger. And I quickly learned that a diagonal slice was critical to a successful melt.

Who came up with this idea? Who invented the grilled cheese sandwich?

Melting cheese on bread isn’t a new idea. Some ancient Roman texts refer to it. You can find it in French recipes from the early 1900’s. Navy cooks in World War II melted grated cheese on plenty of slices of bread.

In 1949, Kraft began selling “Kraft Singles,” individually wrapped slices of processed cheese. It was easier than ever to slap a few pieces between bread and cook for a few minutes on each in a frying pan. The sandwich was official called grilled cheese in the 1960’s.1

I like to imagine Moses and the nation of Israel trying to figure out something creative to do with manna about twenty years into the exodus. Maybe someone suggested, “Hey, I know. Take some of that flat bread and try melting goat cheese in the middle. Doesn’t that sound yummy?”

Who knows? All I know is that it’s good to be alive in the age of grilled cheese sandwiches.

1The History of the Grilled Cheese Sandwich

Posted in Life, Stories

Tell me the story

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Photo by S O C I A L . C U T on Unsplash

So as I sat and listened to the story, I knew how it would end. I’ve already heard it four times. In fact, I know some of the details they’ve left out in this rendition. I don’t say anything. I try not to roll my eyes. I Io my best to listen, or at least appear to be listening. But in my mind I wonder, “When will I start telling the same story over and over? Do I already do that?”

Too many times, as soon as I recognize the story, my mind shuts off. I stop listening. I’ve already heard this.

To avoid being that guy, I’ll make sure I ask, “Have I told you about…?” Or I begin by saying, “Stop me if I’ve told you this before.”

And yet, there are some stories we enjoy hearing over and over again. As children, we haul out the same book over and over again for mom or dad to read to us. Or we’ll say, “Tell me that story again.”

Every get tired of hearing the Christmas story?

There are some stories I wish I could hear.

  • I wish I could hear the story of how my mom’s mother and father met. She was a nanny who had immigrated from England. He was a Spanish-speaking machinist who grew up in Costa Rica. While I remember her well, I only vaguely remember him. As I look back at pictures, though, I cannot imagine who these two got together. But there is no one left in the family who can tell me that story.
  • I wish I could hear the story about the birth and death of my little brother Robert. He was born just eleven months after me but only lived three months. As far as I know, we only have a birth certificate, a picture of his tombstone, and a vague description of him as a “blue baby.” He was always remembered but never talked about.
  • I wish I could hear more of my dad’s stories from his travels in the South Pacific during World War II. He kept a careful record of every island and atoll he stopped at in 1944 and 45. But like many veterans, he didn’t often share details about those days. All we have are a few of his handwritten letters home.

The people who could tell me those stories have died. They’ve taken their stories with them.

So I remind myself that these are precious moments. I try to pay attention and listen. These voices are leaving stories behind for me to remember and retell.

Tell me the story.

Posted in Life

A private elevator

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Photo by Kind and Curious on Unsplash

Our small group was recently hosted in an exclusive, more-than-we-could-ever-afford, gated community. While the couple had previously lived in an ocean-front high-rise, they had recently moved into a townhouse a few blocks from the ocean. When I pulled into the driveway, the owner pointed me to a parking spot in front of one of three two-car garages beneath their unit. I wasn’t where the front door was, so I was glad I could follow him around the front and into the entrance.

Through the front doors, we went down a short hallway to an elevator. That’s when I realized this wasn’t like other townhomes I had been in. Once in the elevator, he pushed three, and in less than a minute the opposite door opened, and I stepped out into his living room. That’s right, he had his own private elevator up to his floor, or should I say, his home. Very nice.

At the end of the evening, members of the group climbed back into the elevator to make their way back to their cars. “Make sure you press ‘L’.” Okay. What happens if you press the ‘2’? You end up in someone else’s home, those who occupy the second floor.

Imagine going there for the first time and not paying attention, pressing ‘2’. When the doors opened, you wouldn’t know you were in the wrong home. So you walk in and make yourself at home. You grab a drink from the refrigerator, go over and look at the ocean, and then sit down to relax.

A stranger walks out of a back bedroom and says, “Oh, hi. Can I help you?”

As you introduce yourself, you suddenly realize they don’t know anything about a small group. They don’t know you and you don’t know them. You stumbled onto the wrong floor!

How nice to have your own personal elevator. Until it’s not working and you have to take the stairs. Or until a stranger makes himself at home on your sofa.

Posted in Rant

Get your own boxes!

Posted on by William Douthwaite

The boxes were so heavy I could barely slide them in through the front door. I had to unpack and move each piece of the expandable metal table and chairs to the back patio and assemble them there. The chair and table lets were no problem. The box of hardware was only about five pounds. Doable. The table top was formidable, close to one hundred pounds. I put it on some old blankets and slid it through the house and out the back door. However, the charcoal-colored, powder-coated, rust-resistant outdoor furniture left behind an enormous pile of cardboard and styrofoam packing that I stacked in the garage to put out over several recycling days.

The arrangement looked nice when fully assembled and arranged on the patio beneath the shade umbrella. It was like adding another room onto the house for those days when we had all the family together.

Less than two weeks later, my wife announced, “It’s already rusting!” A few of the welds hadn’t been fully painted, exposing them to the usual humid Florida weather. But the product description specifically stated rust-resistant. Those were deliberately and carefully chosen words. But they didn’t call rust proof. It’s only rust resistant.

That didn’t sit well. My wife was immediately on the phone with the company’s (whose name rhymes with daycare) customer service. They were receptive, but wanted pictures. Fine; here are pictures of the rust spots. They were willing to make it right. What did we want?

After some discussion, we decided that a replacement would rust in the same way. So we asked for a refund. It shouldn’t be a problem. Returns and refunds are a way of life now.

Both the manufacturer and the distributor were willing to issue a refund. But they wanted us to repackage and ship it all back. Really? They were going to restock and resell this item? Did they really think we had saved all the boxes and styrofoam? When we mentioned that, they replied, “Get your own boxes!” Did they think we would be able to find boxes that big for repacking and shipping? Did they really think we remembered how it had all been packed up in China? Did they really think we would be able to load it in the back of the CR-V and drag it down to the local pack and ship guy?

Forget it. I metal brushed the small rust spots and sprayed them and other welds with a clear coat. If I keep an eye on it, I should be able to stay a step ahead of the rust. My wife then wrote a frank review for the product, adding hers to others who complained about rust spots.

Yeah, we’re going to think long and hard before buying anything else from this company.

Posted in Life

“Where are the Christmas trees?”

Posted on by William Douthwaite

“I can help you here.”

As I stepped up the library window to check out my books, my check-out person asked another, “What was that all about?”

Hanging up the phone her co-worker explained, “She was incensed that she couldn’t come and look at the Christmas trees.”

Every year, organizations from the community fill the library with decorated Christmas trees that highlight their products, services, and people. Each one is unique and imaginative. Once I pause to look at one, I notice the next, am intrigued by another, and end up checking out most of them.

However, the upset woman had called the library on January 23. I handed my books to the worker and chuckled, “I guess she was a day late.”

Scanning my books the worker replied, “About twenty-two days late!” All the Christmas trees had been put away right after New Years.

Wait a minute. Doesn’t the Festival of Lights in St. Augustine run through January 28? When we rode the trolley around the city last weekend (January 22), people dressed like elves were still giving out cookies and hot cider. Several of my neighbors still plug in their outdoor Christmas lights three weeks into the new year.

The nerve. Christmas put away before February? So soon? Come on, the Christmas trees only went up at the library in November!

Posted in Life

I finally finished the game

Posted on by William Douthwaite

I just assume there are plenty of Boomers like me who played the license plate game while traveling as kids. With no phones, tablets, DVD players, or much else to do in the car except fight over window seats, mom made us play the game before my dad had to “turn the car around and go back home.” We hadn’t even gotten an hour down the road.

Since each state only had one license plate, with distinctive colors and design, they were easy to pick out at a distance. Home state was easy. Neighboring states were common. I grew up in the northeast, so plates from the west coast were really exciting.

We never expected to get to fifty. After all, who’s going to drive here from Hawaii?

The other day, I got to fifty. There in front of me, in Palm Coast, Florida, I saw a license plate from the Aloha State, Hawaii. How cool is that?

How many people transport their car from Hawaii to the mainland with the license plate intact? More than I thought. Today I learned that there are several companies that do just. Average price is a couple thousand dollars. Not too bad. It costs more to ship a car to Hawaii. According to websites, it’s probably cheaper to do that than sell there and buy here.

So I’d have a better chance of completing the license plate game in California than Florida. It only took me about 55 years to finish here on the east coast.

Posted in Life

Is the fire ready?

Posted on by William Douthwaite

“Are we going to roast marshmallows?”

Absolutely. The weather was a little cooler, a perfect night to gather around a fire supper. In preparation, I crumbled up newspaper, covered it with small tree branches I had gathered up in the yard, and stood up a pyramid of firewood over the whole thing.

The sky was just beginning to darken as we finished up supper. I headed out to the fire pit and lit the paper. As the first flames flickered, a grandson with a marshmallow and a stick behind me asked, “Is the fire ready?”

For Christmas, we bought other grandchildren a rock tumbler. A great idea for aspiring rock hounds. Until my son read the instructions. Tumbling takes four weeks!

We certainly don’t like to wait, do we? Less than a second after the light turns green, the car behind me leans on the horn so I’ll get step on the grass. A fifteen minute wait for a restaurant table? No thanks, we’ll go somewhere else. Don’t you pick the shortest checkout line at the store?

Five minute oil change. One hour air conditioner repair. No wait emergency room. Instant potatoes. Now, that’s more like it.

Lol. It rarely works that way. An hour on hold to talk to a person at the bank. A minimum of three to four hours in the emergency room. A week for seeds to germinate in the garden. Seven to ten business days for the refund to show up in your bank account. Nine months for the baby to arrive. A lot longer for a doctor appointment.

Is there any benefit to waiting? Maybe. Pausing when the light changes to green avoids a collision with the guy running the red light. More time in wide comfortable airport seats before spending three hours in a cramped middle seat between two strangers. Coffee from a freshly brewed pot. Holding a newborn in your arms. Flames that light up and warm up a chilly night. The smell of freshly baked bread. A gooey marshmallow.

Posted in Life

Justice

Posted on by William Douthwaite

I saw the small black car coming in my rear view mirror. He had to be traveling twice as fast as I was. He didn’t slow until he was right up on my tail.

I don’t know why, but I could tell he was looking for an opening, an opportunity just big enough to slip through and pass me. He found one. He vanished, only to reappear two lanes to my left on the tail of another car.

I knew he wouldn’t stay there for long. Sure enough, as soon as a few inches appeared, he came across both lanes again and cut right in front of me. I hardly had time to touch the brakes before he was gone again, accelerating ahead of the truck next to me.

I lost sight of him for a moment. Then I caught a glimpse of him weaving back and forth across all three lanes before suddenly turning into Dunkin.

Much to my delight, he pulled in behind an unusually long line of drive through cars that wound around the building, through the parking lot, and out into the street.

A little justice always brings a smile to my face.