I'll never be a DDGL

It was a Lodge's nightmare… both the District Deputy Grand Lecturer and Regional Grand Lecturer were in attendance. Also a visitor at that meeting, I sat next to the two dignitaries and thought, "The officers better be on their toes. This could get ugly."

It went better than I expected but at one point during the meeting the DDGL leaned over to the RGL and whispered, "The Senior Warden said, 'You will advance to the West and communicate the password...' It should be, 'You will approach the West...' Should we stop them and say something?"

The RGL shook his head, "No… they got there."

I'm with the RGL: I am not a hard-core ritualist – and that's blasphemy in some circles. Don't get me wrong. I like a well-done ritual as much as the next guy; but I care more about whether the ceremony comes off well than if a Brother says "this" when he should say "that." I know… I'll never be a DDGL.

And don't even get me started on the guys in the "peanut gallery" who start yelling out the next line any time the speaker has more than a two-second pause. I'm not alone in that. I've been in Lodge when the Master appointed a proctor with the admonition, "I don't want to hear a word out of anyone else." I'm big on proctors.

I bring all this up because this week my Lodge tested for one of the ritual awards my Grand Lodge sponsors. We invited the DDGL in to grade us on our opening and closing. The guys were well-practiced and the ceremony went like clockwork.

I just sat there thinking how enjoyable it is to be in any of our ceremonies – especially degree work – when things just click along. That, as opposed to the living hell of sitting through the same thing when the speakers are ill-prepared and have to be prompted on every line. Sitting through an opening like that is the only time I actually look forward to getting to the reading of the minutes.

So, congrats to my Brothers at Liberty Lodge #31. They got the award.

Oh, there were mistakes. There are ALWAYS mistakes. I knew our perfect score was gone as the Chaplain, asking God to subdue our discordant passions, prayed, "Grant that the sublime principles of Freemasonry may so subdue every insubordinate passion within us…"

See, I just let that roll right off my back. In fact, I thought it was kind of funny. Unfortunately, the DDGL – you know, the guy keeping score – was not amused.

A Small Sacrifice

I found a metal file box while I was rummaging through a closet recently. When I opened it, I discovered a treasure-trove of things my parents had saved. Among the items were World War II ration books. I'm certain they belonged to my mother, because at the time my father was slogging his way across North Africa, up through Italy and into France. You've seen the maps. My parents, Robert and Alice, were part of that industrious, young and determined group that really did save the world; and for good reason we now call them "The Greatest Generation."

People of that era made sacrifices unimaginable to most of us, now living in what Time Magazine has dubbed the "Me Me Me Generation" — not to be outdone by the "Me Generation" of the 70s.

I'm not sure what all of Mom's coupons were for, but I know for sure the U.S. rationed gas, food and other items. People were encouraged to recycle tin cans for the war effort. Children even donated their metal toys to help. Each family was allotted five tires (for one family car), and had to give any others to the government. Even the fact that we are at war today does not affect us like that. Most of us, apart from families with loved ones in the military, may make some sacrifices but not on such a large scale.

The material shortages ran so deep that it even affected, at least in one small way, the Freemasons. When Dad returned from the War, he joined the Fraternity. Although peacetime had returned, production had not caught up with demand and certain things remained hard to get. In Dad's Lodge and many others, it was customary to present a new Brother his apron in a cellophane envelope, suitable for its protection. Cellophane, however, was in short supply and his Lodge had to use paper as a substitute.

When Dad passed away, I could not find his apron. His Lodge, as is the custom, supplied one at his funeral. Later, while going through some of his things, I found it in an old cedar chest, inside that well-worn paper envelope. Despite its wrinkles and tears, it had protected the apron all those years. On it is a drawing of a Steward knocking at the inner door on behalf of a poor, blind candidate. Along with the picture is this accompanying note:

MASONRY WILL UNDERSTAND

Our fighting men need cellophane and its ingredients. For that reason the protection cellophane formerly gave our Masonic aprons has to be eliminated.

This white paper stock will carry on for the duration.

That envelope, having done its job, now hangs framed on my office wall as a reminder of those sacrifices.

The Original Comedy Roast

"It's no coincidence George Hamilton loves the sun. They were born in the same year. The difference is the sun is actually a star." ~Lisa Lampanelli

"What's with all the surgery, Kathy (Griffin)? You've been stitched up thousands of times but you're still sad to look at. You're like the AIDS quilt." ~Greg Giraldo

"Justin’s fans are called Beliebers because it’s politically incorrect to use the word retards." ~Natasha Legerro

"My good friend Snoop Dogg said Jeff Ross' book was unreadable, but that's because Snoop can't read." ~Larry King

“Bill (Shatner), you were supposed to explore the galaxy, not fill it”- Betty White

Do you enjoy comedy roasts? You know they're those events where people get up and destroy their friends in what is allegedly good-natured fun. With apologies to sensitive or politically correct listeners, here are a few examples of actual things people have said about their so-called friends in such roasts...

Modern comedy roasts date back to the Friar's Club events of the late 1940s and have progressed (if you can call it progress) to today's televised productions that seemingly make a science of mean-spirited nastiness.

What may be the original comedy roast, however, dates well before the Friars thought of presenting organized evenings of vitriol. That honor goes to a gala event the Atlantic Monthly held in Boston the evening of December 17, 1877, celebrating poet John Greenleaf Whittier's 70^th birthday.

People today revere Brother Mark Twain as an American treasure. During his lifetime he was in demand as a speaker and it seemed no one was more well-suited to deliver the keynote address on that auspicious occasion.

Ever the mischievous humorist, Twain decided to go over-the-top and take a few friendly jabs at some of the impressive guests in attendance, specifically Henry Wadsdworth Longfellow, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

He launched into a story about stumbling upon a miner's shack. The miner told him, "You're the fourth... literary man that has been here in twenty-four hours — I'm going to move. [The others were] Mr. Longfellow, Mr. Emerson, and Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes — confound the lot!"

"Mr. Emerson was a seedy little bit of a chap, red-headed. Mr. Holmes was as fat as a balloon; he weighed as much as three hundred, and had double chins all the way down to his stomach. Mr. Longfellow was built like a prize-fighter. His head was cropped and bristly, like as if he had a wig made of hair-brushes. His nose lay straight down his face, like a finger with the end joint tilted up. They had been drinking, I could see that. And what queer talk they used…"

…And on and on it went. Expecting laughter by this point, Twain found himself speaking to a hushed crowd.*

Writing about the event later, Twain said he knew things weren't right, "Now, then, the house's attention continued, but the expression of interest in the faces turned to a sort of black frost. I wondered what the trouble was. I didn't know. I went on, but with difficulty… In the end, I didn't know enough just to give up and sit down.”

Following the speech, newspapers across the country erupted with stories of Twain's rude remarks and bad taste. His book sales dropped off as did, understandably, invitations to speak.

Today we think of Brother Samuel Clemens in his Mark Twain persona as having had the "Midas Touch" when it came to writing, a sense of humor and popularity. It was not so. At the time of the speech, Twain was in some degree of financial distress, and counted on speaking fees and book sales to carry him through. After what author William Dean Howells called "the amazing mistake, the bewildering blunder, the cruel catastrophe" Twain had trouble making ends meet. With no prospect of financial success in the US, he was forced to undertake a grueling European speaking tour.

Twain never completely recovered — financially or emotionally — from his faux pas. Near the end of his life, he wrote about it in an apologetic letter to a friend, "It seems as if I must have been insane when I wrote that speech and saw no harm in it, no disrespect toward those men whom I reverenced so much."

Maybe Brother Twain was just ahead of his time; or maybe we today have become a little too desensitized to what was one time regarded as rude.

____________________________

*Although at the end of the speech Twain called the men in the story representing Emerson, Holmes and Longfellow "imposters," it was a question of too-little-too-late. The full text of the speech is available at http://bit.ly/2ibRsU7

From The Summer of Love to Woodstock West

"Tried to hitch a ride to San Francisco

Gotta do the things I wanna do..."

In February, 1967, I was a sophomore living in Wright Quadrangle at Indiana University. The winter had been going on for about a century, it seemed, and I was beginning to think I would never see another warm day. Classes were dull and I had lost interest in being a student. The Vietnam War raged on. The Civil Rights movement was in full-bloom. I had attended rallies against the former and for the latter but cold weather was keeping everyone inside. An epidemic of stir-craziness was affecting us all. On top of everything else I had broken up with my girlfriend. That was one of the few things I had to feel happy about – more like relieved, but here it was a weekend night and I had no date. The dorm was a ghost town and I needed something to do.

I walked down to the room of my friend Ken Riffle to see if he wanted to do something. He did… he wanted to go drinking and make the rounds at a few local establishments and, unfortunately, I was an underage liability. He offered to pick up some beer on the way home and said maybe we would get together later. I was pretty sure that wouldn't happen. I moped back to my room and saw that Dave Swinney's door was open. Dave was a psych major from Queens who lived across the hall from me. I stuck my head in and said hi. It turned out Dave was in the same boat as me — no girlfriend, nothing to do, and Dave certainly did not need to study. I always considered him to be a mass of brain material in the form of a human being.

Dave was 21 and could have gone out with Ken, but instead said he wanted to go to the Kiva — a campus coffee house in the Union building. He said he had read about the act playing there and thought it should be good. I decided anything was better than staying in my dorm room so I tagged along.

We almost didn't make it. Dave was wearing shoes with slick leather soles and twice during our walk over there he slipped on ice and landed on his butt.

Undaunted, we arrived and ran into some guys we knew from another floor. We ordered soft drinks – no alcohol allowed on campus. The act was pretty good. I don't remember the name of the group but it played a variety of folk and semi-rock songs peppered with not a few double-entendres. Pretty entertaining. At one point the lead singer said he and his group were headed for San Francisco later that year. He talked about a "Hippie Fest" that was apparently going to be a big thing, and how great it would be for people to gather there for the biggest celebration ever of peace, love and harmony. And drugs. And girls.

Dave and I started the trek back to the dorm. We took a different route back which would be better lighted and less likely to have more ice for him to fall on. We didn't say much. Finally, about the time we reached Showalter Fountain, a campus landmark, we both had the same thought, "You ever been to San Francisco?" Neither of us had.

That was the start of the adventure.

To be continued...

Sic Transit Gloria Sixties

That celebrated summer of sixty-seven. We turned on, tuned in and dropped out. For a few weeks, anyway. We knew it wouldn't last forever, but pretended it would. She drove down from Oregon. I scored a ride from Indiana. We met on a bench across from the Free Store.

The hippie scene was a kaleidoscope of experience, color, and constant motion. A band here, free food there, a crazy guy rambling, beads, hair, impromptu dancing, buskers. The smell of pot hung in the air. Next day, same thing. Day after, same thing. Pleasant but repetitive.

The warmth of June was upon us, even in forever-chilly San Francisco. In a few days we were set to join together with the collective human be-in at the Solstice and usher in another phase of the age of Aquarius. Until then… same thing.

She had a car. Let's do something different. Let's go somewhere. Parking at a premium, we took a bus down to where she had it parked, then she drove back up to the city. You never notice how bad traffic is when you aren't driving through it. Driving was slow. People milled in the streets. We sat still for long periods as the exhaust polluted the world we were there to save. A gal in a flowered summer dress and trademark floppy hat tapped on my window. She had a strange sales pitch, "Ten cents to change your life."

Ten cents, an amount even within my meager budget. Ten cents for a single drop of what at the time was still legal. Ten cents to change our lives. What a deal. LSD. No thanks. That was the moment she and I realized we were just tourists. We were in the scene but not of it.

So what do tourists do? Let's go to a ball game. Are the Giants in town? Don't know. We bought a paper, found out and headed for Candlestick through more heavy traffic. A couple of cheap upper-deck seats and we were set. I headed out to get us some food. We were at a ball park, so what else, I went for a couple of hot dogs. Two dollars. TWO DOLLARS. We should have bought them on the street for 25¢ and smuggled them in. At a buck each they better be some good dogs. Actually, they were.

The Giants lost. I think they played St. Louis. Can't remember the score. The main thing I do remember is those expensive hot dogs. A buck for a hot dog and ten cents for an LSD trip. Sic transit gloria sixties.

Skinny Dippin'

Bloomington, Indiana is the home of Indiana University, where I attended college. It is also the home of limestone deposits which are mined and used to construct many of the buildings on the campus. The area is peppered with abandoned quarries in secluded areas making them perfect locations for that most popular of all collegiate sports – skinny dippin'. It took some doing, but one hot spring day I talked my girlfriend into going for, shall we say, Olympic Gold.

A buddy had told me where the place was and cautioned it was hard to get to. I followed his directions down a path that he had mistakenly called a road as tree branches reached out and scraped the sides of my old but faithful '63 Chevy. Finally we came to a clearing and saw the quarry in all its magnificence. I guess you could say I drove my Chevy to the levee.

We got out, inspected the place for interlopers and, finding none, took the plunge, sans attire, into the really, really cold water. We sort of got used to it as we swam out to a debris pile forming an island several yards off shore.

Just as we got there I saw a van pull up to a place maybe 100 yards away from where we had come in.  Maybe a half dozen kids got out and started to set up things for their own little party. I was then reminded I had promised this place was so remote no one else could find it. I offered to swim back and get our clothes and bring hers back. No dice. She didn't want to wear wet clothes. So we decided to head back and put on a show for our new neighbors.

Just as we started back, however, the whole gang pulled up stakes hopped back in the van and left. So, without embarrassing incident, we swam back, dried off (we did think to bring towels) and got dressed. I told her I wanted to find out how that van got into the place without having to come through the jungle route we took. So we hiked down to that area and found a "normal" road which led right up to the place. I made a mental note to speak to my buddy about the directions he gave me.

We discovered something else at the spot and at the same time figured out why the other group had left. There was a "no swimming" sign warning that the water was contaminated, polluted and unsafe to the max. Bummer.

There was no way to drive down to the "normal" road so through much maneuvering I turned my behemoth of a car around and re-negotiated the jungle path.

Back in town we stopped for some ice cream at the "Big Wheel," a local greasy spoon that was for some reason a favorite of the college kids.

We ordered the ice cream and cokes and sat there for a while decompressing and reliving the adventure – which, of course was all my fault. That's OK. At that point I would have said it was definitely worth the trouble.

That's when the rash started to show up. It didn't affect me too much but she got pretty splotchy on her arms and legs… and, I assume, elsewhere. 

I felt responsible and insisted on taking her to the health center. There, we went through the whole story and the staff wanted to know what precisely was in the water, but we, of course couldn't say. I told them we just read the sign and got out of there. At that point the lecherous offending boyfriend whose rash had subsided was thrown out.

In spite of the cold water, lack of privacy and rash, the relationship survived… for a while, anyway.

Thoughts on Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving, Brothers. I know as you read this the pain of facing another blue Monday is much tempered by the joy of the approaching three-day work week. Admit it… you're going to take Friday off, aren't you? I've never made that my habit. My philosophy is it's easier to get things done when the office is as empty and quiet as a ghost town. Besides, that's Black Friday. You can sit in the safety of your office while throngs at Walmart and Target trample themselves to snag that big-screen TV they don't really need.

But we all know there is a deeper meaning to the holiday. It's a time we can set aside to be with friends and family, and to be thankful for those relationships as well as the bounty of our country, which most of us share.

And What's Masonic about that? Many lodges celebrate with a Thanksgiving dinner or, like my own Lodge, provide one to a deserving family or group who might not have the means to celebrate with the rest of us. It's a springboard into a season of giving in which we can practice the second of our tenets of brotherly love relief and truth.

We all know the story of the "Pilgrims and Indians" celebrating the "First Thanksgiving." First in the "New World" it may have been, but it was not the first United States Thanksgiving since, at that time, the US did not exist. Brother George Washington proclaimed that first US official Thanksgiving celebration in 1789, when he declared November 26 to be set aside not to be thankful for the nation's bounty but to give thanks for the newly adopted Constitution. Washington also enjoined people to "...unite in most humbly offering our prayers and supplications... beseeching [God] to pardon our national and other transgressions.”

Although celebrated off-and-on, usually unofficially, from that time forward, Thanksgiving did not become a permanent official US holiday until Brother Franklin D. Roosevelt proclaimed it so in 1939.

So, once again, happy Thanksgiving, Brothers. May we all reflect on what he have to be thankful for as we celebrate happily passed out in front of a football game in our tryptophan-induced stupors.