Mathilda and Max: My New Imaginary Friends

Writing about myself is, although egotistical, ethically acceptable. Moreover, I think it’s OK to say “Suzanne did X at the winery…” or “Ron ran out and took photos for me.” And, I think it’s OK to poke fun at Brandi and Jessie for encouraging me to attend a Jazzercise class, even though I about died half way through.

This blog is about me, and therefore, of necessity, about the people with whom I interact. However, I don’t have the right to refer directly to an individual’s personal situation, even if I use that situation as a thinking point for myself.

An example is several days ago, when I mentioned the death of the mother of a friend. And I mentioned the friend by first name. I wasn’t announcing her mother’s death; rather, I was spinning off my own thoughts of my own father’s death this time last year. Regardless, in retrospect, I don’t think that I had the right to use this person’s name, even if it is only the first name. She and her personal experience came into my life, and I incorporated her name into my own story. I feel uncomfortable doing so.

Therefore, I have two new imaginary friends; Mathilda and Max. To the extent that it doesn’t become confusing or ridiculous, Max and Mathilda will be stand-ins for real people in my life. I have no idea of Max’s origins but I’m pretty sure that Mathilda comes from Jacques Brel.

So whenever Mathilda or Max appear, know they are the faces of real people.

“The VOICE” + “The FINGER” = Sheer Terror

Pretty much every teacher has “The Voice” a gift to be used only upon the rare occasion that a student miscreant is just about to cross over the line. My teaching repertoire also included “The Finger.” No, not that ordinary finger much loved by the willfully stupid, generally used to indicate an automobile has displeased the giver of the finger.
I’ve known all along that both my version of “The Voice” and “The Finger” were genetically instilled by my father, and now I have visual evidence. After all, Daddy was a Marine in the invasion force of Okinawa. Donald Trump, eat your heart out!

No, it just sucks.

I was sitting down to draft this post when I received an email from a friend telling me her mother died on Monday, the viewing is today, and the funeral on Friday. She said they like to drag things out.

I'm deeply sorry that her mother has died. It's hard, and the pain is deep.

When Daddy died last July 30th, we heard deeply felt words of comfort from many wonderful people. Many were from a Christian perspective. "He's in a better place." "He's [points finger to the sky]. "He's with the Lord."

I know these people were trying to soften the agony of Daddy's going. And I know they truly believed what they were saying: that Daddy was with Jesus, and that's the best place to be.

Reading the obits in the Wise newspaper, The Coalfield Progress, today, I found this:

"Although Cricket will be greatly missed by her loved ones, we rejoice
in the promise of our risen savior "We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord." (2 Cor 5:8)"

This time last year, I would have welcomed that calm acceptance of Daddy's death, that wonderful knowledge that he is indeed in a better place. And he may be. My guess, though, is that he'd just as soon be here flying his airplane, working in his garden, lifting weights at the gym....living rather than dead. He'd choose Dylan Thomas over Jesus:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

We'd certainly prefer that he be here with us, being "present" with the Lord be damned.

And last summer, after one too many soothing "He's with the Lord.", I turned to Susie and said sotto voce "No, it just sucks."

So to Sue, who's mourning her mother's going, I have no words of comfort. It just sucks.

Words, words, words........

Dear friend Steven gently suggested the blog could benefit from fewer words and more people pix.

I'm working through in my own mind the ethical issues about including photographs, so in the meantime, here's Greatgreat-grandfather Nathan McClure Leslie...

...Rather a handsome man, I suppose, for a Baptist preacher slave-owner. Yes, godfearing Nathan owned slaves, and Virginia Baptists 1865 - 1902 indicates that the Reverend Nathan's ownership of another human being was in keeping with the will of God. Not quite sure whose God or which God, but Reverend Nathan owned slaves.

According to the Religious Herald, the weekly newspaper of Virginia Baptists, "the Negro is no more the white man's brother than the owl is the sister of the eagle or the ass is the brother of the horse." True, the ass isn't the brother of the horse; that would be rather incestuous. Nevermind. Preacher Nathan clearly had it on good authority that ownership of those created by God as inferior was acceptable. Apparently, the outcome of the Wah of Nawthn Agrushun didn't sit too well with Nathan and he and almost all of his offspring, not including my great-grandfather, along with his second wife, decamped to Texas around 1880, a place hospitable to the bereft losers of the Wah.

(I did add several photos to Two Judys, but am feeling guilty as I stole them from the site of the wedding photographer, and while I don't mind ripping off the man, stealing from a woman trying to make her way in the world is downright wrong....but they're still there, if you're interested.

An Aside

Rain on a tin roof.......childhood, grandmother, comfort, warmth.