Sometime during the last cold snap of the endless winter of 2013 – 2014, the windshield in our PT Cruiser cracked. Nothing specific happened. It just cracked. It was right before I was supposed to go into the hospital and it was not a crack that made using the car impossible, so it would have to wait until later … whenever that turned out to be.
This morning, later arrived. My son made all the arrangements. About an hour ago, he got a call from Tim, the glass guy.
“This car doesn’t have a cracked windshield,” Tim said.
“I’m sure it doesn’t,” Owen replied. “Because our car is here in the driveway. I’m leaning on it. What color is the car you took?”
“Maroon,” said Tim.
“You took my neighbor’s car,” Owen said.
There was some back and forth as Tim ascertained that Owen wasn’t just screwing around, that he really had taken the wrong car. A few minutes ago, he came and took our car, presumably having returned the neighbor’s car before he discovered it was missing and called the cops.
I can only imagine what would have happened had the neighbor’s car had a cracked windshield too. Hmm.
How small is small enough? Icicles this past winter hung from the gutters above my office window, naturally black and white, just needing a bit of brightening and increased contrast.
Are the icicles small enough to be small subjects? I guess it depends on your definition of small … and compared to what.
How many places have you lived? You can share the number of physical residences and/or the number of cities.
Okay. This is a real challenge since I’ve moved around quite a bit in two different countries and several American states.
I was born in Brooklyn, New York. I have no idea where I first lived, but eventually we moved to Rose Street in Freeport, Long Island. By the time I was 4, my parents had bought a house in Holliswood, Queens.
I lived there until I turned 16, at which point I moved to a shared house near Hofstra College in Hempstead. I wasn’t there long because I got married at 18 and Jeff and I moved to an apartment on Front Street in Hempstead. We were there just a year, then bought a cute little house on Bedford Avenue in nearby Uniondale. Eight years there.
The house was friendly, cozy … but had only 1 bathroom — which proved to be a problem. We balanced the cost of adding a bath against selling and getting a bigger house and bigger house won.
So we moved to a big Georgian-style house on Dikeman Street in Hempstead. Built in 1928, it was a classic old house — a classic money pit too. We loved it.
It needed tons of work. Endless. No matter. I loved it anyhow. But life was changing. Jeff got kidney cancer, then had a heart attack … and I needed to move on with life. I wanted a different life, so I left the house and the U.S. — and everything else — to Jeff. I took my son and moved to Israel.
The first place I lived was the absorption center in Gilo, outside Jerusalem. Almost in Bethlehem, really. Then, after getting involved with the guy I would so unwisely marry, moved to his house on Rehov Peterson, then to a new apartment and finally to an old Arab-build place on Derech Hevron, just down the road from the Old City.
Years passed. I was going home. First stop, Jeff’s house on Dikeman Street, then a tiny rental apartment in Waltham, then a condo I bought (again, unwisely) in Lynn. After that, Garry and I were together and moved into his place at Charles River Park in downtown Boston.
A year later, we found a tiny (adorable and cockroach-infested) apartment on Grove Street on Beacon Hill.
No, not done yet.
We bought a triplex townhouse in Roxbury. It was a great place and the ONLY home I’ve ever had with a really fine kitchen and enough closets. But then there were dogs and the big dig and we fled Boston for the far suburbs landing in the Blackstone Valley. Here we have remained.
What type of music relaxes you the most?
Classical for relaxing, but folk, country and some rock for listening! I’m eclectic.
If you could instantly become fluent in another language, what would that language be and why?
Spanish, because a lot of people speak it and I don’t.
If you could fly or breathe under water what would you prefer?
Not an easy choice, but flying has to be the winner here. How can I help it? To soar in the sky, free of the earth? Got to do it!
Time for an update!
The visiting nurse made her final visit today. I am officially able to be on my own. I have been assured no matter how I feel, I’m doing really well.
All four of my incisions itch. The big one down my chest, the medium one on my shoulder and the two smaller ones on my left leg. I dare not scratch but oh, how badly I wish to claw at those incisions!
My chest still hurts. I can’t pick anything up. It’s an interesting cocktail of sensation. My guts are in knots because it appears I have picked up a case of The Stomach Virus That’s Going Around. Garry has it, so it shouldn’t be any surprise that I have it too, but the timing could be better. Keeps things lively in an unpleasant way.
It turns out what’s been making the chest pain worse is my computer. Not the computer per se. It’s the picking up and putting back that’s making my sternum hurt, so now I have to ask Garry to hand the computer to me, then put it back when I’m done.
It’s almost as bad as needing help to go to the toilet. Okay, not quite that bad, but bad enough. And this is my ultrabook, the lightest computer I own. Not counting the tablet which is under-powered and runs Windows 8, a hateful operating system that renders it even more useless than it would otherwise be. Seriously useless.
But — I digress.
I am getting better. I can’t see the changes from one day to the next, but I can see the differences from week to week. I’m a lot stronger than I was, but it’s infuriatingly slow.
Impatience has always been my nemesis. This time I have to find patience. I can’t let myself get stressed, can’t push the process. It takes time for bones to heal, for a new valve to settle down, for a reshaped ventricle to work properly. It’s only three weeks since I came home from the hospital. It will be at least another seven before I can haul a laptop without help.
I’d heave a sigh, but it would hurt.
I used to have expectations. Now, I expect little, but am grateful for anything that falls my way. If I wake up and am not in severe pain … if I can breathe in and out without coughing and choking. Finding Garry breathing softly beside me.
The future will have to take care of itself. Being alive and being with those I love is the center of the world. Given one thing and another, most of the things I used to want or expect seem trivial. Even nonsensical. Certainly meaningless.
Being alive, being loved, breathing air and having a future as a living person? That’s meaningful. The rest is commentary.
And that’s how I feel today. Ask me the same question again in a few weeks or months — and I know you will — and maybe I’ll feel entirely different. It’s magic!
How do you handle conflict? Boldly and directly? Or, do you prefer a more subtle approach.
- – - -
My life is completely free of conflict so I do not need to handle it. In my conflict-free life, there is no strife, to anger, no need to confront or deal with anything at all. Honestly, I am calm. I breathe slowly, carefully. If something seems likely to upset me, I chant to “head it off at the pass” so to speak.
My doctors have told me I must be calm. So I declare all the simmering rage inside me does not exist. I deny it! I am not upset or angry. Not me.
OM MANI PADME OM I chant as I float gently, calm as a flat pond on a windless day, floating on zephyr breezes. Like a feather, light and airy. Inwardly snarling. A grim, angry feather with issues.
Om mani padme om …
After months in a cryo-tube, they finally woke me. What a headache! Sheesh. And holy moly, I really had to go to the bathroom, after which I needed not so much a shower as a sandblasting. That cryo gunk is sticky and it gets into places you just wouldn’t … well, maybe you would … believe.
Then there was food. Never in my entire life have I wanted to eat a starship, including the wings. Talk about an appetite. And it wasn’t just me. Everyone had just been wakened and I’m sure we all felt the same way: hollow.
A little piece of T.S. Eliot was spinning in my head:
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
I vaguely remembered more of the poem.
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
I sure did hope that was not a prediction for our explorations to come. Because given what bad shape the earth was in, we needed more than a merely decent place. We needed a fertile planet on which crops could grow. Where the battered human race could remember itself, its better self. We hadn’t been better than cockroaches in a long, long time.
Finally after eating for what seemed an eternity, we donned our lime green suits — the lightweight ones for worlds that were not inherently hostile, merely unknown — and they opened the doors and we emerged. Into paradise.
It was breathtaking. The colors were a bit odd with that pink sky and pale blue clouds. And the plants were all kinds of colors, like a flower garden. Hell, the whole planet was a garden. So we named it “Eden” which I thought was a mistake. We got kicked out of Eden once already. But hey, what do I know? I don’t make the Big Decisions. Way above my pay grade. You might say I was just along for the ride.
Before we reboarded the ship, I had a little thought. I dawdled. Picked up the litter we’d left behind. I found a big piece of cardboard. Must have been a box of some sort, but it would make a pretty good sign. I found a piece of wood to attach it to. I had a nail gun in my tool kit as well as a big marking pen — fortunately it hadn’t dried out and worked in the lower gravity of this new planet. New to us, but home to so much life. As Earth had once been before we stripped her of everything but our trash.
I planted my sign near where we’d landed. I was sure future expeditions would land in more or less the same spot. Then I wrote my message. In my best handwriting. Using huge letters so no one could miss it — or mistake its meaning.
Morning. Although I want to sleep late, I almost never do. On summer mornings, I drink my coffee and watch the early sun filter through my woods. Each day, the world is made anew.
Cat Stevens’ rendition of this traditional Christian hymn is beautiful, as is the presentation. I ask that you please leave your prejudices behind. It is a beautiful song of praise.
It’s the bonus you get if you arise early. Late sleepers, make an occasional exception and see the world in a different light.
Once upon a time, in a far away land, The Boss assigned me a secretary. Not part of a pool, but a whole person. With a master’s degree from Mt. Holyoke. Pretty daunting, me with my little B.A. from Hofstra. So I said to The Boss:
“What is she supposed to do?”
“You write, she does the typing.”
He apparently thought I wrote in longhand. On paper.
So I had a secretary who was supposed to type for me? I was supposed to write longhand? I can barely hand write a shopping list. I can’t think without a keyboard. But I had a secretary.
She was American, like me. Thin. Tall. Blonde. (Unlike me!) Very nervous. Twitchy.
We discovered a shared passion for horses and went riding together. She rode a lot better than me. She had her own helmet, crop, jacket … the whole regalia. I had jeans and a pair of battered boots. I’d never worn a helmet.
About the same time, I had a less heartwarming revelation. I discovered my secretary was a dedicated nose picker – and she ate it.
She was fast and sneaky, but when you spend every working day with someone, it would have been impossible to not realize she had a long, nervous finger up her nose all the time.
I suppose everyone probably picks their nose sometimes – but this was different. She couldn’t stop. She admitted eventually she’d caused permanent damage to the lining of her nose from constantly attacking it with her fingernails.
Our offices were located on the fourth floor of a warehouse. No elevator, so you got exercise. You didn’t have to go out for lunch. It was catered, delivered daily and we all ate at a long table amidst many prayers. The boss was an orthodox Jew from Belgium. Other than Judaism, he believed in feeding his employees and giving everyone lots of vacation time. It was a good job; he was one of the kindest, most decent men for whom I ever worked.
Two floors below us was a chocolate factory. They made all kinds dark chocolate-covered citrus fruits (my favorite was grapefruit). If you were Kosher, you could eat them with meat or dairy. And oh my, they were so good. Around two in the afternoon, they fired up the chocolate vats and the smell would start drifting upward. I sent my secretary to get me chocolate. I didn’t know what else to do with her and watching her ream out her nose was getting to me. By mid afternoon, I not only needed chocolate. I needed a break.
She was such a nice woman. Smart. Well-educated. She objected to being sent on errands. I sighed. I didn’t really have much else for her to do. The nose-picking was wearing me down. I found myself trying to not look at her lest I catch her digging with a finger up to a second knuckle. One day I was sure she’d hit brain matter.
Finally, she refused to get me chocolate and I had no work for her. Moreover, she was unable to keep her fingers where they belonged. I went to the boss. I said I felt my secretary needed to move on, perhaps to someone else in the company who needed her services more than I. He looked at me.
“What is the real problem?”
“She picks her nose. And eats it.”
I thought he was going to toss his cookies on the desk. That was the end of the story. In reality, not only did I not need a secretary, no one did. It was a computer development company. We all worked on keyboards. So her departure was inevitable. I just sped it up by a few weeks.
I didn’t mention the picking thing, but she knew. She also had to know she was underemployed. I’ve been in that position. You know when you’re redundant. No one will pay you indefinitely if you aren’t worth your paycheck. Unless your mom or dad owns the company.
Still, if it hadn’t been for the nose picking and her flat refusal to go down to the first floor and get me chocolate, she’d have had a little more time.
This sounds SO familiar! Wait, it is. Change a few vendor names and voilà, it’s MY story, maybe YOUR story too. Thieves and liars, all of them.
Originally posted on Lloyd Lofthouse:
Here’s the latest demand dated April 10, 2014: “Return all equipment listed below, including all cables and remotes associated with these items (unless needed for replacement). Note: If you are disconnecting all of your Wireless Receivers, then you must also return the Wireless Access Point device (connected to your gateway).”
I have no idea what they’re talking about. If AT&T thinks I’m going to crawl under the house to retrieve the cables their people installed for the slower internet speed that was supposed to be faster, I have news for them that will be apparent by the time you finish reading this post.
Back in March, soon after we filed for divorce with AT&T…
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Not much is blooming right now. The crocuses are gone. I saw the crocus, but wasn’t able to do anything but look at them. Most of the daffodils are gone too, but these few have hung around, just to keep us from getting crazy from a lack of color in the garden. I’m not up to much, but I snapped a couple of shots of these, just so spring won’t completely pass me by!
These are my first pictures since all the surgery. No great shakes, but something to brighten the day.
Today is Patriot’s Day. Here in Massachusetts, this day commemorates – and re-enacts — the battles of Lexington and Concord and the beginning of our Revolutionary War. And we have a marathon too … in Boston.
But this post is about the other revolution — the American Industrial Revolution — which took place around the same time … and had perhaps even more profound effects on our world.
America: Born Bankrupt
America was born bankrupt. We won the revolution, but lost everything else. Our economy was dependent on Great Britain. We produced raw material, but Great Britain turned those materials into goods for the world’s markets.
Not merely did we depend on the British to supply us with finished goods we could not produce ourselves, we depended on British banks, British shipping, and British trade routes.
Everything has a price and we had no money. We had hoped we could reach an agreement with England short of war and had there been a less intransigent monarch on the throne at the time, we might have been able to do so. Despite the Massachusetts “Sam Adams faction” who were hellbent for battle, most colonists felt at least some allegiance to England.
We had no “American identity” because there was no America with which to identify. Nor was the yearning to breathe free burning in every heart. What the colonists of North America wanted was simple. They wanted the rights of free Englishmen. We wanted seats in British Parliament. We wanted the right to vote on taxes and other policies that affected colonial life. A deal should have been reached, but George III was not a sensible, reasonable or judicious king.
The result was war, the staggering loss to England of their wealthiest colonies and birth of a new nation.
That we won the war was astonishing. We had little in the way of arms and no navy. We were sparsely populated. Existing militias were untrained, undisciplined, little better than rabble. That George Washington was able to turn this into an army was no mean feat. No wonder they wanted him to be the first President.
French military support enabled us to beat the British. It was a loan, not a gift. We agreed to pay it back, so the French revolution was an unexpected and deeply gratifying development. It was like having the bank that holds your mortgage disappear taking your mortgage with it. It vastly improved our debt to income ratio. When Napoleon came to power and suggested we repay our war debt, we said “What debt?”
Our shipping industry was in its infancy. We had few ships or sailors, minimal access to world trade. The British ruled the seas and being soreheads, refused to share it with us. It would take many years before we could challenge their ascendancy on the seas.
What Did We Have?
Slaves and land. Sugar and rum.
If you who think slavery was an entirely southern institution, you’re wrong. Although slaves lived mostly in the southern colonies, they were brought to these shores by New England sea captains, held in New York, Boston, and other northern cities, sold to slavers at markets in the north, then sent south to be sold again to individual owners. The entire economy of the nascent country was based on slaves and their labor. The institution of slavery could not have persisted had it not been supported by business interests in the north.
The new-born United States had, for all practical purposes, no economy. We were pre-industrial when European countries were well into the modern industrial period. We had no factories. We had no national bank, currency, credit, courts, laws or central government. Our only thriving industry were slaves.
Although there was an abolitionist movement, it was tiny, more sentimental than real.
North and south, slaves made people rich. Not the slaves, of course, but other people. North and south, fortunes were made selling human beings, then profiting from their labor. When it came time to write the Constitution, to turn a bunch of individual colonies into one country, the Devil’s compromise was needed. Abolishing slavery would doom any attempt to pass the constitution … so slavery became law and the groundwork was laid for the bloodiest war America would ever fight.
It would twist and distort American history, shape our politics, society, culture, and social alignments. Its legacy remains with us today and probably always will.
So How Come We Didn’t Find a Better Way?
Question: If our Founding Fathers were so smart, how come they didn’t see that slavery would come back to bite us in the ass?
Answer: They knew it was wrong and knew that it would result in civil war. In other words, they did knew it would bite us in the ass. They could keep slavery and form a strong nation — or eliminate slavery and end up with two weak countries, one slave, one free. They chose what they thought was the lesser of the two evils.
Was it the lesser evil? Hard to say and it’s a bit late to second guess the past. It was clear from the get-go there was no way we were going to form a nation if slavery was made illegal. From private writings by members of the continental congress, it’s clear they knew the issue of slavery would eventually be resolved by war. Long before 1776, slavery was the polarizing issue in the colonies. So “The Great Compromise” was put into place, the Constitution was approved and a later generation fought the war.
Right went head to head with the bottom line and lost.
Eighty years later, 630,000 lives (more or less) would be the butcher’s bill for the compromises made in 1789. An ocean of blood would be the cost of ending America’s traffic in human lives. Many more years would pass before this country’s non-white population would see anything resembling justice, much less equality.
When you dine with the Devil, bring a long spoon.
So About Those Mills …
Slaves, rum, and sugar — the triangle of trade that kept America’s economy alive — was profitable for plantation owners, sea captains, and other slave traders, but it didn’t generate a whole lot of entry-level job opportunities for average working people. A lot of people needed work, even more needed trade goods and dependable sources of income.
Most people didn’t own ships and if they did, were disinclined to take up slaving. It was never a profession for “nice folks” and a fair number of people found it distasteful. Decent people might live off the labor of slaves, but the actual process of buying and selling human beings was more than they could stomach.
So as great political and legal minds gathered in Philadelphia to draft a document to build a nation, other great minds were seeking ways to make money. It’s the American way.
In one of the stranger coincidences of history, the Constitution went into effect on March 4, 1789 while simultaneously, the American Industrial Revolution took shape on the banks of the Blackstone River.
Moses Brown had been fighting his own war. He was battling the Blackstone. With a 450 foot drop over a 46-mile course — an average drop of about 10 feet per mile — the Blackstone River is a powerhouse. Not a wide river, its sharp drop combined with its narrowness and meandering path give it much more energy than a river of this size would normally generate.
It invited development. The question was how.
Through 1789, as the Constitution was gaining approval throughout the former British colonies, Brown wrangled the river, trying to build a cotton thread factory in Pawtucket, RI at the falls on the Blackstone River. He was sure he could harness the river to power his mill, but as the end of the 1789 approached, the score stood at Blackstone River – 1, Moses Brown – 0.
America had her welcome mat out in those days. We needed more people and especially people with industrial skills. We weren’t picky. All immigrants were welcomed. This turned out to be a stroke of luck for Moses Brown.
In December 1789, Samuel Slater – a new immigrant from England — began working for Brown. Slater had spent years working at an English textile mill. He recognized that Brown’s machinery was never going to work. Slater had fine engineering skills. In under a year, he’d redesigned and built a working mill on the Blackstone River.
By 1790, Slater’s Mill was up and running, the first successful water-powered cotton-spinning factory in the United States. Slater’s Mill proved you could make money in New England doing something other than whaling, fishing, or running rum and slaves. Entrepreneurs hopped on the idea like fleas on a dog. Mills were an immediate success. New England was inhospitable to agriculture, but fertile for factories.
Mills grew along the Blackstone from Worcester to Providence, then sprouted by the Merrimack in Lowell, and eventually, throughout New England. Wherever the rivers ran, mills and factories followed.
The Blackstone Canal
On the Blackstone, mill owners urgently sought a better way to move their goods.
The features that made the Blackstone a natural for generating power made it useless for shipping. The only other choice — horse-drawn wagons — was slow and expensive. the trip took 2 to 3 days over dirt roads from the northern part of the valley to Providence.
When the weather turned bad, the trip was impossible. All of which led to the building of the Blackstone Canal. Meant as a long-term solution, it actually turned out to be no more than a short-term temporary fix … but it was an impressive undertaking.
What Does This Have To Do With Slavery?
Mills brought employment to the north. It created a real industrial base that would give the north the ability to fight the civil war … and win. It started with a river, continued with a canal, expanded with the railroads. Which is why the Blackstone Valley is a National Historic Corridor and known as the birthplace of the American Industrial Revolution … a revolution that brought the U.S. into the modern world and positioned us to become a top dog on the international scene.
Building the Canal
The Blackstone Canal took 4 years to build, from 1824 to 1828. The main canal runs alongside the Blackstone. In some places, the canal and the river are one. There is an extensive network of small canals, many on tributary rivers like the Mumford. The main canal was designed to handle large barges. It travels in a relatively straight line from Worcester to Providence.
The smaller canals allowed mills to move goods to places not immediately on the Blackstone. Small barges could move cargo between towns and mills.
Big barges were faster and cheaper than horse-drawn wagons. A single barge could haul as much as 35 tons of cargo and only needed two horses going downstream.
The canal system remains largely intact. Trails along the canals where horses towed barges have become walking paths. The barges are gone, but small boats can enjoy the open stretches of canal and river.
Ultimately, railroads were the game-changer. As soon as rails from Worcester to Boston, and Worcester to Providence were built, the canals were abandoned. Business boomed.
The Blackstone River was lined with mills and factories at the end of the 1800s. The Blackstone supplied the hydro power and in return, the river was used to dispose of industrial waste and sewage.
By the early 1900s, the Blackstone River in Massachusetts was grossly polluted. Fortunately for the river, though not necessarily for the valley’s residents, this was also the beginning of the end of the textile industry in the northeast.
As of 1923, the majority of nation’s cotton was grown, spun and woven down south. Without its mills and factories, the valley’s population began to shrink.
In 1971, the Blackstone River was labeled “one of America’s most polluted rivers” by Audubon magazine. It was a low point for the region. It was time to clean up the mess.
We’re still cleaning up. Although not as polluted as it was, the watershed has a long way to go. The river’s tributaries are less polluted than the Blackstone itself because against all logic and reason, waste-water is still being discharged from a sewage treatment plant in Millbury. It’s hard to fathom what reasoning, if any, those who favor pouring sewage into our river are using. The fight never ends.
Good news? The birds and fish are back.
American eagles nest in my woods. Herons and egrets wade in the shallows to catch fish that breed there. The river is alive despite man’s best efforts to kill it.
So there we were in the car driving home on a lovely almost-spring day also known as Easter. I was mentally shuffling through the heap of junk I call my brain, trying to remember all ten of the commandments.
I found myself stopped at around seven or eight, depending on how I divided the “How to behave to God” section. I turned to Garry, my good Lutheran husband and asked him if he knows all ten commandments and he replied, with some irritation, he had to pay attention to traffic. There wasn’t any traffic, except for one very slow driver in front of us. I suppose Garry was trying hard to avoid ramming him.
Finally, he admitted he didn’t know all of them either.
“It’s a sad state of affairs,” I pointed out, “When two such educated souls as us cannot list all ten commandments.”
“Well there’s a lot of stuff about not making idols and coveting and all.”
“Yeah, and taking a day off once a week.”
So when I got home, I looked them up.
It turns out there really are a bunch of “how to behave to God” commandments and not all religions divide them up the same way. You can come up with as many as 15 (à la Mel Brooks “History of the World.”) or as few as 8. It depends on how you look at them and where you punctuate the sentences.
Following are the Big Ten according to most Protestant sects and a second list which are my streamlined easier-to-remember set.
The Ten Commandments (Exodus 20:2-17 NKJV)
- “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. You shall have no other gods before Me.
- “You shall not make for yourself a carved image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; you shall not bow down to them nor serve them. For I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generations of those who hate Me, but showing mercy to thousands, to those who love Me and keep My Commandments.
- “You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless who takes His name in vain.
- “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord your God. In it you shall do no work: you, nor your son, nor your daughter, nor your male servant, nor your female servant, nor your cattle, nor your stranger who is within your gates. For in six days the Lord made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, and rested the seventh day. Therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and hallowed it.
- “Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long upon the land which the Lord your God is giving you.
- “You shall not murder.
- “You shall not commit adultery.
- “You shall not steal.
- “You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
- “You shall not covet your neighbor’s house; you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, nor his male servant, nor his female servant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that is your neighbor’s.”
I thought I’d make them easier to remember, so here’s my take on them. Remember, mine are not etched in stone. For that matter, except for the ones Moses got on Sinai, none of them are.
The Serendipity Top Ten
- I’m God. The One and Only. Don’t forget it, not for a moment.
- Idols are O-U-T.
- No using God’s name to swear. Or maybe no swearing. I’m not sure. Maybe both.
- Take a break on the seventh day of your week. Really it doesn’t matter what day you choose because when I started making the world, there were no calendars. So take your pick, then stick to it. Everyone gets the same day off, including your family, guests, slaves, servants and animals. No work. Got that?
- Take care of your parents.
- Don’t murder anyone.
- Don’t cheat on your spouse. YOU know what I mean.
- Don’t steal stuff.
- Don’t lie.
- Don’t envy other people’s stuff. You’ve got your own.
Is that better? I’m just here to help.
They never ever blink!