Life In A Different Time

As the President of the United States delivered his State of the Union Address, the parson was settled on the sofa with Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion curled up beside him. The parson listened intently but not so intently his mind did not wander.

The parson remembered the time when, as a pre-teen long before the word “re-cycle” was part of the American conversation, his daddy lectured him for not saving the Coke bottle to turn in for the deposit.

The parson remembered the day he got home from school late because he'd been kept in detention at school. His dad listened to his explanation. His dad agreed the teacher was wrong and the parson was right, but his dad punished him anyway because he'd not spoken respectfully in his protest to the teacher.

The parson remembered the night as the family gathered in the den to watch a movie on the black and white television. The movie was about a company of soldiers bogged down in the horrors of war in Italy. At a particular tragic scene in the drama the parson turned to see tears streaming down his dad's cheeks. He couldn't articulate it then but that night he understood the pathos of war and sacrifice.

The times were different then. Perhaps it was the result of being raised by a generation who had learned the hard way what sacrifice meant. Perhaps that generation born in the Great Depression and called upon to engage in the largest war the world has ever known were more determined than any other to make the world different for their children. Perhaps it simply was a period of greater civility, when the President of the United States was never referred to by his last name unless it was proceeded by his title. Perhaps is was a time more akin to that fictional tavern “Cheers” where everybody in the neighborhood knew your name. Most likely, it was all of that. But it was more.

It was a time when everyone was treated respectfully unless they'd proven beyond doubt they did not deserve respect. It was a time when one stood when one's elders walked into the room. It was a time when the neighbors would correct the wayward child whose parent's were unaware without fear of reprisal. It was a time when parents actually attended the PTA meeting, when grandparents lived with their children, when … well, the parson thought to himself, it was a time that when remembered birthed nostalgia.

The parson didn't watch the State of the Union address on the television. He watched it on his laptop. It's the same laptop he uses to write his blog, his sermons, to inform himself of the news of the day, to impersonally keep in touch with others. And it is the mechanism by which the parson isolates himself from interaction with people in the way he interacted in the days of his youth.

Charlie Brown, somehow knowing the speech was over, raised himself from his curled position. He stretched. He hopped off the porch. He went to the door and then looked back at the parson with a look of “Well ….” on his face.

The parson rose, opened the door to allow Charlie Brown to go outside to do what he had to do. The parson waited on the porch. He stared down the hill on which he lived toward the house of the neighbors across the street. Their light was on. The were up. Perhaps, they'd been watching the President's address also.

The parson stared and stared and as he stared he remembered again those days of his youth. And the parson made a vow. Tomorrow, he vowed, he would go down the the neighbor's house, knock on their door, and proclaim, “Hi, I'm the parson. I love across the street. What's your name?”

Comments

[Pastorbecca.wordpress.com]

I know it's probably a typo, but Parson, I am certain that you love across the street from your neighbors.

I've lived in three houses in two years (ah the joys of a housing allowance and rental, rather than a parsonage). In the first house, where we lived for two years, I never knew the names of the neighbors to my right, left, across the street, or anywhere else on my road. At the second house, where we lived for six months, the neighbors were abusive and cruel, called us names, insulted my mother and my kids, and were the primary reason we moved. In our current home, every neighbor on the street visited us the first week-- some the first day-- with cookies or wine or just a friendly hello, introduced themselves, and welcomed us to the neighborhood. Three houses. Only one home.