1249 Mind and Morality

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

At http://wjh1.wjh.harvard.edu/~moral/index.html, you can take a test on moral choices. Be careful not to add possibilities to the descriptions, like "Well, I could call 911." You have to go with the situation exactly as described.

Taking that first test opens the portal to a flock of other tests you can choose.

My taking the tests and examining the results helped to explain to me why I find most other people to be too judgemental, too ready to punish mere thoughts, and too ready to ascribe "bad" thoughts and motives to others.

Because they mostly do.

Have fun. (You probably will not get the same questions I did.)

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Not really related to the above, a separate thought engendered by the court case on TV at the moment:

I am always amazed when someone is accused of something heinous, and friends and relatives respond to the charges with, "Oh, that's impossible. I know her, and she couldn't possibly do anything like that! She's such a nice person!" And they rally 'round, and defend, and raise money for defense, and spit vitriol and throw rocks at the accusers, and accuse them of lying - all based on their belief that the accusation doesn't fit with what they know of the person.

"I know she didn't do it because I know her and I know she couldn't have done it."

Bullpoopy.

Unless they witnessed the actual act, and saw someone else do it, they don't really know! Everyone has parts to them that no one knows. It always pisses me off when people act like they know another that well, because they don't. We mostly don't even know ourselves that well. It bugs me when people ignore facts in favor of loyalty.

It works the other way, too - when someone suggests that someone else could have done something nasty, and another says, "Oh, yes, I know her and she's quite capable of it", and next thing you know, she did do it, regardless of the lack of any evidence that anything of the kind had ever actually happened!

I don't understand either bunch. I don't understand why it's so difficult to reserve judgement until the facts are in. I'll decide something is likely or unlikely, but not with the passionate sureness of those others.

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This has personal application. An old friend was recently accused of a serious crime. The friend and I had only shortly before reestablished contact - I hadn't seen or heard from him in 40 years. I knew him as a nice and thoughtful guy, and in the forty years since we had been acquainted he had established himself as a pillar of his church and community. The accusation almost destroyed his life, costing him his job just before retirement. (The charges have since been dropped, but his record has not been expunged. This will hang over him for the rest of his life.)

I reserved judgement. I actually felt guilty doing so. He's an old friend. I should stand by him, right? I should have written letters to the court praising him, shouldn't I? That's what everyone expected me to do, wanted me to do. Along with everyone else who wrote letters saying he couldn't possibly have done it because they know him as ... blah blah ... and therefore he couldn't have.

But I really truly don't know him now. I have no basis for judgement whatsoever. I was given some of the facts in the case, which seem to absolve him, but I am too aware that I don't have all the facts.

I don't know what happened, and I have no basis on which to form an opinion or take a stance, and for that, I feel guilty.

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Perhaps this all goes back to our frustration when we kids tried to tell teachers, councilors, doctors, policemen, neighbors about our father and what he did to us, and we got laughed at and pushed away and ignored, because "I know your father, and he's a nice guy. He wouldn't do that. You must have just made him mad."

Anger had nothing to do with it. And he wasn't a nice guy. Not really. He was insane.
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1193 The Uncomfortable Thing

Sunday, April 1, 2007
[4/6 Edit - fixed the date.]

I mentioned that something uncomfortable had happened last weekend, when I went to The Rabbi's 40th anniversary celebration.

Ever since he contacted me, almost two years ago, I'd been wanting to visit, to see him again and meet The Rebbetzin. (I had been searching for what to call her. Rabbess? Rabbette? Rabbit?! Turns out rebbetzin is the proper term for a rabbi's wife. Cool.)

I was happy to get the invitation. It was perfect for a visit. I wouldn't be "putting them out" at all.

He and I had started college in the same class, but I graduated a year early. I wasn't aware that he was dating anyone. When he said that they were married a little less than a year after he graduated, my thought was that he worked fast.

After they renewed their vows in the church, there was a communion. I was probably the only person who didn't get in line. I'm technically not Christian, so I didn't feel it would be right. The couple stood at the front, and spoke to everyone as they came through. I noticed that The Rabbi hugged every person, male and female, young and old. At the end of the service, the couple were at the back, again greeting and hugging everyone as they left. I tacked myself on the very end of the line. When I got up to them, The Rabbi took my hand in both of his, and we three chatted. Smiles, but no hug. I didn't really notice then. I'm not a hugger anyway.

During the reception, they made the rounds. Whenever I spoke with The Rebbetzin with people around, she was gracious and smiled.

I had stayed to help clean up. It also gave me a chance to talk with them a little more. I saw her sitting alone against the wall, looking a bit worn out. Given that she had cooked all the food (and it was all delicious), I wasn't surprised. I went over to chat, started by complimenting the cake, I think, and she didn't smile. I was getting a rather hard look. Finally she interrupted me, and said, "We HAVE met. I visited [The Rabbi] at college, a couple times, and we met then." Still no smile. I was confused, and admitted that I didn't remember. I sputtered some blather - her hard look was confusing - and excused myself to go clear up some more.

Later, I ran into The Rabbi in the kitchen. I told him what she'd said, and he confirmed it. We'd apparently met more than once. I wondered if I had offended her back then. It had to be more than my simply not remembering meeting her (although it does trouble me that I don't).

Well, turns out she was in high school when he was in college, and they had been dating during that whole time. I don't remember him dating anyone. In fact, his roommate was ...um... flamboyant (in the early '60s, that's as specific as anyone would get), and I sometimes wondered if The Rabbi was interested in girls at all. I mean, given that, you'd think I'd remember meeting a girlfriend!

After meeting me, he says she was absolutely convinced that he and I were carrying on a torrid campus affair, and there was nothing he could say to convince her otherwise. She absolutely believed it to her core. Apparently she "forgave" him, because she married him, but he thinks she still believes it.

A surprise to me, to say the least.

So now I feel bad that I went at all. Maybe it would have been better had I taken a date along. Had I known, I wouldn't have gone, and had I gone, I shouldn't have stayed to help clean up. The only thing I didn't do wrong - at least I wore a nice sedate ankle-length little old lady dress, and my hair was tied back.

I felt so bad. I wonder if I put a cloud on her day. I wonder what on earth possessed him to contact me through the college alumni website! That had to annoy her.

I wonder if she gave him a rough time later.

I feel guilty. But I didn't do anything wrong! It's not my fault!

Normally, I'd be writing a nice note thanking them for an enjoyable evening, and wishing them many more years of happiness.

Now I don't know how that would be received.

Phooey. I'm not sure what to do.

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This has been a recurring theme in my life. My best friend in college cut me off completely when she met the man she later married (and they're still married) because she decided I was "after him". I barely even met him. I sent her email after I found her in the college alumni data base, several, in fact, over the past two years, and she has not responded.

After college, my best friend in Gettysburg cut me off completely when she met the man she later married (and they're still married) because she decided I was "after him". I barely even met him.

Several married men have told me that their wives don't want me around, because I'm "after" their husbands.

I'm really really tired of it. I thought all that crap was all behind me, and here it is biting me again.

I mostly didn't date in college. There was Byron, the summer between first and second years. He dropped me because I wouldn't let him so much as open a button, and then he told the most outrageous stories about me. And that was it until my last year when I met Ex#1. And yet, I know definitely of several guys who swear they "scored" with me, that I was easy. To hear some of the stories, half the guys on campus slept with me. And no, it's not that I was too drunk to remember (although that's part of the claims), because I went to exactly two parties with alcohol - one at Penn State and one local - and I'm 100% certain nothing happened at either.

I'm half tempted to just go ahead and fulfill everyone's fantasies. I'd have a lot more fun! But it was that kind of thinking that put me into therapy thirty years ago, and I know now that the fantasies are not me.

Part of the problem is that guys talk about me to their wives/girlfriends, like "Silk says this", "Silk does that". A few guys have told me I'm sensible, and they wish their wives were more like me. Yeah, sure. Then how come I could get so many undeserved rumors all my life, and so few deserved dates?

I was talking with Piper yesterday about something like this, and I asked him if he ever mentions me to his lady, and he said yes, he talks about me all the time. I reacted with horror, and told him to stop immediately. Never never ever mention me to her again!

That way be dragons!
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1184 Home Again

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

[Later edit - I Googled "'Green pepper' mango", and found out it's a coal miner, northeastern Pennsylvania thing. I come by it honestly. See http://www.foodreference.com/html/fmango.html, scroll down to the green comment.]

I'm home.

The ceremony and reception were beautiful. There were probably close to 200 people. They had a full-fledged wedding, their children and grandchildren were the attendants. Flowers everywhere. Their colors were peach, cream, and brown.

The reception was at a fire hall, which was also sumptuously decorated, candles and flowers, chocolate, peach, and cream candies in bowls on the tables, and the absolutely most beautiful wedding cake I've ever seen. Photos when The Rabbi sends them.

They did all the work themselves, which I found amazing. Mrs. Rabbi (note - he's not a rabbi, he's a Methodist minister. "The Rabbi" was his nickname in college, because of one incident, but it stuck because he taught us a lot about how we should "be") even cooked all the food!

It was obvious that they are well loved. They've had some legal and financial problems over the past two years, one of those dramas that people can get caught up in through no fault of their own, the kind of thing where "friends" fall away rapidly. It's a tribute to them that they still have so many who love and support them.

I had one of those "small world" moments. There's a couple, E and B, whom I see often at Daughter and Hercules's, in central New Jersey. E is Hercules's best friend. They were roommates in college. I walked into the fire hall, and directly in front of me, at the end of the nearest table, the first people I saw, were E and B. I walked up to them, and we all three said, in unison, "What the hell are YOU doing here?!" Turns out B works with Mrs. Rabbi. Of course, E had to immediately call Daughter and tell her. Small world.

With so many people there, I'd had no time to talk to The Rabbis, other than in the receiving line, and his tour from table to table. When people started leaving, I asked the daughter if they could use another pair of hands cleaning up, and she said that would be nice, so I stayed and filled garbage cans. There had been little nylon bags filled with wildflower seeds at each place (Love Grows), and a lot of people didn't take them, so I ended up with 45 of them. I'll plant them in my woods and on the bank, and send a picture when they bloom.

Cleaning up took like two hours, and gave me a chance to spend some time with the couple.

Something very odd happened that's still bothering me. I'll probably approach it later.

The next morning I left the hotel at 10:30 am and headed for home. The sky was very cloudy, 53 degrees. The weather report said rain in the late afternoon and evening. I wanted to take a detour and visit Ricketts Glen if I could, but not in rain. I wouldn't be able to visit much more than the first falls, but that's where Jay's ashes are, so that's all I needed. I decided to make the decision when I got to Bloomsburg.

At Bloomsburg, it was still 53 degrees and cloudy, so I struck off northeast, headed for the falls. When I got to Benton, I stopped for lunch at the Cozy Corner. The Cozy Corner was an ice cream parlor 50 years ago. I used to get ice cream or a hot dog there when I was in fourth grade.

I had another small world experience in the Cozy Corner. The waitress was telling some tourists what was on the garden cheese steak, and she said, "... and mangos." The tourista was surprised, "Mangos? The fruit?" The waitress got flustered, and struggled to remember the other name, "Oh, yeah, peppers. Sweet green peppers. We call them mangos."

My mother always called them mangos. I didn't know any other name for them until I went to college, and I still think of them as mangos. I'd never before met anyone else who called them mangos, not that I was aware of, anyway.

I've driven through Benton a few times in the past two decades, but hadn't walked the streets in more than 40 years. I decided to walk the few blocks of the main street, and try to find the house we'd once lived in.

Over the years, and three of my father's transfers to the area, we had lived in five different houses in the village. I had on prior trips located four of the houses, but not the fifth, and that one was the best. It was the largest and nicest house we'd ever lived in, with a wrap-around porch, an impressive circular staircase, and a glass "conservatory" on the side. It was on a northeast corner on Main street. There was a long sidewalk, with umbrella trees (mulberries trimmed back to the trunk every fall) on either side.

As I walked, I studied every corner house. I know that in 50 years there would be changes, but none of the houses looked at all possible. It's not like it had been torn down and replaced, none of the houses was less than 80 years old. The sidewalks were all very short, too short for the umbrella trees, but then I realized the street must have been widened at some point. Only one house had a conservatory, but the rest of the house didn't feel at all right.

That's sad. That's the house where we had the roosters. Aunt Irene had given us chicks for Easter one year. A year later, my mother was walking around muttering "They're supposed to die! They aren't supposed to grow up!" They slept in a shack out back, and otherwise had the run of town. They used to follow us everywhere.

I passed "the doctor's house", the only brick building in town, and remembered Lady. Lady was the doctor's fat old white English Bulldog. She sat on the doorstep all day, and when someone stopped at the end of the walk, she'd waddle slowly down the walk, then, schnuffling and schnorting, she would close her eyes and present her head for scratching.

Lady was the old-style bulldog, with a huge chest that bowed her front legs out and almost useless tiny hindquarters. Today's bulldogs have real hind legs. All my life I've had a fondness for toads. I've paid kids to catch toads for me, so I can install them in my garden. Yesterday, for the first time, I realized that I like toads because they remind me of Lady.

I headed on up the road to Ricketts Glen. Now, I'd seen no snow anywhere. As I approached the Glen, I noticed snow in sheltered spots. When I got to the Glen, I had to climb over a 3-foot snowbank to read the "NOTICE!" The falls trail was "closed to all except experienced ice climbers", who had to register at the park office. Minimum equipment required included crampons and rope, and "ice axes are highly recommended."

Hmmm. I should have known. I've seen the trail sheathed in ice from the mist from the falls, forty years ago, before there was even a real trail. It's impressive, and scary. And very beautiful if you can get to it. The ice probably won't be gone until early May, if then.

I walked to the beginning of the falls trail anyway. The path was packed snow that had thawed and refrozen to the point of ice. Very slippery. The bridge over the creek was festooned with yellow "do not enter" tape, as were several points up the falls trail. So I stopped, looked up the creek, and shouted "I love you, sweetheart. I'll be back later", and left.

I got home about 6 pm.