Stones

A few years back, I stopped by the network of forest trails behind Colgate University for a walk with Sasha, my shepherd mix. The parking circle surrounds a cemetery, some of the graves more than a century old. A smaller, new section sits just outside the circle, and when I parked, I noticed a young woman, late 20s or early 30s, standing before one such grave.

I didn’t want to intrude on her reverie, and since I’m a news junkie away, I opened the newspaper—but I couldn’t help watch her over the top edge. A few small stones lay along the top of the tombstone. She carefully touched each one, turning it slowly, arranging them just so. She stood and looked for the longest time, before she finally lifted her hand to her lips, kissed them slowly, and gently pressed the transferred kiss to the face of the stone. She held it there for a moment, then rose, turned, and walked away.

I was intrigued, so when she was safely out of sight, I let my dog out to run, walked over to the stone, and read the centered lettering on the polished face of the black granite marker:

IAN PORTER HALE
JUNE 7, 1998
FEBRUARY 4, 2000
A HUG THAT WON’T QUIT

Tears filled my eyes. Twenty months. Twenty months! To lose a child after just twenty months! What a horrible fate for any mother (as I assumed the woman to be). In the years that followed, whenever I passed that grave site, I always checked to be sure the stones on top were in their proper place (they always were). I didn’t know why, but I knew that somehow, they were very important.

I haven’t been by in quite some time (my current dog is much more feisty, and I didn’t want her to disturb the stones—although I could see from a distance a few additions), but I stopped to take a look today. Now nine stones line the top of the marker—one for each year of Ian’s age had he lived, his latest birthday just a week and a half ago. A small sculpture, roughly the size of a hand, depicts a moose in a boat fishing with his younger moose—something Ian would have done with his dad, presumably. To the right of the marker stands a log sculpture about two feet high of an animal—a boy’s dog, judging from the one cocked ear. To the left of the marker, a wreath of thin twigs is tied with a light blue ribbon. And in front of the stone—nine plants featuring small, red flowers.

A bit of research quickly turned up Colgate’s alumni newsletter, a wealth of information. Ian’s grandfather wrote a grateful letter thanking the community for their support through such a difficult time, noting that Ian’s death was sudden and unexpected. I learned that Mom graduated in ’89 (confirming my guess about her age), that both parents worked in Colgate’s administration, and that they met at the wedding of another alum. A community development non-profit organization newsletter reports about improvements to the town’s Village Green, noting, “A new pavilion, in memory of Ian Porter Hale, has provided a focus for events and a performance venue for visiting artists.”

Rest well, Ian Porter Hale. You are deeply loved and dearly missed.

Writer

Harry Potter and the Banning of Books

A few years ago, I left a summer Jazz Fest around 11:30 p.m., and realizing I could just reach the Barnes & Noble superstore before it closed at midnight, I set off to purchase a CD.

I had forgotten about the release of J. K. Rowling’s “Order of the Phoenix.” Every square foot of that superstore was packed with costumed children and their parents. As I made my way back to the music section, I observed child after child, regardless of the section of the store, sitting and reading, pulling other books from the shelves, sitting and reading more—all patiently waiting for the midnight release of their new Harry Potter book.

I found my CD and made my way to the counter. “Hello,” I joked with the clerk. “I’m not here to buy the new Harry Potter.” “Oh—so you’re the one!” he joked back. I paid for my CD and headed home.

“Damn,” I thought. “Anyone who can get hundreds of children to read, especially such a long book, has MY respect.” And the next day, largely out of curiosity, I bought all five of the then available books. When book six became available, I ordered it through Amazon (I remembered all those people in the superstore), and I’ll soon order book seven, due for release this July. They’re wonderfully written (with perhaps the exception of some dragging parts in book five) and well conceived—not a poor reading choice at all, despite the mumblings of a few educators here and there.

In elementary school, my classmates and I regularly received small catalogs of books we could purchase for a dime, a quarter, later thirty-five cents—and I did, saving my allowance to buy every book about dogs I could find. When I had exhausted their supply, my mother pointed out that the local library would lend me books for free. I hopped on my bike and got a library card. When I had exhausted the canine offerings in the children’s section, the librarian suggested another book: “Call of the Wild.” “White Fang” was next. When I finished Jack London, she suggested branching out to other animals: “The Jungle Book.” “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi” was next, and I was off on a journey to discover this fascinating world that stretched from the Alaskan tundra to the jungles of India. Soon, raiding the adult contemporary paperback rack, reading Saul Bellow and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., I realized this was also a world of ideas, and included non-fiction works. I didn’t always understand them, but I knew that my reading would improve, that the journey was worth the effort—all because of dogs and a mongoose. Today, I’m fascinated with the language itself—especially Joyce.

But others don’t see Harry Potter in this light. J. K. Rowling’s website notes that Harry Potter books are again among the most commonly banned books. I’ve heard people complain about them, claiming that witchcraft is an affront to Christianity (I wonder if they also ban “Macbeth”). “Alice in Wonderland” is also commonly banned, since animals talk, in defiance of God’s creation. Somebody isn’t grasping the concept of fiction. What are these people afraid of? That children will start performing magic? Or listen to talking animals? Or are these people simply threatened that the real world is a world of ideas, a world contradictory to such a narrow, restrictive view of existence.

The Bible itself contradicts such fundamentalist foolishness. Consider Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 12: 4-12:

"Now there are diversities of gifts, but the same Spirit. And there are differences of administrations, but the same Lord. And there are diversities of operations, but it is the same God which worketh all in all. But the manifestation of the Spirit is given to every man to profit withal. For to one is given by the Spirit the word of wisdom; to another the word of knowledge by the same Spirit; To another faith by the same Spirit; to another the gifts of healing by the same Spirit; To another the working of miracles; to another prophecy; to another discerning of spirits; to another divers kinds of tongues; to another the interpretation of tongues: But all these worketh that one and the selfsame Spirit, dividing to every man severally as he will. For as the body is one, and hath many members, and all the members of that one body, being many, are one body: so also is Christ."

Seems Paul believes in magic—or just maybe, unlike fundamentalists, he doesn’t see God as impotent, drifting if they don’t rush to his defense. Or, perhaps Paul is actually a disciple of Christ, turning the other check, spreading love and understanding—and new ideas. Paul gets it.

First, though, he needed to be dramatically knocked off his horse—even though he had thought he was doing the right thing.

Fundamentalists need to go riding. Christianity is about inclusion.

Some reading and thinking might help too.

Writer