The Pale Summer

• May: English Pale Ale
• July 1: American Pale Ale
• July 14: American IPA
• August 12: Simcoe Pale Ale

Ever have one of those times when you complete a series of tasks or perhaps go through a period of time, look back on it, and realize there was a theme going through it, a theme that it would have been wonderful to have latched onto while doing the work, a theme that would have made for fun blogging?

Meet my PALE SUMMER.

Technically, it started before summer, I suppose. (more…)

Yesterday was quite the day for competition in the Truffin household. In addition to the Bucyrus Bratfest, Sherry and I each were participating in competitive sporting events. [NOTE: I didn't actually see any of the Bratwurst Festival events this year. Sherry and Wade report that it was up to its usual fun. I DID get to have some of the Methodist women's bratwurst casserole, and it was as good as ever!]

Huzzah! for Sherry
After a very long hiatus, Sherry returned to the running races. She ran in the Findlay “Up, Up, and Away 5K,” evidently held in conjunction with a hot air balloon festival. Before I tell you how she did, I feel compelled to point out that Sherry was competing with two major handicaps: on Tuesday she tweaked her back, and it’s been very sore all week, and, as if the back pain wasn’t enough, her mysterious stomach pains seemed to be making a come-back.

However, despite these physical obstacles, Sherry perservered and ran the race set before her. She ran the 5K in 29:13, which works out to 9:25/mile. Not bad. She also placed 11th out of 21 in the 35-39 Female age group and 239th out of 372 finishers.

So, HUZZAH! Sherry for a race well run!

Bratfest Open

While Sherry was out running, Todd drove over to Bucyrus for the inaugural tournament held at Aumiller Park. The course is quite nice, with a Jekyll and Hyde character. The front 9 holes are tight, wooded holes that are all basically short. The back 9 is rather open, still with trees, and mostly loooong. I finished the first round +8, and I was feeling pretty OK about it since I didn’t have any holes that just blew up on: 8 pars and 8 bogeys. Given my usual tournament performance, I felt I was off to a good start.

The second round, however, was once again my giant killer. Interestingly enough, I only finished up 2 strokes worse than the morning, but it felt much, much worse since I had both a double and triple bogey. Fortunately for my finishing place, it seemed that alot of the other players had rough second rounds as well. I ended up taking 5th place out of 17 with a +18. My prize was a disc shaped bottle opener and an Innova Valkyrie disc.

So, over all, I think the Truffins did pretty good.

This year my book buying was a bit subdued. I usually come home with so many books that they strain the luggage, but this year things fit neatly in the backpack. No particular reason. Well, I didn’t get into a bidding war at the silent auction; that helped. Of course, there’s one book I should have bought that I didn’t that I now have ordered from Amazon. Wonder if that should count. At any rate, I came home with:

• Recovered Body: Poems by Scott Cairns.
  After my first year at the Glen, I purposed to buy–and read–at least one book of poetry each year. Not only to support the publishing of poetry but also to keep my mind working in that way. The past two years I’ve been impressed with Cairns plenary lectures–learned, lucid, not too pompus–and his poetry readings. This volume was suggested as a good starting point into his work.
• Born Again and Again: Surprising Gifts of a Fundamentalist Childhood by Jon M. Sweeney.
  When we moved to Chicago the first time, ten years ago, I was beginning to ask what it meant to be “evangelical” as opposed to Christian. Later, our experiences in Toccoa led me to ponder the differences between “evangelical” and “fundamentalist.” All of this thinking of course got me examining my own childhood experiences. The pain of our time in Georgia made it easy to see childhood church experiences in a negative light, but hearing Sweeney on NPR a few years ago and reading an excerpt from this book brought back the light. I’ve been looking for Sweeney’s book for two years, so I was thrilled when I saw it on Warren’s book table.
• New Stories from the South: The Year’s Best, 2007 edited by Edward P Jones.
  I’m not a huge fan of short story collections by multiple authors, and the story by Fiction Workshop leader Moira Crone was already in the volume of her writing that I bought in New Orleans. So, I really wasn’t looking to pick up this title. However, Crone’s passionate recommendation not only of the editor but of all the work in the collection made it a no-brainer.

And that’s it for this year. Really. Well, no. Not really. I guess I would be remiss not to mention the volume I picked up on my off-day trip to Roswell. While at the UFO Museum, I did purchase

I haven’t been reporting much on our weekly doubles, but this week was special. Not only did my doubles team take first place for the week, but…

• I took the CTP on hole 9-2-10 for a free Jolly’s Rootbeer Float.
• I took the CTP on hole 3 for $$$
• I shot an ACE on hole 10 (286 feet), which garnered me the $$$ from the ace fund.

Probably the best night I’ve had playing disc golf. It’s good to be home.

For the last several years, Sherry and I have been members of Christians for Biblical Equality, an evangelical group which believes “that the Bible, properly interpreted, teaches the fundamental equality of men and women of all ethnicities and all economic classes, based on the teachings of scripture.” In addition to operating as a clearinghouse of sorts for egalitarian resources, publishing a magazine and academic journal, and offering international conferences to help men and women grow in love and good deeds, CBE tries to transform evangelical culture by attending the Cornerstone Festival, meetings of the Evangelical Theological Society, and other important gatherings.

In response to some recent mis-statements about what CBE stands for, they have posted this list of things they don’t believe.

And we don’t either.

The morning workshop session, our last, was a bit more open ended than previous days since we only had two or three stories to critique. We had more room for general discussion about various topics. Two of our members had already departed campus, which served to remind us that the week was coming to a close. After the workshop was over, we all, I think, felt a kind of relief. The work was over; now we could sit back and enjoy our last day in Santa Fe.

Bob and Patrick joined me for a drive into town to play a disc golf course. After a couple of missed turns, we arrived at Ashbaugh Park. On first glance, it didn’t look like much. Small, flat, some homeless people sleeping on the ground. Turns out, that what you see is what you get. The PDGA listing states that the course opened in 1992. My guess is that it started out life as a 9 hole course, which would have fit the amount of available land just fine. Over the last 15 years, however, various methods of squeezing 18 holes into the space were employed. Now you have a situation where you’re shooting at the same baskets from multiple pins to create 18 different holes. The downloadable map is rather accurate and has all the information you need on it, but what that information is is not always clear. As we were wandering about looking for a hole, a local playing through gave us a quick layout and mentioned that some of the tees were just wooden blocks in the ground or red marks painted on fencing. Now the list of odd info on the map made sense.

With just the three of us playing the course, we didn’t have any trouble. But I can’t imagine tournaments being played here. You’d constantly be overlapping other players. Of course, you play what you have. Thankfully for Santa Fe, a new 18-hole course went in last year at Arroyo Chamisos. I predict the downside will be that Ashbaugh Park continues to decline. Of course, my feelings about the course would probably be better if I’d played better. I had no control. Several of the holes are layed out for lefties, so I was trying my forehand shot. I had all sorts of distance, but very little aim, so I ended up OB on more than one occasion. (Thanks, Bob, for climbing that fence!) On hole 6, I hit four trees. The big story, however, is that I’ve finally had a good disc golf experience in Santa Fe; good being defined as having actually shot a disc at all holes on a course.

On returning to campus, we had just enough time to shower, rest a short bit, and get ourselves to the last supper of the week. Meal times have always been one of my favorite aspects of the Glen Workshop. Yes, the food is usually top notch. But the most important part of the meal is the fellowship with fellow Glennites. Even if you know noone at the Glen, you’ll always find a table to welcome you. By the second or third meal, you will usually have some folks that you can join anytime. Of course, as the week goes on and you get to know your workshop-mates, conversations from the morning naturally carry over into lunch. The diversity of Christian experience is amazing, and meal times provide a friendly place for people to tell their stories.

The evening concert featured Pierce Pettis, reknowned songwriter whose songs have been recorded by Joan Baez, Garth Brooks, Art Garfunkel, Randy Stonehill, and Dar Williams and who worked closely with Mark Heard. Gasping for breath in the thin Santa Fe air, Pettis picked his guitar and blew his harp with such passion that the Glen crowd demanded he sing more even though doing so would eat into time for Over the Rhine, a Glen fave. Pettis was part of the “fast folk” movement of the 80’s and doesn’t seem to have slowed down any. Mixing reflections on beauty with poignant satire, you’re just as likely to marvel at his word play as his fancy picking.

Of course, the last four years at the Glen wouldn’t have been complete without a drop-dead gorgeous set from Over the Rhine. No disappointments here. Karin and Lindford treated us to several tunes off the upcoming The Trumpet Child, a brand new tune, and some old favorites. Deftly switching from instrument to instrument, the pair simply made beautiful music. This year’s set seemed to be tilted a bit towards more contemplative work, but noone could help smiling and joining in with their last tune, “If a Song Could Be President.”

Sadly, the good vibes of the concert didn’t carry over into what is usually one of the most humbling and meaningful times at the Glen: the final worship time and annointing of the artists. This year’s theme at the Glen was an exploration as to what literature and art could bring to the dialogue between the three Abrahammic faiths: Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. The organizers clearly understood that such a dialogue is “inherently risky,” and I do give them full credit for trying to add positively to the discussion of how we can live peaceably in this world. However, nowhere did the claim that such striving for our common humanity would occur “Without seeking to blur the distinctiveness of any tradition” fail so much as it did on the closing night. All week I’d heard rumblings–and I myself stated on this blog concern–that the worship services were doing precisely what was not sought. While many seemed to be able to particpate fully in the service, it was clear by the number of people who left the auditorium or kept their seats during the annointing that my eyesight was not the only that perceived a distinct lack of focus. At this point, I’m fully willing to chalk up this major disappointment to well-intentioned mis-steps. Brave attempts do not always succeed, and quite often crash spectacularly.

But God is good. After the ending reception, I was walking back to my room lost in thought about the disappointment of the ending of Glen 07 when I heard some familiar strains wafting on the sage-scented air. I remembered an invitation to a little soiree. Entering a Common Room, I saw my roommate for the week, Canadian artist Gerald Vaandering, as well as some others. Fellow fiction workshopper Laura had a hymnal open and a small group around her were singing. I joined in, and for the next two hours or so, we picked old favorites and tried to sing them a cappella in four part harmony. We didn’t always get the notes right; I’m sure we got worse as the evening progressed. But when we quit a 2am, I was certain that we had offered up to the Lord a joyful noise. One woman who joined us was so happy she was bouncing in place. “I haven’t done this for 15 years!” May God continue to remind us of the good things.

I’ll end this year’s reporting with a photo taken by Sara Zarr, YA author. That’s me on the left end. Then Sara. Jeffrey and Anne Overstreet are on the right.

So, today was the Big Day. After a week of reading other people’s stuff, my story was going to be critiqued. I looked forward to seeing how the story worked on a bunch of strangers, and, more importantly, I hoped that what I saw as the story’s flaws would not only be identified but also that suggestions would be made that would lead me in a productive direction. I was not disappointed. The story seemed to resonate with all of the readers, even those who felt the ending went too far. In addition to resonance, the readers idea of what themes I might have intended were quite in line with what I felt I had created. In addition to the problem spots I’d identified, some very pertinent questions were raised that I think I can fix without too much hassle. Moira seemed enthusiastic and also added her rather astute comments to those in the class. I’m looking forward to getting home and improving what appears to be an potentially strong story.

The afternoon featured a presentation by Barry Moser. While he disappointed some of the visual artists by not showing any slides, his attempt at tackling the week’s theme of interfaith dialog by telling stories of his childhood in the segregated South was expertly delivered and enthusiastically received. Just as interesting were his answers to the many questions posed afterwards, including a query as to whether it was fair that he was such a talented visual artist AND such a talented writer/speaker.

After lunch, Jeffrey, Bob, and I headed into town for some actual dessert since the offerings in the cafeteria were uncharacteristically sparse. We ended up at a small Italian place near the RR tracks. I had a small, sweet cake laced with parmesean cheese. Hmm. Cheese.

We got back just in time for me to see my roommate’s visual art slides during the open slide presentation. I’m supposed to finishing up my comments for tomorrow, but a large crowd of people is conversing outside my window. I must choose whether to do my work, join the throng, or just go to sleep.

In the past I’ve spent my free day visiting holy sites or doing serious work or visiting museums: respectable, serious minded pursuits. This year, I decided that I’ve been way too close to a certain kind of American mecca not to visit. So, I decided to make the three hour drive down to Roswell, NM; site of one of the most contested government cover-ups of the late 20th century and home of the “alien autopsy” phenomenon, not to mention a dear source of much of The X-Files material.

Interestingly, although all sorts of people thought it was way cool that I was doing this thing, no one took me up on my invitation to come with. Huh.

Anne Overstreet grew up in Roswell, before there was an industry made of “The Event.” And her parents still live there. She was able to give me some pointers for lunch and the assurance that help was only a phone call away should I get stuck. Or abducted. Sadly, the fantastic sounding steak place she reccomended was closed for the afternoon.

The drive from Santa Fe to Roswell is fantastic. You come out of the mountains and drop into a desert plain dotted with mesas. The abundant rain this summer has turned the whole thing much greener than usual. The sky was dynamic all day as storms moved through.

Once in Roswell, it wasn’t hard to find the International UFO Museum and Gift Shop. For the bargain price of $5 you are admitted into a converted theater. The decor is straight out of your local high school drama class. The grammatical errors in the placards identifying key evidence does much to build confidence, for, of course, if the government wasn’t trying to cover up what really happened in 1947, the good people at the museum could be turning their energies towards proper English.

As kitchy as the whole thing is, the various government documents and newspaper reports do succeed in raising at least one question. If what crashed in the NM desert was simply a weather balloon, why all of the hyper-security, death threats, and shady behavior? The X-Files would have us believe that by creating the idea of a conspiracy, the governemnt can hide “the truth” in plain sight. Go to the museum, and you decide.

After realizing a tactical mistake in not eating immediately upon arriving (evidently all the decent, local joints close between 2 and 5 on weekdays), I ate at the saucer shaped McDonalds. They were serving double cheeseburgers with green chilis. Very tasty. The drive home was equally lovely although I got home just late enough to miss dinner. The Santa Fe Brewing Company, which sports tasty sandwhiches and sweet potato fries, was, alas, hosting a concert, so I ended up chomping on a granola bar before heading over to the Overstreets’ apartment for the 3rd Annual Meeting of the Thomas Parker Society East meeting. We heard many good things read, a soulful song sung, and ate yummy chips from Trader Joes.

The morning came early and my comments on stories came late today. For some reason, I had some serious trouble coming up with comments on the stories we workshopped today. In ironical fashion, for some reasons the commments I did make caused Moira to ask follow up questions so I ended up talking alot. Today was a day when I really started to see the bounty we have in the room. Not only does Moira Crone provide insight and experience–which one expects–but Paula Huston also has much to add to the conversation. If the two of them together can’t get you on the road to a better story, you don’t deserve to be writing.

A shadow was put over the day, however, by news during the morning that Moira’s husband, Roger Kamenatz–writer, poet, speaker, and Jew–was having a serious medical emergency concerning his eyes. The IMAGE staff seemed to be caring for him which led Moira to carry on for the remainder of the morning. One of the workshop members suggested we stop to pray, which we did heartily. We all would have certainly understood if Moira would have left us to be with her husband, but we muddled through the rest of the morning. I don’t know at this point what his status his. Please keep him in your prayers.

The past two years I have tried to play the St. John’s Disc Golf Course with little success. In addition to poorly marked tees and baskets hidden in the brush, the map provided had little to no relation to reality. After lunch today, I was joined by fellow Fiction workshopper, Patrick, for yet another attempt at the course. I was encouraged that the hand drawn map had been replaced with a map based on actual aerial photography. Unfortunately, we never really got a chance to test-drive the new map. After warming up and throwing the first hole, which has always been easy to find, the skies darkened and began pouring scads of rain, lightning, and thunder upon us. After waiting for a few minutes under a tree (yeah, that was real smart what with the lightning and all) Patrick and I decided to pack it in. Even if the rain stopped, everything was wet and we had no towels to dry the discs. Of course, it didn’t stop raining. For the entire 1/2 mile or so walk back to the dorms, we were deluged. There was not one single dry spot on my entire body. Not one. I checked. So this is now three years in a row that the course has eluded me. On Saturday, it looks like Patrick, Fireman Bob, and I will be going into town to try the park there.

The Big Elephant
Over lunch, some of us began discussing the worship services that I’ve reported on previously. It seemed that we all were wondering how this interfaith thing was working. In the end, I think we were all coming to same place: the Jewish and Muslim texts that were being used in worship were generic enough not to cause a problem. However, the big deal being made over the texts by the leaders made it impossible to actually enter into a worshipful attitude. In other words, instruction and worship don’t mix that well.

There also seemed to be a big elephant in the room that we all sensed, but none of the speakers wished to address. That is, all three of the Abrahammic faiths make, on some leve, a claim of exclusivity. In Christianity, Christ states plainly that “I am the Way the Truth and the Life. No one come to the Father but through me.” What then are we to do with these other faiths? Kamenetz suggested that we start with little things before getting to big things, but I can’t help but wonder how much time we’re going to waste by not acknowledging that on a fundamental level, we all think the other folks are quite simply WRONG and not walking on the straight path to God. Even within our own faiths, we can’t get our acts together. How is a Catholic supposed to have any meaningful dialogue when the Catechism (and the Pope) insists that the Roman church is the only TRUE church? How are believers supposed to have any meaningful dialogue when at heart Evangelicals often believe that Roman Catholics are in league with the Whore of Babylon? I’m sure there are answers to these questions and helpful paths to take, but none of the speakers or worship leaders seem willing to acknowledge this huge elephant standing right in the middle of the room.

Patty Griffin
Ok, now that the concert is over, I feel that, in the spirit of full disclosure, I must confess that before tonight not only had I never seen her in person, but I really didn’t have much of a clue as to who she was. Sure, her name is one of those names that whenver it’s mentioned people I know get all excited. But I’ve never really been exposed to her albums or music. So, I was entering tonights show at the Santa Fe Brewing Company totally cold. Turns out that was just fine. Even on the rockin’ numbers, the sound was so good that I could decipher lyrics and musical nuances.

The show was held on an outdoor patio type of space with the stage at one of the skinny ends. The sun was setting behind the brewery as the show began. The general admission nature of the show meant that my arrival 15 minutes before show time resulted in my standing for the opening act. However, as Patty Griffin got ready, Jeffrey and Anne Overstreet and some other folks from the Glen showed up and we staked out some ground near the front.

Patty Griffin took the stage in a glamorous metallic calf-length wrap dress and black pump heels. Her hair framed her face like Loretta Lynn, and her guitar was adorned with floral patterned oyster shell. The band built her intensifying songs into powerful walls of sound punctuated by her clarion soprano vocalizations. Folks describe her as a singer/songwriter, roots, Americana musician, and I can see why. The songs she did solo with an acoustic guitar embellished that image. But the woman can rock, too.

It didn’t hurt that I was able to get a ticket and three beverages for less than what Sherry will be paying to see Patti Smith tomorrow night

I should be commenting on more stories, but I think I’m going to sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day: Off to Roswell!

One regret, dear world,
That I am determined not to have
When I am lying on my deathbed
Is that
I did not kiss you enough.
–I Heard God Laughing, renderings of Hafiz by Daniel Ladinsky

I woke before the alarm today and had no trouble getting a shower in before breakfast. Our first day of full-on workshopping started a bit slow, but we got more efficient as we went along. Perhaps by the time my story is read, folks can just make a few grunts and short-hand references to prior conversations. It’s hard during Moira’s critiques not to turn from the story at hand to my own story and start slashing and rearranging and remaking. This morning’s stories seemed to share a common issue of diffused conflict; that is, too many conflicts present without knowing which was the main focus of the story.

I spent the hours between lunch and the afternoon reading jotting down the beginnings of an essay on marriage, the Bible, and importance of not paying attention to what others think you should be doing. It was refreshing then to hear Scott Cairns read his work. He defines the Poetic as

indeterminate, inexhaustible enormity apprehended in a discrete space.

I’ll let you know when I have a handle on what that might mean. Meanwhile, it sounds like I’m going to have to read his book about spending time with Greek monastics.

The first part of the evening’s plenary session featured an Indian Suffi Muslim. He spoke mostly about the Suffi poet Rumi, who described the Koran as a shy bride. It must be sneaked up on, preferably through it’s friends, before being engaged directly.

In discussing how to deal with those of any faith who use violence to further their ends, Jamal Rahman suggested that rather than attempt using one’s own tradition to argue their evil, it might be better to mimic Ghandi and use the violator’s own claimed tradition and find verses of beauty in it.

In the end, however, he cited Rumi’s admonition to

Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.

Today I thought about the interesting emphasis here at the Glen on “Desert” spirituality and the Desert Fathers. Obviously, that we are IN a desert engenders that emphasis, and it’s quite appropriate, sitting amongst the sage and pinon pines to ponder what effect the environment has on our outlook. I remember driving with Ted across the northern plains wondering how the vastness must create a different philosophy of life than the closeness of the Cuyahoga River basin. Where this is going is that I wonder what it is about the desert that makes it so special. Why don’t we talk about a “Forest” or “Coastal” or “Jungle” or “Arctic” spirituality? In my life, I’ve experienced urban, suburban, and rural church experiences. Are these different environments unique and coherent enough to claim their own spirituality? What would a Forest spirituality look like? Who might be the Arctic Fathers and Mothers?

I did stick around for some fellow attendees open mic presentations. It’s wonderful to see the talent assembled here. Alas that I have so much to prepare for tomorrow’s workshop.