Sorry about the silence yesterday.  The writing's moving
slowly.  I've got some vague ideas but no real feel as to how to
tie threads together, and still the characters are fuzzy in my
mind.  Most annoying!

Today I've got BSF this morning, then fellowship, then a two hour
seminar on "Sharing the Gospel", so it's not going to be a high volume
day, as far as NaNoWriMo goes.

Dmitry took a science test yesterday, which is newsworthy because he
worked on that packet all by himself, and I wasn't even aware he was
going to take a test at all.  He is cautiously optimistic that he
passed it.  He appears to be determined to try to do the work the
way the others do, i.e. at school, rather than relying so much on my
help at home.  He's not wanting me to type answers out for him,
too, instead studying the packet and the answers he wrote.

His father voiced a suspicion this has more to do with his preference
for playing games with Taylor in the evening instead of sitting on the
bed with me, working on packets.  Okay, I'll admit the thought
flit across my mind, but on the whole, I'd rather think he's Taking
Charge of his education. 

I've bought quite a bit via eBay over the years, and it's been smooth sailing.

Ran into my first jerk.  Dmitry had been cruisin' eBay and located
a Gameboy game he wanted.  It wasn't going for much so I okayed
him bidding on it.

We won it, and that's when I discovered, to my displeasure, the seller
is one who doesn't take Paypal, instead wanting a cashier's check,
money order, check (in which case he holds it for a week before sending
the merchandise) or cash.  Kept meaning to get a money order but
would forget, as normally I only do business with those sellers who
accept Paypal.  At one point I was looking for the address to send
the payment - once I remembered to get - it, and couldn't find
it.  Only his name and city.  Not sufficient info, so I
emailed him via eBay's message system.  Didn't hear back, but did
get an online invoice two or three days later.

Today I gave up and wrote out a check, then emailed him, advising him of this.

Dude mustn't read well, for though the subject line of my message to
him said "I just sent a check for #8230086490....", this is the reply I
received:

What are you saying? Or better yet, don't even
respond. You'll receive a non-paying bidder notice if
you don't pay.

Huh???  

Sent him a message asking him what the devil is the matter, and perhaps
he should take the trouble to read what I actually wrote.  Also
warned him threats work both ways, but if the merchandise shows up in
good shape and in a timely fashion (keeping in mind he'll hold it for
seven days after depositing the check), there's still a chance he'll
get a positive feedback.

Told him I wasn't terribly optimistic, but hey...maybe he'd surprise me.

What a loser. 

From Toronto, Canada:  School board cautions against offending Wiccans

Teachers should forego traditional classroom Halloween celebrations
because they are disrespectful of Wiccans and may cause some children
to feel excluded, says a Toronto District School Board memo sent to
principals and teachers this week. 



'"Many recently arrived students in our schools share absolutely none of
the background cultural knowledge that is necessary to view 'trick or
treating,' the commercialization of death, the Christian sexist
demonization of pagan religious beliefs, as 'fun,' " says the memo.



<snip>



The memo goes on to remind teachers that, "Halloween is a religious day
of significance for Wiccans and therefore should be treated
respectfully."

Are they nuts? 

Upon
reaching the church offices, Claude casually waved goodbye to Brad,
as the younger man delivered the sack of onion rings to Minnie Anne.
As he walked on down the hall Claude could hear him delivering a
well-intended warning on the dangers of fried foods along with the
rings, and while he couldn't quite make out Minnie Anne's response,
he thought it sounded a mite clipped.

As
he rounded the corner to where his own office was, Claude saw through
the open door a highly polished loafer of the senior pastor, who was
apparently sitting and waiting for his return. Claude muttered
irritably as he stopped in his tracks. The senior pastor was a nice
man, no two ways about it, but he was also given to chattiness, along
with finding more and more tasks to shovel onto the new associate
pastor. Those two characteristics combined meant a visit from him
led inevitably to greater inroads on Claude's dwindling amount of
free time.

"Blast,
blight, mildew and
hail," he groaned softly. Just
what he did not need this
afternoon. Pondering his options, he balanced the senior pastor
versus the possibility running into Brad were he to retrace his
steps, a Brad who might at any moment realize while Claude had agreed
to escort Maud Whatshername to the Valentine dance, he had no way to
actually accomplish the task. Muttering "Blast, blight, mildew and
hail" once more, Claude chose the senior pastor and entered his
office.

Martin
stood up as his associate pastor came in, gravely shaking hands,
being a man who believed wholeheartedly in old-fashioned courtesy.  Waiting until Claude had sat down
behind his desk, he once again took his seat, placed his elbows on
the arms of the chair, steepled his fingers, and gave Claude a look
full of portent.

"Blast
and blight and mildew and hail," Claude
grumbled inwardly. Even in the short time he'd been at Veritas he'd
come to learn Martin's look of portent was the harbinger of hours of
effort...by someone other than the senior pastor. What was it
going to be this time? He'd heard tales of the Grandma-Grandson
Camp-out (there was still discussion in various small groups over
whether Mrs. MacKenzie had gotten lost accidentally on purpose; those
familiar with her eight year old terror of a grandson, Jimbo, had
their suspicions); [PUT EXAMPLE HERE] [PUT
EXAMPLE HERE] Warily he took the bull by the horns, inquiring
politely, "So, Martin, what's on your mind?"

Martin
drew in a long breath, held it for a count of ten, then let it out.
He was a firm believer in the benefits of frequent, deep cleansing
breaths, occasionally urging the discipline on those around him. Not
this time, though. He had other fish to fry. "Claude, let me ask
you something," he began. Claude signified his willingness to
listen. Martin repeated the deep breathing routine, then spoke in a
voice filled with the resolve of a man bravely carrying heavy
burdens, "There are matters and issues looming before us today
which might well have a significant impact on the body of Christ in
general and our particular assembly in specific...matters that will
test our steadfastness, our earnestness, our boldness, our
purposefulness, our selflessness. The course set before us will
require the highest degree of wisdom and discernment..."

Claude
noticed the fingers of his right hand were drumming the top of his
desk and willed them to stop. As the senior pastor droned on,
Claude's thoughts began to wander. What, he wondered silently, was
Martin leading up to? Christmas was over, so that couldn't be
it. A bit early for Easter, surely. His ear caught a name, snapping
his attention back to the man in the other chair. Casting civility
to the winds, Claude broke in. "Excuse me, Martin. Did you say Ken
Atwood? The ex-race driver turned preacher?" Martin looked
momentarily displeased at the interruption, but being a basically
kind man, he chose to overlook it.

"That's
right, Ken Atwood. As I was saying, we need to map out a strategy
for dealing with his new book, as nearly everyone is going to be
reading it. We don't want to play catch-up, now do we? We in
leadership positions must be at the forefront of our flock, striving
ahead and lighting the path, making certain no rocks exist to trip
the unwary..." Martin looked and sounded prepared to continue in
this vein indefinitely, so Claude mercilessly broke in yet again.

"What
book?" he asked simply. Martin goggled at him, aghast at his
abysmal ignorance.

"What
book?" he croaked. "Why, Race for the Prize, naturally!
Promotions for it have been all over CBI stations for months, along
with ads in Christianity Today, and posters in LifeWay bookstores.
How could you have missed it?" Fixing his associate pastor with a
stern eye, Martin waited for this dereliction of duty to be
explained. If possible.

Claude
shrugged lightly. "I don't listen to radio much, or read
Christianity Today, and I mostly get my books online or through
interlibrary loan. LifeWay doesn't deal much with the writings of
the Puritans," he said simply. "Hey, at least I knew Ken
Atwood's a preacher now, so I'm not completely out of the loop. But
I grant you I hadn't heard of this book. What'd you say the title
is? Race for the Prize? Based on Hebrews, I assume,"
Claude observed wryly. "Catchy." Still, he wondered what this
book had to do with Veritas Bible church.

Martin
accepted the other man's explanation a little reluctantly, but
acknowledged to himself it was barely possible a man as steeped in
theological writings of centuries ago might not be aware of the more
current authors and their works. All the more reason, he told
himself with satisfaction, to get Claude involved in the plans for
the proposed campaign. Bound to be good for him, to stop being so
immersed in the past and start paying more attention to modern
theological trends. 

To
this end, Martin leaned forward, intent upon communicating the
importance of the project he had in mind. "Claude, if you weren't
already aware of the book's impending publication, you can't be aware
of the extraordinary appeal it holds for our church members. Just
yesterday I saw an advertisement for it at Amazon, so the mainstream
press is getting on the bandwagon. This thing is going to be huge
... simply huge!”"To emphasize the hugeness of the
approaching storm, Martin thumped the arm of his chair. Both men
looked with surprise at his left fist, whose owner immediately looked
sheepish.

"Forgive
me, Claude," he implored, shaking his head at his own unexpected
vehemence. "Sometimes my feelings run away with me. There's a
deep vein of passion in me that my wife says ... well, never mind
that." The sixtyish senior pastor projected a combination of
self-consciousness and a certain amount of roguishness.

Claude
grimaced slightly. "Never mind, indeed. Well, moving right along,
how exactly do you foresee Race for the Prize affecting our church?
And what steps do you think we need to take to combat it?"

Martin
appeared dumbfounded at the other man's take on the situation. "Combat
it? Who said anything about combating it? No, no, Claude
... we must prepare to take advantage of the interest generated by
this book. Doubtless there will be an influx of new people due to
their having read it. We must be like the virgins waiting for the
bridegroom! Lamps filled with oil, flames burning bright and
steady!" He sat back, overcome with the beauty of his analogy.

Claude
found himself overcome as well, but for entirely different
reasons.

=========================

BTW,
if anyone can come up with a couple of additional ideas of the sort of
thing Martin has gotten his church involved in, shoot 'em on to
me!  I'm blanking here. 

Baby Boomers are beginning to turn 60?

Well, blast, blight, mildew and hail.      (That's a sneak peek from the next installment of "Mercy Maud!")

...a debate between actors posing as politicians is meatier and more
substantive than actual debates between real politicians.  "The
West Wing" tonight is a live  -  that's what Don says,
anyway  -  extemporaneous exchange between two fictional
presidential candidates, one of them Alan Alda, but I don't know the
name of the other one.  They have done a deedy job, that's for
sure.  It's been quite entertaining and enlightening, as both make
excellent cases for their respective sides. 

Having
finally shooed Val off the premises, Maud turned back to clean up the
remnants of the cookie baking. As she began rinsing out the bowl the
phone rang; glancing at it she saw it was the second line, the
business line, and quickly picked up the handset.

"Thank
you for calling Maudest Endeavors" was the crisp greeting, which
rolled off Maud's tongue with practiced ease.

"Maudie!"
screeched a high-pitched, feminine voice, causing her to wince and
move the handset an inch or two from her ear. "You're there!"

Maud
never knew how to respond to something like that. Obviously she's
"there" else she wouldn't have answered the phone, plus if the
caller didn't expect her to be there, why call at all? She ran
through various ripostes in her mind, rejected them all as both
lacking in charity and bad for business, so contented herself with a
sedate, "I am, indeed, Diane. What can I do for you?"

"Darling,
you are aware of the Heart-2-Heart affair on February
thirteenth, aren't you? Everybody's talking about it, and
tickets are selling like crazy. I just knew you'd be
heartbroken if you didn't get an opportunity to purchase a table, so
here's little me, giving you that chance!" burbled
Diane merrily.

"A
table? What kind of a table?" Maud inquired cautiously. She'd
dealt with Diane for years, and it usually ended up being both
painful, due to a stress headache, and expensive, due to Diane's
undeniable knack for fund raising, as she grabbed hold like a pit
bull, and hung on till she got what she wanted.

Diane's
voice turned patient and reproachful. "A table at the dance,
silly billy. We're not serving dinner, but there will
be drinks and hors d'oeuvres throughout, plus a midnight breakfast
buffet. There will be some individual seating available,
naturally, but for those who want to be really comfy – not
to mention support Glad Knees program – the best option is to
purchase a seat at a table, or even better, a whole table for
themselves and their party. Now then, let me check my chart .
. . I can offer you a table for six for $300, or a table for eight
for $375. Frankly, I'd go with the table for eight, since you're
getting two additional seats for $37.50 each, a real savings. Shall
I put your name on that one?" she asked, clearly expecting a
positive response.

"Wait
a minute! I haven't said I want either one. Why would I want
to shell out three hundred bucks for a table? Especially since you
just said there will be other
seating, and who knows if I'd stay for the breakfast buffet, anyway?
Who eats breakfast at midnight, for pity's sake?" Maud groused,
sinking onto a stool at the counter and glumly staring at the floor.
If past experience were a reliable predictor of the future, she was
about to kiss a few hundred bucks goodbye, but by jingo, she wouldn't
go down without a fight.

Diane
sounded shocked at this sign of hesitancy on Maud's part. "Why
would you want to? My dear, a more reasonable
question is why wouldn't you want to? All those who purchase
tables are listed in the program in the ICU, after
all," she pointed out.

"Uh,
the ICU...?" Maud repeated weakly.

Diane's
veneer of affability was wearing thin as she replied shortly, "The
Intense Carers' Unit, of course."

Maud
switched the handset from her left hand to her right, the better to
rub her left temple, where a slight throb was already making itself
felt. "Oh yes. Of course. Intense Carers. Right."

Encouraged
by this feeble agreement, Diane persisted in her arguments. "Not
to mention you'd get a lovely, handpainted sign on your table,
so everyone can see Maudest Endeavors is supporting one of
Fort Worth's finest charitable enterprises, which will in turn
encourage them to support Maudest Endeavors. Why
really," she declared, "when one thinks about it, that
sort of advertisement is a steal at a measly $375. Doubtless
many, if not most, of your regular clientele will
be present, and wouldn't you be proud to be able to offer them
a seat at your table? Why, of course you would. How
frightful if all you could do is wave at them from a
chair by the wall, for all the world as if you were a
wallflower at a high school dance. Maud, I can't bear the
thought, no, I simply cannot. Do tell me you
are going to do the sensible,
generous thing and..."

By
this time the slight throb had escalated to a full scale steel drum
band, leaving Maud willing to pay almost any amount of money to stop
the relentless voice hammering away in her right ear. She shifted
the phone back to her left hand to give the right ear a chance to
heal, then interrupted her well-meaning persecutor. "Fine.
Alright. I'll take it."

Immediately
the voice changed gears, exclaiming sunnily, "Wonderful,
Maudie! I just knew Glad Knees and those darling Russian
orphans could count on you! May I fax over the reservation
form to you?"

Maud
nodded in resignation, realized Diane couldn't see that, then told
her fine, her fax number is on her business card.

"Oh,
one more teeny-tiny, eensy-weensy thing,
Maudie," Diane said, wheedler turned up full blast. Maud mimed
shooting herself in the head, then a hangman's noose, finally
settling for laying her forehead on the counter.

"What?"
she responded through gritted teeth. "You just stung me for nearly
four hundred bucks...what more can there be?"

Diane
assumed the brisk air of one who has wasted far too much time on
needless pleasantries and must now get down to cases. "The silent
auction. Naturally Maudest Endeavors will be donating a generous
gift for that. Tell you what, I'll save us both some
time and just fax over the donation form along with the table
reservation form, alrighty rooney? Toodles, Maudie! You're one of
the very, very best!"  The line went dead as Diane rang off
before Maud could say anything. Which, she reflected, was probably
for the best, all things considered.

====================

BTW,
it has been brought home to me that as I make changes to the story, the
more observant readers will find occasional discrepancies.  For
instance, Claude's church was originally Eastchase Bible, but is now
Veritas Bible. 

There's nothing like writing a book (of sorts) to bring out one's inner fiddler.  ;^)

Sometimes it's easy to relegate piracy on the high seas to the past and
"Talk Like A Pirate" Day, but in fact, it's still going on.  This
very day pirates attacked the mucho-upscale Seabourn Spirit
off the east African coast, using a grenade launcher and machine
guns.  Fortunately the Seabourn's crew is trained to avoid such
chicanery and managed to outrun the pirates, foiling their attempts to
board the ship.  One crew member was slightly injured by flying
debris, as the ship suffered a modest amount of damage.  According
to the news article, Somalia's coastal waters are "notorious" for pirate attacks.

The ship's passengers were woken about 5:30 am (their time) and herded
into a common room for safety.  I can understand why, according to
this bit of narrative from a British passenger:

[P]assenger Norman Fisher, 55, from Hampstead Garden Suburb in London, said he had seen some of the attackers.

"One of them clearly had a rifle. Later I realised that two of them had rifles and one had some kind of rocket launcher.

"They were firing the rifle and then fired the rocket
launcher twice. One of the rockets certainly hit the ship - it went
through the side of the liner into a passenger's suite. The couple were
in there at the time so it was a bit of an unpleasant experience."

[faintly]  Yes, I daresay it was a bit of an unpleasant experience, having a rocket come zooming into one's cabin.

“A
dance? A Valentine's dance? I'm supposed to take some woman I've
never met - heck, I just heard about about her an hour ago
- to a Valentine's dance?” Claude yelped, then glowered
across the table. Man oh man, just when you thought a situation
couldn't get any worse...WHAMMO. It never failed.

Brad
slunk down in his seat in a futile effort to escape the older man's
piercing, and definitely a shade on the uncomplimentary side, glare,
turning red under the force of it. Clearing his throat, he sought to
mitigate the damage done by his unvarnished revelation of the plans
made by him and his cousin, Val. In fact, he thought rebelliously,
this whole thing was her idea, so let her take the heat. “It
was really Val's idea. You remember Val? My cousin? She helps me
with creating announcements and such for the youth ministry?”
Maybe reminding Claude of Val's efforts on behalf of Veritas Bible
Church would help, especially since Val wasn't even a member.

On
the other hand, maybe it wouldn't. “You mean the ditzy blond who
dreamed up that dumb 'Stamp Out Your Self Elf' campaign for
Christmas? Gee, that explains a lot,” Claude said derisively.

Brad
flushed as he leapt to his absent relative's defense. “Now,
Claude, that's not fair. You came in on the tail end of it, is all.
It had great potential and I'll bet would have worked out fine if
only kids these days knew how to read. How was Val supposed to
foresee them making an acronym out of the phrase, then mispronouncing
it?” Matching Claude glare for defiant glare, he scowled when the
other man started to snicker.

“That's
one that'll go down in the history book of the church, that's for
certain sure. It'll be a long while before parents forget their
middle school children urging each other to get soused for the Lord,”
Claude chuckled. Brad pokered up even more, then relented and
sheepishly grinned, remembering the irate phone calls he'd fielded
for weeks.

“I
still don't see how those kids got 'souse' out of S.O.Y.S.E.”
Claude mused, sipping at his tea.

Brad
shrugged as he muttered, “Dollars to donuts it was Jane Silverwood.
Girl never could spell worth a lick.” Dismissing this line
of discussion as fruitless, he leaned forward to start making his
case in earnest. “Now listen, Claude, here's the deal. Maybe you
haven't heard of it before but there's an adoption agency here in
town we're right proud of, Glad Knees Adoption Foundation.” Claude
cocked an eyebrow at the name.

“Glad
Knees?” he repeated.

“From
the book of Isaiah, of course. Anyway, one of their programs is
finding adoptive families for kids in Russian orphanages, but lots of
people don't have the money to fund two or three trips to Russia and
the fees, so they're having a dance and a silent auction to help
raise money to help underwrite the cost of Russian adoption for those
who couldn't do it otherwise.” Brad beamed across the booth,
hoping the worthiness of the cause would be enough to override the
older man's objections to the scheme.

Claude
mentally examined it and silently agreed it was indeed a worthwhile
goal. “You said there's a silent auction, right? Can't I just
donate something to it and leave it at that?” he asked plaintively.

“If
you want to donate that'd be great, naturally, but what Glad Knees
really needs are couples to participate in the Heart-2-Heart
game.” Brad hastened on as Claude's expression became forbidding
once again. “It's not that bad, Claude. What they're doing is
seeding the dance with couples who may or may not be, well, real,
if you see what I mean. Those couples wear special nametags or
something that designate them as participants, and everybody else
talks to them and asks them questions, trying to tell if they're only
together for the dance, or if they're seeing each other already.
Extra points for guessing how long a couple has been going out.
Whoever gets the most points wins a prize. Think about it,
Claude...” he continued earnestly, ignoring his companion's
unenthusiastic “Oh, I am.” “...you'll be perfect! You're new
in town, so hardly anyone outside of Veritas knows you, and even they
won't know if you've been seeing Maud before. But with you a pastor,
and her having been married to the pastor of another Bible church
before he died, they'll figure maybe you have. Heck, you and Maud
will drive 'em crazy, I'll bet!” Brad laughed.

Claude
didn't, so the younger man hurried on. “Plus it'll be a terrific
way for you to meet people and get a bit more plugged into Fort
Worth. Why, you can use it as an opportunity to invite people to
church, come to that.” Deciding to end on this uplifting note,
Brad took a long draft of his root beer, keeping an eye on the older
man, who seemed to be brooding.

Brad
wasn't sure if brooding was good or not, but figured he had done
about as much as he could, so kept silent.

“We
don't have to be on a stage or anything, right? We just attend like
everyone else, only get asked questions? We don't try to trick
anyone by lying?” Claude asked.

Brad
firmly shook his head. “Nope. All you two do is answer questions
as people try to learn how long you've known each other.”

Claude
sighed and leaned back, defeat etched in his face. “Oh, alright.
It's a good cause, as you said, and it will be an easy way to
meet people outside the church.” He took in Brad's triumphant
expression, though, and felt a frission of suspicion. “This isn't
a set-up, is it? I mean, the whole point is to help the Russian
adoption program. You and Val aren't playing matchmaker or anything
like that?”

“No,
no, Claude,” Brad said lightly, “that's the farthest thing from
our minds. Honest.”

“Hmmmm....”
Claude intoned. “See that it stays that way.”

=========================

Thus endth the first chapter. 

Day FOUR of the NaNoWriMo and she's already hit 11,411 words???  Over 1/5 of the way there?

I suppose some might call such prodigious productivity industrious, but as for me, the word "show-off" comes to mind.