Thomas Day Letter 2007

Life Journeys

Bicycling

Biking is fun, especially if you are just ever so slightly deranged.

With all the events of the past years, I haven't been able to take as many long rides as I would like (a point which I have lamented in past editions of this letter). Even so, I've been able to ride some and even to impress the boys at the bike shop.

• Several rides to the woods, which run between 55 and 60 miles round trip, depending on the route, of which I now know several all of them wonderful riding especially in the fall. Or spring. Or summer.
• Three shorter trips to Suamico, about 20 miles to the church or a few more to the NEW Zoo.
• One superb trip to Kewaunee, which ran about 68 miles because of unexpected road construction. It turns out that 65 miles is my limit – or was last year.

You don't want to be too deranged when taking long bike trips, because it is important to carry enough water and Gatorade and to allow time to eat lunch at such wonderful restaurants as the former Harbor Cafe in Kewaunee. I forget its most recent moniker but they served the best cheeseburger I've had in 3 years.

Next year, I hope to take 3 trips to the woods, a mini-vacation in Manitowoc or Two Rivers, another visit to Kewaunee, a trip to Seymour, and maybe go to Kaukauna. For lunch.

A drive to the Town of Neenah

Biking is more fun, but I do occassionally find a need to make a driving trip.

One Thursday I drove down to the Beck Farm to see Rick and his dad. It was near rush hour, so I said to myself and my dog, "There is NO WAY I am going to drive US 41." Buddy didn't seem to care, so we drove out to Oneida and took E to Freedom and turned west on S. This was fine; the traffic was modest to slight and the scenery is good. I can never remember the name of the road we turn on but I have a picture of the intersection in my head. As we got close to the turn I saw Laird Road go by. (That and Rock Road are the old road.) I said to Buddy, "We could have turned there. But it is probably faster to use the straight roads."

Up the hill we drove. I'm looking diligently. "Where is the road?" I ask, pointlessly. "I know we are almost to the corner ... Oh! there it was!" I almost stopped and turned around, but then I thought, well, why not just go to the next intersection and turn back around? So we rode farther west on S. The sun is out, the skies are clear, the road is open, and the countryside is so picturesque it's painful. I could hardly stand it.

Highway S winds a bit looking for another road to meet, and finally intersects with itself in the guise of Rock Road. We turn back east, still winding through painfully, exquisitely perfect landscapes, until we reach ... the road. There are no street signs or highway markers. Fortunately, I have a picture of the road in my head and we turn south toward Greenville.

Before Greenville, of course, we intersect that other county trunk and follow it, for at least 75 feet, to highway 76, which we intersect on the curve with minimal visibility in either direction. But no one is on the highway in either direction. I notice this because we are completely, totally, and unexpectedly safe as we continue south. It did occur to me to wonder, vaguely, why there was so little traffic, but rather than pondering the point we simply enjoyed the trip.

Until I see a bright orange sign: Road Closed Ahead, 1 mile. Bridge Out. I don't recall any bridge on the way to Greenville. "Let's go on and see what's up," I said to the dog, who still didn't care. Soon we drove past another orange sign: Road Closed Ahead, ½ mile. Bridge Out. On we went. Soon another sign: Road Closed Ahead, ¼ mile. Bridge Out.

"I think," I said to Buddy, "that we'd better turn off here."

Westward again, until we reach Julian Drive. Then south, and south, past the Methodist Church, past School Road, and why turn yet? Southward past the Julian Homestead, which I take to be the primary tourist attraction in those parts (other than the BP station). Eventually I judge that we have travelled far enough. I turn east to meet a broken highway 76. Which we merrily cross, the street sign saying nothing about a state highway. A couple hundred feet farther east and I say, "Buddy, I think that was the road. Yup, that had to be the road." We continue east, seeking a promising road south. Not too much farther along, we find one which takes us not only southward but about 80 years back in time and, fortunately, also to a road which runs west back to 76, the Farm, and the Beck boys.

Gradual retiring

No doubt many of you have wondered how 33% retirement has been working. The answer is, quite well, except that I have to work too much. Now, I know that sitting at a desk for 25 hours a week doesn't seem like a lot of time, especially for someone who will take off on the bicycle for a 10 hour ride.

The problem is that too many of those 25 hours are work instead of fun. I've talked to my boss about this problem, but he keeps changing the subject to his photography or the problems with a temporary extra child. But still he does let me program, and who else would give me that today?

Preaching the gospel

Last year the Moravian congregation increased my opportunity to preach as a result of the congregation being between ministers. That continued into the first part of 2007.

This spring a new minister, Marian Boyle, was called. On her very first morning, I stopped in the office and informed her, "I have extravagent expectations of you which you cannot possible fulfill." Then I added, "But that's OK, because I'm not even a member here." (She said, "I think I've heard about you.")

Naturally, the new preacher feels some pressure to preach most Sundays, so my opportunities have been somewhat diminished (though not abolished).

I can't stop myself, however. No call to write a sermon? How about a congregational musical? Having just seen a a (very good) high school production of "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat", I went off and wrote a sequel, of sorts, based on the story and book of Joshua.

Joshua The Musical may premier with the Moravians – unless some other congregation sees this and decides to beat them to the punch.

Preaching is great but the preacher is limited to what the Spirit wants to say to the congregation you are preaching to. If you are curious about the rest of what I am thinking, and if you are courageous enough, you should refer to my short, simple essays on actual reality.

Preaching to the choir, so to speak

After a substantial hiatus, I resumed my practice of visiting the public schools that I pay for. My goal is to see just what I'm getting for all that money.

This fall I went to Denmark Middle School. I'm not a voting citizen of that district, but I have been paying for those schools for a quarter of a century. (I did once visit Denmark's High School, but my intendency is still pretty thin.) My conclusion is that middle school students are still hungry for adult attention, while the schools are being isolated ever more strongly from the community.

The isolation arises in part from a grasping at security – locked doors and picture IDs and so on. It arises also from the communities, which don't pay nearly enough attention. Sad to say, when I called the principal at Denmark Middle School to arrange a visit, she told me that she had been an administrator for over 20 years and no one had ever asked to check up on their investment.

The recipient list for my Thomas Day letter includes people with far higher interest in the public schools than seems to be typical. Your involvement ranges from reading volunteers to a member of a school board. (I figure about 10% to 15% of us are actively interested in the schools, way above average. Hence, we are the "choir" to who I am unnecessarily preaching.) I will suggest that students would be both more secure and better educated if the percent of Thomas Day letter recipients who exhibit an active interest in schools were recapitulated by the citizens at large.

Teaching

A new minister may have cut down my days to preach, but on the other hand I was invited to assist her with the confirmation class. I have no very specific responsibilities most of the time, but I get to be with kids of an age that I've been away from. I didn't realize quite how much I've been missing contact with 12 and 13 year olds.

Adults are OK, too, but with the caveat that every once in a while an adult will challenge you to know what you are talking about.

Last spring I led an adult group discussing the highlights of Moses Maimonides' classic Guide For the Perplexed. This fall I led the adults in reading The Labyrinth of the World and the Paradise of the Heart by John Amos Comenius. Comenius has the 2 additional attractions (for Moravian adults) of being both exceptionally witty and a famous Moravian.

Journeys' endings

By the time that last year's letter announced my father's death, my mother was already beginning to show the first signs of what proved to be her final illness.

As announced in my May letter, my mother died on April 10, my father's birthday. Later, we made sure that her pledge to St. Paul's United Methodist Church was paid.

In the same time period as my mom's last days, my close friend Marchia Delforge, wife of my friend Mark and mother of more of my friends, died after a long fight against cancer. (On December 10, Mark's mother also died.)