And, another

 

And, there's another. Obviously, a set--same covers, same dust covers, just plain the same except subject. This one contains at least some of the plays of Jean Racine, another 17th century French playwright. Racine's first published play was performed by a cast who ordinarily was thought of as Moliere's own dramatic troupe. Just as this book is related to the Moliere book--same material (plays of Racine, plays of Moliere), both have my great-grandfather's name written in the same hand

 

I'm guessing that he bought them together in Franeker, where he went to school. 

Although their backgrounds and literary work were different, both wrote and produced theater that was seen by some, at least, as worldly and of questionable moral value. 

Jean Racine, (baptized Dec. 22, 1639, La Ferté-Milon, France—died April 21, 1699, Paris), French playwright. Orphaned at an early age, he was educated in a Jansenist convent, and he chose drama in defiance of his upbringing. His first play was produced by Molière in 1664. Their friendship ended when Racine took his next play, Alexander the Great (1665), to a competing theatre and seduced Molière’s mistress and leading actress, Thérèse du Parc. She starred in Racine’s successful Andromaque (1667), which explored his theme of the tragic folly of passionate love. His only comedy, The Litigants (1668), was followed by his great tragedies Britannicus (1669), Bérénice (1670), and Bajazet (1672). After writing his masterpiece, Phèdre (1677), a tragedy drawn from Greek mythology, he retired to become official historian to Louis XIV. His final plays, Esther (1689) and Athalie (1691), were commissioned by the king’s wife, Mme. de Maintenon.

While Moliere plays a role in Racine's early success as a playwright, the story goes that their relationship died an almost violent death when Racine hustled and won the affections of Moliere's leading lady. There was nothing monk-ish about the life of a theater groupie, writer or actor, in Paris in the era of Moliere and Racine, whether or not the subject matter was "the tragic folly of passionate love." Needless to say, there was little that seemed "calvinistic."

What I'm saying is that I was blown over to find these books among what remains of Professor Hemkes's library, almost like finding a stack of Playboys beneath last months old newspapers.

But, the fact is, I know no more about my great-grandfather than I do of either of these Parisian theatrical hot shots. I know he preached in a church in Friesland, MI, when first he emigrated, and I know he was the second professor named to a position in the institution that would become Calvin University.

Maybe it's time I look.

Moliere, by way of Prof. Hemkes

 The most readable formation of letters of the alphabet on this photograph is the name of the writer featured in both volumes--vols 1 and 2 of the plays of Moliere, an old French playwright (17th century). Here's the way one source describes him:

Molière was born Jean-Baptiste Poquelin in 1622, the son of a prosperous upholstery tradesmen. Educated by Parisian Jesuits, the young Jean-Baptiste had a promising inheritance awaiting him in his father’s trade; instead, however, he turned to acting, adopted the stage name of Molière, and aimed to become a great tragic actor. His first theatrical enterprise in Paris did not go well, and Molière spent the next thirteen years touring the provinces of France. During this time he began writing short comic farces, inspired by fashionable French verse comedy as well as the improvisational Italian commedia dell’arte. These comic trifles were the building blocks of The Misanthrope, Tartuffe, and the five-act verse comedies that would later prove to be some of the most enduring works of French drama.

Both volumes, 1 and 2, are respectfully encased in plastic, which helps explain their longevity, having been published, according to the title pages, in 1858, 200 years after many of the dramas inside were performed, and just about 200 years ago. Let me be perfectly candid here--these two books, drawn from my own library (they escaped the flood!) are of no use whatsoever to me--they're in Moliere's own French, which I can't hope to read. 

They're mine because I'm the one who ended up with them. I didn't spot them on some bibliophile's old-and-precious shelf, order them from e-bay or some other dealer in antiquities. I'd have to say, I suppose, I inherited them. I came by them having been designated by someone in the family tree as the person in this family who actually cares about such things, about such books. Once along a long time ago, they belonged to my great-grandfather, a college professor 150 years ago at Christian Reformed School that became Calvin College.

These two books are mine only because the name written on the title page belongs to my grandfather's father-in-law (subsequently my great-grandfather-in-law) Geert Hemkes.

When I first discovered his name in these books, I was shocked because that he owned the works of a French playwright and actor seemed preposterous. I mean, it seemed a scandal. Did the administration of the college know that he had books like Moliere's plays in his library? what about the school's constituents? After all, not all that long before, Moliere wrote scripts that satirized the church's social positioning and its fairly obvious hypocrisy. He was no friend of the church.

My great-grandpa was. I simply assumed that Grandpa Geert fit the stereotype--if he was strict and principled, so was everyone else in the Dutch Reformed world back then. 

I loved finding Moliere's dramatic works in whatever fragment of his library ended up in our house, honestly loved it. It made me think that what I had assumed through the years could have been dead wrong. Maybe the old professor was, gasp!, something of a liberal.

But there's more to this story.

 

I know more about inflation, 

I know more about everything than anybody in this room. 

Anybody anywhere in the world. 

Well, there's a woman sitting right over there. 

She's a housewife but she's very good. 

She got a natural instinct for business. 

She perhaps knows more than I do but I actually don't think so."

President Donald Trump, yesterday

Honestly, you can't help wondering what planet this man lives on, although we know he probably owns it--the planet is Trump world. 

I've had a suspicion for a long time--no revelations, no crystal ball, no unearthly visions--that he wouldn't make it to the end of these four years, that something would end his Trump 2.0.

Start here--he'll die of natural causes. He so regularly burns the candles at both ends that he's almost certainly going to run out of candles. He may have a staff that types out middle-of-the-night Truth Social posts, but if he has such a squad no one has ever hinted at their identities. He's 79 right now and should be losing it. When he says things like he said yesterday--"he's the smartest man in the universe"--you can't help but think he's carrying burdens no other human being could lift off the floor, and he does it 24/7. No human being can pull that kind of weight.

Just as likely is that some crazed gunman, looking for headlines or whatever, takes him out. I hope that doesn't happen because then we'd have a martyr on our hands, someone who would soon have a national holiday in his honor, not to mention a half-dozen monuments up and down the streets of Washington. Among US presidents, he stands unique as a person who refuses to think about winning converts. He is a master at gunning up his base, but he does it at the expense of voting blocks that, this election season, have never liked him. The number of Trumpsters isn't growing. The opposition is a bunch of dirty, rotten commies when he's the one who's invested in all kinds of businesses. We've never had a Pres who's been so comfy with our oligarchs, who's made billions since Trump 2.0.

Lately, often, he seems bored. Maybe he'll just hang up his spikes and go play golf somewhere far from the madding crowd. Seriously, he seems powerless to stanch the flow of the opposition. The NYT ran with a cover story yesterday about how strong Dem candidates for governor were looking with just three weeks to go, while Trump's trump, huge, pumped rallies, have a wasted look, loads of empty seats. Maybe he'll just suddenly walk away and play golf. 

Don't look for him leaving office soon. I'm saying if it happens, I wouldn't be surprised. Nothing about the Donald has been predictable.

What's much more likely is that he'll be around until 2028, still crusading against the commies, the Dems, in all their hated mutations, while the Dems, now a majority in both the House and the Senate, do their best root out Trump-level corruption, if not the orange one himself. It'll be a really rough two years, crammed full of more lunacy, like yesterday's winner: "I know more about inflation--I know more about everything than anybody in this room. Anybody anywhere in the world. "

Honestly, what other human being you know would say things like that--even think things like that--what other human being than our Commander-in-Chief?

 “. . .and you forgave the guilt of my sin.”

No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as from our own; therefore, we are saved by the final form of love, which is forgiveness.

                                                        Reinhold Neibuhr

 

            Perhaps the Scarlet Letter is the American classic it is because its central characters—seemingly fallen Hester and her partner in crime, the seemingly self-righteous Arthur Dimmesdale—are so, well, seemingly complex.  Invariably, it seems, first-time readers in my college classrooms, early on, come to love Hester as much as they hate her guilt-wracked lover, a spineless phony.  But I’m not sure Hawthorne intended my students’ sentiments to move so incontestably in those directions.

            I side with those who claim that the trajectories of those two characters, in the novel, appear to move in totally opposite directions.  Hester is clearly central in the early chapters; Hawthorne seems to have fallen in love with her himself, in part because she gains so much heroic strength by accepting her red badge of shame.

            The Rev. Mr. Dimmesdale, on the other hand, is a sham, a man who receives the accolades of the community in spite of his secret sin, a man who, by refusing what Hester openly accepts, loses our sympathy as quickly and surely as she gains it.

            But slowly on, Hawthorne allows Dimmesdale to take over the novel, giving him greater billing—or so it seems to me. 

            The climactic scene, when he finally and torturously bears his sin to the community and dies, forgiven, rarely engages my students, despite the fact that they are almost all believers themselves.  It’s too little, too late—even though good Christian readers probably should see the eternity of what just occurred:  his sin, like David’s, has been forgiven. 

            I’m really not sure Hawthorne could have done better. It seems to me that while stories—the ones we read or the ones we hear—can map out what it is that happens in forgiveness, those stories cannot give us the experience. No one’s testimony of forgiveness—David’s or Dimmesdale’s or your neighbor’s or mine, can do that. By way of what some call “felt life,” stories bring us as close as anything can to verifiable experience.  But there is, finally, an experiential—an existential—character to forgiveness and faith itself that is beyond my words or Hawthorne’s or even the word of the scriptures.

            We can talk and we can share and we can testify. We can read the Scarlet Letter or Crime and Punishment or the 32^nd Psalm. We can hear the story time and time again.  We can know how forgiveness operates; we can theorize and theologize. But, finally we know forgiveness in our hearts and souls only when we, like King David, know it’s been done to us, within us.  

You have to have been there to know.  In that sense, the 32^nd Psalm is our song, even if I can’t explain it or even describe it, as no one can. 

We really know what David knows only when we too have been forgiven.

Hymn from the Mud

LDS Grand Encampment--Council Bluffs, IA

Lest you wonder, no, I'm not LDS, nor have I ever been, despite the protestations of some of my high school students a half-century ago who would have liked to get me in. But I am something of a fan, at least some aspects of the Mormon story. (Mountain Meadows Massacre, not so.)

Yesterday, I was told, was the birthday of William Clayton, who essentially invented the modern odometer on the long Mormon trek from Illinois to Utah. He did so by actually numbering the revolutions the old wagon took in one mile, then created a gadget to count the miles, thereby making life easier on him.

It's a sweet story, but William Clayton deserves to be remembered for more than numbering his miles, as if they were days. He also  wrote one of the most beloved hymns in the LDS repertoire, "Come, Come Ye Saints." Some years ago, I wrote that story. You can hear it if you click on the url below. 

But in case you would rather read it, here it is. Honestly, it's one my favorites.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Let’s get the objectionable stuff out on the table, okay? William Clayton had nine wives. Not nine lives, like the Tom catting around out back, but nine wives. William Clayton was a Mormon, baptized in his native Great Britain, a man of some rank among the saints, a man who worked alongside none other than Joseph Smith the Prophet.

Some folks like to say that it was Brigham Young who pressed William Clayton’s poetic talents into service, proposing that Clayton, a man well-versed in verse, pen a new hymn the pilgrims on their long, hard trek to the Great Salt Lake could sing in renewed dedication to their arduous task. Some folks like to say that, but fact-checking Mormon historians say it’s likely not true.

What’s more likely is that William Clayton got the news one night right here in Iowa, that back in Illinois, his wife—that would be his fourth wife, history tells us—had given birth back to a healthy, bouncing baby boy. Eventually, he would father—hold on to your chair—43.  

He didn’t take nine wives because he was any more randy than any other mid-19^th saints—Mormons called themselves saints so I’m not being sarcastic; he took nine wives because he listened to the Prophet, who, back then, okayed polygamy and practiced it heartily himself. Clayton was a “recorder,” a church administrator, who lived by every word the prophet ordered.

That’s the objectionable stuff. If, like me, you’re not Mormon, try, as I will, to put it behind you.

Imagine, for a moment, what Omaha, a pioneer village in 1846, must have thought when, as if overnight, a suburb of 800 frame homes went up, an incredible project large enough to house 2500 Mormon pilgrims. There’s nothing there to mark the spot anymore, but a temple and a museum still grace the western hills above the Missouri River, where you can hear the incredible story and pick up a Book of the Mormon at the same time—no charge.

Seriously, this Winter Camp was not to be believed.

But William Clayton sits at the heart of things here, the church Recorder. The Iowa spring in 1846 was anything but—cloudy, rainy, cold, constant wintry mix falling all around as a couple thousand pilgrims, en masse, moved across those rolling prairie hills on their way to the Missour. Mud like you wouldn’t believe. Wagons slipped and slid when they weren’t stuck fast. Handcarts turned the men and women lugging them into beasts of burden for six or seven miles a day at best. Spring blizzards swept discouragement into the entire woebegone enterprise. It’s impossible to imagine the hardship.

Brigham Young had cause to ask Clayton to put his pen to work. The saints were suffering, dying, and Utah was an unimaginable half continent away. Clayton himself was ill with discouragement: "I have been sick again all day especially towards night,” the recorder scribbled in his diary. “I was so distressed with pain it seemed as though I could not live."

But then, this:

This morning Ellen Kimball came to me and wishes me much joy. She said Diantha has a son. I told her I was afraid it was not so, but she said Brother Pond had received a letter. . .he read that she had a fine fat boy on the 30th,. . . but she was very sick with ague and mumps. Truly I feel to rejoice at this intelligence but feel sorry to hear of her sickness. . . .

And then this: “This morning I composed a new song—'All is well.' I feel to thank my heavenly father for my boy and pray that he will spare and preserve his life and that of his mother and so order it so that we may soon meet again.”

Look, I’m not nominating William Clayton to dethrone Meredith Wilson as the Hawkeye Music Man. But anyone who’s ever listened to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir go through “Come, Come Ye Saints,” in all its regal glory can’t help but believe that what William Clayton created—“recorded”—his boots thick with sticky Iowa mud, can’t help but believe that hymn a miracle and a triumph.

And it was penned in dismal weather and profound discouragement, not all that far from here. Not all that far at all.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Here's the url, if you'd rather listen:

 https://www.kwit.org/featured-programs/2017-07-26/anthem-from-the-mud 

And should you wish to hear this hymn from the mud, here's the Mormon Tabernacle Choir's "illustrated" version. It's really something.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ia3gYSvG8M  

Top Ten Stuff*

My stenosis makes a night like this an impossibility, sadly enough. This is an old one, but it makes my heart swell just to remember.

_____________________________ 

One sweet night last night. An old woman who grew up here used to tell me that Siouxland has just ten glorious days a year--"and you better enjoy 'em." If she's not wrong, then we had one yesterday. Northwest winds carried dry (and cooler) air over this quarter of the plains in a fashion that had everyone smiling. Summer's dog days departed somewhere south, where they belong.

 We took off for Spirit Mound, an old Lewis and Clark stop, where the Native people claimed little tiny humanoids, demonic things, lived atop an odd land formation--a tiny, miniature mountain. It was hot that day--as I remember the tale--so hot that their huge black Newfoundland, Seaman, got a little sick.

Not so last night--perfect weather, top-ten variety. We were mostly alone, just a few other older couples also walking out there to the top. The corn in the neighborhood looked pretty bad from the drought, but the beans are yellowing now, creating a little medley of color in the broad landscape. The Missouri River valley looms south, but otherwise, from the top of Spirit Mound, you can see for miles and miles. There's something about a sweet day in a place like that to steady the soul. No demonic humanoids either, just pilgrims.

We drove south to a place called Mulberry Point, where an overlook offers a very unusual view of the Missouri River. To say the river is wild at that point isn't totally true. The flow of the Missouri is controlled by the dams upstream; it can't flood like it once did, seasonally. But Mulberry Point still offers a view of ye olde Missouri, one that looks far more untamed than the river people see in more familiar crossings. It's braided, thin and rangy, and seemingly unspoiled. Even though it isn't uncontrolled, its wild looks are a reminder of what that river once was, years ago, untamed and gutsy, cutting a new channel wherever and whenever it wanted.

The river is an inspiration at Mulberry Point--it looks to be its own boss, even though it isn't anymore.

We were there at sunset, and my camera's battery was dead as a doornail. The last of the great photographers.

 What a night. Out here in Siouxland, you only get ten of those per year. You better mark 'em. We did. 

Broken Kettle dawn--2003

For years, I've been writing short essays for a local NPR station in Sioux City. It's been great for me and maybe for them as well. These "Small Wonders" air on Mondays during NPR news shows, early morning (7:45) and afternoon (4:45). The story that ran this week, yesterday, is a rerun about being on top of the world at Broken Kettle, a great place to visit early morning or anytime.

Rather than print it out, I'll just put it here. You can listen.

The pictures are from my first trip with a camera to Broken Kettle, memorable for me because I was blown away by the dawn. I'd guessed that I could get some beautiful shots because Broken Kettle Nature Preserve was a drop-dead gorgeous place. What I didn't realize--and what is in the "wonder" of the essay, is just exactly how gorgeous the dawn can be--and was that morning.

A few more shots. I'd never taken landscapes before, and I'm not exactly proud of these files. But they still do bear witness to what suddenly and quickly we witnessed that morning, the morning the essay describes.