It’s Time to Call Out the National Gourd

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National Guard in DC fighting crime, drugs, and terrorism

Watching the members of the National Guard being deployed in DC has been . . . painful. I’m not talking about the assault on democracy, as bad as that is, but the toll this deployment must be taking on the members of the Guard themselves. As a pastor, I’ve had countless members of the National Guard in my congregations. They’re the modern version of the Minutemen, practicing on the weekends every so often, ready to go at a moment’s notice when the need arises. And when the need passes, they go home.

Now imagine that you are one of these members of the Guard who has been deployed in DC, and you’re about to head back home. Then imagine the conversation you’re going to have with your kid . . .

Kid: Dad, what happened on your deployment?
Dad (looking down at his feet): Oh, you know. We went and did our thing, then came home.
Kid: How many terrorists did you shoot?
Dad: It wasn’t that kind of mission.
Kid: Did you blow up somebody’s headquarters?
Dad: Uh, no.
Kid: Then what *did* you do? Is it so secret you can’t tell me?
long pause
Dad (leaning in really close, and whispering): If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone. Promise?
Kid (excited): Promise!
Dad (dramatically looking left and right, to see who might be listening): We picked up . . . trash.
long pause as the Kid looks at Dad
Kid (grinning): Ok, you got me. Seriously, what did you do?
Dad: I’m serious. We. Picked. Up. Trash.
Kid (grin fades to a frown): Trash? Like you put on a day-glo orange vest over your camo uniforms and scooped up water bottles and french fry cups?
Dad: Yeah. And remember, you promised not to tell anyone about this.
Kid: Don’t worry – no one would believe me. And if they did, they’d all laugh at me all day long if they found out. Your secret is safe with me.

Seriously. This makes Alice’s Restaurant and its Group W bench look like nothing. “Son, are you manly enough and lethal enough to pick up trash?”

Trump did this for the symbolism. He did it to make it look as if he is Strong On . . . something. Whatever it is, he’s Strong, and calling out the National Guard is how he shows it. “Look at me, and how Important and Powerful I am. I, only I, the Greatest President in history, can do this!”

In response, there are all kinds of very serious, very appropriate ways to fight back against this. Mayors and governors are filing lawsuits, and working hard to keep this from happening again. Good. Do it, again and again and again. Pundits are punditing, and historians are describing how unprecedented this all it. Fine. These are necessary parts of a response, but they are not a sufficient response. No, the fullness of a response needs to take Trump on on the battlefield of symbolism, turning his desire to project power into a punch line.

As I’ve pondered this, it suddenly hit me. My friends, it is time to call out the National Gourd. I’m talking pumpkins.

Imagine a bunch of tourists marching east from the Lincoln Memorial with their pumpkins held high, marching past the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the MLK Jr. memorial, the reflecting pool, the Korean War memorial, and the WWII memorial. Meanwhile, at the other end of the Mall, imagine another bunch of tourists with pumpkins marching west from the Capitol. Imagine them marching past the National Museum of the American Indian, the Air and Space Museum, and the National Museum of African American History and Culture. Imagine these two groups meeting, with their pumpkins held high, at the Washington Monument, then turning north.

Toward the White House.

Imagine the fence around the White House suddenly surrounded by the National Gourd, as the tourists deposit their pumpkins on the sidewalks around Trump’s doorstep.

Imagine the National Gourd appearing along the mansions of Embassy Row.

Imagine the National Gourd filling Lafayette Square, just north of the White House.

Imagine the National Gourd appearing at Blair House, at the US Naval Observatory (home to JD Vance), and on the steps of SCOTUS.

Imagine the National Gourd appearing at the DC Armory, home to the DC National Guard.

Imagine the National Gourd appearing all over DC. Imagine DC businesses putting a member of the National Gourd at their doors and in their windows. Imagine Metro Stations with their own National Gourd presence. Imagine the National Gourd lining The Wall at the Vietnam Memorial. Imagine the National Gourd sitting at the feet of every soldier in the Korean War Memorial. Imagine the National Gourd alongside every figure in the FDR Memorial. Imagine the National Gourd appearing at Dulles Airport and at DC (aka Reagan) National Airport. Imagine the National Gourd appearing at Langley, the Pentagon, and the FBI headquarters.

Imagine the National Gourd showing up at Mar-a-Lago in Florida, Trump Tower in New York, and Trump’s Bedminster golf course in New Jersey.

And then imagine the National Gourd showing up at the Great Lakes Naval Station outside of Chicago, to greet the folks Trump is apparently going to send there.

Imagine the National Gourd appearing at federal buildings and offices around the country. Agricultural extension offices, military recruiting centers, federal courthouses, and post offices. Navy bases and Air Force bases and Army bases and Marine bases. National park entrances and IRS buildings and ICE offices.  Imagine a member of the National Gourd showing up at every federal facility in the country.

Call out the National Gourd, and make Trump weep.

This past week, a certain coffee chain released their annual chemical pumpkin-based weapon: the pumpkin spice latte. All around the country, pumpkin-based artillery units are holding their annual “Punkin Chunkin” events (see here or here or here or here for examples), where trebuchets, catapults, and other devices launch pumpkins enormous distances (unless the pumpkin explodes in mid-air, known as “pumpkin pie”). [If you want to see more, google “punkin chunkin”] The world championships used to be broadcast on various television stations, but perhaps the powers that be realized that they were disclosing military secrets and the broadcasts have ceased in recent years. Even so, these are the regular training events for the National Gourd.

And then there’s the Half Moon Bay Art and Pumpkin Festival.

In six weeks, the little town of Half Moon Bay, California, population 11,795, will be transformed from a sleepy little coastal village to become the epicenter of Pumpkinism as around 200,000 folks come to town for their annual Half Moon Bay Art and Pumpkin Festival.

200,000 people line the streets for a grand parade, and it is the pumpkin equivalent of the USSR’s May Day parades in Red Square, where missiles and tanks were paraded before the Soviet Politburo. In Half Moon Bay, the highlight of the parade is the Mother of All Pumpkins, as growers from all over bring their best to Half Moon Bay, hoping to be crowned the biggest and the best. We’re talking pumpkins in excess of 1000 pounds. When I lived in the Bay Area, the Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival was an annual pilgrimage.

This is the parade that Trump wanted for his birthday, and never got.

We are approaching peak pumpkin season, and along with all the serious lawsuits and punditry, maybe the National Gourd can help take Trump’s ego down a notch or two. In a publicity contest between the National Guard and the National Gourd, I’ll bet on the Gourd every day and twice on Sundays. Especially in September and October.

Oh, and while we’re chatting . . .

Like many such events, the Half Moon Bay Art and Pumpkin Festival did not happen during COVID. Even so, the festival made their usual contributions to a bunch of local organizations, as if the festival had continued as usual. While this kept those groups afloat, it hurt the finances of the festival hard. Last April, local media reported that their own sustainability was in jeopardy. This is an amazing local festival, and if you are so inclined, you can help them out here.

Seriously. This is an incredible event, and they can use all the help they can get.

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On Haggis and Donald Trump

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Note, please, the face on the 10 pound note.

On this feast day of Robert Burns, less than a week into the second Trump administration, things are not well. ICE is going nuts, the CDC failed to issue its “Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report” for the first time since 1960 (MMWR is where the medical community first was alerted to what came to be known as AIDS), hundreds of seditionists and insurrectionists were pardoned or had their sentences commuted, Trump seems bent on taking FEMA – an agency whose mission to is to care for neighbors in need – and turn it into a quid-pro-quo program where friends are helped and others left to cry alone, and now the dismissal of 17 inspectors general.

And that’s just for starters.

On this feast day of Robert Burns, one need not wonder what Burns would have to say about Mar-a-Lago and its Lord. In his poem “My Father was a Farmer,” he lays out his own set of values,

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O;
He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O;
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.

Hmmm . . . one’s worth is not based on the size of your purse? “Unpossible!” says the Lord of Mar-a-Lago.

Later in the poem, after describing how his efforts to improve his financial situation were less than successful, and unmoved by his lack of money or what society says his values should be, he says this about himself:

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in his palace, O,
Tho’ Fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O:
I make indeed my daily bread, but ne’er can make it farther, O:
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.

“Unpossible!” says the Lord of Mar-a-Lago. “How can you possibly be cheerful without money?”

The final stanza makes the contrast between Burns and the Trump-like Lords of his day abundantly clear:

All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O,
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O:
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,
A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.

What is delightful about this poem is that Burns wasn’t speaking metaphorically, but autobiographically. Burns was a working farmer-poet, never wealthy himself, and oft in need of additional income. Writing poetry definitely helped, as various parts of Edinburgh’s High Society oooh-ed and ahhh-ed over his writing and were willing to pay for it.

But even so, Burns had no problem taking aim at their pretentiousness. His famous “Address to a Haggis” (recited far and wide at Burns celebrations each year on this day) is as much a take down and those who adore over-wrought fancy cooking as it is praise of a peasant dish. Burns writes about this sheep’s stomach filled with sheep’s lung, heart, and liver, along with oats, onions, and all manner of spices and herbs, as if it were the finest French cuisine, only to slam those who prefer “fine dining” over hearty fare like the haggis. Haggis, like honest working folks, has substance and nourishment; those who love their fine cuisine he calls devils, as their meal is an inappropriately thin plate of unhealthy trash.

My family roots are German, not Scottish, but “Address to a Haggis” resonates strongly with me. My late grandmother was a delightful baker with a heart of hospitality and always ready to put together a quick coffee cake if guests dropped by. As a daughter of the depression, she had a myriad of ways to stretch her ingredients and her budget. One of the favorite dishes she made that I only ever had at her home was a beef stew using beef heart and tongue, rather than more common cuts of beef. She could get the heart and tongue for next to nothing (or simply for nothing, as cattle-ranching parishioners who knew how badly her pastor-husband was paid would save these for her as an extra gift), and she turned them into a thing of beauty. Alas, she is gone and the recipe with her, though I can still smell it in my mind and taste it in my soul.

On this feast of Robert Burns, in these troubling times when all seems adrift, Burns’ injunction to prefer “a cheerful honest-hearted clown” to folks like the Lord of Mar-a-Lago seems all the more necessary. I invite you to fill your glass with a beverage of your choice, because it’s time to ding.

The roots of dinging at our home go back more than two decades . . .

It started on a Friday when The Kid was not yet two, and we had finally sat down to dinner at the end of a long week for all of us. Mrs. Dr. Peterr raised her glass, I raised mine, and in a quiet, exhausted, but happy voice she smiled at me and said “To the weekend.” “To the weekend,” I echoed, touching my glass lightly against hers. Then, from the high chair, a little voice chimed in loudly and proudly, punctuating each word with a swing of his sippy cup: “To. The. Weekend! Now ding with me!”

And so it is at our house, especially on Fridays: We have to ding.

The beverages vary widely, from glass to glass and from day to day – juice, wine, water, sparkling cider, beer, milk, scotch, etc. – and so do the toasts. Some days, we toast each other; other days we toast something great that has happened. Some days, the toasts bring happy thoughts, and on other days, they carry a note of sadness and loss. Some toasts are short, simply naming the person or thing for which we are grateful. Others are longer, and take on Dr. Seuss-like rhymes and rhythms.

The one thing they have in common, though, is a sense of shared gratitude. Mark Twain put it like this: “To get the full value of joy, you must have someone to divide it with.” Science fiction writer Spider Robinson takes Twain one step further: “Shared joy is increased; shared pain is lessened.”

It’s Friday, it’s the end of a rollercoaster of a week, it’s five o’clock somewhere, and we’ve got to ding.

Today is Saturday, not Friday, and it has indeed been a long, long week, so we’ve got to ding. With all that has happened in the last seven days, I can’t help but think that Robert Burns is lifting a glass of Scotch Drink with us today. So fill your own glass, raise it high, and join me in a toast.

Ladies and gentlemen,
. . . friends whom I know well and friends I have only just met,
. . . friends who love to chat and silent friends who lurk in the corners,
. . . friends who agree and friends who argue,
. . . friends who challenge my thinking and friends who confirm it,
. . . friends who trust each other with their open, honest ideas,
. . . friends who come here looking for conversation to get their thoughts in order:
To the poet,
. . . the farmer,
. . . the bard of Scotland,
. . . Robert Burns!

*DING*

Please offer your own toasts, your own odes to the foods of your hearts, and your own perspectives on the values of Lord of Mar-a-Lago and his ilk in the comments.

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On the Skewering of Self-Promoters Who are Filled with Misplaced Self-Importance

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Note, please, the face on the 10 pound note.

I have long loved satirists who skewer those who are filled with themselves and endeavor to look better to the world than they are. It’s not enough for these folks to be themselves, but they must appear to be better than those around them. And happily for me and for the world, there are other folks who are not content to notice them, but who are quite good at holding up a mirror to them, to the delight of the world. Folks like . . .

  • Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks.
  • Lily Tomlin.
  • Ben Franklin.
  • Amy Poehler and Tina Fay.
  • Michael Che and Colin Jost.
  • Tom Lehrer.
  • Gracie Allen.
  • Dick Gregory (who consciously chose as the one-word title of his autobiography a word that cannot be spoken these days!)
  • Puck and a host of political cartoonists who followed.
  • Jonathan Swift.
  • Art Buchwald.
  • Mark Twain.
  • The anonymous author of the biblical book of Jonah.
  • Theodore Geisel, aka Dr. Seuss.
  • Heinrich Hoffmann.
  • Geoffrey Chaucer.

All wonderful folks, and obviously this is a very partial, very personal list. But one more name must be added, a name to whom millions will raise a wee dram tonight (or perhaps tomorrow night, if they intend more than a single wee dram and worry about getting to work on Friday): Robert Burns.

Years ago as a teenager, I took a family trip to Great Britain. We saw castles, abbeys, cathedrals, and ordinary small churches. We viewed museums, monuments, and mausoleums, looking on treasures old and new. We visited Oxford bookshops (from whence I brought home a first edition of The Silmarillion) and sports gear shops (from whence I brought home a pair of Franz Beckenbauer Special football boots). We went to Stratford-upon-Avon and saw various Shakespeare sites.

And then we got to Scotland, and the home of Robert Burns. I brought back a souvenir from there, which gets a lot more use than the now-too-small Beckenbauer Specials and even the oft-read Silmarillion: a well-used leather bookmark, with a short little poem by Burns:

The Book-worms

Through and through th’ inspir’d leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But O respect his lordship’s taste,
And spare his golden bindings.

According to literary scholars, Burns wrote this epigram inside a fancy gold-embossed, leather-bound volume of Shakespeare in a noble’s library. He had pulled the impressive looking book down from the shelf, only to find much of the insides eaten away. Taking out his poet’s pen,  he inscribed the verse above. Four simple lines, neatly skewering “his lordship’s taste” which is clearly of much more importance to his lordship than the inspir’d words of the Bard himself. As Billy Crystal’s Fernando was fond of saying, “It is better to look good than to feel good, and you look mah-vel-ous.” The book may be ruined, but the appearance of the book is what matters.

Makes me think of overly-though out Zoom setups, skewered by Room Rater on the Site Formerly Known as Twitter. There are folks whose Zoom backgrounds fit themselves like a glove (see Michael Beschloss and Claire McCaskill, to name just two well-known examples), and there are . . . others. These are the folks that sit and pontificate in front of shelves lined with impressive looking books, but after hearing what they have to say, you have to wonder whether these folks had actually read those impressive-looking books, or even knew what the basic points of those books are.

Right now, my Book-worm bookmark sits about halfway through my copy of The 1619 Project, which seems appropriate on this Robert Burns Day. Nikole Hannah-Jones and those with whom she worked on this mammoth project have taken upon themselves the task of tumbling the mighty who oversold themselves and their stories while lifting up the lowly whose lives and stories had been shoved to the margins.

So tonight (or tomorrow), let us raise a glass of Scotch Drink to Robert Burns and those like him who use their literary superpowers for good.

Feel free to add your favorite satirical poets and authors to the comments, and if you feel truly inspired, raise your glass/mug/sippy cup, and offer a toast. But as it’s a Thursday, please toast responsibly.

Photo used under CC by 2.0 deed, from the flikr account of summonedbyfells, who also includes a delightful story behind the photo. I’ll be raising a glass to summonedbyfells, too!

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