Homeless, but feeling at home.

I am now officially homeless, I suppose, but I am at a RV park in St. Marys, GA. St. Marys is about five miles above the Florida border and I will be here until late March. Last year, I stumbled on Crooked River State Park and spent about ten days there. It was warm and I just let myself soak in it after a nasty winter. There was a small RV park across the way and I stopped by when I needed a part. They didn't sell parts but the woman I talked to, Cricket, was extremely kind and gave me directions to several places.

I wanted to stay at Crooked River a little longer, but my site had been reserved for the weekend. So I decided to go across the street to the RV park and as Cricket registered me, she told me to be sure to attend the Sunday night pot luck supper. As I settled in, Cricket's husband, Bill, asked me why I hadn't attached my hose and sewer lines and I told him that I had just purchased the rig (a very inexpensive and old trailer I was trying out) and hadn't a clue how to use the water system and was afraid I would screw something up. He spent several hours teaching me how to use it.

At the pot luck supper, I met a number of people and learned much about the RV lifestyle. I knew that it was something I would eventually want to do.

From there, I went on to Lazydays in Florida, the nations largest RV dealer, and purchased a new model which was more to my liking. The queen size bed sure beat the bunks in my first model where I had laid a board across them and tossed on a full-size mattress.

I also stopped here on the way back up to New York and again was made to feel very welcome. Bill and Cricket also talked to me about workamping and showed me some web sites.

I spent last summer at a campground near my home and made a decision to become a nomad at that time. So I gave up the apartment and am spending a month here in Saint Marys before moving further south.

When I arrived, however, I was saddened to learn that Cricket had died last weekend. Bill has been wandering around the campground like a lost child and I immediately went to him and gave him my condolences and shared a couple of things about Cricket. Bill, a merchant marine sailor who was hurt on his last cruise to the Middle East last summer, has been forced to retire. Right now, he is trying to figure out what to do.

I am really enjoying this place. We had a pot-luck supper and I mashed some sweet potatoes with marshmallows and the people, especially the owner's kids enjoyed them. Many of the people who were here last year are here this year and I have been invited to campfires and card games. At the campfire, people shared how they dealt with the legal aspects of being homeless and I learned much. Most of them have different political views from me, and I don't really discuss politics. The most appealing part of this campground is the physical layout. All the sites are pull through and concrete. It makes leveling the trailer quite simple and I set up everything in less than an hour. I am right across the street from the clubhouse and its hot showers with unlimited water. There is decent space between the sites and as I write this I am looking at a palm bush.

It is quite a contrast to the campgrounds I had been staying at thus far. The first site was in Winchester, VA and is decent for overnight and weekend camping, but there are no pull-through sites and the road is gravel. The people are professional, but not very friendly. When I was there last October, some friends visited my site for a moment to see the trailer and someone came to them and told them they had to register as guests. I had to explain they were simply dropping me off. Earlier this month, I had an issue with them because they shut off my water while I was away getting the truck repaired. When I asked why, they told me I shouldn't park on the grass. I hadn't. It was the tow truck jumping me. I was pretty ballistic for a couple of days and won't go back there.

And I was then at a state park in Santee, NC. The people were friendly and the ranger gave me a site with an absolutely stunning view overlooking Lake Marion. But there was no TV or Internet and in a remote area, cell phone service was iffy.

So here I am, staying for a month. I love the birding that is in the area, and I will venture to Cumberland Island, a national park in town, later this week. The park's "summer" schedule starts March 1. The weather has been changing from day to day. I arrived here to 83 degree sunshine and a gentle breeze. However the last couple of days have had nearly constant rains. Just about 30 miles to the south, the Daytona 500 stock car race had been postponed for the first time in its history due to the rains. It rained most of yesterday but they got the race in. There's still a little residual rain but the forecast for today calls for it to end later this morning and we'll be back to the 80 degree temperatures by tomorrow. Being along the coast, the warmth and rains have brought out a lot of misquitoes but my activities yesterday involved laundry, car maintenance and shopping so I wasn't bothered too much.

So why am I spending such a long period here? Location, location, location. Since I am only a few miles from the Florida border and five minutes from Interstate 95, I can do things in Florida without paying the tourist taxes that can increase the cost of camping by 30 percent. So I expect to do some day trips and spend some overnights at friends. I then will move to Lazydays for some complementary free days at their place co-inciding with spring training baseball and then the Florida Keys and splurge a few days before heading to Oregon.

So, what's new with you????????

Why me God? Why not Mike?

It’s not just a life, it’s an adventure!

I should know better by now than to worry about things. I keep forgetting God has a plan for me. And sometimes it’s just to tell me “lighten up Michael.”

Could there be a greater catastrophe than to have a vehicle breakdown while on the road? As I started “Hail and Farewell Journey 2012,” it wasn’t a very encouraging start. In fact, it was no start at all as my truck battery apparently crashed. I had spent the morning loading my trailer and as I got in the truck to move on I told Pup, the pup, “it’s time to rock and rooooollllllllll” and turned the key. Nothing happened.

Now let’s think about this. I have just handed over the keys to my apartment and have left it. Officially I have no home. It's my first day as a full-time RVer. And my vehicles are parked in a fire zone. It is uncomfortable. Way more than uncomfortable. It is raining and threatening to snow and I need to get on the road so I can arrive at my Northwest Virginia campground at a reasonable hour. Anyhow, I go across the street to the mechanic who I have become somewhat friendly. Jeff is honest and has brought his mom and dad into the shop. Mom handles the books and Dad is a pretty fair mechanic on his own. I tell him what’s going on and he sends his dad to help me.

We figure out the apparent cause of the dead battery – that the battery serving my RV trailer had died with the lights on and that it then drained out the truck battery. It would not start with a battery booster pack but did with the truck. As we looked at the gauges, the battery is charging (and so is the trailer battery when I reconnect it).

And so finally I’m on the road. I gassed up and took a quick stop at my RV dealer to pick up a couple of parts and then headed to Winchester VA. Along the way, I took a couple of rest stops and the truck started up right away. I arrived safely at my campground, and after a good night’s sleep I meet my friends, Carol and Jim, for lunch. Carol, the absolutely most beautiful girl ever to grace an 8^th grade classroom, has had a wisdom tooth removed and is having her first solid meal in weeks. We have a nice time and I give them parting gifts. God willing, I am heading to Oregon later this year for the summer and after that, who knows?

So I drive back across the street to take care of some things and then go to move my truck into a parking area. It does not start. The manager of the campground tries to jump it with a battery pack. No good. I call Jim and Carol and they return to take me to the nearby Wal-Mart where I purchase a new battery. I figure that perhaps the battery has a bad cell and since it’s five years old anyhow, it’s time to change it anyhow. Of course it does not start.

Jim and Carol have brought me a local phone book with the name of the mechanic they recommend. He is also the local AAA tower so I figure things are great. So I call AAA and discover my darling ex has cancelled my account, which was due to, expire at the end of the month. Darling ex, when you read this, I hope you are enjoying your moment.

Anyhow, by this time we have figured out that it is either the starter or the solenoid and in the case of a Dodge truck, they are attached. As night continues, I check out the warranty I purchased with the truck. It expires in 7,000 miles so I figure that it will last at least until I reach Oregon. It covers the tow and has a $100 deductible with any repair. Whew! I also discover that my car insurance also covers the tow.

In the morning, I call the shop and the tow truck comes. Again, it won’t start with the battery jumper; again it starts with the jump from the truck. I follow the tow truck into town and things start to turn around. The woman who logs in the cars moves me to the top of the list since I’m on the road. And the insurance verifies I am covered. The mechanic looks at it and, of course, can't find anything wrong since the starter is working at the moment. I tell him it's one thing to be stranded in Winchester, VA and quite another to be stranded in the Arizona desert or the Everglades to please replace it. He laughs and tells me it will be ready about a half hour after the part arrives.

So I walk a few blocks to MacDonald’s for breakfast and try to relax. I am still fuming and full of self-pity. Why God? Why do I have to have a breakdown? What did I do wrong? Are you punishing me for going on the road again? Etc. By now, I am raving a little and the manager, a kid, asks if I'm OK? I can tell it is clear to him that I would be better off not being here.

Despite saying grace as well as making demands, God isn’t answering me. But he will in a few minutes. As I return to the garage’s waiting room, I meet my third West-By-God Virginian.

Now I am certainly not going to judge the people of an entire state by the only three people I have met from there. But the three I have met are quite colorful characters. The first gentleman was, for lack of a better word, a hillbilly. He dressed like Pappy from Little Abner, except a little more ragged, and he chewed tobacca and had a drawl unlike anything I ever heard. His beard was long and untrimmed.

He was my camping neighbor and was en route from workamping in West Virginia to Florida. Every morning, there was an empty case of Rolling Rock outside his door. I shy away from drinkers and did my best to ignore him, but I had to walk my dog and we talked a couple of times. This was in October of 2011 at the same campground. We had a freak snowstorm that shut down much of the east coast and we both spent time helping our neighbors digging out. Nice man, but very different from me.

The second West Virginian I met was the daughter of a family that moved to the hills while her father was working for the government. Now she is fairly sane and has lived near Lake Ontario for years. But when she was a child, her mom got into a gunfight with some of the neighbors. It seems momma didn't like hunters and she threatened them with a gun, demanding they get off her land. The hunters had been hunting on that land for generations and late at night, they started shooting at the building. "Come and get me," she screamed t them, shooting back as her daughter hid in her bedroom, covered by her mattress. Thereafter, she was known as "Annie Oakley," and many years later while traveling through West Virginia, I found an Annie Oakley Road near where she lived.

But the third was the most interesting one. Now this ole boy appeared to be in his mid thirties. His dyed blond hair was receding and he combed over the bald spot. And he spoke with that “twang”. And as he talked to me, I knew why God wanted me in that garage. He wanted to entertain me and, at the same time, get out of my self-centered righteousness mode.

Seems that the man had his tires slashed and couldn’t get off one of the lug nuts to change it. Not only that, but his girlfriend’s tire was also slashed. Turned out that, by golly, she had a date in court that day to fight over child custody with her current husband. Now the good ole boy figured that “his” girl’s husband didn’t want her to get to court. So he’s a figuring to stay up tonight in his minivan with a shotgun to blow away hubby if he tries to slash the tires again. He decides that I’m a “right sensible fella” and asks me if he should blow him away or beat him to a pulp with a baseball bat. I respond by saying I’ll see him in the local newspaper in a day or so and point out that if the hubby is not around, he can’t pay child support. A point the ole boy seems to agree with.

I excuse myself to go to the men’s room, which would require several pages to describe, and when I return, there is the chubby little darlin’ herself. She can’t be more than 19 and she’s wearing a XXXL size NASCAR jacket. She's about 4'8" tall and 4'9" wide. Her dyed blond hair is identical to her boyfriend's. She twangs about how the hubby and her have to go back to court later in the day to continue the hearing. I asked her how soon will she be divorced. “Oh, he ain’t filed anything yet,” she replies. “He wants us to get back together but I’m not thinking about that.” I comment on her NASCAR jacket and she tells me she stole it from her husband. I comment that that just might be the reason her tires got slashed and she too says I'm a "right sensible fella -- for a damn yankee." Her boyfriend tells her that if he shoots hubby, there will be no child support. “You better not shoot him,” she says, adding that she wouldn’t mind if he took a razor and “cut his dick off. He don't need it for child support and anyhows don't know how to use it anyhows."

Shortly after that, my  car is ready. The entertainment has come to an end. I get in the truck and by God it starts up! I think about how these two people are making things harder on themselves (just like me) and realize that there are many, many stories yet to be told and I am probably here to tell them. So what the heck? It’s time to get off the computer and see if the car starts today. I’ve got more than a century of photos to share with my cuz and there is a snowstorm heading my way -- so on with the show -- it’s time to rock and rooooollllllllll!”

Hail and Farewell

Photo: Party held New Year's eve at my apartment.

Adieu

I cannot yet say “good bye” to Port Jervis, New York, so I will bid it Adieu. Perhaps we shall meet another time.

Port Jervis is in what is called the “tri-state” area. It is where New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania border along the Delaware River. If you look at a map of New Jersey, go to the Northwest corner and you have found it. It is a very depressed area because of its location. Once a river port, it was a stopover for barges transporting food and timber from upstate New York and Northeastern Pennsylvania to places like Philadelphia. Now there is little industry and, worse yet, little retail. The retailers have gone over the state lines where sales taxes are lower and clothing isn’t taxed. Gas prices are 50 cents less per gallon and there are no nuisance taxes like deposits on beverage containers. The town hasn’t a major supermarket and the K-Mart moved across the river to Pennsylvania when a Wal-Mart opened there.

But it is my place of retreat. As a youngster, I camped at the state parks in Northwest New Jersey with various youth groups. When I became a little older, Port Jervis was a first stop on canoe trips where novices could get experience on the Neversink River before hitting the rapids of the Delaware. As an adult, my former wife’s family had many relatives settle in the town and her parents bought a piece of land with a trailer and a nearby pond where we frequently visited and vacationed at.

When I need to de-stress, I often close my eyes and visualize the pond. It was a place to swim, fish and teach my children how to land sunfish. My oldest son, who spent his early years in New York City, called it “Grandpa’s Central Park.”

As he was dying, we took my father-in-law on one last trip to the property and I remember wheeling him through a wooded trail from the trailer to the pond for one less visit. It seems that it was not so long ago that he had mowed the lawn every time he came up. I remember watching his neighbor talking to him and turning away in tears. The people they shared their small paradise with are all gone now, but the memories remain.

I moved to The Water’s Edge 55+ apartment complex in August 2010. I was very lucky to be able to get a place here. There is usually a long wait, but less than a week after I signed the waiting list, I got a call from Shirley, the property manager. She asked when I was considering moving in and I replied “Is today OK?”

Shirley had just gone through the waiting list and no one wanted to move in at that time. I moved in within two weeks. I was very grateful. I had spent the last five months camping and the summer heat nearly killed me. Shirley and I shared something in common over the last few days as she was terminated as of the weekend I left. She spent much of the last few weeks in tears. People in another building threw her a party and when I walked in with a boquet of flowers, she lost it. She was a tough property manager, but she also loved the people who lived here. She started when the first building was being built and the complex of four buildings now house nearly 200 units.

I moved here for a couple of reasons. The main one was it was in New York. I had been spending much of my time in New Jersey where I was raised to avoid issues with my ex during our divorce. But by living there, I saved quite a bit in legal fees as an interstate divorce would have meant added costs.

During the time I have been here I have developed friendships with a number of people. They have been very wonderful neighbors and I have tried to be one as well. I hosted open houses on Thanksgiving days and New Year’s Eves and helped organize a fourth of July picnic.

Perhaps the thing that impacted me the most was I moved in into the apartment in early August. I was there a couple of weeks then went to Florida for a few weeks, not returning until the beginning of September. Yet when my birthday came around, I had more than a dozen cards placed under my door. I hadn’t had a birthday card in years, being ignored by my wife and children. I spent that night, in the middle of a bitter divorce, crying my eyes out over the fact that some people actually gave a damn about me.

I have since left the place for long stretches. Early last year, I spent about seven weeks travelling through the south. That was followed by an early spring trip to New England. Half the time I wasn’t here during the summer while at a summer encampment a couple of miles away. And in the autumn, I travelled to the Blue Ridge mountains and Niagara Falls. Yet every time I returned, I felt way beyond welcome.

Yet I never looked at this place as my permanent “home.” The cost of living here was acceptable, but over 18 months, my rent increased about 15 percent while my social security only had an increase last month. It was just too expensive both spending time on the road and here.

When the time came when my son was OK with my spending the summer near his home in Oregon, the decision to leave this place was finalized.

Packing has become surprisingly difficult. I gave away most of my furniture to friends. But packing my personal possessions was very difficult. I thought I didn’t have much after the divorce, but spent more than a week wading through hundreds, if not thousands, of photographs dating back to the time of the first world war. Going through my clothing was difficult as I had clothes for both work and casual wear. I’m retired now. So I only needed a couple of suits and a few dress shirts. And who in God’s name needs 64 pair of socks?

But here we are. The dog, the two Christmas cactus plants and I are in the truck. The bed is loaded with cartons and the trailer is filled with the things of life. Let’s put the pedal to the medal and get outta here. Adieu, my place of rest. Hello to life on the road.

Of course, the best laid plans always fail. As I finished loading the trailer, I had the lights on inside. Unknown to me, when the trailer’s battery gives out and your electric is connected to the truck, it feeds off that battery. Needed a jump to get on the road. But made it to Winchester, VA and all is well and chaotic.

Unfinished business and eggs

I had dinner with a friend tonight who pointed out that I constantly refer to my experiences with my ex. I was told, point blank, that I wasn’t ready to move on. And I have to ask myself if it is true?

I am on the verge of making a radical change in my lifestyle. I have given up my apartment and heading south to Florida for the winter. After that, I will head to Oregon to see my son’s family. I haven’t seen my granddaughter since she was baptized during the 2009 Christmas season. I will live in a small travel trailer at least through the end of the summer. But I haven’t a clue what happens after that.

I do know that my expenses will be about half of my current housing so I expect that by the end of the summer, I will have enough to indulge in many housing options. But that is not the point.

I was told that while I was going to Oregon for visiting family, I was also going there because I have unresolved issues with my ex, who lives there near our son. And that is true. She is extremely hostile to me. In a perfect world, I would like her to acknowledge that we share children and a grandchild and we should try to be civil to one another. But despite my desire for this to happen, it is out of my control.

I am told I am provoking her. Last Christmas, I sent loaves of cranberry nut bread – a family holiday tradition -- to my son. I sent extra loaves for my son’s wife’s parents and for the ex. I had hoped it would be a reminder of good things in our marriage. But I got a blistering e-mail telling me to leave her alone, and that she is engaged.

The only other e-mail I have sent her recently was to discuss our tax returns for the sale of our house last February. And I was told why should I care what she does?

So now I have to ask myself why am I doing what I am doing? I’ve always thought she was the one who was the provocative one. Between the time we separated and sold the house, there was ongoing rage via e-mail.

But she stopped. And I didn’t. She has moved on. I still have a need for a degree of being cordial. It isn’t going to happen. I am told until I let go of it, I won’t be ready to move on.

My friend shared an example from a seminar. The leader had everyone hold raw eggs in their hand, constantly. They were harassed and constantly told to maintain their grip. Finally they were permitted to let go. Some numbers appeared on the eggs, the result of the body heat from the hands.

The seminar leader compared things we kept holding on to with the eggs. You can’t reach for new things unless you let go of the old.

As hard as it is for me, it is time to let go. Thank you for being blunt my friend.

Weather or not?

It is winter and the weather is strange.

Except for the freak snowstorm in October, we haven’t had any snow except a light flurry or two. It has been cold and depending on how cold the Neversink River outside my door is either filled with frozen ice floes, or simply frozen along the banks.

But today was strange. I looked out of my window and observed a mild snow flurry. Yet the sky was practically cloudless and blue. I took the dog out for a walk and discovered a small storm cloud on the other side of the building. With the help from a slight breeze, snowflakes were falling. I’ve seen it many times in the summer. I was taught from childhood this was a “sun shower” – yet I can’t recall seeing one in winter, at least not so dramatically.

By the time I finished walking the dog, the flurry was over. But I was reminded that winter in these parts was unpleasantly overdue. So I checked the weather forecast. There is a 30 percent chance of snow tomorrow with a 50 percent chance tomorrow night. But the forecast calls for less than a half inch of snow. Then Saturday holds a 60 percent chance of snow followed by a warm Sunday to melt whatever is left.

At this time last year, and the year before that, the East Coast was pounded by a series of Nor’easters, dumping as much as 20 inches per pop. I have a full-size pickup and the snowplows had piled snow higher than my door.

OK, perhaps El Nino or El Nina or whatever is different this year. My present travel plans call for heading South after the Presidents’ Day weekend. There’s a huge RV show going on that weekend and I wanted to go to it before going on the road.

Last year I left in late Early March. The winter had been brutal, but there was more to come. I had decided to shake down my newly purchased trailer at a campground in New Jersey. The first night it poured all night, and hard. It was like being on the inside of a drum. When I woke up, the rain had stopped, but there were a couple of inches of snow on the ground.

As I then headed south last March, with Gettysburg my first destination, I went through a rainstorm that melted snow in the mountains. It was incredibly scary. It was the first time I had my trailer on an Interstate and it fogged up so much, I had to go around 25 mph and was terrified a car or truck would rear end me. I searched desperately for an exit to wait at, but couldn’t find them in the fog.

When I decided to set a spell in South Georgia, I e-mailed people laughing at them because I was wearing shorts and using the air conditioner. They were shoveling yet more snow.

Somehow, I suspect there will be interesting weather again. Perhaps a blizzard will strand me? Maybe torrential flooding from melting snow will slow me down? I was awed when that happened and saw the upper end of the Potomac River at least 20 feet above normal as I crossed the Maryland-West Virginia border.

But somehow I suspect SOMETHING is going to happen to make life interesting.

Bah Humbug

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. And for the last two years it’s been me.

For the past two years, I’ve stopped shaving sometime in August and that has permitted it to get to near Santa length. I suppose that if I let it continue to grow, by the next holiday season I could get a job somewhere as a “real” Santa and go ahead kid, pull my beard. But I’ve been Santa a couple of times at Wal-Mart and I don’t like doing it very much. The children are either terrified of me (usually the younger babies who have never sat next to a huge beard) or worship me, and I’m not comfortable being their god either.

I have two sons, one is a cockeyed optimist and the other is a sarcastic pessimist. I am convinced the reason for this is one grew up believing in Santa and the other was told that Mommie and Daddy bring the presents. Kids have hopes and dreams anyway and hoping that Santa will bring them what they want is generally a good thing. If you don’t think so, watch A Christmas Story, the holiday movie that will air all day on one of the cable networks. It rings so true, because it is.

So if you forget about the Santa factor, and realize that your only hope is your mom and dad, who REALLY know if you’ve been bad or good and don’t let you forget about it -- well, you can see how the pessimist develops. Did you get my meaning oh daughter-in-law?

So why do I dress up like Santa? Because it’s FUN! When I go shopping, I usually ride around in the handicapped cart because of my disabilities. It’s fun to have kids at my level as they stare in awe at me and I smile and wave to them. It’s also a lot of fun with adults, as I will tease them about being naughty and/or nice. Today, A middle aged woman who was with her friends said a rousing “Hello Santa” and I replied “You better straighten up young lady, you’re on my naughty list…. and at your age you better be!” She loved it and everyone had a smile for the day.

I am, of course, completely insane and it’s a harmless way to express my insanity. The other night I was at the Wal-Mart check out register and after the cashier told me the total, I grumbled that it was “a poor excuse for Sam Walton’s family to pick my pocket every 25^th of December.” She cracked up and I lost yet another small bit of anger at Wal-Mart. But quite honestly, some of the things Wal-Mart has done in the name of “what would Sam do?” since his death would probably make Sam quite unhappy. An elder in his church, I doubt he would approve of keeping the store open on Christmas Day and Easter Sunday.

I think a good philosophy came from the leader of a bible study group I once went to. He said “I don’t mind Santa having a holiday, I just wish he wouldn’t pick Jesus’ birthday.”

So as I write out of sight, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

The pecking order

Go into any chicken coop and feed the chickens. You will immediately learn that the biggest and strongest birds will get the first shot at the food. The weaker birds will have to wait for what’s left. And if they try to get some before the social order permits them, they will be pecked without mercy, often by many other chickens. The rooster is not involved in this very often, but when they are, the result is often death to another rooster.

My recent high school reunion reminded me a great deal about the pecking order and how traumatic and cruel people can be to the lower part of the order. I wasn’t very popular and was the butt of cruel jokes sometimes, but I was nowhere near the bottom of the order.

I happened to encounter, via Facebook, a relative of the person who was probably at the bottom of our school pecking order. I am advised that the person I am referring to has needed help to live for some time now.

I hardly knew this person at all. Yet when I transferred into my high school in the middle of my freshman year almost the first thing I learned was this person at the bottom of the order was, depending on the person telling me, weird, insane, a misfit, and more. Yet in more than three years of sharing a homeroom I never observed any of the wild behavior she was alleged to have.

This person, no doubt, had unspeakable cruelties aimed at her. She didn’t dare enter any of the activities after school. She was physically somewhat different and often ran away from the building after school was over. She was laughed at because of her funny running style. There wasn’t much she could do right in the pecking order but scramble around trying to get meager leftovers. The yearbook says she was in a club, but wasn't in the club picture. The most she ever got was pity or people ignoring her. I won’t go into the worst she got. . . except to say that every day produced some sort of sorrow. In the 3 plus years I observed her in my homeroom, she smiled exactly once when our homeroom teacher said something nice to her.

Today, there is a growing effort to stop bullying in the schools. It sometimes meets with success, but more often than not, it is ignored until it explodes into violence such as the many incidents of school shootings we have seen in the past decade. Or, more often, it results in the personal collapse of the victim.

The pecking order is based on status within the group. And sometimes our chicken-people are cruel to others simply to maintain their ranking. They look at the bottom of the order and do cruel things to avoid going there themselves.

This is abuse – child abuse given by other children. As a teacher, I continued to see it for many years. And I reacted with concern but not knowing what to do. I would refer it to principals and guidance counselors. Yet as I look back on my “busy, carefree high school days,” I now know that a few simple acts of kindness would have gone a long way. And I feel some guilt for not doing something as simple as that.

And as I wonder where our ability to treat people with such cruelty comes from, I think about the fundamentalist church. There is a “holy war” against, among other people, the divorced, the poor, those who have had an abortion, other religious beliefs, science, liberal politics, and so much more. And yet they believe that all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. What an example of the benefits of salvation! They have placed themselves at the top of the pecking order. And they have produced a culture of hate as great as any jihad of Islam’s extremists.

As Jesus said: "Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get. Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, 'Let me take the speck out of your eye,' when there is the log in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye." (Matthew 7:1-5 RSV)