Warsh Rags

     I've run across a relic from my childhood: warsh rags.

     A friend arranged it. He sent me a magazine article on Appalachian vernacular and its Celtic origins.

     My mother's family were not mountain people. They were hard-scrabble farmers in the sandy flats of eastern North Carolina. But folks out there shared in the Celtic coloring of language and attitudes in the mid-South.

     Curdled milk was clabber (and it made fantastic biscuits).  Objects at a certain distance were yonder.  An uncle who sometimes was afeared shared the word with Shakespeare. Whiskey was -- well, whiskey.  And in one strong Celtic tradition, a fellow might defiantly make his own in a far corner of the woods.
     The manners, language and rich accents of the region were the norms of my first years. Then, life journeys took me elsewhere.
      In the industrial Northeast, speech seemed a form of aggression. In the upper Midwest it was, to my ear, plain as a washed-out shirt.
     In New England, the personality of language once again had charm. I did have to learn that bring meant take, and rob meant steal. If I wanted a milkshake, I had to order a frappe. If I wanted to offer someone a soft drink, I'd suggest a tonic.
       But as travel for work and play took me to the west coast, the great plains and more,  it often seemed that other parts of the country were tone deaf to the music of English.
        Some of this attitude is mere prejudice, of course -- a preference for my own traditions.  Another part is the regret of loss. On the streets of my town nowadays you'll hear as much California and New York as Carolina. You'll also hear colorless, homeless hybrids.
     The loss has other tokens, too. Up in the hills, ski resorts and golf courses pock slopes of rhododendron and mountain laurel. Down in the flatlands, my grandparents' modest farm has become a small suburban office park.
     Deeper thinkers might here elaborate on cycles of change. They would note that, in homogenizing language, time dims memories of cultural heritage.  In the matter of language at hand, time steadily removes a living artifact of our country's inheritance from  Elizabethans and their forebears. One day, the record will exist only in libraries.
     But we don't need deep thinking to know that we can regret the loss imposed by change without imagining to avoid it.  For my own part, I even get a little chuckle when I wonder how long it would take me these days to find someone who still knows that a croker sack is a burlap bag, or that a stob is a wooden stake.
     And tomorrow morning, when I wash my face, I will remember all the years when I would have called the cloth a warsh rag.
      Knowing that time works upon everyone, I'll also be aware that a day will come when that image won't recur, even to me.
   
     

Who's On Mars?

   

       
          Two possibilities exist: Either we are alone in the universe or we are not. Both are equally 
terrifying. ...
              Arthur C. Clarke

          A little philosophy inclineth man's mind to atheism, but depth in philosophy bringeth men's minds about to religion.
          Sir Francis Bacon

        On the mysterious: It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. He who knows it not and can no longer wonder, no longer feel amazement, is as good as dead, a snuffed-out candle.
          Albert Einstein

        Imagination is the highest form of research.
          Albert Einstein



     As soon as the server brought our beer, I saw that my friend Harry was in one of his reflective moods.
     "Tell me this," he said before taking so much as a sip. "What is the evolutionary function of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony?"
     "What?" I said.
     "Or Shakespeare's sonnets?"
     "Uh?" I said.
     "Or the Mona Lisa?"
      Harry is a man of many parts. Day-to-day, he is like most of us. He thinks about earning a wage, paying the mortgage, loving his family and having from time to time a bit of fun. But Harry has another side. Actually, Harry has several other sides.
     Harry is a reader. His tastes are catholic. He may take an interest in football strategy or ancient religions. In fudge recipes or particle physics. When Harry takes a new interest, he goes all-in. If a thing catches his eye,  it's worth a long look. And he's likely to think that you should feel the same.
     "You've been reading again," I said when Harry lifted his beer.
     "Yes."
     "What is it this time?"
     "John Polkinghorne, among others."
     "Who is he?"
     "He is a theoretical physicist and an Anglican priest."
     "Odd combination," I said.
     "Actually it's not. Lot's of scientists are religious. Always have been. Francis Bacon was. He's been called the father of modern scientific method."
     "You started talking about evolution. So, where does Polkinghorne land on that one? With science or with religion?"
      "Both," Harry said. "He says it's not at all an either-or question. He's got a quote that sticks in my head: 'As a Christian believer I am of course a creationist in the proper sense of the term, for I believe that the mind and purpose of a divine Creator lie behind the fruitful history and remarkable order of the universe which science explores. But I am certainly not a creationist in that curious North American sense, which implies interpreting Genesis 1 in a flat-footed literal way and supposing that evolution is wrong.' "
       "Curious North American sense?" I said.
       "Yes," Harry said. "If you look around a little, you find that our fundamentalist neighbors have ginned up some screwy notions about the Bible."
       "You said you'd been reading Polkinghorne among others. Who else?"
       "Dorothy Sayers, for one."
       "I thought she was a mystery writer."
       "She was. But she also wrote about theology."
       "And ... ?"
       "She says that the creative impulse in humans is our little share of divinity."
       "Heavy stuff," I said. "So is this conversation. What got you started in this direction?"
       "That kind of thing, actually." Harry nodded toward a muted television set above the bar, where a commentator was silently narrating a documentary on Mars exploration.
       "You lost me there."
       "Why do we do it?  What's it for?"
       "A lot of useful stuff has come out of space exploration."
       "Yes. But we don't know that before we start. We don't know before we go up there that we will discover anything more useful than dirt. In particular, speaking of evolution, it has no logical connection to the survival of our species. We do it because of some other kind of inner impulse."
       "I guess we're just curious, and daring."
       "Yes, and you could say 'reckless,' as well."
       "Pardon?"
       "Sometimes science lets us know more than we understand."
       "Meaning?"
       "Lots of stuff. Thalidomide, DDT, asbestos, nuclear fission, gene editing."
       "So, it's reckless to check out the dirt on mars?"
       "Dirt is only one possibility." Harry nodded toward a television picture of the Mars lander.  "Suppose a Martian walked up to that thing and gestured a greeting."
       "Yes," I said. "Would it be 'hello' or 'en garde' ?"
       "That's not what I wonder about," Harry said.  "I don't wonder what Martians would say. I wonder what we would say."
       "You're losing me again."
       "If we encountered alien life, how would our world react? Would we finally decide we couldn't afford to war with each other any more, or would we fight over access?"
       I hid behind a sip of beer.
       "Have you thought about it?" Harry said. "How you would personally react?"
       "No," I said. "I guess I haven't.  I guess most people haven't.  Probably it would make good fodder for a combined course in science and ethics."
       "Yes," Harry said. "And maybe for a sermon as well."
       Harry is truly a man of parts.