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Departing the True Path -- Religion and Paris, 2015

11/20/2015

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In the shock and horror of the events of Friday night, November 13, in Paris, the world musters again and threatens violence to meet violence. The Internet, especially Facebook, was loaded with hate and calls for revenge and massive-scale assault on ISIS, Al-Qaeda, whomever…

I saw it play out over several days. People were spewing hateful speech about Islam and that all-Muslims should be killed. I’m not kidding.

“The religion of Islam is evil and Muslims are evil,” vomited one “good Christian” man on Facebook.  It was 9/11 again, this time with French subtitles.

Of course, we grieve and weep with the victims in Paris and their families. The world does. But what about Mumbai in 2008? The dead and wounded numbers were almost the same as Paris. But the victims were Hindus, mostly, and didn’t look like us. We barely paid attention.

In 2013, at the Westgate Shopping Mall in Nairobi, Kenya, 67 people were killed by Al Shabaab terrorists with over 175 wounded. But these were Africans, mostly, and didn’t look like us. Nobody on Facebook changed their profile picture to be shaded with the Kenyan flag.

So, for us to care, the victims apparently need to be white and/or Christian. But enough with comparative suffering.
But through all of that hate-mongering about Muslims, we forget that other religions—yes, even Christianity—has done the same…or worse. But we never seem to connect the dots between violence and our own religions. When Jihadis of radical and militant Islam attack a beloved city like Paris, we cry out that all of Islam is wicked.

But when the IRA (Irish Republican Army) was blowing up bandstands, did we blame all of Catholicism? Of course not. It was rightfully seen as a struggle against a colonial power.

Sort of like when David Ben-Gurion, Menachem Begin and the others were carrying out terrorist attacks against the Arab states in Israel’s War of Liberation in 1948. Ben-Gurion declared the State of Israel before the British mandate had expired. The Israelis took and kept large portions of the territory that had been set aside for the Arab state under the United Nations guidelines.

But did the West decry the religion of Judaism because Jewish forces engaged in terrorist activities? Did we spew hate on all of Judaism because of the actions of some? Of course not.

There are no more heinous (and I’m including ISIS/ISIL in this) actions than those perpetrated by the Ku Klux Klan (KKK). Their website reads: “Our children, our race, and our Nation have no future unless we unite and organize White Christian Patriots.”

Christians? So they claim.

But does any thinking person (and the KKK does not include thinking persons) truly believe that the Klan represents true Christianity? I hope not. The words of Dietrich Bonhoeffer resound powerfully. “Silence in the face of evil is itself evil: God will not hold us guiltless. Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.”

To not speak up for well-meaning and compassionate Muslims make us as guilty as the Klan who is so very “Christian” because, after all, our inaction is an action.

We would readily say that the KKK has departed the true path of the teachings of Jesus. The same can be said of Zionist terrorists—departing from the true teachings of Judaism. Why can’t this be acknowledged regarding the radical Muslim Jihadis? They have departed from the true teachings of the Qur'an which prohibits murder of the innocent.

If we refuse to speak up for those who have done no wrong and if we refuse to mourn with those who mourn and weep with those who weep no matter their belief or non-belief and no matter their ethnicity, perhaps we have departed from our true path, as well.


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A Place Called Tuttle & Sons Grocery... Now Long Gone

11/6/2015

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This week witnessed the tearing down of the Indianhead Community building which took place in Owen where I now have my offices. It had been a retail store in 1902, a mercantile and gas station, a grocery store and, finally, a resale shop. The surrounding community has reacted with a mixture of sadness and fondness for the old place.

It made me remember those places that I loved as a child and have now lost. I have heard several people talking about their memories of this ice cream, this or that person who owned it or worked there, Scott and Linda (you know who you are) kissing at the end of the check-out line.

I had just such a place when I lived in Miller Beach, Indiana, when I was eight years old. It was called Tuttle & Sons Grocery. I passed it on my way home every day from school when I was in 2nd grade. Mr. Tuttle was a very kind man who ran his store with great care for the community and great affection for the children.

In fact, Mr. Tuttle gave me my first “job” when I was eight. On Saturdays, I would give a “demonstration” on how to peel oranges in one piece. My grandfather, you see, was the owner and manager of orange groves in central Florida. Papa had told me “it takes a man to peel an orange in one long strand.” I learned the skill, after much practice, by the time I was five.
So, at the age of eight, I was in Indiana where “Hoosiers” had no such “expertise.” I found that such noble skills could fetch attention and payment that was worth far more than simple money.

One of my 2nd grade school chums was Jerry Kennedy. He was a bright kid that was happy and smarter than the average bear. I went to his house one Saturday morning to pick him up for baseball that we played every Saturday in the park. Jerry—and all my friends—lived in a government housing project. For all practical purposes, so did I by actually lived in an apartment in the back of a church across the street from the project.

When I knocked on the Kennedy’s door, Mr. Kennedy answered. He was a tall, good-looking, African-American man of noble features and manners. He greeted me warmly and told me that Jerry would be ready in a moment and he invited me inside. He offered me something to drink and I told him that I was not thirsty. He opened the refrigerator door which—beautifully, wondrously—was lined with ice-cold Dr. Pepper.

I changed my mind. He served up the nectar of the gods but apologized for having “no Moon Pies.” It was an old joke, maybe insult, that African-Americans loved “Dr. Pepper and a Moon Pie.” He made a joke to me at his own expense to which I replied, “Umm, I don’t really like Moon Pies, anyway.” He smiled at me and said, “No? Neither do I.” A joke made a bond of understanding between this young white boy and this wise man of color. I understood, even at eight, that universal descriptors are almost always wrong.

He asked me about life in Florida and the oranges that my grandfather grew until Jerry came downstairs and off we went for our Saturday baseball game.

The next week, I stopped into Mr. Tuttle’s grocery store where Mr. Kennedy worked as the produce manager. He showed me the fresh bags of oranges that had arrived and asked me if I knew how to peel an orange. Did I know? I was an EXPERT. I told him that “it takes a real man to peel an orange in one strand.” He gave me a knife and said, “Show me.” Sure enough, I peeled that Valencia orange in one strand. He told me to wait there. I sat on a table with my legs swinging.

In just a minute or two, Mr. Kennedy brought Mr. Tuttle, the owner, back to where I was sitting. Mr. Kennedy had me retell my story to Mr. Tuttle, who then handed me the knife and an orange (I was happy to oblige because I got to eat both oranges).

I peeled the orange and Mr. Tuttle looked at Mr. Kennedy and said, “Well. I guess we’re not real men, after all.” I told them how to make a juice cup from an orange by peeling half of the orange, cutting a drinking hole in the top, squeezing the orange just right to bring the juice to the surface of the hole and drinking it out of the orange itself.

Mr. Tuttle crowed, “By God, boy! I want you to show that to our customers!” It was my first job. Mr. Tuttle got the consent of the parents and I would give “demonstrations” in his store every Saturday for that month.

The next Saturday, I got to the store by 11 a.m. to show Tuttle’s customers how to make the juice cup and how to peel the orange without lifting the knife. They put a green apron on me and stood me on a crate. I was a star.

At noon, we took lunch in the back room and I got to have free Dr. Pepper with a sandwich. In fact, Mr. Tuttle said that he couldn’t outright pay me but I could come by the store every Friday after school for a free Dr. Pepper and a Twinkie. Are you kidding me??? Who needs money when your life’s desire is offered in exchange for peeling oranges?

For several weeks, Mr. Tuttle and Mr. Kennedy would keep trying to peel the oranges, usually with them concluding "I guess I'll never be a real man."

The month ended and the oranges were gone. There was no need to stop by Mr. Tuttle’s on Friday afternoon, I thought. But one day, Mr. Tuttle saw me walking by and asked why I wasn’t coming by for the soda and snack anymore. The demonstrations were over, I told him. He had already paid me. “No, no,” he said. “I told you to come by every Friday. Navel orange season is coming soon and we can do it again. A deal is a deal. Keep coming for your pay.”

He explained to me that what he paid me was really worth about 12 cents. But every week he was selling out of those big bags of oranges. He said that I was a big part of those sales. “If by paying you 12 cents per week I can increase my orange sales by $20 per week, don’t you think that is worth it to me?”

One day, on my way home from school, I stopped by and Mr. Kennedy saw me said, "Hey, Travis! I'm a man today!" It gathered strange looks from unknowing customers but laughs from those who were there for the demonstrations.

I loved my Saturdays at Tuttle & Sons Grocery.

When we moved away from Miller Beach, I stopped by to say farewell to Mr. Tuttle and Mr. Kennedy. These two kind and generous gentlemen got "wet around the eyes" and Mr. Tuttle said, "Well, I guess you will never see me become a man."

When I heard about the Indianhead building being torn down and heard people’s stories of it, I went to Google Earth and looked for Mr. Tuttle’s grocery store. Because of the “street view” available from Google Earth, I could virtually walk from my old front door, turn east on 4th Street and head to the corner on Lake Avenue where the store had stood. It was gone.

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    Travis

    Some things you need to tell yourself or bring to remembrance. This page serves that purpose for me.

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