20. In our theology, hard work was its own justification, a guard against corruption. Thus, we never bought an automatic dishwasher or a self-cleaning oven or a self-propelled mower with bag attachment, believing they would lead to degeneracy. We raked the grass clippings into a pile and later burned it. We did not use it for garden mulch because mulching kept weeds down and it was important that children weed the garden, slaving through the long hot afternoons. It was good for them. It kept them from moral turpitude.

21. Suffering was its own reward, to be preferred to pleasure. As Lutherans, we viewed pleasure with suspicion. Birth control was never an issue with us. Nor was renunciation of pleasures of the flesh. We never enjoyed them in the first place. We were born to suffer. Pain was pooh-poohed. If you broke your leg, walk home and apply ice. Don't complain. Don't baby yourself.

Our mothers ironed sheets, underwear, even in July. Our fathers wore out their backs at heavy, senseless labor, pulled their own teeth, lived with massive hemorrhoids. When Grandpa had his heart attack, he took one aspirin and went to bed early. We children suffered through dull repetitive schoolwork, under the lash of sadistic teachers. Punishment was good for you, deserved or not; if you hadn't done wrong, well, then it was for the last time.

22. A year ago, a friend offered to give me a backrub. I declined vociferously. You did this to me.

23. Two years ago I carried a box-spring mattress up four flights of stairs, declining offers of help, and did something to my back which still hurts. I didn't see a doctor but did buy a different mattress (orthopedic). Someone helped me carry it up and I felt guilty and kept saying, "No. Really. I got it now," all the way up as my back killed me and my eyes filled with tears.

Doug
Spaulding

I came-out of what a number of outside observers referred to as a legalistic religious cult in California. I found a lot of learning there, but there came a time to move on.

Your continuous postings, what, now #23? feels like that odious rant from some of those people I sat with who now just can't come to terms with the fact that they were duped into being forced to behave like decent citizens. They hang on to their guilt and never find time to read their scripture where it describes that our guilt is put on the character and life of a living Christ. So, in the old practice of exercising their egos, continue on this flight up their personal stairs carrying a mattress that they fear, if someone should help, would cause them to be standing stark naked in front of an auditorium of phantom accusers.

What's your point, Doug Spaulding, of your posting these?

Please, these people need a psychiatrist along with a learned pastor and a practical dose of scripture.

24. Recently, I dropped my air conditioner on my foot. I think this is related.

25. Despite the bum foot, I kept running four miles per day. I love the misery of running. I love the misery of feeling I should run more, hundreds of miles, and do it on my knees.

26. You taught me to believe in quietness as a sign of good character, that a child who sat silently with hands folded was a child who had overcome temptation. In fact, I was only scared, but being a nice quiet boy, I was offered as an example to other children, many of whom despise me to this day. I did not have to be shushed on Sunday afternoon but went about my glum business of cutting out pictures from the rotogravure and pasting them into a scrapbook, being careful not to snip too loud. I learned that quietness could be used to personify not only goodness, but also intelligence and sensitivity, and so I silently earned a small reputation as a boy of superior intellect, a little scholar, a little sunbeam in this dark world, while in fact I was smug and lethargic and dull as a mud turtle.

27. Even now, I go to someone's house and think I am a good guest if I am very quiet, don't ask for anything, and refuse anything that's offered. This behavior makes other people think of me as a nincompoop.

Doug, your friend's behavior DOES make him look like a nincompoop.

Came out of a group with no name, just met in rented halls. About 400 locally. Organized originally as a college outreach. So it kept that college minded way about them.

28. I find it very hard to whoop it up, hail a pal, split a gut, cut a rug, have a ball, or make a joyful noise. I'm your boy, all right.

29. You taught me not to go overboard, lose my head, or make a big deal out of it, but to keep a happy medium, that the truth is in the middle. No extremes. Don't exaggerate. Hold your horses. Keep a lid on it. Save it for later. Be careful. Weigh the alternatives. Wear navy blue. Years later, I am constantly adjusting my feelings downward to achieve that fine balance of caution and melancholy.

30. You taught me not to be "unusual" for fear of what the neighbors would say. They were omniscient, able to see through walls. We knew they'd talk, because we always talked about them. We thought they were nuts, but still we shouldn't offend them.

31. Your theology wasn't happy about the idea of mercy and forgiveness, which only gave comfort to enemies, and so, although you recited the Lord's Prayer every Sunday, you remembered your debtors and managed not to speak to certain people--a major feat when you live in a town so small and attend the same church as they, an act of true dedication. In your behalf, I still dislike Bunsens. I have no idea why.

32. Your own mistakes you managed to explain to your own satisfaction. When you hurt people, you explained that you didn't mean to. When you gossiped malicious gossip, you explained that "everyone knows this and besides it's true." You had a good reason for every dumb thing you did which you said I would understand someday. I don't. I don't understand it at all.