The 9th of Av

The Magic Bean

rendered on a Starbuck's napkin

Today ends a three-week coffee fast (it tastes different than I remember). Coffee, the earthly pleasure I enjoy most, was my choice for 'Between the Straits' (בין המצרים)- a three-week period of fasts, lament and prayer. Traditional Jewish observances include bathing abstinence, avoiding 'freshly laundered' clothing, the absence of music, food, celebrations and dancing. I'm not Jewish but I felt compelled to participate. So, for three-weeks I chose to not drink coffee. Almost immediately my body let me know how important coffee had become. There was much prayer. As I now look into my cup, I ponder, "What a strange thing, this black elixir whose grip rivals illegal narcotics." 

I have friends who roast coffee. The process is thus:

When the inside of the bean reaches 200C (392F) internal moisture is released as steam. The steam releases aroma and an audible crack is heard. This stage is sometimes called City Roast. The temperature causes oils to migrate, expanding and darkening the bean. If the roasting continues, a second crack is heard (Vienna Roast). This 'second' crack is more volatile, sending coffee shrapnel flying. As the roasting continues the aroma becomes pungent, the sugars burn and the bean begins to break down (French Roast). The bean undergoes change- chemically and physically. As moisture is released, the bean decreases in weight and increases in volume. 

The spiritual path is somewhat like the 'roasting' process. We traverse this life as one passing through fire, often between the straits, and The Lord God controls the temperature. Some of us, it seems, are City Roast while others are French Roast. He knows our frame. He knows our expected end. 

He also knows I enjoy coffee.

Cafe Anglais

Patrons of my Cafe Anglais

Yesterday concluded 23 days of High School English- summer school is ended!   Today I remembered a few of my former English teachers. I'm pretty sure they would be astonished to hear that I am now a high school teacher. At the beginning of my senior year a guidance counselor informed me I had failed sophomore English (a fact that, to this day, eludes my memory) and must repeat it. So, in my final year of high school I trudged to English class- twice daily. Now, thirty-six years later, I am captivated by the subject. It seems fitting that I, having failed a course in English, should one day teach the subject to students who also failed. The first day of class I had the students answer the following: "Why do you think you are here?" Responses included-

         

"... because I am lazy and my last English teacher disagreed with my views, so she graded me harshly."

"because I lack the motivation to do anything!"

"I hate school and usually give up when my grades go down."

Thirty-six years ago their responses would have been mine. I determined to make these twenty-three days meaningful. It was exhausting. Here is a typical day;

-write an acrostic sentence

-read and discuss chapter 7, Through the Looking Glass

-etymology discussion

-read and discuss The Red Wheelbarrow

-read and discuss a poem by Wm. Wordsworth

-read and discuss The Three Hermits by Tolstoy

-watch J.J. Abrams discuss imagination on TED

Among the many pieces we read was Babette's Feast by Isak Dinesen. It is the story of Babette, a French refugee who flees to a coastal village in Norway. After serving two elderly sisters for many years, Babette reveals that she is the former chef of the Cafe Anglais, a premier restaurant in Paris. We read a chapter at a time, discussed the chapter, outlined the story on the board, and one day it occurred to me- my classroom was The Cafe Anglais (translated: The English Cafe), by definition- a small, unpretentious place where language lessons are served to customers.

Here is an acrostic sentence by one of my students:

A boy

can dissect Edison's fascinating

gifts,

hypertensively increasing joyful

KNOWLEDGE,

laying many nice options,

promising q u i z z i c a l roads,

stitching the undisectional, venturous ways...

xenophobic, yet

zymotic.

by Patrick Rallings

Elegance in Stone by Collene Karcher

"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, therefore,

is not an act but a habit."

Aristotle

Stone is unforgiving. A group of us young designers once met with the memorial sculptor, Dario Rossi. We were admiring one of his angels, carved from Elberton granite, when someone from the group asked, "What do you do if a finger breaks off?" Dario smiled and, with his Italian accent, said, "Oh, that's easy! I just carve an extra finger on the other hand."

I am a former memorialist- maker of tombstones, working several years in the shop of my father and later with George Crone in Memphis, TN. Memories of the dust, sounds and smells (granite being sawed smells different than marble) that embody a stone shop go deep within me. In our shops we sandblasted the lettering through hand-cut stencils (now the stencils are machine cut). Unless you have worked with stone you can't fully appreciate the elegance of a Trajan letter engraved with a cold chisel, guided only by the hand of the artist. 

Some things cannot be improved on, only carried on. Collene Karcher is carrying on the art of hand-lettering in stone and wood. I discovered her work in The Toe River Journal. Here is a sample of her work.

"Do you see someone skilled in their work? They will stand before
kings, they will not stand before obscure men."

Proverbs 22:29