Pussy Willow Sunday

In the early spring of 1995, while on a road trip sabbatical, I was trekking through Texas in a shiny new Ford Ranger pick-up truck. I had a study plan of sorts to legitimize my time off. I was seeking signs and expressions of American Religion during the span of Ash Wednesday through Easter—40 days of Lent I thought, until I discovered that Sundays don’t count in Lenten ciphering. I began on Fat Tuesday or Mardi Gras in New Orleans and ended on Good Friday at El Santuario de Chimayo in the Sangre de Christos Mountains of New Mexico—also known as the Lourdes of America.

I found the Big Bend region of Texas especially alluring, a huge chunk of arid hill country ablaze with blooming cactus. There are two small towns at the Northern edge: Alpine and Marfa. Marfa is famous for mysterious lights that flicker and dance in the hills and for being the staging site for the 1950s movie Giant. When I visited it had a new presence of the minimalist sculpture artist Donald Judd, who was buying property and putting up post-modern installations. 

I drove through the Big Bend region toward the great dip of the Rio Grande. I followed El Camino Real to the dusty border town at the tip of the Big Bend, Presidio, said to be the author James Michner’s favorite place in America. There’s not much habitation in the Big Bend. But there are many collectible rocks. At a rock ranch where I spent a night camping, wild pigs snorting around me, the solitary keeper of the place, learning of my trek, told me I must visit the little Mexican city across the border from Presidio. “Ojinaga,” he declared, “has the most incredible Palm Sunday Procession you’ll ever see.” 

On his recommendation, I staged a visit, daring to drive my truck into Mexico. In Presidio, I bought supplementary auto insurance, spent the night in an old motel, and got up early on Palm Sunday to visit Ojinaga, Chihuahua. No one was about when I arrived at the Plaza facing the smallish 16th century Catholic Church designated as a cathedral. I perched myself on a bench along the length of the plaza and surveyed the mounting activity. I learned that I was a rare gringo visitor and something of a curiosity. 

Slowly, people began to arrive, beginning with a half dozen shoe shine and squeegee boys. They immediately approached me and we had a very halting conversation. I speak little Spanish and tried to tell one engaging boy that I was from Chicago to no effect until I said “Casa Michael Jordan.” “Ah,” the lad nodded his head. A balloon man appeared to sell from a colorful array of Disney characters. And worshippers, mostly women with children, walked across the plaza carrying flowers in their arms. More people arrived and entered the dark interior of the cathedral—all carrying flowers.

 
I was, so I thought, witnessing a quaint local custom: flowers not palms on Palm Sunday in Ojinaga. I entered the church and the cool, dark interior was redolent with the smell of fresh blooms. The priest was an operatic appearing, basso voiced, bearded presence. He gathered children to tell them a story. From the choir loft, a group of women wailed songs that seemed of another culture and time. And after the children’s story, everyone left the cathedral, flowers waving to the sky, to process around the square. This was in remembrance/imitation of Jesus’s triumphal entrance into Jerusalem, beginning the week of his death and resurrection. 

I loved the ritual in the bright light. I imagined the flowers, rather than the traditional palms, remembered the ancient Aztecs love of color and feathers. 

After the service, I recovered my place on the bench watching the crowd disperse more quickly than it had formed. A man sat next to me and essentially checked me out, but in a friendly way. He turned out to be the town treasurer. I told him of my trek. “I just love your local custom of flowers instead of palms.” He looked at me with a crinkled smile. “So you didn’t hear. The Father explained at the beginning of the service that the truck bringing the palms had broken down, so he had the word spread that everyone should bring a flower or a branch.” 

This comes to mind today, Palm Sunday, a Sunday Unitarians have long observed as Pussy Willow Sunday. I was introduced to this custom during my internship at the Universalist Church of Syracuse, where there were several congregants influential in the great Unitarian Religious Education movement of the 1950s. (One couple had written the first Church Across the Street Curriculum.) Another Jo Gould, a small sprightly woman in her 80s had written/edited a series of religion and science booklets for the Beacon series called How Miracles Abound.) Jo introduced me to Pussy Willow Sunday as she placed a huge bouquet of catkins in a vase for the altar. 

I mentioned this to Pam Fodor the other day. Pam remembered that when she was  a young girl in this church, someone came into every classroom on Palm Sunday with a vase full of pussy willows.

 
For forty years, since first introduced to our little ritual, I think of the Sunday before Easter as Pussy Willow Sunday. How Unitarian, I’ve thought, bringing nature and spring to the beginning of Holy Week which in many traditional churches is literally shrouded in symbols of death—purple cloths covering statues and crosses. 

I Googled Pussy Willow Sunday to find references and remnants of this Unitarian practice. What I found instead was a host of references to Eastern and Greek Orthodox practices, particularly Latvian and Ukrainian. The commentary here generally declares that typically in the northern climate the only natural sign of rebirth in March or April involves the early growth of willows. So, traditionally, the willow branch was substituted for palms and the moniker Pussy Willow Sunday became commonplace. 

It further seems that this was grounded in an ancient pre-Christian custom. According to one blogger:

The last Sunday before Easter (Palm Sunday) is called Willow Sunday (Verbna nedilia). On this day pussy-willow branches are blessed in the church. The people tap one another with these branches, repeating the wish: “Be as tall as the willow, as healthy as the water, and as rich as the earth.” They also use the branches to drive the cattle to pasture for the first time, and then the father or eldest son thrusts his branch into the earth for luck.

The cutting of pussy-willow branches was not originally a Christian substitute for palm branches. Since pagan times, the pussy-willow’s bloom was seen as a signpost for spring and was thought to have healthful qualities if ingested. Pagan Ukrainians would cut the branches and swat one another with them to bless each other with the pussy-willow’s strength to come out of winter so early in the year. When Palm Sunday began to be celebrated, the two practices merged into one.

 
For me, Pussy Willow Sunday is a reminder to look deeper on any subject. Don’t believe that what you believe to be is totally or unimpeachably true. Beware of your own prejudices and misimpressions. Check the facts. THANK YOU, GOOGLE! 

I’m also reminded that beneath all religions there are similar if not the same impulses. Easter we know is an amalgam of customs. The very name references an ancient Indo-European goddess of the dawn and its date is set by a Jewish lunar calendar as processed through the Julian calendar and the church. Paganisms blend with pre-Christian and Christian customs: the egg and rabbit juxtaposed to the cross and empty tomb.

On this Sunday before Easter Sunday, let’s gently tap one another with spring branches,

• reminding one another that a Great Event will be reenacted after an eventful week, in mythic solidarity with our Christian friends
• and invoking the natural powers of spring emerging from winter to make us strong in spirit and body for another year.

The Gannets: Excellence in Our Common World 2011

I & M Canal, Morris

Some years ago I offered a yearly sermon series called “the annual vulgarity awards.”  I would rant a little about four or five egregiously ugly or corrosive aspects of our common culture.  But I tired of that series; and I also felt, I was, ironically, contributing to a negative social climate.

So I flipped the series 180 degrees and developed a yearly sermon series on what I find to be excellent in our common life.  I immediately named this new series The William Channing Gannett Awards in honor of the first minister of this congregation, whose signature phrase “domestication of the infinite” suited my sense of the source and result of excellence.

Mr. Gannett was a remarkable man with an impeccable Unitarian pedigree.  His father, the Rev. Ezra Stiles Gannett, was the first President of the American Unitarian Association, 1825.  Ezra Stiles Gannett was also the associate minister at the famed Federal Street Church in Boston, where the saintly founder of American Unitarianism William Ellery Channing was for senior minister.  Dr. Channing was William Channing Gannett’s godfather, hence the middle name Channing.

Mr. Gannett was a modernist compared to his godfather and father, who were Christian Rationalists.  Young William was influenced by Transcendentalism’s more expansive vision of religion; and when he made his way west, he joined the Unity Men of the Western Unitarian Conference, whose motto “the unity of all things” summarized their broad view of religion.  The Unity Men also promoted ethics as the proper focus of religion, in which character (ingenuousness) blended with what we now call social justice.

William Channing Gannett wrote the great compromise, “The Things We Hold in Common” that allowed the Christians and the emergent not-just or more-than Christian liberals to stay in one Unitarian denomination.    His essay, “The House Beautiful,” inspired the magazine of the same name thanks to the efforts of his good friend Frank Lloyd Wright.  And his plan for our Church-Home has shaped generations of Hinsdale Unitarians over one hundred, twenty years.

Before I present this year’s awards, I want you to think about Mr. Gannett’s signature phrase “domestication of the infinite.”  The ideals we recognize (and you might see them in terms of the great categories of the good, the true, and the beautiful), if they are our ideals, are necessarily compelling—so compelling that we must implement them in our self and our world.  This is a process of domestication—of household and home infusing our larger world.  The doors open in and welcome the worthy; the doors then open out and infuse the world with the warmth, intimacy, and values of the home and the home-like.

I’ve been greatly influenced by William Channing Gannett, through his writings and through his sculpture in wood, brick, and stone, this Church-Home, that he was instrumental in designing.  In his honor and memory I once again lift up the excellent in our common world.

The I and M Canal

I have neglected an obvious choice, The Illinois and Michigan Canal National Heritage Corridor.  Here’s a summary of the Corridor from the official website:

The Illinois & Michigan Canal National Heritage Corridor is a 100 mile long cultural park between Chicago and LaSalle/Peru. It is a geographic area of about 322,000 acres within the counties of Cook, DuPage, Will, Grundy and LaSalle. On August 24, 1984, President Ronald Reagan signed legislation establishing the region as the nation's first National Heritage Corridor. It thereby recognized the historic importance of this region and the waterway that connected Lake Michigan and the Illinois River. The goal of the Corridor is to preserve, protect and interpret its rich natural and cultural history while fostering economic growth in the region. The Corridor is not owned or governed by a single authority. Its creation involved the partnership of federal, state, and local governments in cooperation with private industry and interest groups. The corridor is an on-going partnership between the public and private sectors created to achieve a successful mixture of preservation, public use and industrial activity.

I've known about the I and M national historic corridor from its onset, thanks to a church member, Stan Johnson, who died a few years.  From its outset, Stan was deeply involved with the civic authority that joined the various municipalities along the old canal’s hundred mile length.

The history of the I and M Canal is integral to the history of Chicago. It was constructed from the early 1820s through the late 1840s, beginning in Bridgeport on the south side Chicago, reaching ever-further West to Lasalle/Peru, connecting Lake Michigan to the Illinois River and eventually the Mississippi. It helped Chicago become, what one historian has so aptly described, Nature' s Metropolis.  I recommend that you review the canal’s history – an easy Internet search.

And with the history and perhaps lore of the canal in your imagination, visit a remnant stretch of it. The most accessible stretch is within a few miles on Willow Springs Road near Archer Avenue.  But even more, I recommend a very beautiful stretch of the old canal that's in Morris – a pleasant drive of the some 60 miles. Today is a good day to stroll the towpath, because you can also take in the last day of the Grundy County corn Festival in downtown Morris, a remnant shire town along the Illinois River. (The Corn Festival is one of my favorite agricultural celebrations. I'm especially fond of the roasted ears of corn.) You can follow a towpath from the foot of Morris's main street and walk southwest. Within a half mile or so, you'll enter a serene section of the canal, towpaths on either side, canopied by graceful trees, and with mirror like water. This time of year, autumn-painted leaves float and slowly eddy, while the water reflects those on the trees. When I'm there, I like to imagine the convergence of nature and history.

A good day trip, or perhaps weekend trip, would follow the course of the canal (along blue highways, of course) with visits to surviving sections. For example, at canal’s end in LaSalle you can board a replica towboat pulled by a mule from the towpath. 

Joliet Public Art

I award my second Gannett to the city of Joliet for its public art. I have a perverse fondness for Joliet – one of America's many aching post-industrial cities. Perhaps Joliet reminds me of my 5 1/2 years in Youngstown, Ohio before I came to Chicago. Joliet is a city supported by the notorious penitentiary, Statesville, two casinos, and a regional hospital. It has a history of corruption. Like many other struggling cities it tries all sorts of things to keep it viable – creating, if only an illusion, of vitality.

The recent history of Joliet's public art has an interesting parent, joining local artists – many of them women, if not feminists, – with public money, is now driven by a not-for-profit organization known as Friends of Community Public Art, organized in 1996.  Their website offers this narrative: FCPA is dedicated to the creation, planning, promotion and preservation of public art increase the awareness of the communities rich historical and cultural heritage. FCPA was formed to the an artist run, multiracial, intercultural organization that represents the economic diversity.. F CPA captures communities history and culture through site-specific, audience responsive art work.

FCPA specializes in murals, mosaics and sculpture…

The FCPA traces its origin to 1975, when a group of women painted the first mural on a concrete viaduct, titled " Downtown is Our Town." This was followed by a major project, a large mural painted in the then recently renovated railroad station downtown, circa 1991. Between 1994 and 1997, 42 original works of art were created on walls around the Joliet area, using public funds set aside for viaduct beautification. The friends of community public art, founded in 1996 and incorporated in 1998 as a not-for-profit corporation, embarked on an ambitious program of painted murals, mosaics, and sculptures. Many of sculptures were placed on column-like, mosaic decorated pedestals distributed throughout the city of Joliet.

I like these sculptures a lot. They are didactic – sculptures with clear messages, lifting up collective values. Here are a few examples: Planting The Seeds: Children And Education;  An, Informed Mind Make Better Choices;  History Clings Like Ivy;  Education Is The Window To The World; A Teachers Gift.

You can spend an interesting day visiting the various pieces of public art in Joliet. (The Friends of Community Public Art has an informative website with images of the art and their locations.)  You might plan to eat lunch in the downtown Renaissance Center restaurant operated by the Joliet Junior College.  Nearby is the Route 66 Museum. And if you drove to Joliet via Archer Avenue, you will pass through Lockport, where you can visit a peaceful of stretch of the I and M Canal and one of the better restaurants in the area, the Gaylord Building.

Minor League Baseball

Joliet has another gift for our common world – a minor-league baseball team, called the Slammers. The city, a few years ago, built a downtown stadium, White Cross Field, not far from Union Station in the old downtown. The stadium seats nearly 6000.  Parking is close and free. Libations are relatively inexpensive. The best seat in the house costs only $10.

I long ago lost my interest in major league baseball; the Cubs and the Sox in my quarter-century here have only occasionally captured my interest. So when I get an urge to watch a game, I now go to Joliet to watch aspiring, young athletes play what used to be called America's pastime.

Joliet's Slammers are typical of the minor-league baseball's revival that's taken place across the country in the last couple of decades.  In these venues, the atmosphere is family centered; the kids always seem to have a good time in a fan-friendly atmosphere. The games are entertaining and between every inning is entertainment.  By the way, the Slammers, two weekends ago won the championship of the Frontier League.

So my third Gannett goes to minor-league baseball, especially my champion Joliet Slammers.

The Contrary Farmer

Last year I presented a sermon based on a curious novel, Pope Mary and the Church of Almighty Good Food, by Gene Logsdon.  Gene bills himself as The Contrary Farmer.  A former editor of the Farm Journal magazine, for the past 30 years or so, he's operated a small farm in Sandusky, Ohio region and has written prodigiously. His passion is the small family farm; his farming philosophy incorporates responsible environmentalism and traditional values, along with a progressive outlook.  He has a host of qualities of what I call a wise elder.

I read his blog, The Contrary Farmer, with every post.  (I recommend it to you, if you have an interest in rural life, as well as provocative ideas.)

He recently wrote something in his blog that I adored.  He advocated small family farm of 300 acres over the industrial farm of 5,000 acres as a partial solution to our national economic crisis.   I’ll let him tell the economics as he sees it:

The 5000 acres of industrial corn, which is employing two people, could be providing jobs and homes for about 17 family farmers and their wives and children. Run all the figures and all the farmland out to a logical mathematical conclusion and the number of new jobs created by restructuring agriculture is unbelievably awesome. There are about 90 million acres in corn this year. That would make 300,000 family farms of 300 acres each. That means 600,000 parents would be fully employed and let us say two teenagers who are trying desperately right now to find part time jobs,— a total of 1,200,000 new jobs. If we take into account industrial soybean, wheat, and cotton acreages as well and divide all that land  into 300 acre family farms, the number of new jobs created rockets to somewhere in the three to five million range.

Gene’s line of reasoning fascinated me.  Not feasible, I first thought.  But then, I wondered, why not?   What a wonderful combination of traditional, down- to-earth-thinking and radical, out-of-the-box-thinking.   (This combination reminded me of his advocacy of manure, including human excrement, over chemical fertilizers, that he wrote about in his recent book Holy Shit.)

For his humane and reasonable advocacy of the small family farm, Gene Logdson receives my fourth Gannett this year.  I’ve begun to think of him as a national treasure, along the likes of Pete Seeger or Wendell Berry.

Tony's Breakfast Cafe

I usually have one food oriented Gannett to give each year. I don't like to think of myself as foodie, in part, because of my contrary nature. I'm drawn not to the trendy and expensive, but to the honest and simple, and, yes, the off-the-beaten-track, if not obscure.

Surrounded by choices, last Sunday, Ellie and I considered many possibilities of where to have Sunday dinner –either sit down or take out.  Not that we go there often, we decided to go to a smallish family restaurant in Brookfield on Ogden Avenue called Tony's – the sort of place that has a seven or eight page menu with inserts, including a senior citizen’s insert.

The place suited our criteria: fast and efficient service, friendliness, a big menu with comfort foods, and just enough busyness to make for a cozy feeling.

We each ordered a complete meal from salad to desert with beverage included. I could only eat half of my plate, Ellie too.  So we took our leftovers home in Styrofoam boxes-- dinner the next day. And the total bill was under $20.

There still are plenty of such family restaurants, sometimes I call them greeky spoons, because their often run by Greek families, in the Chicago area.  Tony’s, “over-the bridge” in Brookfield, is one of the type, but better than most. And Tony’s certainly seems to try hard with basic food and attentive/fast service, and even a certain cheerfulness.

So my final Gannett of 2011 goes to Tony’s in Brookfield a truly traditional, old-school restaurant, a good example of all the warm, fragrant, embracing, comfort-food places you’ve been in throughout he years—the sort of place you might hope to find in a small town along a blue highway when you want to be in the midst of real people and never have your coffee cup be empty.