MORGAN'S MOMENT
We were waiting at the counter
          for my Master Card
          to be confirmed
“That’s a very fine bottle of champagne,”
          the comment of the lady
          at the check-out counter.
“I’m glad to know that…”
          since I’m not a pro
          at selecting champagne.
“Because we’re using it to celebrate
          the death of a
          very fine gentleman.”
“Way to go! she said…
          Send him off
          with the very best.”
I smiled my way back to the car
          and right on out of
          the parking lot.
How often does one have a 
          memorial moment
          at the check-out counter?
We’ll probably forget the champagne
          but never the conversation
          while confirming my Master Charge.
And we won’t forget a good man
          sent on his way
          with the very best.
— Art Morgan 
MOMENT MINISTRIES
March 20, 2001
home address:  25921 SW Airport Ave.
Corvallis, OR 97333   541-753-3942
email at  a-morgan@peak.org
MARCH THURSDAY POTLUCK
THURSDAY, MARCH 22
Gather at 6, Eat at 6:30
This will be our last gathering until Easter.
CURRENT READING
One thing we kept hearing along our journey was interest in reading. People actually seem to read the blue sheet and often look up books we report.
At any rate, my current read is a Christmas gift from a practicing Zen Buddhist. I’ve found the book interesting. The title is “Crooked Cucumber – The Life and Teaching of Shunryu Suzuki.” No, I’m not trying to convert readers to Zen, or anything. I do think that Christians might find their own faith belief and practice informed by this book.
EASTER 2001
April 15
Norm and Alice Glass are looking forward to hosting another festive Easter at Inavale Farm.
BACK AT THE RANCH
       We’ve been on the road for three weeks, doing the American southwest. We have nothing against the rest of the west, except that it’s not so hot in winter. We hiked for several days at Arches National Park, then went east, south, west and north. We hit NV, UT, CO, NM, AZ and CA before landing back in Oregon. We visited more than 30 blue sheet folks and shared numerous meals and connecting conversations. We traveled just under 4,400 miles.
       We arrived in Ashland to re-connect with Ken and Marilyn Salter with whom we shared the first thousand miles of highway and 20 or 30 miles of trail. We were with them when news came of the death of Marilyn’s father, Jim, in Yucaipa. They left Ashland on Friday morning to head south once again, this time for a funeral. We left shortly after, heading north and back to the ranch to do all the things we left behind (such as our taxes!)
       We were hardly out of touch. The lap-top registered almost 200 messages sent and received en-route. 

the back page

THE BLURRY JOURNEY
          It’s Sunday, so we must be in Albuquerque. I wake from a nap after touring a museum and a dozen shops around the old town Plaza. Sunshine today. I remember a few days ago when we were in snow.
          Fat Tuesday came and went. We were in Moab, I think. The big thing I remember about Fat Tuesday – that originated when Christians ate up anything they were giving up for Lent that might spoil – was the State of the Union address where the President was trying to sell the idea of giving tax money back to the people. Not a hard sell, I guess, since most people want money from wherever. 
          We moved on to visit some very elderly ladies in Denver. They won’t see a dime of any tax return for the people. In fact, they believe a tax return will take away any chance of their getting money for prescription drugs the politicos promised to pay for during the campaign. One lady’s doctor wanted her to take drugs that cost $200 a month. Medicare won’t pay, even for low-income elderly ladies, so they do without. 
          I’m on a vacation trip with miles to go, so these thoughts kind of run together and never get properly resolved.
          We meet a fellow whose wife just got a teaching job. She’s happy to have a teaching job. She got it because of special skills that were needed in an over-crowded classroom of under-achieving kids who needed special aid. The special aid, such as school counselors and social workers, is no longer in the budget. As in many places, the classroom teacher is expected to do it all.
          That didn’t get fully processed before we were in an art museum, seeking cultural advancement. We saw a great show of sculpted and painted dogs called “Hounds in Leash.” One caption read, “If a dog is your best friend, you’ve got problems.”
          We emerged from that exhibit to enter one of children’s art. Jean especially loves children’s art, so we were prepared to enjoy that exhibit called, “Childhood Revealed.” It was a painful and heart-opening few minutes. Some were by children with life-limiting diseases that they were suffering at 6 or 16, that should not be suffered until age 86 or 106, if ever. Pictures of fear, uncertainty, acceptance and hope.
          Others were by children carrying the memories of abuse of all kinds. Their insides were exposed in their paintings. Not pretty pictures. Some children portrayed themselves in states of depression and sadness and anger and hurt. Many of these children were products of homes that did not welcome them. Their pictures were often contrasts of dark and light, death and life, hope and despair.
          These same children are found every day in the schools that are forever having to cut away funds from the very programs that might be of most help to such children. Counseling, art, music, drama and physical education.
          The blur was in my head, my heart and my eyes.
          Outside, the sun was shining. Couples were strolling along the Plaza, hand in hand. A group of bicyclists was having coffee and laughter at the Zane Graze Café. Small children were climbing on the statues outside the Art Museum. Laughing, running, jumping, like children are supposed to do. 
          People were pouring out of the Plaza Church, just as they have been doing for the last 300 years or more. Vendors were trying to get them to buy the Sunday paper, the one with the feature story about coyotes creating problems by coming into the neighborhoods. I hoped that whatever religion they got in that place would inspire them to let some of their tax money go to pay for medicine for old people that need it, and for the kinds of schools that could make life better for the children whose artwork I had just seen.
          I just wrote this down. It’s part of a blurry journey that will be mostly remembered by way of glossy, colored photos of happy people in beautiful places, oftentimes in nice restaurants. The highway miles fly by, as do the hours and days. So many things to think about, but so little time. The moments are like pickets on a fence, viewed as you pass at 70 miles per hour. 
         Maybe it helps to close the eyes for a time and dream good dreams while the blurry journey moves on.
   Art Morgan – March 2001