Wishes and Good Thoughts

I am taking an hiatus for the remainder of the summer, yet will, however, continue to check in to read my favorite blogs.  Wishing you a wonderful summer!

Quote found on Google from Marion McCristall.

Quote found on Google from Marion McCristall.

Somewhere Over That Rainbow

People. Human beings. Individuals with families, friends, jobs, hobbies, talents . . . people.

We have so become conditioned these past fifty years or so to split up, judge, categorize, label, and place people in pretty, well-ordered little boxes that we no longer seem to be able to see the deeper, fuller picture of people and events – any events – for what they truly are, but rather, to have a naïve and unsophisticated view of the world because we have this compulsion to stick a simple label wherever it can stick.

Sunday morning at Pulse in Orlando, Florida. Mass murder. Terrorism. And yet all we can focus on in social media is “gays in a gay bar.”

Where are all the American flags; the red, white, and blue profile picture all over social media? Where is the outrage of a mass murder in a place where fun was supposed to reign for the evening?

All I see are rainbows and half-hearted promises for prayers and solidarity. We’re with you, Orlando.

Copy, paste, and post a pretty little rainbow meme.

There. We’ve done our part.

Copy, paste, and post.

Yet, somewhere, over that rainbow is reality – the reality of nearly fifty human beings that were more than “gay.” They were people with families, friends, jobs, hobbies, talents, senses of humor, deep thinkers, comics, educated, et cetera, who were murdered. These people were more than gay, lesbian, drag queens, whatever. They were people.

Copy, paste, and post. . . . . .

And then, what happens? We have this anger for a few days at best, and then we forget and move along to the more mundane and self-centered parts of our lives.

Until it happens again.

And again.

And again.

And . . . .

©Susan Marie Molloy, and all works within.

The Story of the Flaming Statue

The Replacement Statue

The Replacement Statue

Years and years ago, there used to be “missions” that would come to the parishes where I grew up. Visiting priests, mostly, and sometimes nuns, would spend a week or so in the parish. Tables would be set up in the church-school vestibule, displaying rosaries, prayer books, religious jewelry, and statues.

My parents gave me a dollar to buy what I wanted. I chose a small, tan-colored plastic statue of the Blessed Virgin and a small silver ring with a metal silhouette of the Blessed Virgin embedded in a mother-of-pearl oval, surrounded by blue rhinestones.

I kept the statue on my dresser, atop a small mirror. One year I sewed a veil for it made from netting with a beaded circular “crown.”

One day, my parents went out shopping and took my siblings with them. I got to say home alone. I liked that kind of time for myself, even at the age of ten. While they were out, I had the bright idea of taking a skinny, twisted blue and white birthday candle from the kitchen drawer. I placed it next to my Blessed Virgin statue (but I don’t remember what I placed the candle on). I lit it – no small feat for me, a young girl who was actually afraid to light a match from the matchbook. But, I thought, the Holy Ghost was with me, so what could go wrong?

The candle flickered next to the Blessed Virgin, and I went across the hall to the bathroom to flush the match down the toilet. I went back into my bedroom, and the Blessed Virgin was on fire!

I grabbed the statue at the base and ran back into the bathroom, and ran water over it in the sink. Flames doused, and now I had to get rid of the smell and the evidence before anyone came home.

I cranked open the bathroom window, and then opened up the bedroom windows. When the Blessed Virgin cooled down, I wrapped her in eight sheets of Kleenix and placed the “mummy” in an empty shoebox, then placed that on the closet floor with my shoes on top of it.

By the time everyone came home, I closed all the windows and there was no smell of burnt plastic.

About a week later, my Ma asked me where my statue was. I told her I packed it away for the time being. No big deal. It was only about ten years ago that I told my parents what I really did with the statue. They were speechless. (I would be, too. Too late to spank me.)

I kept the burnt up Blessed Virgin for years. In fact, I had it until the early 1980s, when I decided I didn’t need to have it as a reminder of my experiment with candles and flames.

One day, about two weeks ago, I thought again about that episode. On a whim, I did an Internet research, and found someone who was selling the exact type of statue I had: Made in Hong Kong, tan-colored plastic with gold painted trim, and in perfect condition.

It came in the mail yesterday. Funny, it seems so much smaller than what I remember. Yet, I like it and it’s exactly the same as what my original was.

Well, except there is no blackened and melted right side on this one. And I don’t have the silver and mother-of-pearl ring anymore.  That could be a greater challenge to find an exact replacement.
©Susan Marie Molloy, and all works within.

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