It's 11:00. Do You Know Where Your Ancestors Are?
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we love apple dumplings, baby ducklings, and cats that look like Hitler.
On Saturday I'm attending the yearly luncheon feed of my Daughters of the American Revolution chapter. The vittles are always superb at the Country Club where it's held, and there's a cash bar to boot. Nary a spring chicken attends this event, self included. As the wait staff brings out the soup, a vast sea of blue hair will perk up, dash for a last Manhattan, and tuck into the eats.
You might wonder why I bothered to join and pay dues to a stuffy group like the D.A.R.
The answer is simple. We live in a culture that holds forebears/ancestors in no regard whatsoever. I happen to think that's a sin.
Many great religions have been founded and run on ancestor worship. Ancestor worship is endorsed by the Intergalactic Federation of Gods and Goddesses (IFG&G) as a valuable tool for enlightenment.
Okay, so maybe your great-great grandfather was a booze-swilling saloon-keeper who ran cockfights on the side. But probably not. And even if he was, don't you feel his spirit at work in your life? You would if you knew his name and beseeched his help.
Think about all the women who had to go through childbirth to create the babies who grew up to be your ancestors, until you came along. Do you know their names? It's hard, in this country where we come from all over the globe, to keep a good record of "who's who." (It's particularly difficult for African Americans, and that's why I pray so often to Chonganda. I always ask him to help his people re-connect to their spiritual roots.)
Aside from the Mormons, whose ancestor worship is upside down, just about the only group you can join where you can blather on and on about your ancestors is the D.A.R. And they don't give you a test on your ability to blather before you join. You have enough hoops to jump through to get that little round gold pin. After you're safely in the fold, though, you learn quickly to blather -- or better yet, to listen raptly as others blather.
The best listeners get to be national presidents. Look for me, I'll be there in about 2029.
I beseech the blessings of my ancestors, without whom I wouldn't be quaffing a nice glass of chablis overlooking a sea of blue hair and the golf course where snowboarding got its start.
All hail those who have gone before. So might it be.