Povey Prattle

I left off by telling you about the (ahem)  "unusual" encounter with the  Whitchurch, Bristol barber. That would have been in about 1967. I know that I had my hair cut between then and 1984, but who cut it? I don't remember having a regular barber during my remaining years in the Westminster (later National Westminster "Nat West") Bank ; at Theological College in Nottingham U.K. (1972-1976); in Fitchburg, MA (1976-1980) ; or in Chicopee, MA (1980-1984). My barber memories come alive again from my Pittsfield, MA days (1984-2000). I began with John H whose shop was on Elm St.  He was a parishioner at St. Stephen's Parish. A good friend pointed out the obvious: that it's not a good idea for Pastors to have business relationships with parishioners.  This is because in the event of a business disagreement, would that interfere with the parishioner/pastor relationship?  Yes, even with a barber. I went fancy for a bit at a "cool" place on...

My first "real" haircut was when I was about three years old. ( I have read that we rarely preserve memories until we are three.) Mum took me to a local barber who operated his business from the front parlour of his two up - two down home on Co-operation Rd,  in the Easton/Greenbank area of Bristol. I take it that the Civic authorities allowed home based businesses given that because of  the WWII bombing there was a shortage of retail space. Co-operation Rd as modernised in recent years. The boy in line before me stamped his feet and cried as the clippers began their work.   Not I,  (the good little people-pleasing boy). I was good! A few years later Mum took me to a grown-up Barber in the basement of the Bristol Co-operative Society Departmental Store  on Castle Street.  (One of only two buildings which had survived the Blitz in Bristol's main pre-war shopping street). I was a big boy now!.  What I remember most is the ne...

When I moved to Sarasota, FL in 2006 I alighted on my local Barber "Patrick". I have been faithful to him ( with one exception ) since then. For you see, he is  a local business man, with a self-owned Barber Shop. He gives me as good a haircut and beard shave as any "fancy-dancy" downtown and expensive business could do, and at half  the price of their their fancy-dancy prices. Patrick  is  Venezuelan born, and  Oklahoman raised. He has a wicked sense of humour, and greets one and all with a cheery smile. . I love it that he teases me by calling me Fr, Flanaghan.   I will support his local business for as long as I can.  There are precious few locally owned businesses in my neighbourhood, with the exception of restaurants and cafes of which we have an abundance.  Their food beats the pants of the Florida or National chains.

Stock photo' not one from my story. It was twenty years or more ago that I was in Atlanta, GA for the Bat Mitzvah of the grand-daughter of my friends Don and Barbara. These events are always tender and loving. A boy, his name was Ben, was  having his Bar Mitzvah.   As part of the ceremony the children read a passage from the Torah in Hebrew, and then tell us what it means. The boy's passage was from Exodus, the part when the Israelites were instructed to gather Manna each morning, but only enough for one day.  If they gathered more than they could eat it would go bad overnight.  (Yes, there was an exception for Fridays on which they could gather enough for two days, so as not to have to work on Shabbat)  , but that's another story. The boy explained the passage by saying that "too much of even a good thing can be bad for you".  BRILLIANT. -------------------------------------------------------------------- "Too much of e...

It was about twenty five years ago that I sat in my office on a Saturday morning to have a conversation with S. S. was having a tough time.  Her marriage had ended. Her husband was a brilliant medical professional who had lost his practice due to chronic alcoholism.  He was one of those who never got sober.  They had lost their home. They had two children. S. began to tell her tale.  I slipped into my male fixit mode, and I began to proffer advice. S. drew herself up in her chair.  She said  "Michael Povey, I have not come here to get advice.  I am here for you to listen to me."   Touche. Point well taken, but too often forgotten. It's with that in mind that I encourage you to read the following, (all about grief and listening)  from a wise New York City Rabbi.  Tamid is the name of his congregation. Thanks good NYC  friend Kathy for the  H-T  on the Rabbi's wisdom Dear Tamid, ...

On Saturday evening 1st Feb 2020 I was with my friends Jack and Donna C, and Ashley L. I told them one of my stories. It was about  my godson Stephen G.    He was about three years old and had just learned the alphabet; and to use the toilet unaided. His parents were entertaining guests when Stephen took himself to the bathroom. He returned, and with great glee announced  "I just made a "C"!  (The shape of his poop). Ha indeed!  A sweet story. 'Tis a sweet story which went right over Donna's head.   She hadn't clearly heard the word "godson", and thought that I had said "dachshund" . "How in the world", she was thinking,  "can you teach a Dachshund to know the alphabet, and   to use a commode?"