"Join me on this adventure: an adventure we all are part of. "

"We are bound by this planet. Held, trapped by its environs; chained as prisoners. Our only hope is that which knows no bounds and no bindings. Just as we are glued in a physical sense, so are we free in the spiritual sense."

"However, driving a car is much more difficult than operating a tricycle."

"We must learn how to raise our hands, feed ourselves, walk, talk and pee in the toilet. So, too, must we imagine how to raise our compassion, learn, give, heal and fight evil."

"A wise man once said, 'Me.' Then, a wiser man said, 'You.'"

"Finally, the wisest man said, 'Us'ns'. No he didn't. Sorry. He really said 'We'. I just thought Us'ns would be funny."

"Anyway, They were wise men, but of course there is neither male nor female nor young nor old in the spiritual sense. And while women certainly can be and are wise, I chose to use the storied phrase 'wise man' to add that sort of 'story telling' tone. It could actually have been wise women."

"Ultimately the gender doesn't matter. Never did. Never will."

"A wise person once said 'She'. An equally wise person said 'He'. Both wise persons found themselves, at the end of their physical lives, knowing well what Earthly difference there was between she and he. Seven days later, both dead, neither one cared what the difference had been."

"And so: why wait until your're dead to not care?"

The 'sermon' was finally over. I almost had grasped some sense of what Pastor Tim was trying to say. But it was fun to listen to, anyway.

"Bartender," I said, gently slapping Pastor Tim's shoulder, "please give the good Pastor another beer on me. His slight inebriation deserves to be enhanced a mite bit."

It was 1979 in Onionville, Missouri, then, a mix of down-to-earth farmers, clean farmers who had become dirty lawyers and lawyers who had become insurance salesmen. The town was in a state of flux, growing by leaps and bounds in fiscal matters, but not so much in the ways of the world.

It was as if they jumped from the agricultural age right into the space age with no development in between.

Ted, a poor onion grower two years ago, who now had the first mansion in town, spoke up, his speech somewhat slurred by three whiskey sours.

"Yuh know whut? I think yer right, there, Bobby. Gi' 'im one on me, too!"

I enjoyed my life there in Onionville. Somewhat, anyway.  It was irritating when I ran into prejudice and closed mindedness. However, they were all basically good people, even if some of them only managed 8th grade. What they didn't get from books, they got from life. I had moved to this tiny farming community in 1972, from New York. Even though I hailed from upstate New York, about 75 miles from the Big Apple, these folks comprehended “New York” as one big city, rather than the beautiful collection of diverse cities, farming areas and so on that make up an entire state.

And life there was good. At least until the Onion Wars started.

Ted, of course, started it. He didn't mean to, but when everyone saw that he could build a mansion, they wanted to know his secret. The sad thing was, he kept claiming that he told everyone exactly how he did it.

“I done took the U-Turn Of The Soul. I went right. I went left. Hell, I even went straight-on both ways. But then I took the U-Turn and things' been good.”

Some said he “got religion”, but when they found out he didn't go to church, they dropped that idea. Some said he was studying some Eastern Philosophy, “like that there Boot His'n or sumpthin'” Some thought he just went crazy or got lucky. There were rumours of rich uncles dying, finding gold on his property and even that he had been visited by Martians who gave him some secret “advanced tek noller gee”

Sometimes I knew how Gandalf must have felt when he was amongst the Hobbits. These were, for the most part, simple people, largely isolated from the rest of the world – by choice. That made it hard for me – an outsider – to really mesh in. People like Ted hardly ever engaged me in conversation, unless there were two or three native Onionvillites around. However, one day, I managed to get Ted's ear one on one.”

I confided in Ted that he must be tired of all the rumours about inheritance and religion.

“Hell, Bobby, y'know sometimes I think these people is crazy stupit. I an't hidin' nothin' from them. As fer religion, well, I was raised Christian. I believe in God and Jesus an' all. I just never did like the way them people act. Theys your best friend in the bar on Friday night and then they turn on ya come Sunday, cause you is the sinner that got pukin' drunk. Hell, I seen the Pastor puke and fall in it he was so drunk. Several times.”

I didn't bother telling him that “The Pastor” was a nickname. Tim was an insurance salesman who just got philosophical when a drink entered his bloodstream. He would expound his 'sermonic nonesense' endlessly from drink two on. Apparently, he took the nickname upon himself, years ago.

Pastor Tim, to his credit, probably came closest to understanding what Ted was talking about. I had greased the wheel of his jaw by paying for his first two beers.

“Bobby. Do you ever regret that you are different?” he asked with that dead serious face that makes you think a joke might be coming forth.

“Noooo. Not really. I just grew up in New York State,” - I had emphisized 'State' - “ and so, have had exposure to a collection of ideas which are not readily accessible here in O-ville.”

In response to his somewhat blank stare, I said.

“Well, Tim, I wouldn't use the word 'regret' anyway.”

“Okay, but you know that we accept you as you are, even though half the time we have no idea what the hell you say, right”

“Granted.”

“Okay, well, I think that's what this U-Turn thing Ted keeps talking about is. He's found out that the more you push, the more 'it' pushes back. So he quit pushing and started pulling. So to speak. I think.”

“I believe you're right, Pastor.”

I thought he was probably close, but then I had the audacity to think I knew what Ted meant. I had assumed that Ted meant he 'turned around' by not sticking to the old, close-minded, passed down from generation to generation ideas and morals and superstitions.

Boy, was I wrong. And the truth almost destroyed Onionville.